.✦ ݁˖ pairing: law x fem!reader (with hints of Zoro and Ace as well!!)
.✦ ݁˖ genre: modern highschool au, blog au, fluff, coming of age, VERY slowburn, angst, hurt/comfort
.✦ ݁˖warnings: rejection, misunderstandings, tell me if there's any more!
.✦ ݁˖ note: The reader is written to like constellations and does not like the heat. This is very slowburn.... // Zoros stuff is more on angst while Ace's is very chill :p Law is in between it all. // Every chapter includes a letter!
.✦ ݁˖ summary: Struggling to understand what love truly is, you constantly write letters for people under an anonymous blog called "Dear Stranger" which unfortunately for you, blows up. What happens when the 3 boys you've loved in the past and present find out that all those letters were for them?
.✦ ݁˖a/n: SO EXCITED TO BE PUTTING TS OUT i really wanted to write smth kinda long-ish...? So I came up with this and kept entering flowstate when writing the letters hahdhdhdhs. Had trouble deciding who I wanted for end game but my plot idea forced Law !
Summary: You are a noble from Goa Kingdom, yearning of freedom from the system. Outlook III, your father send you to Mary Geoise to participate on the marriage mart. His order are simple, to find a secure match as the way to get access for your family to become Celestial Dragon. You've never wanted this, but you caught the attention of certain red haired figure. What would you do about it?
Trope: Enemies to Lovers
Warning: All characters are legal , age gap , angst , dark romance , jealousy , mention of slavery , shitty celestial dragons behavior , shitty parents , NSFW , sex , suggestive contents , saint charlos , abuse of power , use of alcohol , cruelty , use of gun , use of illegal substance , sexual harassment , misogynist society , mention of prostitution , out of character , more tag will be added.
Note: English is not my first language. I'm inspired by Bridgerton books and series, of course i do not owe it nor One Piece characters, credit to the authors. Let me know if you want to be added on taglist whenever i updated this fic, thank you🖤
to the boys i’ve crushed on .ᐟ k.hj, j.yh, j.wy, p.sh
.ᐟ you’ve always been something of a hopeless romantic, even more so than you are a stumbling social disaster, which is saying something. you fall easily for four guys around campus and of course, because your luck is just that great, the sappy love letters you wrote to each of them end up delivered and send your usually uneventful life spinning into total chaos.
.ᐟ part one (~15k) | part two | part three | part four
.ᐟ music major!hongjoong x fem!reader, brother’s best friend!seonghwa x fem!reader, tutor!yunho x fem!reader, baseball golden boy!wooyoung x fem!reader
.ᐟ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | cursing, drinking, marijuana usage, shy!reader, reader can give second hand embarrassment but we love her anyway
.ᐟ this is my first ever attempt at a fic this size and it is NOT proofread but i’m super excited! highly inspired by the many masterpieces thanks to lovely writers participating in @sungbeam’s college au collab, but (not to spoil anything), one of the plot lines is loosely inspired specifically by @minkieater’s dare! sorry to tag you both, just think you both deserve recognition <3 anyway i love this fic a lot so far it’s my baby and i can’t wait to continue our reader’s story 🥹
For as long as you could remember, you lived more in your head than in the real world. You prefer the version of things in your imagination as opposed to real life. In your daydreams, you could be the charismatic and charmingly clumsy romance protagonist you always yearned to be; the effortlessly beautiful main character who puppy-eyed love interests fawn over.
It was easier that way, and a hell of a lot more enjoyable than your dull life as an invisible, broke college student. You’ve never really had a knack for social interaction, or as your brother, San, would say when he thought you were in a better mood than usual to accept his teasing, ‘biologically adverse to friends’.
A statement which you found cruel, in the kind of way that the things older brothers say are always cruel, but he’s not wrong. You really are probably the closest example this world has of someone ‘biologically adverse to friends’. Your pauses always run too long, your sentences tangle halfway through, and by the time you figure out what you should have said, the moment has already passed, sealed off and unreachable, condemning you to live with the shame of the interaction.
In your head, though, everything waits for you — for your thoughts and your dreams, for you to build worlds with your fantasies.
There, you can take a feeling and turn it over slowly, examine it from every angle, soften its edges until it becomes something worth holding onto. Conversations don’t slip away there. You can be better there — wittier, warmer, easier to love. You can be someone who doesn’t second-guess every word before it leaves her mouth, because unlike in the real world, nothing ever leaves before it’s ready.
It’s a big part of the reason you’ve always loved romance the way you do; quietly, obsessively, even a little desperately. Not the kind of romance in real life, with its awkward starts and complicated, messy endings, but the kind that unfolds over a two-hour-and-twenty-minute runtime, flawless and soft and never-ending.
But life can’t be as perfect as it is in your mind, so you’re in your dorm on a Friday night while your roommate is across the room getting ready for some frat party — you wish you could recall the name of the frat, but that’s just how little social presence you have.
You sit at the edge of your bed, laptop balanced carefully over your knees, the glow of the screen washing everything in that familiar pale blue. It reads your English discussion post prompt back to you, the blinking cursor against the screen serving to indicate that you’ve written absolutely nothing since you sat down to complete this twenty minutes ago. Outside your dorm window, someone laughs and you feel that small, humbling ache that you’ve felt all day.
Nothing specifically upsetting happened, but nothing needed to. Sometimes you just have days like this, where your lonely lifestyle catches up to you and reminds you that you’re just a girl in her room, dreaming of a life where she isn’t.
And when the ache gets like this — dull, stifling, impossible to ignore — you fall back on the one thing that has never made you feel out of place.
Your letters.
Your eyes linger on the blank discussion post for a few seconds longer than necessary, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for you to become someone else — maybe someone more articulate, more motivated, more capable of existing in the world without overthinking every breath. But you don’t write anything in the box, instead clicking off to your drive.
Your fingers move with a quiet kind of familiarity, opening a folder you’ve never named.
You don’t remember exactly when you started writing these helplessly cliche, embarrassingly smitten letters, only that at some point, putting the feelings somewhere outside of yourself became easier than carrying them around all the time.
They were safer than real conversations, where your words tangle and your voice comes out too quiet, where eye contact feels like standing in direct sunlight for too long — less humiliating than having to admit that you’re a real human, with real feelings, for people with lives so much bigger than your own, so much less pathetic than the hermit life you live.
So far, there’s four of these love letters with sweet ‘Dear, name’s and ‘Sincerely, _____’s addressed to boys across the campus, some of which you’ve shared more words with than others.
Your cursor hovers over the preview of the letters, the cute digitally decorated docs, their names staring back at you like an accusation:
Kim Hongjoong, the effortlessly talented music major, who you hid out with during your first — and last — frat party during freshman year, utterly embarrassed yourself in front of with stuttered inquiries of ‘s-so, what’re you into?’, and then stared dumbly at when he returned the question, because, really, what are you into? It’s not like you could say ‘oh yeah, I love pretending I’m a loveable romcom protagonist because my life is so insufferably boring.’ You sat there with him for a while attempting to be halfway decent at conversation until his friend (you think he was called Mingi?) poked his head in the room with a sighed ‘there you are, hyung’ and dragged him out to actually enjoy the party. Hongjoong didn’t leave the room without sending you a charming, apologetic smile and a soft ‘bye’ that made your heart flutter and haunted your dreams for at least a few weeks.
Jung Wooyoung, the star golden boy of the university’s baseball team, the kind of guy every girl dreamed of having because he was just that handsome and charismatic and easy to love. Honestly, you’ve never spoken a word to the guy, but you always hear the girls gushing over him behind you in your foreign language class, and come on, a hopeless romantic like you was always destined to harbor a crush on the gorgeous, reportedly hilarious campus jock. He was practically an antisocial romcom fiend’s wet dream.
Jeong Yunho, your soft-spoken economics tutor whose nervous nature almost rivaled yours, except his motivation to teach you outweighed his awkwardness. He always leans a smidge too far into your space for your delusional, making-up-romance-where-there-isn’t-any imagination to let slide, encouraging you to keep trying and softly correcting you when you mark something wrong. He’s never as disappointed as he is expectant, quietly waiting for you to fix your mistakes because he knows you have the capability to ace it. He even usually throws in a couple muttered ‘good’s or ‘there you go’s in a probably unintentionally sultry manner that gives you butterflies. You don’t even blame yourself for your crush on him, you’re sure any girl would develop one.
And last but not least, Park Seonghwa, arguably the most controversial non-recipient of your letters. Because he wasn’t just some one-off meet-cute, he was your brothers best friend, and more than just knowing you actually existed, he knew all the embarrassing, stumbling, ugly parts of you and still hung around — whether that’s because you were near your brother or not is entirely irrelevant.
All of your feelings for these men were real, you knew that better than anything else. They were the kind of crushes that reach right through your ribcage and clutch your heart, leaving your breath seizing; the kinds of crushes that linger on your mind all day, not once forgotten in the chaos of the day.
Still, you know it’s a little silly for you to be so smitten over these men, some of which you have hardly even spoken with, or at all. But they’re all undoubtedly handsome men, and you are one undoubtedly hopeless girl when it comes to crushing.
“Babe, you’re really sure you don’t wanna come to this thing?” Your roommate, Nakyung, pouts at you from across the room, pulling a mesh jersey over her head. Her boyfriend, Yeosang, is on the football team, hence her choosing to wear the green and white jersey even though it clashes with her skirt, “I promise you’ll have fun!”
You look to your laptop and shut it in an intentional manner before sighing, “I dunno, Kyung… last time I went to one of those, I kinda just… hung around.”
“What else do you think people do at parties?” She huffs even though she knows that’s not what you mean, leaning over in front of her floor-length mirror to apply lipgloss.
“I dunno, like… talk? Mingle? Kiss?” Your suggestion comes only from the knowledge of how parties usually go in the movies.
Nakyung exhales heavily, finally turning to you, “Whatever, forget that. The point is, you’re so sheltered that it’s getting kind of sad, girl.” She closes the distance between you, grabbing your wrists and insistently pulling you to your feet, “Come on, babe, let’s just let you have one night of fun before you go back in your shell. Please?”
“Kyung, I—“
“I’m your roommate, it’s my campus-issued responsibility to make sure you have a social life!” She frowns, reaching to press her hands to your shoulders as if she was a second away from shaking you. “What class are you so busy with on a Friday anyway?—“ She drops her ringed hands and turns to your laptop, arms extending toward it.
Cold panic floods you at the thought of Nakyung seeing all your cutesy, delusional love letters, “Don’t!” You scramble forward, snatching it from the pillow it was perched on and clutching it to your chest.
For a moment, Nakyung’s hands freeze in the air where she had been reaching, then she blinks at you, eyebrow raising. “What’re you hiding?” She always knew you were glued to that laptop, but she just assumed you were really diligent in your studies. You look the part, anyway, dressed in your beige sweaters and skirts layered with leggings and those glasses you’re always adjusting.
“Nothing, I just… I’m, um. It’s for…” You swallow your saliva, lips clicking as you try to steady your voice so it doesn’t raise an octave. If you weren’t awkward and stuttering before, you’re definitely accomplishing it easily now thanks to the need to lie, “I’m… I’m not proud of what I have now for the discussion post in English.”
Nakyung doesn’t buy it for a second, because who would? “Uh huh… right. If you say so, babe.” The ravenette huffs slightly, shoulders raising, lips pulling into a pout once again, “Seriously, _____, if you do this, I’ll buy you that banana milk you love so much, for, like, the whole week. And I bet you’ll have so much fun you’ll just be begging me to take you to another.”
“That’s very unlikely — like, the probability is zilch.” You mutter, fingers picking at a small piece of rubber coming from the laptop feet as you hold it to your chest. You draw in a shaky breath. What’s the worst that can happen? Surely it can’t be worse than having to pay for your own banana milk everyday of next week. Still, you hesitate. Last time you went to one of these parties, you sat out in one of the frat brother’s rooms with Kim Hongjoong, and that had you practically hearing wedding bells. What if you go out tonight just to fall in love with some other charming musician? Four love letters was already getting a little greedy, but five? It’s pushing it, no?
But honestly, you really do love those banana milks and you tell yourself that to avoid getting all starry-eyed, you can just make sure you don’t get into any one-on-ones with cute guys. Besides, cute guys weren’t exactly lining up to get you in a room alone. You worry the inside of your cheek with your molars before you reluctantly agree, “But… fine. Just this once, I mean it, okay?”
Nakyung squeals out a high-pitched cheer, “Yay! Oh my gosh, I’m getting _____ out of the house! I must be dreaming!” She giggles softly, turning too quickly on her heel and stumbling before she regains her footing, walking over to her closet, “Gotta find you something to wear!”
“Um, wait, Nakyung, I think I’m just gonna go in this—“ You start, fidgeting with the sleeves of your oversized sweater that dwarf your hands.
“No way! You need to look hot! If this is the only party you’re ever going to, I might as well make the most of it and finally get you a boyfriend, yeah?“ She insists while she digs through her closet, fingers swiping hangers aside as she looks for what can only be just the thing she has in mind. Finally, she pulls out a hanger from which a fitted black lace camisole dangles. It’s semi-sheer, giving it that soft, romantic texture while still feeling bold, and she tosses it on the bed as she continues the search for the skirt she’s thinking of. “I can introduce you to the football guys, Yeo would probably do it happily!”
Nakyung finally fishes out a black miniskirt, humming to herself in victory as she bundles the hangers and outstretches them to you. She sees your troubled expression and pouts, “Come on, please? Just trust me.”
If there’s one thing you learned about your only real friend (even though technically she’s more of a roommate who gives you the time of day), it’s that she’s very hard to say no to, with her sweet puppy-eyes and pouty glossed lips.
“…Fine, but only if I can wear my cardigan over it.”
Nakyung pulls you forward by your hand a little faster than your feet were ready for, beaming with delight as she walks up to the door. As you cross the threshold, the bass from whatever playlist someone threw on pulses through the walls and floor. You’re wearing the outfit Nakyung picked out for you, and you would have felt uncomfortably out of place in it if it weren’t for the black cardigan you’d convinced Nakyung to let you wear over it. To compromise, even though she was already the one getting her way, Nakyung insisted you wear these tights that make a pretty lace design run down your legs. Honestly, they were pretty cute and probably something you’d usually wear on your own, but the way they mesh with this outfit makes the whole thing feel a little bolder than you’re used to dressing. Nakyung seems happy with her work, though.
She maneuvers the two of you throughout the crowd, head on a swivel as she looks for the blond head of her boyfriend. Finally, she spots him, shouting a little too loud for your comfort to grab his attention, “Yeo!”
He turns as you two approach, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “Hey, baby. And _____, right?” Nakyung cuddles up to his side, a much bigger lover of PDA than Yeosang is, clearly, but he’s so head-over-heels for her that he sucks it up.
Yeosang has only been to your dorm a few times to pick up Nakyung and once to watch a movie with her on the living room couch, but that’s enough for the two of you to be acquainted well enough. You always thought he was nice and super sweet to Nakyung, in the lead love interest kind of way; doting on her everyday and showering her in affection even if PDA wasn’t his thing, all just because it was Nakyung’s love language.
You nod at his question, but before you can even try to reply verbally, Nakyung is clinging on your arm now instead, turning her puppy eyes to Yeosang, “Baby, do you think you could introduce _____ to some of the guys? Maybe one of them will like her!”
Yeosang knew very well of his girlfriend’s matchmaking tendencies, and his face twists into a soft, amused smile, “‘Course, baby. I think most of them are outside around the fire pit.” He shrugs before he swivels on his heel and starts advancing toward the patio’s sliding doors, and Nakyung is quick to pull you along in the same direction.
You’re maneuvered through clusters of people until you all stop at the fire pit, the orange firelight casting a glow onto the face of everyone sitting around it. You quickly count 5 people around the fire, but one stood out: the Jung Wooyoung in the flesh, leaned back in the seat with his legs spread, red solo cup held on his thigh by his hand. You breath seizes in your chest in that typical way it always does when you even just think about your crushes.
“Hey guys, had someone I wanted to introduce you to,” Yeosang motions you over, and Nakyung nudges you in that direction before he continues, “This is _____, Nakyung’s roommate. She’s cool.”
You offer a small wave, not trusting your voice to come out smoothly, and a few of the guys around the fire snicker at you. Anxiety bubbles in your chest — what’s so funny?
“Cute,” a voice appears on your right, and you turn again to see Wooyoung looking at you. Oh my god, Jung Wooyoung was actually looking at you. More than that, he was… complimenting you?
“U-um…” You start, glossed lips opening and closing like a fish. Wooyoung doesn’t let you flounder for long, an amused smirk tugging at the right corner of his mouth that either says ‘you’re adorable’ or ‘your awkwardness is hilarious’. You’re not sure which of those would embarrass you more.
“Come on, sit with us for a minute,” he pats the chair next to him, looking back up to you expectantly.
You have half the mind to refuse and save yourself the embarrassment, but Nakyung grins at you and gently pushes you forward to accept the offer. “We’ll be right back, _____, just gonna get some drinks!” She sends you a not-so-subtle wink, clearly expecting that one of these guys is going to be your prince charming.
But who is she kidding, really? You can’t really hold a conversation without a hitch, and this is Jung Wooyoung you’re talking about: the guy you’ve been silently crushing on since freshman year, wide-eyed admiration clear on your face as you’d watch him come into your econ class, always a little too late to be acceptable.
Eventually, realizing Wooyoung’s eyes are expectant as he looks at you, you finally lower yourself into the cushioned patio seat, back rigid. Luckily, most of the other guys around the pit seem to have continued their conversations amongst themselves, except Wooyoung, who looks at you in a way that sends the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. You immediately resort to fidgeting with your ring, spinning it in place around your finger.
A hand comes to rest over yours, and when you look up to see who it belongs to, your heart nearly stops. Wooyoung’s leaned closer to you, teasing grin settled on his face in a way that makes his asymmetrical eyes crinkle. His dark hair comes down to his eyebrows, styled a little too perfectly to seem effortless, but it’s nice nonetheless. He’s gorgeous, you think, and he’s touching you.
“What’re you fidgeting for? C’mon, you gotta lighten up a little, _____,” He takes his hand from yours before he extends his cup to you, waiting for your tentative hand to take it. You don’t mean to, but you think you give him an unsure look because he laughs softly and shakes the cup in his hand slightly to urge you to take it, “Come on, it’s not that bad. Trust me, will you?”
With a small sound in the back of your throat, you realize this is probably something that your elementary school teacher would dub ‘peer-pressure’, but you also realize you don’t care about anything in the world right now other than pleasing Wooyoung.
You take the cup from his grip, glancing down to the liquid inside before Wooyoung reaches over to press two fingers to the bottom of the cup as if to tip it into your mouth. He didn’t actually, though, only urging you to stop overthinking and take a drink.
The liquid burns as it goes down and you cough slightly, fist coming to cover your mouth. Wooyoung chuckles at you, nodding and saying ‘there you go’ in that flustering way that reminds you of Yunho. Wait, why are you thinking of Yunho right now when Wooyoung is right in front of you, actually talking to you?
“See, now you’ll stop fidgeting and actually talk to me, won’t you?” His grin is lopsided as he leans back into his own seat, fingers idly dancing across the wooden armrest.
“Um, I guess so. S-so, are you on the football team with Yeosang?” You ask dumbly, a question you already know the answer to but one that you hope makes it seem like you haven’t been obsessed with him since freshman year.
His nose scrunches up at that, a small, amused scoff falling from his lips, “Hell no. Do I really look like a football guy?” He doesn’t give you time to answer before he continues, “I’m on the baseball team, pitcher. You should come to our first game of the season next week, see a real pro in action.”
Oh my god, is this real? Are you really getting a personal invite to the baseball game from Jung Wooyoung? You’ve never really been a sports person, but the invite coming from him made you more excited than a diehard fan getting lower bowl seats to a pro game.
Still, you try your best to act natural, “Um, yeah, okay. I’ll see.”
“You’ll see? You gonna leave me hanging, tiny?”
“W-Well, I—“
“Jung Wooyoung!”
Your mouth snap shut and you turn to the source of the very angry sounding exclamation. One of the girls you recognize from your math course storms over, you think her name is Karina? She stops in front of you and Wooyoung and huffs petulantly, “Seriously? We’re only broken up for a day and you’re already flirting with other girls?”
Wooyoung looks largely unbothered by the whole fiasco, “We were just talking, Rina.” He slides further down in the chair, the picture of indifference. His hands slide across his jean-clad thighs as he weighs his next words, shrugging, “Besides, you broke up with me, didn’t you? I’m free game.”
Karina gapes at him, as if she truly couldn’t believe her ears, “That’s—“ Her retort dies on her tongue as she stares at Wooyoung before her eyes slide over to you.
Her gaze lingers, dragging over you slow and deliberate, taking in everything from the cardigan you’re clutching tighter around yourself to the way you’re sitting just a little too stiffly beside him. You feel it immediately, that familiar, sinking awareness that you don’t belong in this scene the way everyone else does.
“Oh,” she says, and there’s something sharp tucked into that single syllable, something that makes your shoulders instinctively draw in. “So this is what you’re doing.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t even know if she’s talking to you or at you or through you, and your mouth opens slightly before closing again, your grip tightening around the cup in your hands.
Wooyoung exhales, long and unimpressed. “Rina, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she snaps, even though she very clearly is. Her arms cross over her chest, her attention still fixed on you like you’re part of the problem just by being here. “I just didn’t think you’d move on this fast. Guess I overestimated you.”
“I haven’t ‘moved on,’” he replies, tone flattening slightly. “We’re just talking.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Looks like it.”
The conversation spirals around you, tension building in a way that makes your chest feel tight. You can feel the other guys around the fire quieting down, their attention shifting over in that subtle, curious way people do when something uncomfortable starts unfolding.
You don’t know what to do. You’re just sitting there, holding a drink that isn’t yours and wearing clothes that don’t feel like you, being glared at by someone who clearly wishes you weren’t here.
“I—I should probably—” you start, voice small, barely cutting through the space between them.
“No, wait—“ Wooyoung starts, only to be interrupted by Karina.
She laughs, short and disbelieving, before shaking her head. “You know what? Whatever. Do what you want.” Her eyes flick to you one last time, and there’s something dismissive in it now, something that stings more than it should. “Enjoy… whatever this is.” Then she turns, walking off with the kind of finality that would make you worry if you were Wooyoung.
There’s a beat of silence before Wooyoung sighs again, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake the whole thing off. “Sorry about that,” he mutters, glancing at you. “She’s just—”
“It’s okay,” you rush out, too quickly, too eager to smooth things over, even though nothing about it feels okay.
He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to decide whether to say something else, but then someone calls his name from across the yard, and his attention shifts just as easily as it had landed on you in the first place.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, already halfway out of his seat.
You’re left sitting there alone, the warmth from the fire suddenly feeling too much against your skin, the noise of the party creeping back in now that the moment has dissolved into nothing.
Of course. Of course your only interaction with Wooyoung ends like that. Just your luck.
You swallow, staring down at the drink in your hands. Your thoughts are already turning in on themselves, replaying everything, picking it apart—what you said, what you didn’t say, how you looked, how you must have come across.
Your spiraling thoughts are only interrupted by some guy’s gasp as his foot snags on your chair’s leg as he walks. The entire front of your top is suddenly soaked, the liquid from his cup sloshing over the edge and spilling straight onto you, darkening the lace and clinging uncomfortably to your skin.
“Oh shit, sorry,” the guy mumbles, already half-turned away like he’s more focused on rejoining whatever conversation he was having than the mess he just made of you.
You sit there for half a second, stunned, holding your breath like if you just pretend you don’t exist it will undo itself. Then the embarrassment hits: hot, immediate, all-consuming.
“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath, your free hand coming up instinctively like you can somehow hide it or fix it.
You can’t, of course you can’t, because your life fucking sucks.
Your chair scrapes softly against the ground as you stand too quickly, your heart pounding in your chest as you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of everything; of how you must look, of the damp fabric clinging to you, of the possibility that anyone might be looking.
You swallow a pathetic sound threatening to crawl up your throat as you weave back through the crowd, movements quicker now, your head ducked slightly like that might make you less noticeable. The music feels louder than before, the air thicker, every laugh and voice scraping against your nerves as you push your way inside.
You keep your arms crossed tightly over yourself, cardigan pulled in as you spot the hallway and move toward it quickly, slipping into it as if it were some kind of escape. You open the first door you see, you don’t even check, pushing it open and stepping inside.
The smell hits you first, undoubtedly weed. You freeze in place, eyes wide as you stare at the scene in front of you. “Oh,” the sound slips out before you can stop it.
He’s leaning against the counter, one shoulder resting lazily against it, a joint held between his fingers. The faint glow at the tip flickers in the dim light, smoke curling upward in slow, lazy spirals.
Kim Hongjoong. Of course, because apparently, if the night was going to go wrong, it was going to go all the way.
His eyes flick up at the sound of your voice, landing on you almost immediately. There’s a brief pause as he takes you in, a flicker of recognition in his eyes before it’s overwhelmed by what you think is confusion as he looks at your outfit. “You’re soaked.”
For a second, you just stand there, like if you don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe too loudly, maybe the situation will dissolve on its own and you won’t have to participate in it.
After it doesn’t, you draw in a shaky breath, “…Yeah,” you manage, voice small and uneven, your grip tightening on the edges of your cardigan. “I, um— yeah.”
Brilliant. Truly articulate.
Hongjoong’s gaze lingers, not in a way that feels invasive, but in a way that makes you more aware of yourself — the damp lace clinging to your skin, the way your shoulders are hunched in, the fact that you probably look like you just crawled out of some kind of social disaster, which, to be fair, you did.
“…What happened?” he asks after a moment, tone casual, but there’s something quieter underneath it that you can’t place.
“Nothing,” you say quickly, too quickly to be natural. “Just—someone bumped into me.”
He just hums, like he doesn’t quite believe that that’s all but isn’t going to push. His fingers tap the side of the counter once, twice, before he reaches over and grabs something — paper towels, you realize a second later — and holds them out toward you. “Here,” he says simply.
You blink, staring dumbly for a minute before your brain finally catches up, “Oh—um, thanks,” you murmur, stepping forward just enough to take them, careful not to get too close. Your fingers brush his for half a second, and it’s enough to send that stupid, familiar flutter through your chest.
You dab awkwardly at the front of your top, which does absolutely nothing except make you more aware of how soaked it actually is. “Yeah, that’s not gonna fix it,” you mumble under your breath, more to yourself than to him.
There’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, “No,” he agrees, softer, “Probably not.”
Silence settles for a second, not yet awkward but you can feel it creeping in — that familiar pressure to fill it, to say something before it stretches too long and becomes another moment you’ll replay later, cringing at everything you didn’t say.
“Um…” Your brain scrambles. Hurry, say something. Say something normal, something casual, something that makes it seem like you’re not the same girl who completely blanked the last time you were alone with him. God, you hope he doesn’t remember that.
And right as the thought crosses your mind, like the universe is just out to make your life a living hell, he speaks up, “Hey, I remember you.”
Your stomach drops, and not in a dramatic, cinematic way, nothing quite that graceful, instead in that quiet, awful lurch that makes your thoughts scatter and your body go a little too still.
“Oh,” you say, because apparently that’s the only word you’re capable of producing tonight. Your fingers tighten slightly around the paper towels, the flimsy material crinkling under the pressure as your eyes flick down, then to the side, then anywhere that isn’t him. “Um… yeah.”
“Last year, right?” he adds, tilting his head slightly as he studies you. “That party upstairs. You were—” he hesitates, just briefly, like he’s choosing his words, “—in the spare room.” You suppose you can be grateful for his phrasing, not choosing to point out you were obviously hiding out from even the idea of social interaction.
Your face burns. It’s immediate, blooming heat that crawls up your neck and settles into your cheeks, because of course that’s how he remembers it — not your name, not anything meaningful, just the setting. “Yeah,” you confirm, softer this time, a little more resigned. “That was me.” You press the paper towels a little harder against your top, even though they’re already damp and useless, just to have something to do with your hands.
God. Why did you come tonight?
He nods once, slow, like that confirms something for him, before he takes another slow drag of his joint, flicking the ash onto a rolling tray. You glance down at the front of your top, at the way the lace has gone darker where it’s soaked, clinging in a way that makes you hyper-aware of your own body. Your fingers move again, dabbing uselessly.
His gaze follows the movement of your hands for a second, then lifts back to your face. “Didn’t think you’d come back to one of these,” he says.
“Me neither,” you reply quickly, the honesty spilling out before you can filter it. You huff out a quiet breath, shifting your weight where you stand. “My roommate made me.”
There’s a small sound of acknowledgment from him, and when you chance a look at his face there’s a small, entertained smile on his face. “Mm. Yeah, that tracks.”
He’s still leaning against the counter, posture loose, one shoulder resting back. The joint sits between his fingers, smoke curling upward in thin, lazy spirals, the faint scent of it mixing with whatever cheap soap lingers in the bathroom air. The dim light casts soft shadows along his features, catching in the slight tilt of his mouth, the line of his jaw.
He looks calm, unbothered, like the chaos of the party outside doesn’t even cross his mind in here. You wonder what that feels like.
“I, um…” you start again, and immediately regret it when he looks up at you expectantly. “I’m— sorry,” you land on, the word slipping out too easily, too familiar. “For, like… barging in. And ruining your…” your hand lifts slightly, gesturing vaguely toward the counter, the smoke, him, “…thing.”
There’s a beat, then he exhales a quiet breath through his nose, something just shy of a laugh, his head tilting back a fraction. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he assures, voice low. “It’s just a bathroom.”
“…Right,” you murmur, nodding even though you weren’t really expecting reassurance. You shift again, the damp fabric dragging slightly against your skin, and instinctively your arms pull in tighter around yourself, cardigan closing in like the shield you treat it as.
“You’re gonna freeze like that,” he points out, motioning towards your wet outfit.
“I’ll survive,” you reply quickly, almost automatic.
There’s a pregnant pause, then he speaks.
“Take it off.”
Your brain stutters, completely blank for half a second. Everything in your body stills, tensing up the way you usually did when someone says something unexpected, but a million times worse because this is one of your crushes. Did you hear that right? No, there’s no way you heard that right.
“…W-What?” you manage, voice small and meek.
His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s the faintest flicker of realization, like he’s just caught up to how that sounded. “The cardigan,” he clarifies, nodding toward it. “It’s wet too, right? It’s just gonna make it worse.”
Oh.
Heat floods your face all over again, somehow worse than before because now you’re acutely aware of everything; of how you must look, of how he must be seeing you, of the fact that you’re standing here dripping alcohol onto a frat house bathroom floor while talking to a guy you wrote an entire letter about.
“Right,” you mumble, the word coming out quieter than you mean it to, your gaze dropping to the darkened fabric clinging to you. You can feel it now that he’s pointed it out. You can feel the cold seeping in, the way the damp lace sticks uncomfortably against your skin, the cardigan doing nothing except trapping it there.
It would make sense to take it off, logically, practically, but taking it off means… being seen more. It means losing one more layer you’ve convinced yourself is saving you from scrutiny, even if it really isn’t doing that at all.
“I—no, it’s fine,” you manage quickly, shaking your head a little too fast. “I’m okay.”
He watches you for a second, then he shrugs like it’s not something worth arguing over, and shifts his attention back to the counter. His fingers reach for the joint again, lifting it with a practiced kind of absentmindedness. The ember glows faintly as he brings it to his lips, the inhale slow and steady in a way that matches the rest of him: unhurried, unbothered.
You watch without meaning to. It’s subtle, the way the smoke curls when he exhales, thin strands catching in the dim light before dissolving into the air. The scent thickens slightly, warm and hazy, wrapping around the small space of the bathroom until it feels even more removed from the chaos outside.
He glances at you through it, and your gaze snaps away a second too late, landing somewhere on the tiled floor, on the faint scuff marks and the edge of the sink. Anywhere that isn’t him.
“You smoke?” His question lands casually, like it doesn’t matter what your answer is. Your brain lags behind for a moment before you answer.
“Oh—um.” You blink, looking back up at him, caught somewhere between honesty and whatever version of yourself you think would sound better right now. “Not really.”
Not ever, actually.
You’ve thought about it, in that abstract, romanticized kind of way, like something that belongs in late-night scenes and quiet conversations, something people do when they’re effortlessly cool or a little bit broken in a way that still looks good on them.
He hums softly, like he expected that answer. “Figured,” he replied, but it didn’t feel judgmental. You think Hongjoong had a special kind of way of making whoever he’s talking to feel the furthest thing from scrutinized.
He takes another slow drag, then taps the ash off against the tray, “You can,” he adds after a second, lifting the joint slightly between his fingers in a small, almost-offhand gesture toward you, “If you want.”
Your heart stutters just slightly, enough to make your chest feel tight again, “I—” you start, then stop, because do you want to? You don’t even know, but what you do know is that this feels like something out of the kind of scenes you replay in your head. It’s the kind of moment where the main character says yes without overthinking it, leans into it, lets it become something she never thought she’d get to have.
You hesitate, fingers twitching slightly at your sides. “…I don’t really… know how,” you admit finally, voice softer now, a little more honest than you intended.
His mouth curves, just slightly, an endeared kind of smile. “It’s not hard,” he starts, tone easy and smooth. He steps a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to close the distance in a way that makes your awareness spike again. “You just…” he lifts the joint slightly, gesturing, “don’t overthink it.”
You almost laugh at the irony. Don’t overthink it. That’s kind of your whole thing.
You hesitate another second, then, almost without fully deciding to, you shift your weight forward slightly. “Okay,” you utter, quieter than you mean to. Your hand lifts, tentative, hovering for just a second before you take it from him. Your fingers brush his again, warmer this time, or maybe you’re just more aware of it, and you swear your brain short-circuits for half a beat.
You bring it up awkwardly, unsure, glancing at him like you’re waiting for some kind of instruction. He just raises his eyebrows at you in a way that you think is probably more attractive than it should be, motioning his hand in a small gesture as if to say ‘well?’.
You try to mimic the effortless way he took his drag, but you inhale too quickly. The smoke hits your throat wrong, sharp and unfamiliar, and you cough — small at first, then a little harder, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes squeeze shut instinctively. “Oh my god,” you rasp, voice breaking slightly as you try to recover, your whole face heating up again for an entirely new reason.
Great. Smooth, really smooth. Nice going.
There’s a small, quiet laugh from him, not cruel or loud. “Yeah,” his voice is almost a whisper, the curve of his smile making his voice come out sounding a little more tickled than he probably intended. He reaches out to take it back before you can accidentally drop it, “Maybe do overthink it a little.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, still coughing lightly as you shake your head. “I— yeah,” you manage, blinking a couple times as your eyes water slightly.
“First time?” he inquires, already knowing the answer.
You nod, still a little embarrassed, still very aware of yourself, but somehow, not in the same crushing, suffocating way as before.
“Yeah,” you admit, voice a little hoarse now, whether from the smoke or the embarrassment you’re not entirely sure. You clear your throat lightly, gaze dropping to the tiled floor for a second before flicking back up to him. “Was it that obvious?”
His mouth tilts again, that same almost-smile lingering, “A little.”
You huff out a small breath, something that might be a laugh if it had more confidence behind it, your shoulders lifting faintly before settling again.
He lets out another quiet breath through his nose, something just shy of amusement, before bringing the joint back up to his lips. This time, when he inhales, you watch more carefully, not in the same distracted, flustered way as before, but with something closer to curiosity.
You lean back a fraction against the door behind you without fully thinking about it, the cool surface grounding against your shoulder blades. The faint hum of music seeps through the walls, muffled now, distant enough that it feels like it belongs to a completely different place.
“…You always hide out in bathrooms?” you ask him after a moment, the question slipping out before you can second-guess it into oblivion.
He glances at you, one brow lifting slightly. “Only the nice ones,” he claims.
You blink, pausing for a moment, then, unexpectedly, you let out a small laugh, soft and a little surprised, like it slipped past your usual filter before you could catch it.
“This is not a nice bathroom,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to the scuffed tiles, the slightly crooked mirror, the faint smell that definitely isn’t just soap.
Hongjoong looks around, considering it for a second like you’ve made a valid argument. “…Yeah,” he concedes with a small grin, “Okay, maybe not.”
You shift your weight again, the damp fabric still clinging but no longer the only thing you can think about. Your hands rest more loosely now, no longer gripping, no longer trying so hard to make yourself smaller.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you say after a second, softer this time, less abrupt than your last sentence, and more like something you’ve been sitting on.
His gaze moves back to you, steady and relaxed as he regards you. He pauses for a second longer than is good for your anxious heart, then he speaks, “Why wouldn’t I?”
You swallow, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of your sleeve, “I don’t know,” you admit, a little quieter, “I wasn’t exactly… doing much worth remembering.”
Hongjoong shifts his weight a little against the counter, the movement subtle but grounding. His gaze doesn’t leave you as he shrugs, “You were kinda hard to forget.”
You look at him again, properly this time, searching his expression for something, looking for some sign that he’s just being polite, or filling space, or saying something he doesn’t actually mean.
Your fingers loosen their grip on your sleeve without you realizing, “Oh… I thought I was just… being awkward,” you admit after a second, a small, self-conscious laugh slipping out. “Like, really awkward.”
His mouth curves faintly at that, not quite a smile, but close. “I mean,” he starts, a hint of something lighter in his tone now, “you were a little awkward.”
Heat flickers across your face instantly, predictable and immediate, your shoulders drawing in just a fraction.
“Wow,” you murmur under your breath, gaze dropping for a second as your fingers fidget loosely at your side, “Okay.” You shift your weight again, leaning back just slightly against the door now, the cool surface grounding you, brain scrambling to say something to change the subject.
And of course, in all your grace, what you manage is: “I replay that a lot.” The words come quieter than everything else, almost like you weren’t planning on saying them at all. Your eyes widen slightly as you realize what you said. His gaze flicks to you, something a little unreadable slipping into it and you feel like you need to say something to fix this now, “That night,” you clarify, swallowing lightly. “That conversation.”
Oh my god, you’re making it worse! You almost take it back immediately, your stomach twisting at how that must sound, like you’ve been holding onto something that meant nothing to him.
But he doesn’t react the way you think. He doesn’t laugh at you, he doesn’t scoff in your face and ask why the hell you still replay a memory from a year ago of a guy you don’t even know. “…Yeah?” he asks instead, tone softer now.
You nod once. “I always think about what I should’ve said instead,” you admit, your voice dipping slightly, your gaze drifting somewhere past him. “Like… better things. Um, smarter things. Less…” you trail off, your lips pressing together briefly. “I don’t know,” you finish weakly.
There’s a quiet stretch of silence after that that makes your stomach lurch. You think you’re going to be sick, this is so humiliating. He watches you for a second longer, something thoughtful settling into his expression again. The joint rests loosely between his fingers now, forgotten for the moment.
“You were fine,” he maintains after a long moment, bringing the joint back to his lips.
Your brows knit faintly, “I really wasn’t,” you counter softly, not intending to be argumentative, just certain.
He exhales lightly through his nose, like he expected that answer, tilting his head, “I wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t,” he claims.
You blink at him, caught off guard by how easily he says it, like it’s just a fact, like it doesn’t need to be dressed up or explained.
“But… you kinda didn’t. Stay, I mean.” The second it leaves your mouth, you feel embarrassed. It felt too sharp, too close to something that sounds like you’ve been keeping score. Your stomach twists and you almost rush to take it back, to soften it into anything less… telling. “I mean—” you start, your fingers curling slightly against your sleeve, “you got pulled away. By your friend. I just—”
Stop fucking talking.
You press your lips together, the rest of the sentence dissolving before it can make things worse. You refuse to look at him after that, you just can’t.
“You’re right,” He taps the ash off the end of the joint against the tray again, the small motion giving his hands something to do as he thinks, “I got dragged out,” he continues, glancing back at you. “Mingi doesn’t really take no for an answer when he’s already decided something.”
You nod slightly, because even in your brief interaction, that part felt obvious. “I remember,” you mutter.
He studies you for a second longer, something shifting subtly in his expression, “I was gonna come back, y’know.”
You hope he doesn’t realize the effect that has on you, breath hitching slightly as you search his face for any sign of deceit. “What?” you ask before you can stop yourself, your voice edged with something uncertain.
He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, like it doesn’t carry the same weight for him that it does for you. “Yeah,” he confirms, “I just… didn’t see you again.”
Your fingers loosen at your sides, the tension you hadn’t fully noticed easing just slightly. “…I think I left,” you admit, your voice barely above a murmur now.
He nods once, like that fills in the gap for him, “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Guess we just missed each other.”
You don’t say anything right away. You’re not sure there’s anything you can say that wouldn’t ruin it somehow or turn it into something awkward again, something you’ll pick apart later when you’re alone in your bed, staring at the ceiling and wishing you’d just stayed quiet.
Hongjoong leans back against the counter again, posture easy, like nothing about this moment requires effort from him. He brings the joint back up, taking another slow drag, the faint glow illuminating his features for half a second before it fades again. When he exhales, the smoke drifts lazily between you, softening the edges of everything.
“You still do that?” he questions after a moment.
You blink. “Do what?”
“Leave early,” he clarifies, glancing at you.
You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh. “Yeah,” you admit. “it’s kind of my thing.” Speaking of, you need to get out of here before you completely ruin this interaction. You glance toward the door for a second, like you’re suddenly aware of it again; of what’s on the other side, of the noise and the people and everything you’d managed to forget about for a few minutes in here. “Um, now that you mention it, I should probably…” you start, trailing off as your hand lifts slightly, gesturing vaguely toward it.
“Alright,” he nods, like he expected this, eyes dragging over your frame in a way you wish was easier to interpret as interest. Maybe it was, your idealist mind tells you. Hongjoong’s just hard to read after all.
“…Thanks,” you add dumbly, your fingers brushing absently against your sleeve again. “For, um… not making that worse.”
He exhales a faint, amused breath, shaking his head slightly. “You’re good,” he says. “It wasn’t that bad.”
You almost smile at that and your hand reaches for the doorknob, fingers curling around it, but you don’t turn it right away. There’s a brief pause before you speak again with more confidence than you think you’ve had this entire interaction, “…See you around?”
He looks at you, something steady in his expression again, that same quiet certainty you don’t really understand. “Yeah,” he nods. “You will.”
You nod once, small, before finally turning the handle and pulling the door open.
The noise hits you immediately: music, voices, laughter, all of it rushing back in at once like you never left. It feels louder now, harsher, after the quiet you just stepped out of.
“_____?!”
You barely have time to react before Nakyung is in front of you, her hands immediately grabbing your arms, eyes wide as she looks you over.
“Oh my god, where did you go?” she demands, then her expression shifts dramatically as she takes in your still-damp outfit. “And why do you look like you just got baptized?!”
You blink at her, the moment snapping a little, reality rushing back in.
“I—um—” you start, your voice catching slightly as you try to piece yourself back together. “It was an accident.”
“No kidding,” she huffs, already tugging you a little further into the hallway. “I turn around for two seconds and you disappear, and then Wooyoung’s ex is making a scene and— wait…” her eyes narrow slightly, suspicious now. “Where were you?”
The bathroom door is still slightly ajar, the faintest trace of smoke slipping out into the hallway, a quiet reminder of something that seems oddly separate from everything else.
“Just… hiding,” you finally reply.
Nakyung studies you for a second, like she’s trying to decide if she believes that, then she sighs, dramatic as ever, looping her arm through yours again.
“Okay, well, hiding is over,” she declares. “We’re getting you cleaned up, and then I’m getting you a new drink. One that hopefully doesn’t end up on your clothes.”
You wake up wrong.
It was like your body remembered something before your brain could catch up. Your eyes snap open to a room that feels too bright, too still, the quiet almost suspicious in a way that makes your stomach twist before you even know why.
For a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts moving sluggishly, like they’re wading through something thick. There’s a faint pressure behind your eyes, your throat a little dry, your limbs heavier than they should be.
Your gaze drifts, slow and unfocused, toward your nightstand. Your phone lays on the lacquered wood, dark and still and wrong, because your alarm usually goes off on Saturday mornings.
You lunge for it, the sudden movement making your head spin just slightly, and when the screen lights up, it hits you all at once.
10:47 AM.
Your stomach sinks so fast it almost feels physical.
“No, no, no—” you mumble under your breath, your voice rough with sleep as you scramble to sit up, your blanket tangling around your legs in the process. Your alarm — your multiple alarms — sit there uselessly on the screen, all missed, all ignored, like the world just decided to betray you entirely.
It’s 10:47 AM on a Saturday, which would be perfectly fine if it weren’t for the fact that Saturday mornings belonged to your tutoring sessions with Yunho.
The thought lands with a very specific kind of dread, the kind that presses into your chest and makes you wince before anything has even happened yet.
Because it’s not just that you’re late. It’s that you’re never late, not for this.
Saturdays are quiet and predicable and yours, in a way that the rest of the week never quite is. A soft routine carved out between two people who don’t really have anywhere else to be, who meet at the same time, in the same place, week after week without needing to say much about it.
And you like that. You like that Yunho is steady and patient, the kind of person who waits when you take too long to answer, who doesn’t rush you when your thoughts get tangled, who just sits there with that soft, expectant look like he already knows you’ll get there eventually.
That’s exactly why this feels worse, because you wanted, at the very least, to be someone who shows up on time.
You stare at your phone for another second, like the time might change if you just give it long enough. When it doesn’t, your fingers move quickly, clumsy with urgency as you unlock it, thumb hovering over his contact.
What do you even say? ‘Sorry I overslept’ sounds pathetic; ‘Sorry I forgot’ sounds even worse, even if it’s not true. Your thumbs hover over the screen, the cursor blinking up at you like it’s waiting for something better than whatever you’re about to say.
‘I’m so sorry, I overslept—‘ You type it out halfway, then stop. It looks wrong, like it reduces the whole thing to something small when it doesn’t feel small to you at all. You stare at the words for a second, your chest tightening just slightly, then delete them. The text disappears all at once, leaving the message box empty again.
You try again. ‘I’m on my way—‘
No. That’s worse, because you’re not, not even close.
Your fingers still, hovering uselessly over the keyboard as your thoughts start to tangle again, slipping into that familiar loop: what sounds right, what sounds normal, what sounds like someone who isn’t currently sitting in bed at almost eleven in the morning with a missed obligation sitting heavy in her chest.
You exhale sharply, your free hand coming up to press against your forehead. This is stupid. Every second you spend sitting here trying to craft the perfect message is another second you’re just… not there.
Yunho isn’t someone who needs a perfectly worded apology. He just needs you to show up.
The realization lands simply, but it’s enough to put you into action. You stare at your phone for one more second, then, almost abruptly, you lock it. The screen goes dark in your hand, your reflection faintly staring back at you for half a beat before you drop it onto your bed.
You push yourself up quickly, the movement a little clumsy as your body catches up with the decision. You grab the first sweater you can find, tugging it over your head in a hurry, your hair catching slightly before falling back into place in a way that you’ll probably hate later. You don’t check the mirror beyond a passing glance that confirms you look… somewhat presentable enough.
Your bag is half-packed from yesterday, notebooks already inside, pens scattered loosely at the bottom. You shove your laptop in, zip it halfway, then stop to shove it the rest of the way closed.
Your shoes go on unevenly, the backs of them slightly crushed as you step into them without untying anything before you’re rushing out the door.
The campus air hits you cooler than you expect, the kind of crisp that lingers in the late morning. It wakes you up a little more, clears the last bit of sleep from your head as you walk faster than usual, your steps just shy of a run.
Somehow, your mind is running even faster than you are.
What if he already left? What if you left him waiting until he just assumed you weren’t coming? What if you totally ruined what you had hoped was a studious, punctual perspective of you?
You push the thoughts aside, your grip tightening slightly on your bag strap as you cut across the usual path, your route so familiar you don’t have to think about it.
The library comes into view sooner than you expect, or maybe you just got there faster in your panic. You don’t slow down as you step inside, the shift from outdoor air to the quiet, controlled stillness of the building making everything feel sharper to you.
Your footsteps soften automatically as you move through the aisles, past the usual clusters of students, past the rows you don’t ever pay attention to, until you reach the spot.
Tucked near the back, by the tall windows that let in just enough light, stands your usual table. Your chest tightens slightly as your eyes flick toward the table and you see Yunho sitting there, glasses perched on his nose and tasteful beige flannel making him seem perfectly settled in the nest of soft morning light.
He’s seated exactly the way he always is: back a little straighter than most people sit when they’re relaxed, one arm resting near his notebook, the other loosely holding a pen he isn’t really using. The soft morning light filters in through the windows behind him, catching faintly in his hair, settling over him.
His eyes find you almost immediately, like he’d been glancing up every so often without realizing it, like some part of him was expecting you even if the time had already passed.
“Oh,” the syllable falls from his lips as he sits up a little straighter when you approach, “Hey.”
You move toward him quickly, the apology already building in your chest before you even reach the table. “I’m so sorry,” you rush out immediately, your voice low but urgent, bag slipping from your shoulder as you set it down a little too quickly. “I— my alarm didn’t go off, or I just didn’t hear it, and I woke up late and I didn’t text and I—”
Stop. Please, stop talking.
You clamp your mouth shut, the rest of the words tangling in your throat before they can spill out. Yunho blinks at you, clearly caught a little off guard by the sudden rush of it, then he shakes his head quickly, almost a little too quickly.
“No, it’s— it’s okay,” he reassures, the words coming out a touch uneven, like he’s trying to meet your pace and not quite managing it. “Really. I mean, it’s Saturday, so… it’s fine.”
You pause, studying him for half a second. Something’s different. His usual calm, steady presence feels a little disrupted, like there’s a slight stutter in it. His hands move more than they usually do, fingers adjusting the edge of his notebook, then the position of his pen, then back again. His gaze flickers down for a second before returning to you, then away again.
“…Are you sure?” you inquire, a little more cautiously now, easing into your seat across from him.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he nods, then clears his throat lightly, like he’s resetting himself. “Do you, um— do you want to just start?”
He’s eager, a little too eager. That, more than anything, throws you off. Usually, there’s a rhythm to this. A quiet settling-in, a moment where he asks how your week was, where you fumble through an answer and he nods like it’s enough. Today, it feels like he’s skipping ahead.
“Um—yeah,” you answer, a little unsure, pulling your notebook out of your bag and flipping it open, your movements slower than his.
You start where you usually do: he explains a concept, voice steady enough, pointing to your notes, leaning slightly closer when you get something wrong, guiding you through it with that same patient tone you’ve come to rely on.
But it doesn’t hold. There are small things; little hesitations, the way his eyes don’t quite linger the same way when you look up at him, like he’s deliberately redirecting them back to the page. He clears his throat more than usual, or his pen taps once, twice, against the table before he stills it.
Your focus slips — not completely, but enough that you have to reread the same line twice before it makes sense, your pen hovering uselessly over your notebook as your thoughts drift.
Did you do something? No, you couldn’t have, you just got here, and he said your tardiness was fine.
You try to ignore it, but after a while, he stops mid-explanation, his pen stilling completely against the paper. You look up, brows knitting slightly, “…Yunho?”
He exhales slowly. It’s subtle, but you catch the way his shoulders drop just slightly, like he’s letting something go and bracing himself at the same time. “I, um…” he starts, then stops. His gaze lifts to you, but it doesn’t quite stay there, flickering between your face and the table, like he’s not entirely sure where to land it, “Um, I read the doc you emailed me,” he finishes.
Your heart stutters in your chest, and you hope he means anything but what you think he does. “…What?” you breathe, the word barely making it out of your mouth.
“I didn’t realize what it was at first,” he continues quickly, like he’s trying to explain before you can react, before you can shut down entirely. “I thought it was just, um, notes, or something you wanted help with, and then I started reading and—”
Your heart is pounding now and there’s a sharp, rising panic clawing its way up your chest, your fingers going cold where they rest against your notebook. Your mind scrambles, trying to retrace something that doesn’t exist — trying to find the moment where you did something that could’ve led to this.
You never sent it, you couldn’t have. You’d been careful with that folder, obsessively careful.
“I don’t know if I should have read it,” he continues when you’re silent, “it seemed kinda personal, and… I didn’t mean to keep reading, I just— I didn’t realize until I was already…” he trails off, studying your face and trying to find anything other than panic.
Your chest tightens. The thought lands slowly, like it has to force its way through your disbelief. He read it. He read every line, every stupid, soft, embarrassing thought you never meant for anyone to see, especially not him.
Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of your notebook, nails pressing into the paper without you realizing. Your heart is loud in your ears, and his words hardly make it through the haze.
“I’m really sorry,” he adds uselessly, as if that could ever cushion the blow, the fact that your life is completely fucking ruined because, if he got the letter, that probably means all the other guys did, and oh god, you’ve got to kill yourself.
Your brain is moving too fast now, spiraling, pulling up flashes of the doc — the way you wrote his name, the way you described him, the way you—
Oh my god.
“I just wanted to say… it was really nice.” Your gaze lifts slowly, like it takes effort, eyes landing on him. He looks… earnest. He looks careful, like he’s choosing every word, “Really thoughtful,” he continues, “and… flattering.”
Flattering. The word twists something in your chest.
“I just don’t think it would be right,” he speaks again after a second, quieter now, “to accept that. There’s, um, a power dynamic,” he adds, his hands shifting slightly against the table, fingers curling and uncurling like he doesn’t know where to put them. “I’m your tutor. I was assigned to you through the school, and it wouldn’t be fair.”
Fair. None of this was fucking fair. All of your helpless crushes probably read your sappy, stupid, romantic declarations of love and that alone is enough to make you consider moving to Antarctica or somewhere where you’ll never have to face any of them ever again.
“I’m really sorry if that’s—” he starts, but you think if he finishes that sentence you’re going to pass out.
“It’s fine,” you blurt out quickly, way too quickly to be casual. Your voice sounds wrong even to your own ears, brittle and soft and seconds away from breaking.
You can feel everything pressing in at once: the weight of what he knows, the way your thoughts won’t slow down, won’t stop, just looping over the same thing again and again—
Your fingers press harder into the edge of your notebook, like you can anchor yourself there, like you can keep everything from spilling out if you just hold still enough. “I should—” you start again, your chair shifting slightly as you begin to push it back.
Leave, leave now. You can’t sit here. You can’t breathe here. You can’t exist in the same space as him knowing what he knows.
You scramble to shove your notebook back into your bag, before that feeling hits you again — eyes are on you, more than just Yunho’s, and your head lifts before you can stop it, like your body already knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
And there Seonghwa is, across the aisle, walking directly toward you. His steps are steady, his posture composed in that way it always is, but there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach drop instantly. It’s the same look, the same knowing glint Yunho had just seconds ago.
Your breath stutters in your chest. Your mind scrambles, pieces snapping together all at once, too fast and too overwhelming. If Yunho knows, if the letters somehow got out, then Seonghwa—
Fuck. Your vision blurs at the edges. You can’t let him get any closer. You can’t stand there while he looks at you like that, like he’s already seen every part of you you tried so hard to hide.
Your body moves before your brain can catch up. It isn’t a decision. It isn’t even a thought, it’s cold, startling panic.
You lurch forward across the table, one hand bracing against the surface to steady yourself, the other catching lightly on Yunho’s sleeve as you lean in, and then you kiss him.
It’s clumsy, rushed, and completely unplanned. Your lips meet his wrong, barely aligned, more a collision than anything else, your breath still uneven, your heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else. Yunho freezes beneath you, completely caught off guard, his body going rigid in shock, like he hasn’t even processed what’s happening yet.
From the edge of your vision, you see Seonghwa stop. His expression shifts, something tightening, something conflicted flashing across his face as his gaze lands on you, on this, before he looks away, just slightly. He doesn’t turn fully, not leaving, but it’s enough for you that he doesn’t keep coming.
You pull back just as quickly as you leaned in, your breath shaky, your entire body buzzing with the aftermath of something you didn’t think through even a little. “Oh my god,” you whisper, your hand flying up to your mouth like you can undo it, like you can physically take it back. “Yunho, I’m— I’m so sorry—”
Yunho is still staring at you, wide-eyed and blushing, completely thrown, his usual composure nowhere to be found.
“I didn’t— I just—” your words tangle immediately, falling apart before they can become anything coherent, your voice breaking.
You can’t look at him. You can’t look at Seonghwa. You can’t be here. “I have to go,” you blurt out, the sentence rushed and uneven, barely held together.
You don’t wait for a response. You grab your bag in a hurry, nearly knocking your chair over as you sling it over your shoulder, your movements frantic, uncoordinated as you rush past Seonghwa who you think tries to stop you.
The realization keep replaying in your head as you storm out, over and over and suffocating:
They know. They all know.
You don’t remember the walk home. Your thoughts don’t slow down the entire way, looping, overlapping, collapsing into each other until they stop feeling like thoughts at all and more like noise.
They know.
By the time you reach your dorm, your hands are shaking. You fumble with your keys, missing the lock the first time, then the second, your breath coming a little too fast, a little too shallow. When the door finally swings open, you slip inside quickly, like something might follow you in if you’re not fast enough.
You drop your bag somewhere near your desk without really aiming, your laptop already halfway out before you even sit down. Your fingers move too fast, clumsy against the keys as you flip it open, the screen lighting up your face in that familiar pale glow that usually calms you.
You go straight to your email, because of course you do. There has to be an explanation. There has to be something you missed, something you did without realizing, some kind of glitch or mistake that makes this less catastrophic than it feels.
Your heart pounds harder as your cursor moves to the ‘Sent’ category, and your breath stops. There it is.
Four different threads sent from you, your school email. Your vision blurs for a second before it refocuses, your eyes scanning too quickly, skipping over words because you don’t want to see them but you can’t stop yourself from looking.
Four names, four attachments, four names. Kim Hongjoong, Jung Wooyoung, Jeong Yunho, Park Seonghwa. All sent, all timestamped, all from you.
Your stomach drops so violently you have to grab the edge of your desk to steady yourself. This can’t be real, you didn’t— you’d never accidentally send these, you couldn’t possibly have, you guarded those docs like they held the key to fucking Pandora’s box. In a way, to you, they did.
A small, broken sound leaves your throat before you can stop it, your hand coming up to press against your mouth as your chest tightens painfully. “Oh my god,” you whisper, barely audible even to yourself.
It’s worse than you thought. It’s so much worse, because it’s not just Yunho and Seonghwa, it’s all of them, all four. Every version of you you tried so hard to keep contained has been spelled out, signed, and delivered neatly into their inboxes like some kind of cruel joke.
You feel sick, actually, genuinely sick.
Your chair scrapes harshly against the floor as you push back suddenly, pacing once, twice, your hands tugging at your hair, at your sleeves, at anything you can reach.
What do you do?
What do you even—
A knock hits your door and your heart leaps into your throat so fast it hurts. Of course this was happening now. You sigh, smoothing your hand over your hair and approaching the door, hoping you look at least a little more put together than you feel.
You cross the room too quickly, your hand gripping the doorknob before you can second-guess it, and the second you pull it open, there he is, leaning slightly forward like he was about to knock again, eyes sharp, already locked onto you.
You gasp as you stare at Jung Wooyoung standing in front of your door. “Hey, Yeosang said I could find you here—“
Before he can finish, before he can look at you any longer, you slam the door — at least, you try to, because his hand shoots out faster than you expect, planting firmly against the wood, stopping it mid-swing with a solid thud.
“Whoa— hey, relax,” he placates, pushing it back open with barely any effort. You stumble back a step, your breath catching, your heart racing all over again as he steps inside like he belongs there, like you didn’t just try to shut him out completely.
“Wooyoung—“ you start, your voice already shaking.
He closes the door behind him, turning to face you fully now, his expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach twist. “We need to talk,” he speaks simply.
“No, we don’t,” you shoot back immediately, too fast and too defensive. “I don’t—there’s nothing to talk about, I didn’t even—”You stop yourself, your words tripping over each other.
“Oh, yeah?” he raises an eyebrow as he talks, slow and unimpressed. “Because I got a pretty long email from you last night that says otherwise.”
You shake your head quickly, backing up another step like distance might help. “I didn’t mean to send those letters,” you rush out, the words spilling over themselves now, desperate, frantic. “I really didn’t, I don’t even know how that happened, I— it wasn’t— I don’t even like you like that anymore, it’s just—” You cut yourself off again, your breath uneven. Wooyoung just stares at you for a second.
“Letters?” he repeats, tilting his head slightly. “Plural?” His mouth curves, not quite a smile, something more amused than anything else. “Wow,” he lets out a quiet huff, shaking his head. “Way to make a guy feel special, tiny. Here I was thinking I was the only one getting a fancy love letter.”
Your face burns. You don’t even try to respond to that, because there’s nothing you can say that wouldn’t make it worse.
Wooyoung watches you for a second longer, his head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction like he’s piecing something together. “…So who else?” he asks.
You freeze. “What?” you manage, too defensively.
He gestures loosely with one hand, like it’s obvious. “You said ‘letters,’” he points out, tone light but persistent. “So who else got one?”
“I— it doesn’t matter,” you say, shaking your head immediately, your fingers tightening in your sleeves. This is humiliating.
“Oh, it definitely matters,” he counters, pushing off the door and stepping further into your room like he’s settling in for this. “C’mon, don’t be like that. Who am I sharing the spotlight with?”
“There’s no spotlight,” you mutter, your voice thinner now, your gaze dropping. “It wasn’t even supposed to—”
“Then just say it,” he presses, not letting you slip away.
Saying it out loud makes it real in a way you don’t think you can undo, but the way he’s looking at you makes it feel like you don’t have a choice.
So you admit it in the only way you know how: blurting it out and hoping it’s coherent, “Jeong Yunho, Kim Hongjoong, and Park Seonghwa.”
There’s a small pause before he lets out a short breath through his nose, something almost amused flickering across his face. “Hongjoong? Kim Hongjoong, is that who you’re talking about? The music major?” he huffs lightly. “Really?” He glances at you like he’s reevaluating something. “Thought you had better taste than that, tiny. Y’know, considering you like me.”
“I do not like you,” you shoot back instantly.
The words hang there for a second, heavier than you intended and he pauses for a beat before one corner of his mouth tugs up slightly, like he doesn’t quite believe you, like he’s filing that away as something to poke at later. “Right. Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t,” you insist, more firmly this time, even though your voice wavers just slightly at the edges. “I didn’t— I mean, I did, but not— it’s not—” You stop yourself, your frustration spiking as your words tangle beyond repair. He seems to be on a different thought process, though.
“Wait, Seonghwa?” His brows lift, something amused flickering across his face. “No way,” he huffs, almost like he’s impressed. “Isn’t that guy, like… your brother’s best friend?”
Heat floods your face all over again, this time sharper, more panicked. How does he even know that? You know San’s on the football team and Wooyoung’s always hanging around them, but you didn’t think he even noticed you until yesterday.
“Stop,” you snap, the word coming out more forceful than anything you’ve said so far.
But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. If anything, it just encourages him. “Wow,” he continues, shaking his head slightly like he’s trying to wrap his mind around it. “That’s bold. I didn’t think you had it in you, tiny.”
“I said stop,” you repeat, your voice tighter now, your hands curling at your sides. “Those letters were private, and no one was supposed to see them, and now my whole life is a living hell and— I don’t… I don’t know what to do, so I really don’t need you coming and— and just making it all worse!”
He studies you for a second, then exhales through his nose lightly, dragging a hand through his hair as he looks off to the side for a second, like he’s thinking or recalibrating. “…Okay,” he offers after a moment. “Yeah. That’s—” He nods once, like he’s acknowledging it. “That’s rough.”
You let out a small, humorless breath at that. Rough. Right, that’s one way to put it.
Silence settles for a second, the atmosphere of the conversation heavier now, less chaotic but no less uncomfortable. You shift your weight, your fingers picking at your cuticle. “I really didn’t mean for those to get sent,” you start again, voice nervous and shaky. “I don’t even know how it happened.”
Wooyoung glances back at you, studying you for a second longer, then he exhales again, sharper this time, like he’s coming to some kind of conclusion. “…Okay,” he repeats, more decisively now.
Uh oh. That tone can’t mean anything good.
He steps a little closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you can’t pretend he’s not about to say something that will change the direction of this entire conversation.
“I’ve got an idea,” he declares.
You already don’t like it. “A bad one,” you mutter under your breath, and he ignores you completely.
“What if we fake date?”
You blink at him, like maybe if you give your brain a second, it’ll rearrange his words into something that actually makes sense. It doesn’t. They sit there exactly as he said them, heavy and absurd, and it’s all you can do not to stare at him like he’s just suggested something completely detached from reality— because he has. “…What?” you finally manage, your voice coming out quieter than you intended.
Wooyoung doesn’t look unsure. If anything, he looks more settled now, like saying it out loud only solidified it for him. He shifts his weight slightly, one shoulder angling forward as his attention locks onto you in a way that makes it clear he’s not joking. “Fake date,” he repeats, slower this time, like you’re a dunce. “You and me.”
Your stomach twists. “That’s not—” you start, shaking your head immediately, your hands lifting slightly like you can physically push the idea away. “That’s not a solution, that’s— that’s insane.”
“Is it?” he counters, one brow lifting.
“Yes,” you reply within a second, more sure of this than you’ve been of anything else in your life. “Very. Extremely. Incredibly—”
“Okay, then what’s your plan?” he cuts in, arching a brow as he watches you flounder.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out this time. The confidence drains from your expression almost instantly, your gaze dropping somewhere between his shoes and the floor as your fingers tighten in the fabric of your sleeves again. You hate that he asked that. You hate that you don’t have a good answer.
You swallow, your shoulders pulling in slightly. “I’ll just… avoid them,” you try, even though the words feel weak the second they leave your mouth.
“All of them?” he questions, tilting his head slightly, studying you. “Your tutor?” He pauses slightly, “your brother’s best friend?”
You flinch at Seonghwa’s descriptor, subtle but there and he sighs. “…Okay, my bad,” he mutters under his breath, though there’s the faintest flicker of amusement before it fades again. He exhales lightly, pushing off from where he’d been leaning, his posture shifting to be more grounded, more deliberate. “Point is, you can’t just disappear.”
“I can try,” you mumble, though it sounds less like a plan and more like a last resort you already know won’t work.
“Yeah,” he huffs, glancing at you, then vaguely gesturing between the two of you. “And how’s that working out so far?”
You don’t answer, because you don’t need to. The evidence that you can’t hide from the recipients of your letters is standing right here, in the middle of your dorm room, living and breathing and looking at you like you’re a problem that needs solving.
He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s choosing his words more carefully now. “Look,” he starts, his tone leveling out into something more practical. “This fixes two problems at once.”
Your brows knit slightly as you look back up at him, cautious now. “What problems?”
He lifts a hand, ticking them off on his fingers like he’s already thought this through. “One: Karina.” His mouth tightens just slightly at her name before he smooths it over. “She sees me with someone else, she gets jealous, realizes what she’s missing—whatever. Doesn’t matter. It works.”
Your expression shifts faintly at that, but before you can interrupt, he continues.
“Two: you.” His hand lowers, gesturing toward you in a way that feels more intentional now, “You don’t have to explain any of this. Not to me, not to them, not to anyone. It’ll just look like…” he pauses, shrugging lightly, “…you didn’t mean it. Like you’ve already got a boyfriend and the emails were just a joke.”
Your chest tightens at that, because that… that actually makes sense, in a way you didn’t want it to. It would give context to something that currently has none. It would take the edge off the humiliation, dull it into something more understandable, something less exposed.
“…It’s still a bad idea,” you offer uselessly after a moment, but there’s less conviction behind it now, more hesitation creeping in at the edges.
Wooyoung watches you carefully, as if he can see the exact moment your resistance starts to slip, “Maybe, but you’re thinking about it.”
You let out a quiet breath, your gaze dropping again as your mind starts racing in a different direction now, turning the concept of it in your mind. Fake dating. With him. The thought alone makes something uneasy twist low in your stomach, something you don’t want to examine too closely.
“No,” you refuse again, softer now, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. “People will know it’s fake.”
“They won’t,” he refutes immediately.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he counters just as quickly. “because I won’t act like it’s fake.”
You look back up at him, your expression caught somewhere between suspicion and overwhelm. “And I’m just supposed to… what? Go along with it?”
“Yeah,” he replies simply, like it’s obvious.
Your mouth opens, then closes again, your hands lifting slightly in a helpless, uncertain gesture. “I don’t— I can’t just—” you start, your voice tightening. “I’m not good at that. I’m not good at…” You trail off, vaguely motioning between the two of you, unable to even fully articulate it.
“Liking someone?” he fills in.
“I already told you, I don’t like you,” you shoot back automatically, even as your voice wavers just slightly.
He huffs slightly, “Right,” he repeats again, in that same tone that makes it clear he doesn’t quite buy it. You glare at him weakly, but it doesn’t have any real bite.
“…You don’t have to be good at it,” he adds after a moment, his voice lowering just slightly, “I’ll handle most of it.” He studies your face, the tentative energy practically rolling off of you. “…and it wouldn’t be forever,” Wooyoung maintains after a moment, and there’s a subtle shift in him when he says it, like he’s consciously dialing himself back. The earlier edge in his tone softens, not disappearing entirely, but rounding out into something steadier. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly at the strands before falling away, a quiet exhale slipping out of him like he’s trying to make the idea sound less overwhelming. “Just until things calm down.”
Your gaze slips away from him almost instinctively, dropping somewhere near the floor before unfocusing entirely. Your thoughts don’t land on one thing so much as they spiral, pulling everything in with them— Yunho’s careful, apologetic voice, the way Seonghwa stopped mid-step, that look on his face you didn’t dare stick around long enough to understand, Hongjoong in the bathroom, quiet and observant and there at the worst possible moment, and now this.
Your fingers tighten in the sleeves of your sweater, the fabric bunching under your grip like it could ground you. It just makes you more aware of how tense you are, how tightly wound everything feels inside your chest.
Wooyoung shifts again, pushing himself more fully upright from where he’d been leaning, his posture straightening but not closing in. He gives you space without stepping away, like he’s figured out that pressing you any harder right now won’t get him anywhere.
“It gives you an out,” he adds after a second, his voice quieter now, like he’s laying it out instead of arguing for it. One shoulder lifts in a small shrug, casual on the surface but not careless.
Your fingers loosen slightly in your sleeves, then tighten again, like your body can’t decide what it’s doing any more than your mind can. Your gaze stays down for a second longer, fixed on nothing, your thoughts still turning over themselves.
An out, that’s what he called it, and God, you want one, because the alternative — facing Yunho again after that, looking Seonghwa in the eye knowing exactly what he’s read, existing in the same space as Hongjoong with all of that hanging unspoken between you — it makes your chest tighten in a way that feels almost unbearable.
You shift your weight slightly, your shoulder brushing faintly against the edge of your desk behind you, grounding you just enough to pull yourself back into the moment. “…And it just stops?” you inquire finally, your voice softer, not as frantic as before but still uneven around the edges. You don’t look at him yet. “After things calm down.”
“Yeah,” he answers, so sure of it.
You finally glance up at him, hesitant, searching his expression for certainty, or reassurance, or even doubt. He just looks steady, like he’s already decided this works.
“…And you get Karina back,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.
A flicker passes over his face at that, but it’s gone just as fast. “That’s the idea,” he confirms, tone flattening slightly, like he doesn’t want to linger on that part too long.
You nod once, small and absent, your gaze dropping again as your thoughts circle back inward. Your breath comes out slow, a little shaky at the end as you press your lips together, weighing it one last time even though you already feel the answer settling in your chest.
“…Okay,” you say finally. Wooyoung is quiet, uncharacteristically so, and you think he’s waiting, making sure you don’t take it back, so you swallow and add, a little more firmly this time, even if your voice still wavers just slightly, “…Okay. We can—” you hesitate for half a second, your fingers tightening around the edge of the desk, “we can try it.”
request to join the taglist in the replies or in my inbox!
masterlist | part one , part two , part three , part four
synopsis: the guy of your dreams finally asks you on a date. the problem? you've barely had your first kiss—and he looks like he definitely knows what he's doing. panicking, you ask the campus resident playboy, choi yeonjun, for lessons. strictly practical. no feelings. no strings. except yeonjun isn't as experienced as everyone thinks.
✧ pairing: playboy student!choi yeonjun x student!reader
✧ genre/warnings: explicit sexual content (smut with plot, 18+ mdni), rom-com, college au, sexual exploration, coming of age, fwb, teaching trope, sexual themes & sexting, clumsy intimacy, love triangle-ish, smoking, alcohol/party settings, in chapter warnings to apply
✧ total word count: est. 35k~
✧ status: completed
✧ playlist | main masterlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ index
teaser
lesson one
lesson two
lesson three
epilogue
taglist: drop me an ask or comment below if you'd like to be added!
Pairing: Siren!Yeonjun x daughter of corsair!reader
Genre: reverse siren x pirate trope
Wc:~11.2k
Warnings: mention of death, near death experience, monster!yeonjun, wounds, drowning (no smut)
A/N: I've been thinking about reverse tropes a lot lately and i was so happy i finally found time to write that !! (It took me weeks because with a wifi issue i lost like 5000 words of it and had to write it again 😔)
The Black Gull cuts through the gray water like a knife through cloth. You stand at the rail, one hand on the rough wood, the other holding your cloak tight against the wind. Salt stings your lips. The deck tilts under your boots, but you keep your balance the way your father taught you: knees soft, eyes on the horizon.
Behind you, the crew moves fast. Ropes slap. Boots thud. Someone shouts about the mainsail. No one looks at you. You are not part of the work. You are cargo with a heartbeat.
Your father, the Captain, a corsair, stands at the helm. His coat flaps like a black flag. He does not turn. He never does when the ship is running. You are here because he said yes one night in port, after too much rum and your mother’s pleading letters. "Let the girl see the sea" he told the first mate. "She’ll learn it’s no place for soft hands." That was three weeks ago. You have not touched a rope since.
The sailors call you "the passenger" when they think you can’t hear. They say you belong in a parlor, not on a deck that smells of tar and fish. Yesterday, a deckhand named Pike laughed when you flinched at a flying fish. "Tender as fresh bread" he said. The others grinned. You smiled back, small and quick, then looked away.You do not argue. You have no orders to give. The Black Gull is your father’s world, not yours. You are allowed the rail, the wind, the wide empty sea. That is enough.
The sun drops low, painting the waves gold. You lean farther out. The water rushes below, dark and alive. Gulls wheel overhead, screaming. You lift your face to the spray. It tastes of iron and freedom.
A shadow falls across the deck. Your father’s boots stop beside you. He does not speak at first. He only looks at the same horizon you watch.
"A storm's coming" he says finally. His voice is gravel and smoke.
You nod. You feel it in the air, the way the wind shifts, sharp and hungry.
"Stay below when it hits" he says. "No heroics."
"Yes, sir."
He grunts and walks away. The crew parts for him like water around a prow.
You stay at the rail. The ship groans. The sky darkens. You pull your cloak tighter and smile into the coming dark. The sea does not care if you are tender. It only asks that you keep looking.
The storm breaks at midnight.It starts with a low hum under the deck, like the ship itself is singing. You wake in your narrow bunk, hammock swaying hard. Water drips through the seams overhead. The lantern has gone out. In the dark, the hum grows louder, sweet, impossible. It curls around your ribs and pulls.
You know that sound. Every sailor does. Sirens.
You scramble up the stairs. The hatch bangs open. Rain lashes your face. The deck is chaos. Men stagger like drunks, eyes wide and shining. Some climb the rails. Some walk straight into the sea. The Black Gull lists hard to port; the wheel spins empty. Your father is nowhere.
The song is everywhere. It is not words. It is memory: your mother’s lullaby, the smell of bread baking in port, the first time you saw the ocean and thought it loved you. Your knees buckle. You grab the mast to stay upright.
Lightning forks. For one heartbeat the sea lights up.
They are there.
Sirens ride the waves like dolphins. Tails flash silver and blue. Hair streams black, gold, red. Their mouths are open, throats glowing faint blue. The song pours out of them, thick as honey, sharp as hooks.
At the bow, Pike stands on the rail. His arms are out. He smiles like a child. Then he steps off. The splash is small. No one tries to stop him.
You force yourself forward. One foot, then the next. The deck tilts again; you slide, catch a rope, haul yourself along. The song claws at your mind. You bite your tongue until you taste blood. The pain keeps you here.
Near the starboard rail, three sailors wrestle with a net. They are the only ones still moving right. Their ears are stuffed with wax, beeswax, torn from the cook’s stores. Smart. Too late for most.
You reach the rail and look down.
The sea is full of bodies. Some float face-up, eyes open to the rain. Others sink slow, arms reaching. The sirens circle them, touching cheeks, kissing mouths, pulling them deeper. One siren lifts a sailor’s head and sings right into his ear. He smiles as he drowns.
Then you see him.
He is closer than the rest, clinging to the hull with one clawed hand. Water streams off his shoulders. His tail is long, midnight blue fading to silver at the fins. His hair is silver, plastered to his skull. His eyes, large, luminous, the color of storm clouds lit from within, meet yours.
The song falters.He stops singing. His mouth stays open, but no sound comes. The other sirens keep weaving their spell, but this one is still. His claws dig into the wood. A wave slaps him; he does not blink.
You cannot look away.
There is something in his face you do not expect: wonder. Like he has never seen a human before. Like you are the myth and he is the child hearing it.
Lightning again. His pupils shrink to slits. You see the sharp line of his cheekbones, the thin membrane between his fingers. He is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful, clean, dangerous, made for one purpose.
Behind you, a shout. "There! The pretty one’s distracted!"
The three sailors with the net move fast. They swing it over the rail. It is heavy, weighted with iron. The siren, Yeonjun, though you do not know his name yet, turns too late. The net drops over his head, cinches tight. He thrashes. His tail lashes; water sprays like shattered glass. The claws rake the deck, leave long scars in the wood.
"Haul!" the bosun yells. His voice is ragged but alive.
Ropes creak. Men grunt. Inch by inch, they drag the siren aboard. He fights hard. One fin slices a sailor’s arm to the bone. Blood mixes with rainwater, runs pink across the planks. But there are three of them and one of him, and the net is iron-bound.
Yeonjun lands on the deck with a wet slap. The impact drives the air from his lungs. His tail spasms, knocking over a water barrel. The other sirens scream, a sound like gulls being murdered. They dive, surface, dive again, but the storm is too wild. Waves push them back. The Black Gull rights itself slowly as the spell breaks. Men blink, shake their heads, remember who they are.
Your father appears at last, coat torn, cutlass drawn. His face is gray. "How many lost?" he barks.
"Twenty" the bosun says. "Maybe more."
The captain’s eyes find the siren. Yeonjun lies tangled, chest heaving. The net pins his arms to his sides. His tail twitches, trying to find purchase on the slick wood. Blood, his own, bright silver, seeps from where the iron weights have cut him.
Your father raises the cutlass.
You move without thinking. Your hand closes on his wrist. "Wait."
He looks at you like you are a stranger. "Step back, girl."
"He stopped singing" you say. Your voice is steady even though your heart hammers. "When he saw me. The others didn’t."
The captain hesitates. Around you, the surviving crew gathers. Some clutch belaying pins, some knives. Their eyes are red from salt and grief. They want blood.
Yeonjun’s gaze flicks between you and the blade. He does not speak. Sirens do not need to; the sea is their tongue. But his eyes beg. Or maybe they warn. You cannot tell.
"Cargo hold" your father decides. "Chain him and put him in a tub. We’ll deal with this at dawn."
The bosun nods. Two men bring Yeonjun to a wooden tub under the deck. They chain him to it and fill it with seawater. Yeonjun snarls, actually snarls, teeth sharp as a shark’s. The sound raises the hair on your arms. But he is weakening. The iron burns his skin where it touches; smoke curls up in thin threads.
You step closer. The crew tenses. Your father’s hand tightens on your shoulder, but you shake him off.
You kneel just outside the net’s reach. Rain drips from your hair onto the deck between you.
Yeonjun watches you. His gills flutter. Up close, you see the faint scars across his collarbones, the way his scales catch the lantern light someone has finally relit. He is shaking, not from cold, but from the iron.
Dawn leaks through the galley hatch in thin, reluctant rays. The cook is asleep over his pots, snoring loud enough to rattle the pans. You step over his sprawled legs, bare feet silent on the damp planks. Your boots are still soaked from last night; you left them by the stove to dry but it did almost nothing. The ship rocks gently now, storm spent. Somewhere above, men hammer at broken spars and count the dead.
You carry nothing but a tin cup of water and the weight of last night in your chest.
The warning was clear. Your father’s voice, rough as barnacles: "Stay clear of the hold, girl. That thing’s poison." He said it in front of the bosun, so the whole crew heard. No one argued.
You picked the lock with a fishhook and a hairpin. The click was soft; the sea swallowed it.
Down the stairs. The air turns cool and sour: bilge, blood, wet iron. A single lantern swings from a beam, throwing long shadows that crawl across crates and coiled rope. At the far end, past the water barrels, sits the tub.
They built it fast: four wide planks hammered into a square, lined with an old sail to hold water. Saltwater, pumped in by bucket brigade before dawn. Enough to keep a siren alive, not enough to let him swim. The chains run from his wrists to an iron ring bolted through the keel. More chains loop his tail, leaving only a handspan of slack. The links are thick as your thumb, black with age and new rust.
Yeonjun is awake.He senses you before you reach the bottom rung. The water erupts. His tail slams the tub’s side, wood shudders, a plank bows outward. Water arcs high, slaps the floor in cold sheets. You stop three paces away, cup steady in your grip. Droplets bead on your lashes.
He rises halfway out, torso clear of the surface. Shoulders gleam, slick with scales that shift from deep indigo to storm-silver depending on the light. The chains clink, taut. A hiss pours from his throat, low and rattling, more snake than song.
You wait.
His pupils are vertical slits, thin as knife cuts. They track every breath you take. Webbed fingers curl against the chains; the claws leave pale scratches on the iron. He is testing: how much give, how much pain. The metal bites; he does not flinch. Only watches.
You take one slow step. Then another. Circle left, outside the splash radius. The lantern rocks; shadows leap across his face. You see the scars now, three pale lines along the left side, puckered where harpoon tips once tore through. Old. Healed crooked. Someone tried to catch him before and paid for it.
Another hiss. Softer. A warning, not an attack.
You stop at the tub’s corner. The water inside is murky with blood and scales. His tail curls tight against the far side, fins pressed flat. The bioluminescent veins under his skin pulse slow, faint blue, like lightning trapped in glass. They brighten when he’s angry. Right now they flicker, uncertain.
You lift the tin cup. Hold it out.He snarls. Teeth flash: sharp, made for rending. The sound vibrates in your sternum. Water sloshes again as he shifts, chains clashing. You do not move.
Minutes stretch. The ship creaks. Somewhere above, a bell rings eight times, morning watch changing. You stay.
Eventually you set the cup on the floor, just within his reach if he stretches. Then you sit cross-legged, back against a crate. You pull the sketchbook from under your shirt. It is damp but intact. Charcoal stick between your fingers.
He watches you open to a blank page.The first line is hesitant: the curve of his shoulder where scale meets skin. You glance up. His eyes narrow, but he does not lunge. You draw the scars next, quick strokes. The lantern sways; light slides across the page like oil.
Time blurs. You lose count of how many times you look up and find him staring. Once, he shifts suddenly, chains rattle loud, and you pause, charcoal hovering. He freezes too, as if surprised you stopped. You meet his glare. Hold it. After a long beat you resume drawing. The line of his jaw. The way his lower lip is fuller than the upper. The tiny scar at the corner of his mouth, pale against the dark.
The second time he lunges, it is deliberate. He surges forward until the chains snap him back. Water cascades over the edge, soaks your knees. The sketchbook stays dry; you lifted it without thinking. Your heart hammers, but your hand is steady.
He expects you to run. You can see it in the tilt of his head, the way his fins flare. When you only blink saltwater from your eyes and flip to a fresh page, something shifts. The glow under his skin dims to a steady pulse. He sinks lower in the tub, chin barely above the surface.
Hours pass. The lantern burns low; someone will come to refill it soon. Your stomach growls. You ignore it. The charcoal is a nub now. You switch to the blunt end, shading the hollow beneath his collarbone where shadow pools.
He has not hissed in a long while.
His tail still twitches whenever footsteps thud overhead, but the strikes against the tub have stopped. He coils at the far end like a cat in a box too small, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. The chains allow that much. His eyes never leave you, but the slits have widened, rounder, less predator, more... curious.
You tear a page free. Hold it up so he can see: a study of his hand, webbing spread, claws relaxed. The lines are simple, honest. You set it on the floor between you, weighted with the tin cup, still untouched.
He stares at the drawing a long time. Then at you. Something flickers across his face too fast to name.
You stand slowly. Your legs are stiff. The sketchbook closes with a soft thud. You tuck the charcoal behind your ear like a sailor with a quill.
"I’ll bring more paper" you say. Your voice is hoarse from disuse. "And fresh water. That-" you nod at the cup "-is for you. I don't know if you need to drink."
He does not answer. Sirens do not thank prey. But his tail uncurls a fraction. The fins spread, then fold again, deliberate.
You turn to leave. At the stairs you pause. Look back.
He has not moved, but the glow under his skin is steady now, soft as moonlight on waves. His head is tilted, watching the drawing you left. One webbed finger stretches, chains clink, and brushes the edge of the paper. Careful. Like it might bite.
You climb.
Behind you, the tub settles into quiet. No splashing. No hissing. Only the slow drip of water from the lantern chain and the creak of the ship breathing.
When you reach the galley, the cook is still snoring. You step over him again, sketchbook clutched to your chest. Your knees are wet, your fingers black with charcoal, and your pulse is calm for the first time since the storm.
Above, the crew will notice the broken padlock soon. Your father will roar. You will take the shouting. You will come back tonight with bread, a bucket of clean seawater, and the rest of the sketchbook. Yeonjun will be waiting.
The third morning is quiet. The Black Gull limps south under patched sails, chasing rumors of calm water and a port that might take its broken masts. The dead have been sewn into hammocks and sent over the rail at dawn; twenty-three in all. The crew speaks in low voices now, eyes sliding past the cargo hatch like it might open and swallow them.
You wait until the galley is empty. The cook is on deck, arguing over salt pork rations. You slip down with a canvas sack over your shoulder: two gutted mackerel, still slick and silver, a heel of bread, a fresh sketchbook. The fish you stole from the barrel before the cook woke. They twitch faintly, half-alive.
The hold smells worse today, stale blood, wet wood, the faint metallic tang of siren. The lantern is newly trimmed; someone has been here. The tub water is cloudy, streaked rust where the chains drag. Yeonjun floats on his back, eyes closed, tail curled tight. At the creak of the stairs his head snaps up. The glow under his skin flares, then steadies when he sees it is you.
You set the sack down. Sit on the same crate, knees drawn up. The sketchbook stays closed for now.
He watches you watch him. The silence stretches, thick but not hostile. Three days of this dance: you come, you draw, you leave something: water, a scrap of cloth to wrap the iron burns, once a strip of dried apple he sniffed and ignored. He has not lunged since the second afternoon. The tub’s sides are scarred from earlier thrashing, but the wood holds.You lean forward, elbows on your knees. "What's your name?" You ask.
"Yeonjun" he just states, as if it wasn't important.
"Your songs" you say, voice low "do they always kill? Or can they warn?"
A snort. Water bubbles around his mouth. "Warn?" His voice is gravel dragged over coral, rough from disuse and iron fumes. "Humans don’t listen unless it serves them. We sing death because it’s the only note you hear."
You nod like that makes sense. It does not, not really, but you file it away. "So the song last night, what was that?"
He sinks lower, only eyes and nose above the surface. "Practice. The chains itch. Singing keeps the mind sharp." A pause. "And reminds your kind what waits below."
You pull a mackerel from the sack. Hold it up by the tail. It flips once, scales catching the lantern. Yeonjun’s pupils widen, round now, not slits. Hunger, not threat.
You toss it. The fish arcs, lands with a wet slap in the tub. He snaps it out of the air, teeth flashing. Bones crunch. He chews mid-swallow, eyes never leaving you.
"What about hierarchy among sirens?" you say, pulling out the second fish. "Who decides when to sing? Is there a leader?"
He wipes his mouth with the back of his webbed hand. Blood smears across his cheek like war paint. "Oldest sings loudest. Strongest backs it. The rest follow or drown the humans." He tilts his head. "Your kind has captains. Same current, different tide."
You toss the second fish. He catches it against his chest, tears it in half. Juice runs down his wrist. "Why do you hate us?" you ask. "Not the ones who hunt you, us. All of us."
Yeonjun chews slower. The glow under his skin pulses, thoughtful. "Your nets take everything. Your ships scar the reefs. Your hooks leave holes that never close." He lifts his left hand; the webbing between thumb and finger is torn, healed crooked. "My sister wore a necklace of your iron once. She sang until her throat bled. Then she sank." His voice drops. "We hate what takes."
You are quiet. The lantern hisses. Somewhere above, a winch creaks.
He finishes the fish, licks his fingers clean. "Why feed what you cage?" he asks suddenly. The question is sharp, aimed to cut.
You shrug. "Starving you changes nothing. The chains stay. The ship sails. Hunger just makes you meaner."
He lets out a huff, almost a laugh. "Mean keeps me alive."
"Alive isn’t the same as living" you say. The words surprise you both. You busy yourself with the sketchbook, flipping to a fresh page. Charcoal scratches: the line of his throat, the way the scales overlap like roof tiles.
He watches the drawing take shape. "You draw what you cannot keep" he says. "Paper burns. Ink washes away."
"Memory doesn’t" you reply without looking up. "Not if it’s true."
Minutes pass. The fish bones sink to the tub’s bottom. You sketch the torn webbing, the faint scar across his ribs you noticed yesterday. He shifts to give you a better angle without being asked. The chains clink softly.
"Tell me about the reefs" you say.
He does. Grudging at first, then words spill like water through a cracked dam. Coral that sings when the moon is full. Fish that glow red to warn of poison. A trench so deep the pressure crushes bone. His voice paints pictures brighter than your charcoal: gardens of anemones, schools of silver darts, the way sunlight breaks into rainbows thirty fathoms down.
You draw as he speaks. A reef spire. A many-armed thing he calls a star-eater. His tail, coiled lazy around a rock that isn’t there.
He stops mid-sentence once, eyes narrowing. "You mock me."
"No" you say. "I listen."
Another silence. Then: "Your kind lies with smiles."
"This one doesn’t." You tear the page free, hold it out. He takes it carefully between two claws, studies the reef. His thumb smudges the charcoal. He does not seem to mind.
Suddenly you hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Heavy boots. You stand fast, heart kicking. Yeonjun sinks low, only eyes above water. The glow dims to nothing.
The bosun’s head appears. "Captain wants you topside, miss. Now."
You nod. Gather the sack, the sketchbook. At the stairs you pause. "I’ll bring more fish" you say to the tub. "And salt. For the cuts."
Yeonjun’s voice is barely a breath. "Thank you for the fish."
You smile, small, quick, and climb.
That afternoon the cook notices the missing mackerel. He blames random crew members. You say nothing.
During the evening watch. You slip down again with three red fishes wrapped in oilskin. The hold is darker; the lantern burned out. You light it from the galley lamp, hang it high. Yeonjun is waiting, tail flicking slow circles in the water. The reef sketch is pinned to a crate with a fishhook, facing him.
You toss the fishes one by one. He catches the first two in his mouth, the third against his chest. He eats while talking, about currents that run backward under the ice, about a whale that sang his name once and never again. You draw the whale, huge and scarred. He corrects the curve of the fin.
"Why do you stay?" he asks suddenly. "Your father cages me. You could walk away."
You consider. "Because you looked at me like I was the strange one" you say. "No one’s ever done that."
He snorts again, softer. "You are strange. Humans fear. You ask."
"Fear gets boring" you say. "Questions keep the blood moving."
He laughs then, short, startled, like it hurts. The sound echoes off the hull. Above, someone shouts for quiet. You both freeze. When no one comes, he relaxes.
The night deepens. You sit closer to the tub now, knees almost touching the rim. He does not hiss. The chains rest slack across his lap. You sketch his face in quarter profile, the way lantern light catches the edge of a scale. He watches your hands.
You leave the last fish on the tub’s edge. He does not touch it until your footsteps fade up the ladder. Then he eats slow, eyes on the reef drawing, tail flicking in time with some silent song.
Up on deck, the stars are sharp. The crew avoids your gaze. Your father stands at the rail, pipe glowing. He does not ask where you’ve been. You do not tell him the siren is teaching you the names of fish that do not exist on any chart.
Below, Yeonjun coils in his too-small sea, chains loose for once. He hums under his breath, not the killing song, just a low note that makes the water tremble. He is waiting for morning. For red fish. For the girl who draws what she cannot keep and listens like the reef itself.
Trust is a thin line, frayed at the edges, but it holds. For now.
The storm comes in the blackest hour before dawn, a monster born of wind and spite. It slams the Black Gull like a fist. The ship groans but holds, its timbers are old, stubborn, forged in harder gales than this. Sails are reefed to scraps; the wheel is lashed; every hatch battened. The crew huddles below, praying to gods they cursed yesterday. Your father stands on the quarterdeck, coat plastered to his bones, roaring orders no one can hear over the howl.
You wait in the galley, pressed against the bulkhead, counting heartbeats between lightning flashes. The tub in the hold will be sloshing wild; Yeonjun will be fighting the chains with every roll of the ship. You have the key now, snatched from your father's pocket. You tested it on a spare lock last night. It turns.
Another crash of thunder. The lantern swings, dies. Darkness swallows the ship.
You move.
The companionway is a river. You wade ankle-deep, then knee-deep, gripping the rail. Water sluices down the stairs to the hold in silver sheets. You descend backward, boots slipping. The air below is thick: salt, fear, the copper reek of Yeonjun’s blood where iron has rubbed him raw.
The lantern down here still burns, lashed to a beam. It throws mad shadows across the tub. The water inside is a maelstrom; Yeonjun thrashes, tail lashing, chains clinking against the ringbolt. His eyes find you instantly, wild, luminous, pupils blown wide. He snarls, teeth bared, but the sound is lost in the storm’s roar.
You kneel at the tub’s edge. Water soaks your skirts to the thigh. "Hold still" you shout. Your voice cracks.
He does not. The ship lurches; the tub tilts; a wave of bilge water slaps your face. You spit, wipe your eyes, jam the key into the first padlock. It sticks. You twist harder. The ship rolls the other way; the key turns with a grind. The shackle falls open.
Yeonjun freezes. His fins flare. He stares at the open iron like it might bite.
You reach for the second lock, around his left wrist. The chain is slick with blood and slime. Your fingers slip. Lightning forks outside; for an instant the hold is bright as noon. You see the raw circles the iron has carved into his skin, silver blood crusted black.
"Almost" you mutter.
He watches you work. No hissing now. Only the storm and the creak of wood and the frantic thud of your pulse.
Second lock. Third. The chain around his tail is the heaviest: three links thick, padlock the size of your fist. You wedge the key, lean your weight. The ship heels hard; you slide, shoulder slamming a crate. Pain blooms, bright and white. You crawl back, try again.
Click. The last chain drops. It hits the tub’s bottom with a clang swallowed by thunder.
Yeonjun surges up. Water cascades off his shoulders. For a heartbeat he towers over you, free, terrible, beautiful. His claws flex. You do not flinch.
"We have to go" you say. "Deck. Now."
He hesitates, only a breath, then nods once, sharp.
You take his arm over your shoulder and try to carry him even if you're stumbling on every step. His tail drags, leaving a wet trail. His skin is cold, scales rough as sharkskin. Your palm comes away silver. Many times you almost collapse under his weight.
The companionway hatch bangs open. Rain needles your face. The deck is a chaos of white water and broken rigging. No one sees you, cannot see past their own terror. The bosun clings to the wheel, back turned. Your father is forward, wrestling a loose cannon.
You stagger to the starboard rail. The sea is a black mountain range, peaks and valleys lit by lightning. Waves tower thirty feet, crash, retreat. The Black Gull rides them like a cork, but every climb feels like the last.
Yeonjun grips the rail beside you. His claws dig into the wood, splinter it. The wind rips his hair across his face. He looks at the ocean, home, freedom, then at you.
"Go!" you shout over the gale. "Before they-"
He shakes his head. Reaches for you instead.
You understand too late. You boost him up. He is heavy: muscle and scale but the storm helps. You shove; he swings his tail over the rail. His tail flips, fins flaring. For one perfect second he balances on the edge, silhouetted against a sky split by lightning.
Then the wave comes.
It rises like a wall, black and roaring. The ship climbs its face; the deck tilts vertical. You grab the rail, miss. Your feet slide. The world flips. You are airborne, then falling, the rail rushing away.The sea takes you.
Cold. Absolute. It punches the air from your lungs, fills your mouth, your ears. You tumble, blind. Skirts tangle like kelp. The surface is gone; there is only dark and pressure and the storm’s heartbeat.
Something seizes your wrist. Yeonjun.
He is a shadow in the black, tail cutting water like a blade. He pulls you to him, arm around your waist, body streamlined. You kick instinctively; he adjusts, compensates. You cling to his shoulders, fingers slipping on scales.
Up. He angles up. The pressure eases. Your lungs scream. Black spots bloom.
A harpoon slices the water beside you, iron head glinting. It misses Yeonjun’s tail by inches. Another follows. You twist, look back. The Black Gull recedes, a toy on the waves. Your father stands at the rail, coat flapping, harpoon gun steady. His face is stone.
The third harpoon finds flesh. Yeonjun jerks. A sound tears from his throat, half snarl, half cry. The iron buries deep in the muscle of his left shoulder, just above the arm. Silver blood clouds the water. He does not let go.He kicks harder. Pain fuels him. The sea parts. You break the surface gasping, choking. Rain lashes your face. Another wave looms. He dives under it, dragging you with him. The harpoon shaft trails like a banner.
You lose track of time. There is only the rhythm of his tail, the burn in your chest, the copper taste of his blood. The storm rages, but he is stronger. He finds the current, the cold river that runs beneath the chaos and rides it.
Land appears sudden as a slap.
An island, small, jagged, ringed by reef. Waves smash against black rock, explode into spray. Yeonjun angles for a narrow cove, a strip of sand no wider than the Black Gull’s deck. He times the surge, kicks hard. The wave lifts you, hurls you forward.
You hit sand. It knocks the last air from your lungs. Water recedes, drags at your legs. You crawl, fingers digging into wet grit. Behind you, Yeonjun washes ashore like a broken statue, half on sand, half in surf. The harpoon juts from his shoulder, shaft splintered by the reef. Blood pulses steady, bright against the dark.
You collapse beside him. The storm howls overhead, but the cove shelters you. Rain softens to a hiss. Your limbs are numb. You roll to your knees, crawl to him.
He is conscious. Eyes slitted, pain-tight. His tail twitches, trying to push him back to water, but the sand drags. You grab the harpoon shaft. It is slick, warm. He hisses, a warning.
"Hold still" you rasp. Your voice is shredded.
You brace one foot against his collarbone, gentle, but firm. Grip the shaft with both hands. Count to three. Pull.
The head comes free with a wet suck. He arches, a strangled sound escaping. Silver blood gushes, then slows. You rip a strip from your dress, press it hard against the wound. He trembles but does not pull away.
Minutes pass, or hours. The storm moves on, grumbling. Dawn creeps gray over the reef. The cove is quiet except for surf and gulls.
You sit back on your heels. Your hands are crimson and silver. Yeonjun lies on his side, tail half-submerged, letting the waves wash the sand from his fins. The bleeding has slowed to a seep. His eyes track you, unblinking.
"You could have let me drown" you say. The words come out small.
He turns his face into the sand. "You freed me."
"That’s not an answer."
A pause. Waves rush in, retreat. "You asked questions" he says finally. "No one asks. They take." His voice is hoarse, pain-rough. "I wanted... to know what you would ask next."
You laugh, wet, broken, but real. It hurts your ribs. "You’re bleeding on my island."
He huffs. "Your island now?"
"Until the ship finds us." You glance at the horizon. The Black Gull is a speck, sails furled, riding out the storm miles away. They will search. Your father will not leave you.Yeonjun follows your gaze. His tail curls, protective. "They will kill me."
"They will try."
You tear another strip of cloth, bind the wound tighter. He winces but lets you. The sun rises, pale and watery. Gulls wheel overhead, curious. The sand warms under your knees.
You sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The tide creeps higher, licks at his tail. He does not move away.
Hours crawl. You doze, exhaustion claiming you in fits. Each time you wake, he is still there, watching the sea, watching you. The bleeding stops. The wound is ugly but clean; siren flesh knits faster than human.
Midday. The sun burns off the clouds. The cove glitters. Salt and blood and something electric.
"Why here?" you ask. "You could have left me on any rock."
He is quiet a long time. "This cove sings" he says at last. "Old reef. Safe current. My mother brought me here when I was small." His claws trace idle patterns in the sand: spirals, waves. "I wanted you to hear it."
You listen. Beneath the surf, faint, a low thrum, like whale song, like a lullaby. The reef.
You lean against him. His skin is cool, scales sun-warm. He tenses, then relaxes. His good arm drapes across your shoulders, careful.
The Black Gull will come. Your father will rage. There will be blood and choices and a reckoning.
But for now, the tide is gentle. The reef sings. And Yeonjun, free, wounded, alive, rests his cheek against your wet hair and waits with you for whatever dawn brings next.
The sun is high when the Black Gull appears on the horizon, a dark beetle crawling across the glittering sea. You see her first from the lip of the cove, standing ankle-deep in warm water, skirts dried stiff with salt. Yeonjun is beside you, half-submerged, tail flicking lazy circles while he teaches you the reef’s song, three low notes, pause, one high. His shoulder is scabbed silver, the harpoon wound a puckered line. He moves stiffly but without pain.
The ship grows. Sails bloom white against blue. You count the figures on deck, fewer than before the storm, but your father’s silhouette is unmistakable at the bow, spyglass raised.
Yeonjun stiffens. His hand finds your wrist, claws pricking skin. "They come."
"I know."
He searches your face. The reef song falters. "I should go."
You nod, throat tight. The water is clear to the reef’s edge; beyond, it drops to cobalt nothing. He could vanish in three strokes.
Boots thud on the sand behind you. You turn. The longboat grounds with a crunch. Six men leap out, cutlasses drawn. Your father is first, coat flapping, face carved from storm and fury. His eyes find you, alive, whole, and something cracks in them. Relief, then rage.
"Girl!" His voice booms across the cove. "Step away from the water!"
Yeonjun’s grip tightens. His fins flare. You feel the tremor in his arm, fight or flight.
"Go" you whisper. "Now."
He hesitates one heartbeat. His thumb brushes your pulse, quick as a fish. Then he releases you and dives.
The water closes over him like a secret. A flash of indigo tail, a swirl of sand, gone. The reef swallows him whole.
Your father reaches you in four strides. His arms crush you to his chest, smelling of tar and wet wool and fear. "God’s teeth, I thought you drowned." His voice breaks on the last word. He holds you at arm’s length, scans for wounds. "Are you hurt?"
You shake your head. Words stick.
Behind him, the crew fans out, harpoons raised, eyes on the water. The bosun spits. "Saw the bastard. Slipped us again."
Your father’s grip tightens. "You’re safe now. That’s what matters." He steers you toward the longboat. His hand is iron on your elbow. "We’ll hunt the creature later. First, home."
Home. The word tastes wrong.
They row you back. The Black Gull looms, scarred but proud. Hands haul you aboard. The deck tilts under your bare feet; someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders. The cook presses a mug of broth into your numb fingers. You drink without tasting.
Your father does not leave your side. He barks orders: make sail, south-southwest, double watch, but his eyes keep returning to you. When the anchor is weighed, he leads you below to his cabin. The door shuts with a soft click.
The space is familiar: charts pinned to the bulkhead, the smell of ink and pipe smoke, the creak of the stern windows. He sits you on the chart table, kneels to check your feet for cuts. His hands shake.
"Talk to me" he says quietly. "What happened?"
You stare at the lantern flame. Yeonjun’s voice echoes in your skull, three low notes, pause, one high. The reef’s lullaby.
"I fell" you say. "The wave took me."
He waits. You offer nothing more.
He sighs, rubs a hand over his beard. "You’re in shock. Rest. We’ll talk when you’re ready."
He leaves you the cabin. The door stays unlocked, trust or trap, you cannot tell.
Hours pass. The ship heels into a steady wind. You sit on the stern bench, blanket around your shoulders, staring at the wake. The sea is empty. No flash of indigo. No song.
Night falls. The crew sings a shanty, voices raw with relief and grief. You do not join. Your father brings supper, salt pork, hard tack, a lemon sliced thin against scurvy. He sits across from you, fills both plates.
"Eat" he says.
You pick at the pork. The lemon stings your cracked lips.
He watches you chew. "The men say you were alone on that island."
"I was."
"No sign of the siren?"
You meet his eyes. They are the same gray as the storm that took you. "He saved me" you say. "Pulled me from the water. Took a harpoon for it."
Your father’s jaw tightens. "Stockholm rot. Monsters don’t save. They lure."
"He could have let me drown."
"He wanted something." He leans forward. "What did he take?"
"Nothing." The word comes out sharp. You soften it. "He asked questions. I answered."
He sits back. The lantern swings between you. "Questions."
"About reefs. Fish. Why humans hate." You pick up the lemon slice, turn it over. "He hated too. But he listened."
Your father is quiet a long time. "You’re soft" he says finally. Not cruel, just fact. "The sea eats soft things."
You do not argue.
He stands, paces the small cabin. "We’ll make to Port Royal in ten days. You’ll stay with your aunt. No more ships. No more monsters."
The words settle heavy as anchor chain. You nod because it is easier.
He kisses your forehead, awkward, bearded, smelling of rum, and leaves you with the lantern.
You do not sleep.
Midnight. The ship rolls gentle. You slip from the cabin, barefoot, blanket trailing. The deck is silver with moonlight. Two men on watch, backs turned, sharing a pipe. You ghost to the rail.
The wake glows faint with plankton. You lean out, searching the dark water. Nothing.
You press your palm to the wood where Yeonjun once clung. Droplets prick your skin. You whisper to the sea, words you cannot say aloud: Are you there? Did you make it?
No answer. Only the slap of waves against the hull.
Behind you, a throat clears. Your father. He has followed, silent as a shark.
"Can’t sleep?" he asks.
You shake your head.
He joins you at the rail. For a while you stand side by side, captain and daughter, staring at the same empty sea. His shoulder brushes yours.
"I was twelve when I first saw a siren" he says suddenly. "Off the Windwards. She sang my brother over the side. I watched him smile as he sank." His voice is flat, old pain smoothed by years. "They’re not like us. They feel, aye, but not the same. Mercy’s a foreign tongue to them."
You think of Yeonjun’s thumb on your pulse, the way he flinched when the harpoon struck. "He understood it" you say.
Your father grunts. "Maybe. Doesn’t make him safe."
Silence stretches. The moon climbs. A school of flying fish skitters across the water, silver arrows.
"I’m proud you survived" he says. "But I’ll not lose you to the deep. Not again."
You lean into him, just enough. He smells of home and storm. His arm settles heavy across your shoulders.
Below, the Black Gull cuts its path south. The reef is far behind, a memory sung in three low notes and one high. You close your eyes and try to hold the sound, but it slips like water through fingers.
Yeonjun is gone. The sea keeps its own.
Your father steers you below at dawn. You let him. You eat what is put in front of you, answer in monosyllables, sleep when the ship rocks you. The crew watches from the corners of their eyes, whispering about the captain’s daughter who stared down a siren and lived.
Ten days to Port Royal. Ten days to forget.
But every night you stand at the stern, blanket forgotten, palms on the rail until they ache. You count stars. You listen for a song that never comes.
Your father watches from the shadows. He does not stop you.
He knows the sea keeps what it takes.
And you are not ready to let go.
Port Royal smells of tar, molasses, and gunpowder. Your aunt’s house, white stone, green shutters, a widow’s walk that catches every breeze, sits so close to the water that high tide licks the garden wall. You have been here for three weeks. Three weeks of lace curtains, polite tea, and your aunt’s gentle questions about marriage prospects. Three weeks of staring at the sea until your eyes burn.
You sleep poorly. The bed is too soft, the sheets too clean. At night the harbor bells clang, and you dream of indigo tails and silver blood. You wake with salt on your lips that is not there.
Tonight the moon is a thin blade. You sit at the open window, knees drawn to your chest, watching the black water beyond the wall. The town is quiet, only the lap of waves and the distant creak of ships at anchor. Your aunt retired hours ago; the maid, Eliza, snores behind the kitchen door.
Then it comes.
A single low note, pure as glass, rising from the dark. It curls through the window, wraps around your ribs. Three notes, pause, one high. The reef’s lullaby. Your breath catches.
Yeonjun.
You are moving before you think. Bare feet on cool tile, then the wooden stairs. The front door sticks; you wrench it open. Night air rushes in, thick with jasmine and brine. Eliza stirs in the kitchen, calls out sleepily "Miss? Is something amiss?" but you are already through the garden, nightgown flapping like a sail.
The gate squeals. You vault it, soles stinging on gravel. The path to the shore is moonlit sand and broken shells. You run. The song grows louder, threading through the crash of surf. It is not the killing song; it is the one he taught you, note for note.
The beach opens before you, silver sand, black rocks, the harbor mouth glittering. Waves hiss up the shore and retreat. You skid to a stop, chest heaving, eyes scanning the water.
There. Near the jagged rocks that guard the cove’s entrance. A darker shape against the dark sea. Moonlight slides across scales.
Yeonjun. He floats half-submerged, arms folded on a barnacle-crusted rock. His tail moves slow, keeping him steady against the swell. The harpoon scar is a pale slash across his shoulder, healed but livid. His hair is longer, tangled with bits of seaweed. His eyes catch the moon, storm-cloud luminous, and fix on you.
You do not hesitate. You climb.
The rocks are slick, sharp with mussels. Your nightgown tears; blood beads on your calf. You do not feel it. Hand over hand, foot wedged in crevices, you haul yourself from rock to rock until you're close enough and you sit, knees drawn up, no more than an arm’s length from him. The sea boils below, white foam licking the rock’s base.
He watches every move. His fins flutter. When you settle, he speaks, voice low, carrying over the surf.
"You came."
"You sang."
He lets out a huff, almost a laugh. "I sang for three nights. Thought the town had eaten you."
"I heard you tonight." You lean forward, fingers curling over the rock’s edge. Salt spray mists your face. "How is your shoulder?"
He rolls it, winces theatrically. "Ugly. Functional." His claws trace the scar. "Human iron leaves marks."
You nod. The space between you is water and moonlight and weeks of silence. You want to bridge it, but words feel clumsy.
He breaks first. "Your father?"
"Gone to sea again. Took the Gull north." You pick at a barnacle. "He thinks I’m safe here."
Yeonjun’s tail flicks, sending a sheet of water skyward. "Safe is a cage with better curtains."
You smile, small, real. "Aunt Cordelia has many curtains."
He studies you. The moon paints silver along his cheekbones, the sharp line of his collar. "You look different."
"So do you." You gesture at the seaweed in his hair. "Local fashion?"
A grin flashes on his face, sharp, delighted. "The reef gives gifts." He plucks a strand of kelp, twirls it. "I brought you something."
He dives. The water closes over him. You lean out, heart kicking. Seconds stretch. Then he surfaces with a splash, one hand raised. In his palm: a shell, spiral, the color of sunrise. Perfect.
"For the questions" he says. "You still owe me answers."
You take it. The shell is warm from his skin. You turn it over; inside, the pink is deep as coral. "I have more questions now."
He rests his chin on his arms, closer now. The rock is narrow; your knee brushes the water. "Ask."
But you cannot. Not yet. The sight of him, alive, here, short-circuits thought. You reach out instead. Your fingers find his cheek, trace the line where scale meets skin. He stills. His eyes half-close.
"I thought you were gone" you whisper.
"I thought you were caged." His hand covers yours, webbing cool against your knuckles. "The sea is wide. But songs travel."
Behind you, a shout, Eliza, lantern bobbing, nightgown flapping as she runs the path. "Miss! Miss, come back! You’ll catch your death!"
You do not move. Yeonjun’s gaze flicks past you, amused. "Your keeper."
"She means well." You do not turn. "She’ll fetch the watch."
He considers. Then, deliberate, he lifts your hand from his cheek and presses the shell into your palm. "Hide this. Sing the reef song when the moon is thin. I will hear."
You curl your fingers around the shell. It is smooth, heavy with promise. "And then?"
"Then we talk." His tail lifts, slaps the water once, playful. "Without rocks."
Eliza is closer, voice shrill with panic. Lantern light sweeps the beach. Yeonjun sinks lower, only eyes and nose above the surface. "Go, reef-girl. Before they cage you again."
You slide down the rock, nightgown snagging, shell clutched tight. Your feet hit sand as Eliza reaches you, breathless, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders.
"Lord, child, what were you thinking? The rocks at night, sharks, currents-" She tugs you toward the path. You let her, but your eyes stay on the water.
Yeonjun is gone. Only ripples remain, spreading moonlight like spilled coins.
Back in your room, Eliza fusses, hot bricks for your feet, scolding about propriety. You sit on the bed, shell hidden in your fist. When she finally leaves, you slip it under your pillow. The reef song hums in your throat, soft, testing.
Outside, the sea is quiet. But you know he listens.
The moon is a sliver, thin as a fishhook. You wait until the house is still, until Aunt Cordelia’s snores drift down the hall, until Eliza’s footsteps fade to the kitchen. You move like a shadow: nightgown traded for a dark shirt and breeches stolen from the stable boy, hair twisted under a kerchief. The spiral shell is warm against your palm, tucked in a pocket over your heart.
You slip through the garden gate, latch clicking soft behind you. The path to the secluded arch is familiar now, worn by your bare feet in daylight, by dreams at night. It lies half a mile west of the harbor, past the last lantern, where the cliffs fold into a narrow cove. The arch itself is pale stone, carved by centuries of tide, wide enough for a dinghy to pass beneath at high water. Inside, the sand is soft and private; waves hush against the rocks like secrets.
Tonight the tide is low. You pick your way down the rocks, soles silent on barnacles. The cove glows faintly, plankton stirred by the surf, a living galaxy underfoot. You settle in the arch’s shadow, back against cool stone, knees drawn up. The sea breathes in and out, patient.
You draw the shell from your pocket. It catches the starlight, pink and gold. You press it to your lips, taste salt and memory.
Then you sing.
Three low notes, slow, deliberate, pause, one high, clear as a bell. The reef song. You let it carry, not loud, just true. The arch cups the sound, throws it back softer, like the sea itself is learning the tune.
You wait. The waves keep their rhythm. A crab scuttles across the sand. You sing again, throat steady. The notes feel different on land, thinner, but honest. You close your eyes and picture Yeonjun’s face in moonlight, the scar on his shoulder, the way his claws curled when he laughed.
Minutes stretch. The tide creeps closer, licking at the arch’s base. You shift higher on the sand, knees damp. Doubt flickers, maybe the song only works over deep water, maybe he is too far, maybe the harbor guns scared him off.
You sing a third time. Louder now, reckless. The high note trembles at the end.
The water answers. A ripple cuts the cove’s center, straight as a knife. Then a darker shape beneath, long, fluid, rising. Yeonjun breaches silently, barely a splash. Moonlight slides over his shoulders as he surfaces. His tail flicks once, propelling him forward until he floats in the shallows, arms folded on a submerged rock. His eyes find you across the sand.
"You sing off-key" he says, but his mouth curves.
You stand, shell clutched tight. "You came."
"I was already here." He tilts his head toward the arch’s far side. "Watched you climb down. You left footprints like a drunk gull."
Heat rises in your cheeks. "I was careful."
"Careful is loud when the tide is listening." He pushes off the rock, glides closer. The water is only knee-deep where he stops, tail curling beneath him. Up close, you see the changes: his hair is trimmed with a shell blade, a thin cord of braided kelp around his throat. The harpoon scar is a pale ridge, but the muscle beneath moves easy.
You step into the shallows. The sea is warm, surprising after the night air. It laps your ankles, then your calves. You stop an arm’s length away.
He studies you: breeches, kerchief, the defiance in your stance. "You dress like a deckhand."
"Easier to climb."
He lets out a low hum of approval. "Smarter than lace."
You hold out the shell. "You said to bring it."
He takes it, turns it over in his webbed fingers. "Still warm." He presses it to his own lips, a mirror of your gesture, then tucks it into the kelp cord at his neck. It rests against his collarbone, a small sunrise.Silence settles, comfortable but charged. The arch shadows you both; beyond, the open sea glitters. You sit on a flat rock, legs dangling in the water. He mirrors you, tail swishing slow circles.
"I thought you’d be farther out" you say.
"I was." He splashes water over his shoulder, casual. "Followed a group of silverbacks south. They sing stories, old shipwrecks, pearl beds, a trench where the moon touches bottom." His eyes flick to you. "I kept listening for your note."
You swallow. "And when you heard it?"
"I turned around." Simple. Like turning with the tide.
The water between you ripples. You trail your fingers through it, watching the plankton spark. "My aunt wants me married by spring. Some planter’s son with soft hands apparently."
Yeonjun’s tail stills. "Will you?"
"No." The word comes quick, fierce. You meet his gaze. "I’d rather drown."
His expression shifts, something raw, quickly hidden. "The sea doesn’t bargain."
"I’m not bargaining." You lean forward. "I’m choosing."
He is quiet a long moment. Then he reaches out, slow enough for you to pull away. You don’t. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. His skin is cool, scales rough along the heel of his palm.
"You left footprints" he says again, softer. "I followed them."
You turn your face into his touch. "I left more than footprints."
A breath, his or yours, you cannot tell. The tide rises, lapping your thighs now. He shifts closer, water parting around his torso. His other hand finds yours beneath the surface, fingers threading. Webbing brushes your knuckles, strange and intimate.
"I cannot stay on land" he says.
"I cannot live in the sea."
The truths hang between you, sharp as coral. You feel the weight of them, but not the despair. Not yet.
He lifts your joined hands, studies the contrast, your blunt nails, his claws. "There are places" he says carefully. "Coves like this. Reefs where the water is warm and the current gentle. Islands no chart marks." His eyes search yours. "I could show you."
Your heart stutters. "How?"
"Boat." A grin flashes. "A small one. You row. I swim." He squeezes your hand. "We'd meet at the thin moon. Same song as always."
You laugh, startled, joyful. The sound echoes off the arch. "You’d trust me with a boat?"
"I trusted you with my life." He nods at the scar. "Your turn."
The tide surges, pushing you closer. Your knees bump his tail; the scales are smooth, warm from the sun. You do not move away.
"Teach me" you say.
He does. The night becomes a classroom of water and starlight. He shows you how to read the swell, where the deep current runs, where the reef hides teeth. He sings a new note, lower, that calls dolphins; three breach the cove’s mouth, arcing silver before vanishing. You practice the reef song until your voice blends with his, harmony without effort.
You share the shell again, he presses it to your ear, and you hear the ocean inside, older than ships. You tell him about Port Royal: the market smells, the governor’s ball you refused to attend, the way Eliza sneaks you extra sugar in your tea. He tells you about the trench where blind fish glow red, about a wreck full of gold that sings when the moon is full.
Hours slip away. The tide turns, retreating. The sandbar emerges, cutting the cove in two. You stand in the shallows, water at your waist, reluctant to leave.
"Dawn soon" he says. His hand lingers on your wrist.
You nod. The sky pales to pearl beyond the arch. "Thin moon in six nights."
"I’ll be here." He backs away, slow, until the water reaches his chest. "Bring the breeches. And bread. The kind with raisins."
You smile. "Anything else?"
He dives without answering. A flick of tail, a swirl of plankton, gone.
You climb the rocks as the first gulls cry. The path home is colder, but your pocket is warm where the shell used to be. You hum the reef song under your breath, off-key on purpose.
Behind you, the sea settles into quiet. But you know it listens.
Six nights later the moon is a silver thread, barely there. You steal away again, same dark shirt and breeches, same kerchief, a small canvas sack over your shoulder. Inside: raisin bread, a flask of fresh water, a folded square of oilskin with charcoal and paper. The shell is gone from your pocket; it rests now against Yeonjun’s throat.
The arch cove is waiting. The tide is high tonight; the arch itself half-submerged, waves sluicing through in slow pulses. You wade in up to your knees, sack held high. The water glows faintly. You whistle the reef song, three low, pause, one high.
He answers before the echo dies. A shadow detaches from the deeper dark, gliding beneath the arch. Yeonjun surfaces with barely a ripple, hair slicked back, eyes catching starlight. The shell glints at his collarbone.
"You’re early" he says, voice warm with amusement.
"You’re impatient."
He laughs, low, delighted, and closes the distance. The water parts around his shoulders. You meet in the arch’s center, where the sea is chest-deep on you, waist-deep on him. He takes the sack, sets it on a flat rock out of the tide’s reach.
You talk. Words spill easy now, like tide through a narrow channel. He tells you of the days between: a pod of whales that sang him welcome, a reef where coral blooms blood-red at night, a storm that chased him three leagues before he laughed and dove beneath it. You tell him of Port Royal: Aunt Cordelia’s endless parade of suitors, the latest a widower with three children and a plantation that smells of sweat and cane. You mimic his stiff bow, the way he kissed your knuckles like you were porcelain. Yeonjun snorts water through his nose.
Hours pass unmarked. The tide ebbs; the arch widens, sandbar reappearing. You sit side by side on the rock, legs dangling, sharing the raisin bread. Crumbs float away on the current. He drinks from the flask, passes it back. Your fingers brush, deliberate now, no pretense of accident.
Silence falls, companionable at first. Then heavier.
You pick at a thread on your sleeve. "They’ve set the date" you say quietly. "Three weeks. At St. Peter’s. The widower’s name is Hargrove. He has a ring already."
Yeonjun’s tail stills. The water around it goes flat. "You agreed?"
"I fought. Aunt Cordelia cried. Even the governor was summoned." You laugh, bitter. "I’m property with a dowry. They’ll lock the door if they must."
He turns to face you fully. Moonlight cuts sharp shadows across his cheekbones. "You could run."
"Where?" You gesture at the cove, the cliffs, the endless sea. "They’d find me in a day. And you-" Your voice cracks. "You can’t walk through town."
His jaw tightens. "I could take you."
The words hang. Simple. Impossible.
You meet his eyes. "Take me where?"
"South. Past the islands no chart names. There’s a lagoon, warm water, fruit on the trees, reef that sings at dusk." His hand finds yours, claws careful. "I’d build you a raft. Teach you to spear fish. You’d never wear shoes again."
You want to believe it. The picture blooms bright: sunlight on turquoise, his laugh echoing off coral, your hair loose and salt-stiff. But reality presses cold.
"They’d hunt us" you say. "My father. The navy. Hargrove has ships."
Yeonjun’s grip tightens. "Let them come.'
You shake your head. "I’m not a prize to be stolen twice."
His shoulders sag. The fight leaks out of him, replaced by something raw. "Then what?"
You have no answer. The tide hisses against the rock. You lean your head against his upper arm, scale cool, muscle warm beneath. He smells of brine and night-blooming flowers that grow only under water.
"I don’t want to lose you" you whisper.
He turns, slow, until you face each other. Water laps your waists. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "You won’t."
The kiss is inevitable. It starts soft, his lips cool, tasting of salt and raisin sugar. You sigh into it; he answers with a low sound, almost a growl. His other arm slides around your back, pulling you flush against him. The water buoys you; your feet leave the rock. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, breeches soaked, his tail curling to steady you both.
The kiss deepens. Hunger sharpens it, weeks of separation, fear, want. His tongue traces your lower lip; you open for him, taste the sea inside his mouth. Your hands tangle in his hair, tug gently; he shivers, claws pricking your hips through wet cloth. The shell presses between you, warm from his skin.
You break for air. Foreheads touching. Breath mingling.
"I love you" you say against his mouth. The words feel huge, terrifying, true.
He answers with another kiss, slower, reverent. "And I love you, reef-girl." His voice is rough. "Since the night you drew my scars and did not flinch."
You laugh, watery. "You lunged at me."
"I was testing." He nips your jaw. "You passed."
The tide turns again, rising. You float together in the arch’s heart, wrapped tight, the sea rocking you like a cradle. His tail brushes your calves, gentle. You kiss his throat, the pulse beneath his jaw. He groans, head falling back.
"We have tonight" he says.
"And every thin moon" you answer.
You kiss until your lips are swollen, until the stars wheel overhead and the first hint of rose touches the horizon. Until the cove feels too small for the size of what you feel.
When dawn threatens, he helps you to the rock. Your legs tremble. He steadies you, presses the flask into your hand.
"Three weeks" he says. "I’ll be here every night. When they lock the door, sing. I’ll hear."
You nod, throat thick. "And if they marry me anyway?"
His eyes blaze. "Then I’ll come at the wedding. Crash the church. Carry you out over the altar." He says it like a vow.
You believe him, even if he never could.
You kiss once more, quick, fierce, then wade to shore. The sand is cold underfoot. You do not look back until you reach the path. He is still in the arch, tail flicking, shell catching the first light.
You raise one hand. He mirrors it.
Then you run, home to lace curtains and a ring you will not wear, heart beating with reef song and the taste of him on your tongue.
The wedding comes on a golden morning that smells of orange blossoms and gunpowder from the harbor salute. St. Peter’s is packed, planters in powdered wigs, navy officers stiff with braid, Aunt Cordelia dabbing lace to her eyes. Hargrove waits at the altar, ring heavy as a shackle on his palm. You walk the aisle in white silk that rustles like chains, veil hiding the set of your jaw. Your father is not there; the Black Gull is weeks overdue from the Spanish Main. You told yourself that was mercy.
You say the vows. The ring slides cold over your knuckle. The kiss is dry, dutiful. The congregation cheers. You smile the way you practiced in the mirror, small, serene, empty.
That night the house is loud with music and rum. You slip away while the dancers spin. Eliza is tipsy; Aunt Cordelia asleep over her fan. You change into black breeches and a fisherman’s shirt, hair twisted tight. The spiral shell is sewn inside the lining of your stays, a hard secret against your heart. You climb from the widow’s walk, drop to the garden wall, vanish into the dark.
The arch cove waits, tide high and black as ink. You whistle the reef song before your feet touch sand. Yeonjun is already there, floating beneath the arch, moonlight carving silver along his shoulders. He opens his arms. You wade in fully dressed; the sea takes you like it always has.
He kisses the ring first, mocking, gentle, then your mouth until the taste of Hargrove is gone. You cling to him, legs around his waist, and let the current rock you while you cry without sound. He hums the lullaby against your temple until the tears stop.
You learn the rhythm of a double life. By day you are Mrs. Hargrove, mistress of a sugar plantation, polite at governors’ balls, at night, when the house sleeps, you slip out the kitchen door with a lantern snuffed low. The path to the cove is worn smooth by your soles.
Yeonjun is always waiting. Some nights he brings gifts: pearls the size of musket balls, a conch that whispers whale song, a fish with scales like opals. You bring him bread, rum, once a stolen sextant he turns over in wonder. You talk until your voices fray. You make love in the shallows, water hiding the sounds, his tail curled possessive around your thighs. When dawn pales, you kiss him salt-sweet and return before the cocks crow.
Hargrove suspects nothing. He is kind in his dull way, proud of his handsome wife who manages the accounts better than he ever could.
Your father’s ship never returns. The Black Gull is listed missing, presumed lost with all hands, maybe taken by sirens. You stand vigil on the widow’s walk the night the news arrives, wind whipping your hair loose. Yeonjun surfaces beneath the wall, unseen by any but you. He sings the reef song until you can breathe again.
You are his secret haven. He is yours. The sea keeps its own, and it keeps you well.
synopsis! the immortal sorcerer lives in a tower by the forest filled with dark creatures. he protects the surrounding villages from its dangers, and in exchange, every decade, a girl from one of the villages is chosen to live as his companion. this time, it’s you.
genre! fantasy romance, angst
content warnings! swearing and the fact this is unfinished so this is part one
word count! 11.4k
author's note! i'm scared of making this longer but i'm literally just halfway through...
Throughout your life, a girl from the villages has only been taken twice. And the first time, you were barely one year old, so it could hardly affect you in any way. The second time, however, you were eleven. At the time, you already understood what was happening and why. A girl around the age of twenty had been chosen to live with the lone and mysterious sorcerer who lived in a tower at the edge of the Forest to prolong his protection of the villages.
Nobody likes to talk about it much. How the girls are chosen, when he comes for them and what he does to them. None of that information is known. Although you’ve heard that usually, once the decade passes, the girls are free to go and live as they please with a solid fortune to their name. The girl you witnessed being taken away ten years ago has been released recently, and you heard from the whispers of the other villagers that she moved to the city and is starting her own business in dressmaking.
For that very reason, every village surrounding the Forest lives in restless anticipation. Any day now, a new girl will be chosen to join the sorcerer in his tower. Ten years, she will live with him and do whatever it is that she’s got to do to keep her family and friends safe from the darkness of the Forest.
You wish you could know how the girls are chosen to be better prepared. It’s glaringly obvious that some villagers think you might be the next girl chosen. You’re the perfect age for it, and apparently, there is also the fact that the girls that go to the sorcerer are usually deemed objectively beautiful or somehow talented.
You’re not exactly talented, but you’re not that beautiful either. You’d argue that Yeji or Chaeryong are far better choices in that regard, but somehow the eyes are still on you. It’s strange, knowing that everyone is convinced you will be next while you can’t see a single reason why. Maybe they just want to be rid of you. Although that is most certainly not the way the girls get chosen.
Everyone simply overestimates your talent with the violin and your voice. That has got to be it. You’re not a genius nor a prodigy, you play the instrument and sing merely because you want to. It’s a hobby, but it’s not something to make you a desirable choice for the sorcerer. And you don’t want to be his choice either. You’d rather stay in your village with your family and friends.
“Y/N!” One of those friends, Jaeyun, calls after you with a grin on his lips, waving enthusiastically. “Do you have time today? I’d like to practise together.” Because both of you play the violin. In fact, it was Jaeyun who made you fall in love with the instrument in the first place.
You smile and nod. “Of course. I always have time,” you say, although untruthfully. For Jaeyun, however, everyone makes time. He is the village’s golden boy. Loved and adored by everyone. He can talk his way into and out of anything. You’re sure he’s never paid for anything either because everyone is happy to give him everything for free — a gift for the beloved boy of Riverfeld.
Whenever you and Jaeyun visit the local tavern, the tab made on his name is never paid, and the owner has never even asked for it to be paid. It’s as if his mere existence is payment enough. But you guess that’s what happens when you’re the people’s happy pill.
“Awesome! Let’s go,” Jaeyun says, grabbing your hand.
You expect him to let you get your violin at home, but it isn’t necessary as he has done that for you. He prepared the whole scene, already knowing you would say yes because why would you not?
“Look,” Jaeyun says, grabbing a sheet that is laid by his instrument. “Sunghoon and I have been working on a new composition and I wanted to try playing it with you.”
You hum, waiting for Jaeyun to approach you. He practically sticks himself to your side with the sheet in hand, showing you the new song they’ve been working on.
It’s a love song.
There are no lyrics, but as you imagine the sound of the melody, your imagination bringing it to life, you know it’s a ballad. A song of love meant for someone specific. A confession of adoration and admiration.
“You think you can do this?” Jaeyun asks, solemnly looking at you.
Smiling, you nod. “Of course.”
Both of you grab your violins, sharing the singular sheet in between as you prepare. Sitting down on the ground, you settle the violin on your shoulder and rest your chin atop. A smile adorns your lips at the feeling of holding the instrument in your hands again.
“Can we?” Jaeyun asks softly, also ready. All he needs is a nod from you to lift his bow to the strings of the violin and start the melody. He acts as your guide as this is your first time playing the song.
It starts off slowly. A sweet melody of two people getting to know each other, growing closer and beginning to care. The tempo picks up when the two lovers begin to realise they are in love. They struggle with the fear, the melody conveying the uncertainty, until finally, they gain the courage to confess. And by the time the song is over, the two lovers are together.
“We named it Only If You Say Yes,” Jaeyun grins.
“It’s beautiful, Jaeyun,” you say, fighting the growing uneasiness within your belly. Not because of the boy across from you, but a general burning feeling in your body that spreads from your chest to the rest of your body. As if it’s pumping fire instead of blood.
The frown that contorts your expression springs Jaeyun up to his feet, dropping by your side. “Y/N? Are you okay?” he asks, and while you’d love to nod and say yes, it would be a lie. Nothing about this scorching feeling is okay.
You hiss and groan, grabbing onto your wrist where most of the pain begins to concentrate. It leaves your other limbs in favour of your right wrist where it burns so much you think your entire limb might melt.
The scream that escapes you is unintentional. You wanted to hold it in, but it was impossible with the pain coursing through you. Jaeyun grabs you by the shoulders, holding onto you. Confused about what is happening to you.
And as he holds you in his embrace, the pain subsides. Slowly but surely, it leaves your body the same way it entered, and you slump against the dark haired boy with your head buried in the crook of his neck.
“Y/N,” he whispers softly, one arm wrapped around your waist to support you while the other moves up to cup your face. He examines you, sweat coating your forehead.
“My… wrist,” you breathe out, and try to pull away from Jaeyun, but his grip on you is strong, and you can barely do anything without him supporting your weight. So you wait for him to look for you.
“There’s a tattoo,” Jaeyun says, discomfited. Staring at it closer, he grabs onto your wrist. “Golden antlers,” he describes it while his fingers softly trace the pattern, and you furrow your brows, getting a look yourself.
Jaeyun blanches with a realisation that pains him, glancing at you. “Y/N,” he mumbles, cupping both your cheeks to make you look at him. “It’s his sign.”
You both know who he is.
Your eyes widen. “But… that can’t be,” you breathe out, shaking your head vigorously. “I know everyone thought it would be me, but I didn’t— I’m not special—”
Jaeyun smiles ruefully, disagreeing with you. “Clearly, you’re more special than you realise,” he says, voice low. “He’ll be paying us a visit soon, then.”
“I don’t want to go,” you say quietly. But what else is there to do? If you don’t go, you will put everyone you care about and other innocent souls in danger. And for what? For your own selfish reasons?
Jaeyun sighs mournfully, hands still cupping your cheeks. “What am I going to do without you for ten years?” he asks himself.
“Live your life,” you say pragmatically, your hands grabbing his own. “It’ll be fine, right? As long as it means you’ll be safe.”
“Y/N.” Jaeyun licks his lips, wishing there was something he could do for you to make it easier.
“It’ll be fine,” you repeat to yourself.
It has to be fine.
It was not supposed to happen so soon.
Usually, the Forest takes about a month or more since the previous girl’s departure to choose another. But the Forest is not dallying this time, having picked its next target.
Heeseung stares at the golden tattoo on his wrist that connects him with you, not knowing who you are just yet. He will, soon, however, as once the Forest picks a girl, she has to come to him as soon as possible.
He hates doing this, if he’s being completely honest. He’d be just fine living on his own and protecting the people, but in order to keep the darkness in check, there has to be some light. Heeseung isn’t exactly a good fit for that. Which means that every ten years, a girl with the purest of souls must live near the Forest to control it. And with a carefully crafted spell from him, the Forest gets to choose that girl by itself.
That is the only reason he is now away from his home, riding his horse toward Riverfeld. The village where you live.
Nobody ever knows that he’s coming. He figured it’s better this way, since it stops the villagers from making a scene whenever he does arrive. He learned pretty early on, when it comes to this. He hated how awkward it was when they used to line up just to see at least the tiniest bit of his face, or when they tried to give him gifts instead of their daughters.
Not how it works. Unfortunately.
He’d rather take the gifts, too.
But here he is, entering the small village almost unnoticed aside from the few glances here and there as people wonder who he is. To them, he’s a stranger, and they probably don’t get many of those. He did make sure to dress as a regular traveller, so hopefully they don’t suspect him much.
The tattoo on his wrist calls for its twin, and it pulls him toward the village’s tiny square. A stage has been set up in the centre, and a girl and a boy sit there, both playing the violin together, creating a beautiful song of wistful love.
A concept Heeseung isn’t familiar with, but he does like the sound of it. It’s a youthful song full of hope. Asking for acceptance where it truly can be found.
His eyes fixate on the girl playing.
You.
You are smiling brightly despite knowing your fate, and you don’t stop playing until the song is well and truly over. Both you and the boy stand to bow to the audience when they begin to clap and fawn over you and your talent.
You keep shaking your head, acting as if you deserve none of it. And the boy throws an arm around your shoulders with a grin, proud for the both of you. Another boy, taller than the other, joins and celebrates with you.
So Heeseung waits. Until everyone around you has said their praising piece to you. Until you’re well and truly alone, and the smile from your lips has dissipated the tiniest bit because you know what will eventually come. That these people who adore you will not be with you for long. That you will have to leave them.
You’re not surprised when he approaches you as a complete stranger. Instead, you look him in the eye and face him directly. “It’s you, isn’t it?” you ask, examining him from head to toe. “You’re the sorcerer.”
It takes a second for Heeseung to recover from it. He has met many girls over the years, each different but same in spirit, and he never thought much of them. But you stand in front of him with a pensive smile, accepting what is to come. There is a beauty to you that many probably don’t see. Though you are gorgeous in general, with big cheeks yet defined features, hair falling over your shoulders. One would have to be blind not to see it.
“Am I that obvious?” he asks, and you shake your head.
“I think it’s the tattoo,” you reply. “I can sense it. You have it too, right?”
You’re quite clever.
Heeseung nods, and rolls up the sleeve of his cape to show you his identical tattoo. “It connects us,” he says plainly.
You hum. A playful glint enters your gaze, and your smile grows slightly. “I thought you’d be older,” you say matter-of-factly. “You look—”
“Handsome?” He cuts you off because he does not like it when people say he looks young. He knows he looks young. He’s looked the same for the past two centuries, and will continue to do so for as long as the Forest exists.
“My age,” you finish instead. Not young, just your age. That is certainly a new way to describe what he looks like. And he decides at this very moment that he likes it the best. Yes, he can accept looking your age — whatever it actually is. “But I suppose handsome is also a reasonable descriptor,” you add, eyeing his face.
This time, Heeseung is truly robbed of words. Whenever he arrives to take a girl to the Forest, they’re usually afraid of him. The last thing they’d call him is handsome. Yet here you are, standing in front of him, calm and accepting. You’re not crying, screaming or begging to stay. You just are. (a/n: Very demure, very mindful.)
“You should stay for a bit before we leave. My parents are making supper that could feed the whole village. It would be rude to leave before we got to taste it.” You don’t wait for Heeseung’s response before you are making your way toward what he deduces is your home. It’s humble enough, a house fit for a family of four, perhaps. But when you enter, it is filled with more than four people.
The two boys that Heeseung saw with you at the performance are both present alongside some older villagers and a girl some years younger than you. He’s not even sure why he followed you anyway. He should’ve stayed outside and waited for you to say your goodbyes. That’s usually the standard procedure for him, so why is he thoughtlessly breaking tradition all of a sudden?
“Y/N! Who’s—”
“That’s the sorcerer,” you say nonchalantly, shrugging.
“But why—”
“I’m not a monster,” Heeseung speaks, facing the boy you played the violin with. “I won’t take her away without saying her goodbyes… and it’s Heeseung.”
“Who?” you ask.
“Me.”
“You what?”
“Heeseung.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“My name is Heeseung.” He rolls his eyes, lips in a thin line.
“Oh! Well, I’m Y/N. Then this is Jaeyun, Sunghoon, Mum, Dad, Mrs Sim, Mr Sim, Mrs Park, Mr Park and Sunghoon’s little sister.” You point at everyone respectively with a soft smile upon your features. “I’m guessing Jongseong forgot he was supposed to come?” you say more to yourself, but Jaeyun hums in agreement.
“He’s been working on the new guitar that he’s trying to make,” he responds. “Forgets he has other duties or the fact he should, you know, eat and drink and sleep to live.”
“Said it’s for you, though,” Sunghoon mumbles, glancing at you. “He thought he’d have enough time to finish it.” Then he throws an apprehensive glance at Heeseung.
“But I don’t play the guitar,” you reply with a pout.
“He was going to teach you…”
Look, the next words that leave Heeseung’s mouth will probably make him regret it later, but watching you with your friends is doing weird things to the organ in his chest he thought had long been forgotten. So it’s a surprise to not just you and your friends when he says: “I know how to play the guitar. If your friend will not mind it, I will allow that guitar to be sent to you.”
The way your eyes widen in sheer surprise and gratitude makes Heeseung think that maybe it’s not such a regretful action.
The Forest must’ve truly known what it was doing this time around. Everyone in this village seems to genuinely adore you. The purest of hearts among them all, living without the knowledge of it.
“I’m here! I’m here! I got it!” A boy bursts through the door with a guitar in hand, and Heeseung makes the safe assumption that this is Jongseong. Even in him, Heeseung can sense a very beautiful soul through and through, though the innocence is gone.
It makes sense that you would surround yourself with people just as lovely as you on the inside. Whether you knew it or not.
“JJ,” you coo when he goes toward you with the instrument to hand it to you. “Why would you do all this for me?”
“So you remember me. Us. To come back to us.”
It occurs to Heeseung then that all three of these boys around you love you. As friends or more that is out of his field of knowledge, but the love between you is raw and just as pure and innocent as you are.
“I could never forget you guys.” You smile and shake your head. “All three of you better be married and with kids by the time I’m back, though.”
“It’s not fair,” Jaeyun says, properly looking at Heeseung. “She’s a good person. Never done anything wrong in her life. Why—”
“I know,” Heeseung cuts him off, shaking his head. “That’s why.” Maybe being curt with them is not the best choice, but they won’t dare attack him.
“Nothing in this life is fair,” Jongseong murmurs sagely, his eyes finding you. But you are staring at Heeseung, brow arched with curiosity.
“Y/N! Boys! Come eat! Supper is done.”
Your parents did not say much when you introduced the sorcerer to them. They merely stared to assess him as if a mere look could tell them what kind of person he was. But, whatever their consensus was, they let him eat supper with you, so it was probably quite positive.
“Won’t deny supper to the man who fights to protect us on a daily basis,” your mother murmured before you all sat down at the table to eat.
You enjoyed yourself for the rest of the day because Heeseung let you. He was letting you say your goodbyes before ultimately whisking you away to his tower, and you appreciated it.
Everything is going to be fine, you constantly remind yourself.
Especially as you saddle your horse with Sunghoon’s help because he’s the tallest of your friends. Jay and Jake help carry your bags and attach them to the white mare.
Heeseung says the ride to the tower will take a few days, which means that your mother packed enough food to last you a month. It’s a bitter kind of goodbye, knowing that you’re leaving to protect the ones you love. You still don’t really want to leave.
You never imagined yourself leaving home before. But now you have to.
“Are you ready?” Heeseung asks, his inquisitive gaze searching your expression for whatever lie you want to tell him.
And you smile, shaking your head. “Not really,” you reply honestly. “But I have to do this, don’t I?”
Heeseung blinks at you, discomfited by your transparency. “Yes,” he says. “The Forest chose you, and its decision is final.”
“Then I’m as ready as I can be.” You purse your lips, nodding. “Let’s go.”
Heeseung is not a very chatty sorcerer. Like, you haven’t known any sorcerers before him, of course, but the books usually depict them as these supernatural and immortal beings who like to have fun. Heeseung is anything but that. He is quiet and brooding. He only speaks up when it’s important, and you decided it would be better not to ask him many questions while you’re travelling lest you annoy him too much.
But by the second night of staying over at a tavern while on the road, it brings you a sense of peace. Usually, you’re not a fan of lack of communication, but with the sorcerer, it seems to be its own form of speaking and conveying what needs to be known.
You lie on the bed, reading a book provided to you by the innkeeper, biting your bottom lip as you wonder whether the sorcerer would scold you for daring to speak at him. He sits on the chair near the fireplace, merely gazing into the fire in silence.
Sighing, he turns his head ever so slightly to glance at you from the corner of his eye. “If you have something to say, then say it,” he grumbles before his attention is snatched away by the snapping fire again.
You shift in your seat, allowing yourself to fully stare at the sorcerer. His hair is as dark as night, loosely framing his face in waves. His honey-glazed skin looks slightly darker with just the fire casting light upon him, and despite his tall frame and broad shoulders, it seems he makes himself smaller in his chair. He must be exhausted.
“Can I ask a question?”
There is silence at first as if Heeseung ponders whether to say yes or no. Then, he responds, “Isn’t that already one? What stops you from asking another?” He doesn’t even look at you as he speaks, and your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “I appreciate you being considerate, but if there is something on your mind, just say it. I’ll decide whether I want to answer or not.”
Closing your book, you put it aside. You allow yourself to admire the sorcerer from afar, quite taken by his beauty. Though that is not what you need to quell your mind. “So…” you start, unsure of how to word your question. Though what you come up with is not exactly an elegant way to ask either. “Why me?”
You’re met with another round of silence. It almost feels like a decade of stillness, the only sounds made inside the room being your breathing and the crackling fire. But the sorcerer finally turns to you, swallowing whatever comes to his mind at first to give you a composed answer. “Because the Forest chose you,” he says plainly. “And once the Forest chooses, it cannot be undone.”
“The Forest?” You furrow your brows in confusion. “I thought you chose the girls that stay with you?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “That is not how it works. I made the spell that chooses the girls, but ultimately, it is the Forest itself that chooses which girl must live near it.” The solemn expression in his eyes makes you stop for a moment and think about it.
The girls are taken in order for the sorcerer to protect the surrounding villages from the Forest. And now you know that the Forest chooses the girls itself at that. It makes sense, in a strange way. Because you still don’t understand why you only need to live near it, for it sounds like the girls should be some sort of sacrifice to the Forest. Except you will be allowed to go back to your old life after ten years.
“Then how exactly does that work?” you ask, frowning. “If the Forest chooses the girls, what are the specifics? And what do we do? We just live with you?”
“Yes,” Heeseung answers with a sigh. Licking his lips, he glances back at the fire, then at you. “The Forest is a dark place. In order to control it, there needs to be light. Which is when you come in,” he explains, pointing at your heart. He makes a pause, checking your expression to see whether you were still listening to him, only to find you intently staring at his face, not missing a single word that left his mouth. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I designed my spell in a way for the Forest to find the purest soul within the radius of the villages. This time, it’s you.”
You purse your lips in thought. Never in your life have you thought of yourself as somebody with a pure soul, but apparently that is who you are, according to the sorcerer and his spell. Which is what got you into this situation of having to leave your childhood home and friends. Because the Forest chose you.
“Wait,” you say, a thought coming to you suddenly.
“Yes?” Heeseung raises his brow, watching your expression slowly change into that of distress.
“If the Forest chose me…” you start, frowning, “Does that mean that the creatures of the Forest would be after me? Whether I am at home or—”
“Yes.” The sorcerer nods in affirmation. “That is part of the magic. The Forest is drawn to you, and therefore, it makes my job of protecting the other villages from monsters that much easier. Since all of them are, well… headed for the tower.”
“For me, you mean.”
Heeseung gives a thin smile. “Even now, the Forest is already searching for you. But while we are on the way, and you are with me, you should be hidden until we reach the tower.”
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” you mumble, wondering how you’re going to fall asleep now, knowing that there are monsters specifically looking for you. Which means that, in a way, you are a sacrifice to the Forest, after all. The sorcerer just protects you and the other villages from them by killing said monsters.
“You asked,” he says with a shrug. “Nobody has ever asked before, so I’m not sure to what extent you’re interested in the topic,” he adds.
It occurs to you then, that maybe the only reason Heeseung hasn’t spoken much is because the other girls never had any interest in speaking to him due to the circumstances. He’s being distant simply because that’s how it’s always been for him.
“So, what exactly am I to do at the tower, once we get there?” you ask to continue the conversation. And unlike you thought, Heeseung does not seem annoyed by your questions at all.
“Whatever you want to do,” he replies. “I have an extensive library if you’re fond of reading. I can teach you to play the guitar your friend gave you. You can choose to pick up whatever hobby you want. All you have to do is just… live there as if it were your home for the next ten years so I can continue to protect your real home and other villages.”
“Okay,” you say, smiling, which takes Heeseung by surprise (again). “That sounds like a good deal, I suppose. I will miss my friends and family dearly, but I can do this.”
The Forest chose far too well, this time around, Heeseung thinks to himself and shakes his head. He’s been doing this for centuries, and he has never met anyone quite like you.
Home.
Heeseung lets out a huge sigh of relief when he finally steps inside the tower that has been his beloved home for many, many years. You trail behind him nervously, all of your luggage already sent to your room with a single flick of his hand. You’re not used to such magic just yet, but as time will pass, nothing will be able to surprise you later on.
Although Heeseung has still been keeping rather quiet around you, you felt more comfortable simply speaking at him because you knew he was listening. During the remainder of your travels, you told him much about your life at home and your friends. Oftentimes, if you asked a question regarding his life, you would wait for his answers even if it took him minutes to respond.
“Let me show you all the important rooms,” Heeseung says to you, the corner of his lips lifting in a smile. He’s not sure what it is about you that makes him behave this way, but your aura seems to wear off on him, too. He’s caught himself smiling more often than usual.
When you nod, he starts the tour with the library. You had told him you weren’t that big of a fan of reading, but whenever you had the time and the mood, you liked to nestle with a good book. He also shows you the kitchen, the washing rooms, his office and your bedroom. There are more rooms within the tower, but for now, Heeseung leaves those doors closed.
“Unpack and make yourself at home,” he says, pointing at the plain room. It is not the same one as the girls before you have had, for this one is much closer to his bedroom and office. He knows he probably shouldn’t have done that, but this strange feeling in his chest told him that he might need to keep a much closer eye on you than the other girls.
“Okay,” you say, nodding. “What will you be doing?”
“I’m going to make us supper,” Heeseung informs you.
“Oh. You can cook?” you ask brightly, and the sorcerer scrunches his nose, shaking his head.
“I hope you like bread with butter.”
You blink at him, speechless. “Who doesn’t like bread and butter?” You tilt your head to the side. “But that isn’t all you eat whenever you’re at the tower, is it?”
Heeseung presses his lips together. “No?” he lies, and you narrow your eyes at him.
“You must let me cook, then!” you claim, ready to storm past him into the kitchens rather than to unpack your things, but Heeseung places his hands on each of your arms to stop you from going anywhere.
“I don’t have any ingredients for cooking,” he says, shaking his head. “Unless you are the one with magic, capable of making food out of thin air.”
“Well…” You pout, looking into the sorcerer’s eyes. “I do not have magic, but I know a hefty trick for getting ingredients.” You grin, aware of Heeseung’s hands still on you. “It’s called shopping.”
“You can’t leave the tower on your own,” Heeseung sighs. “It’s too dangerous. It won’t happen.”
“Then come with me,” you suggest nonchalantly, still smiling. “You will protect me, and I will make sure we have proper supper. Did the other girls truly agree to living on plain bread and butter?” Your brow furrowed, and Heeseung shrugged.
“Sometimes we had meat,” he says.
“I’m surprised they lasted ten years like this.” You shake your head in disbelief. “We live in modern times. There is much more food to eat than just bread and butter and meat.”
“I never needed anything more,” Heeseung grumbles.
“Well, now you do,” you say finally, crossing your arms. “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, we are visiting the closest village and visiting their market for ingredients.”
“As long as it’s not too early,” Heeseung says defeatedly.
Living with the sorcerer was much easier than you thought it would be. Even if he constantly complains about you waking him up far too early for chores such as shopping for ingredients.
Today, however, when you approach his door to wake him up as usual, he opens the door right in front of your nose, pushing a cloak toward you. “Here. With this, you can go to the village on your own.”
“But… it’s a cloak.” You pouted, eyeing the piece of black fabric. It had a slight purple shimmer to it, however, and when the sorcerer spoke next, it confirmed your suspicions.
“It’s enchanted. To protect you from the Forest. It shouldn’t be able to track you while you’re wearing it. So put it on and let me sleep.” Heeseung runs a hand through his hair.
You raise your brow at him, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” you attempt to tease him, but he merely sighs.
“More like someone didn’t wake up in the bed because they haven’t even gone to bed yet, trying to figure out the enchantment on this damned thing.” He points at the cloak indignantly. “I need my beauty sleep. I can’t keep going to the market with you,” he whines.
This is the revered sorcerer who protects the people from monsters that you got to know. He’s not any different from your friends other than the fact that he’s centuries older, yet somehow his mind seems to be stuck at a specific age — perhaps that is a thing of immortality. Because one doesn’t age, their mind nor body does not develop any further.
“Well, I was never forcing you to,” you say, finally accepting the cloak from him. “But thank you. I’ll make sure to wear this well.”
“Good.” The sorcerer nods.
“You know you could’ve just told me to stop going to the market if you don’t like it so much, right?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. “You’re the one with power here. And I’m the one in danger.”
Heeseung licks his lips and shrugs. “That means you’d stop cooking, though,” he says, not keen on admitting that he prefers your meals to anything he’s had in the last several decades. “Just… go by yourself. And make sure to come back in one piece.”
“How are you so sure I won’t just run away?” you keep questioning him, and he rolls his eyes this time.
“You see this?” He grabs your wrist, pointing at the magical tattoo created by his spell. “We’re connected, Y/N, remember? I will find you wherever you go. But it also means the Forest could do the same thing. Eventually, the enchantment on this cloak could wear out, and if you get stuck somewhere without me and something from the Forest comes for you, then you’ll have nobody but yourself to blame.”
You bite your lip, nodding. He’s certainly made his point. Not that you ever truly considered leaving on your own. You truly are not well equipped to fight monsters on your own. “I understand,” mumbling the response, you yank your wrist out of Heeseung’s grasp.
“Sorry,” Heeseung sighs, rubbing his eyes leisurely. “I don’t mean to be so… irritable. I’m just—”
“Tired,” you finish for him, offering a thin smile. “I know. And I’m thankful for this, really.” You raise the cloak. “Get all the sleep you need, Heeseung. I’ll make sure to come back and prepare breakfast in the meantime.”
“Okay,” he says, allowing himself to grace you with the tiniest smile. Heeseung doesn’t smile often, so the few times that he does, it’s a precious sight. One to be remembered for days to come.
“I’ll get going now. Sleep well, Heeseung.”
As always, the market is buzzing with its early morning magic. Farmers from around the village and many other merchants have their stands prepared, beckoning anyone who shows even the smallest bit of interest in any of their wares. You always like to buy something from each to help them. Besides, the sorcerer’s resources are not exactly limited the same way your family’s used to be.
“No sorcerer today, Miss?” asks the farmer whose wares you’re eyeing. He’s an older man with grey streaks in his hair, and you remember him mainly because he’s always been the nicest to Heeseung out of all the villagers. While the others treat him with distrust and fear, this man has been nothing but respectful.
“Unfortunately, he chose not to make the trip.” You give a thin smile, shaking your head. “But I plan to make a nice breakfast for him. So, what would you say are your best products today?”
“The sweet potatoes.” A new voice joins the conversation. A boy probably around your age steps into your view, grinning from you to the farmer. “They’ve been growing really well this season.”
“I see,” you hum, examining the newcomer. His big eyes and warm smile are incredibly inviting, and you hope you will see him more often from now on. “I’ll take five, then.”
“Great choice,” the boy says cheerfully, immediately getting to work. “I’m Taehyun, by the way. Are you the new girl living with the sorcerer? It’s a bit novel for us that you’re here since they used to always stay at the tower.”
You smile, making a noncommittal noise. “I’m Y/N. And I think this is new for everyone involved.”
“I’m glad you’re here. It would be a waste for someone so pretty to rot away at the tower,” Taehyun claims, handing you a bag of the best sweet potatoes that he could pick in their batch.
“Stop flirting with the customers, son,” the elder farmer scolds, glancing between you and Taehyun.
Your cheeks burn due to the unexpected compliment. While you are used to your friends telling you that you’re pretty, it’s quite different when it comes from someone you don’t know. “It’s okay, sir. Thank you.”
Taehyun grins, his doe eyes lighting up. “Do you need any more help? I want to ask you some things,” he says, and you turn to his father with furrowed brows.
“What about—”
“Don’t worry, Miss. I’m not that old.” He chuckles, letting Taehyun do whatever he wants. “Besides, you were always curious why I don’t regard the sorcerer with the same apprehensiveness as the others, no?”
You blink at the man. “I suppose yes, but how is that—”
“I have magic,” Taehyun answers simply. “It’s nothing quite grand like the sorcerer’s, but I have it. Look.” Lifting up a sweet potato, Taehyun makes it float in the air, just above his hand. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the potato vanishes and appears back in its original box.
“Woah. That’s still impressive,” you say. “Isn’t it rare, still? To have magic.”
“I think so. But apparently, I wasn’t powerful enough to be allowed to study about it more in the capital.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” You pout, but Taehyun shakes his head.
“Don’t be. I learned all I needed to know on my own. And now I get to help my parents with the farm, and don’t have to leave them.” Taehyun smiles, sharing a fond look with his father.
“That is admirable.” You nod, your affection growing for the boy in front of you with every passing second. Besides, you’re possibly going to see him more often, so why not make a new friend?
“So would you like any help? I can carry a lot on my own.” Taehyun speaks proudly, and you giggle, watching him flexing his arms the tiniest bit just to show off.
“If it is okay with your father that I steal you for myself, then I wouldn’t mind another hand, since Heeseung decided to miss out today,” you agree, your heart swelling at the sight of Taheyun’s toothy smile.
“Completely okay,” the farmer says, shaking his head amusedly.
“So, what are you looking for?” Taehyun claps his hands, plastering himself to your side. “I can recommend all the best stands for everything.”
“That would be lovely, thank you so much.”
“It’s no problem, Y/N. I’m really just trying to spend the most time possible with you.”
You giggle again, taken aback by the boy’s frankness. “I’m not that special, you know?”
“And yet you’re all I want to see.” Taehyun’s lines are smooth, making your face feel hotter than the sun. “Come on, would you like to know where to get the best bread around here?”
And so you follow.
Maybe you shouldn’t have let Taehyun help you all the way back to the tower, but he was so insistent. You couldn’t tell him no. Especially with his large deer eyes. They almost reminded you of Heeseung’s.
Almost.
Until he stands in the kitchen, looking well-rested, glaring at Taehyun’s figure. To him, he’s a complete stranger in his home, and you invited him in without asking for permission.
“What is this?” he asks, pointing at Taehyun who has been diligently helping you put all your newly acquired items away. He intended to stay in his study until you’d call for him, but then he heard laughter bouncing off the walls of the tower, and it filled him with dread. “I let you out by yourself once, and you bring a stranger to my home?”
“Technically, it’s also my home for the next ten years,” you argue, shaking your head. “And Taehyun is very sweet.” Smiling at him, Taehyun gives you a grateful nod.
“Just because you think someone is sweet, doesn’t mean it’s still not dangerous to let a stranger into the Tower.” Heeseung scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Do you realise how dangerous that is? Maybe I shouldn’t let you go out anymore…” he speaks to himself, but you and Taehyun can hear him perfectly well.
“You can’t be serious. Just because the other girls were fine staying inside, I’m most definitely not going to be,” you say, putting your foot down.
“It would be for your own good,” the sorcerer says matter-of-factly.
“My good, or your benefit?” You raise a brow at him. Heeseung’s face contorts in anger for the briefest of moments before he schools his expression, staring you down.
“My benefit? You think any of this is beneficial to me?” he asks you calmly, but it’s somehow more terrifying than if he had exploded with fury. “I have been fighting whatever creatures come outside of the forest for centuries, and I don’t even know why, or why I have to. How in the world could that be beneficial to me?” The question is aimed at you, but it’s clear that it is rhetorical — something he has long given up on finding the answer to.
If you weren’t furious with the sorcerer, you would’ve empathised with him, but all you could hear in your head right now was his threat to keep you locked away in his tower by the forest. “Sorry, I misspoke,” you correct yourself, frowning. “I just meant that you’re the reason why I even have to be here.”
“You think I enjoy that?” Heeseung tilts his head, glaring at you this time. “Fine! Whatever. You are free to leave of your own free will, Y/N. Since you’re, oh, so fine without me.” He says, looking at Taehyun this time. A different emotion flashes in his eyes as he presses his lips tightly together. “I’m sure he would love to protect you anyway,” Heeseung scoffs and runs a hand over his face.
Your face falls as you glance at Taehyun and then look back at Heeseung. “What do you mean?”
“Y/N—” Taehyun attempts to speak, but Heeseung only laughs. It’s such a deprived sound it almost scares you.
“Are you telling me you don’t know that the person you brought here is currently the youngest Sorcerer General? That he works for the capital as one of the most powerful sorcerers aside from me?”
“What?” This time, you turn to Taehyun fully. “But you said— did you lie to me?” you ask softly, and as Taehyun apologetically stares down at his feet, licking his lips, you know that he, in fact, did lie to you. “Was the farmer truly your father?”
“Yes! Yes, he was!” Taehyun exclaims immediately, shutting his eyes close tightly before meeting yours again. “That’s why I came to the village. Because he told me that Heeseung has been coming there with you… so the capital sent me.”
“Oh.” You step away from Taehyun, not knowing how to feel. “But you still lied to me.”
“Y/N, I’m sorry— I just didn’t want to scare you off—”
“So you made up a whole lie about how you were helping at the family farm with your magic?” you scoff, shaking your head.
“You should’ve been honest with her.” Heeseung chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Y/N is the most honest person I’ve ever met, so the truth would have hardly scared her off.”
You look at the sorcerer, surprised to hear those words leave his mouth. You’re never sure what exactly he thinks of you, but somehow, knowing that he considers you an honest person warms your heart. He certainly must’ve met many liars in his lifetime. And Taehyun is clearly one of them.
“Yes. So whatever you or the capital want from me, or from Heeseung, just leave us alone. Let them know he’s doing his job just fine.”
“Is he, though?” Taehyun questions, staring at you. “He did let you out of his sight this morning.”
“I have protections placed on me,” you claim, but Taehyun laughs dryly.
“If you mean that flimsy scuffed cloak, then I doubt it was powerful enough to protect you from a monster that wants to directly attack you,” he says, unimpressed. “So, I’d dare say he should do his job better.”
“You little—”
“Don’t.” You sigh tiredly, stepping in front of Taehyun. “I can sense animosity between the two of you, but I’m not willing to hear it. I’m sorry, Heeseung, I see your point, I’ve made a mistake.”
“You don’t need to apologise to him, of all people,” Taehyun says from behind you, and you turn to face him, meeting his big eyes with a blank stare.
“Whatever your problem is with Heeseung, I don’t care. You lied to me, and I don’t appreciate it. The last thing you get to do is insult Heeseung under his roof.” You place your hands on your hips, frowning. “Either be nice, or stay quiet.”
Taehyun clenches his hands into fists, glaring back at Heeseung. But he gives in, sighing in defeat. “He’s not just the reason you have to be living in this tower for the next ten years, you know?” He tells you quietly, enough for Heeseung not to hear. “He’s also the reason the Forest is as dangerous as it is. That’s why he’s the only one tasked with fighting it. So don’t think he’s being honest with you either.”
Colour drains from your face as you listen to him. This time, you’re certain it is the truth because of the graveness in Taehyun’s voice. Though you don’t understand why he’s being secretive about it. Why doesn’t he say it directly even to Heeseung?
Shaking his head, Taehyun moves to leave. “If you ever need help, let me know. I’ll be around, making sure that Heeseung is doing his job well.”
“Dickhead,” the taller sorcerer murmurs under his breath even before Taehyun departs entirely, possibly having heard him. But he didn’t react in any way, simply leaving you alone with Heeseung once again.
You look at Heeseung, not knowing what to think of him now. Though when he smiles at you as if nothing happened, you want to forget Taehyun’s harrowing words.
“Do you need any help with breakfast? I can fry eggs.”
Despite Taehyun’s words, you continued going to the market on your own. You noticed a deer following you around whenever you did so, and you assumed it was another one of Heeseung’s protective precautions to keep you away from danger.
Whenever you come across Taehyun now, he has this distinct look on his face of sharing a secret with you that Heeseung doesn’t know about. Of course, you didn’t tell him. How could you relay such information onto him, not knowing how he’d take it? How would one react to finding out they are the reason so many lives are in danger?
“Ah, crap!” you curse under your breath after what feels like the millionth time of failing to strike the correct chord on the guitar from Jongseong. It shouldn’t be difficult considering your expertise with the violin, but you’re struggling regardless.
You close your eyes, knowing it’s probably because you can’t focus. You keep thinking back to Taehyun’s words and how it’s somehow his fault that the forest is dangerous. Which also means he is the reason why you’re in danger, and why the forest wants to take you. Though you don’t know how, or what it means.
“Do you plan to torture the poor instrument for long?” Heeseung, as if hearing your thoughts, appears in the music room with a soft, amused smile playing on his lips.
“Sorry,” you say instantly, looking up at him. “I simply can’t seem to figure it out.”
“Allow me.” Heeseung steps closer to you, outstretching his hand to take the guitar.
You let him, watching him nestle next to you on the small sofa that you had chosen for practice. With a smile, he begins playing a song that both sounds foreign and familiar to you. The melody begins merrily, yet as it goes on, the song turns into a mixture of fury and betrayal. A tale that strikes to the very core of your heart, leaving you breathless.
“What song was that?” you ask once the sorcerer is finished.
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “It’s just been on my mind for a while…” Heeseung tries to hide his confusion, but not even he knew that these emotions have been festering within him.
“Here.” He hands the guitar back to you.
Accepting it, you let the instrument sit on your lap while Heeseung moves to kneel on the ground in front of you. He’s tall enough to still be at eye level with you, and you startle when his fingers brush against your hand.
“Sorry, allow me,” he says quietly, taking your hand in his and placing your fingers on the strings of the guitar. “I’m going to teach you some basic chords first, so you don’t torture the guitar at random.”
You blink at him, not sure how to react. With the sorcerer this close to you, it’s hard to process anything, let alone his words. All you can hear is intense buzzing in your ears, and the storm within your heart.
Gulping, you nod carefully. Heeseung smiles, guiding your fingers along the strings to show you each chord, making sure that you understand everything perfectly.
It becomes easier when you know the chords. Now that you can connect each sound to what you already know, it doesn’t seem as difficult anymore. With a grin, you find yourself playing the very melody Jaeyun and Sunghoon composed, and it makes you miss home — though in a good way.
Being here means they are safe. That is what matters most.
“You’re a natural,” Heeseung says, but the proud feeling is gone within moments.
He makes an expression unfamiliar to you as his eyes roam the music room, and you wonder what he is thinking. He abruptly stands up instead, walking toward the window with a frown.
“Stay here,” he commands, closing the window. You shouldn’t be surprised when he disappears as fast as he appeared, but it hurts the tiniest bit.
You watch him head to the forest from your closed window, wishing for him to have told you that he had sensed danger and needed to leave instead of departing almost without a word.
After hours had passed, you considered running to the village over to find Taehyun so he’d help you find Heeseung somewhere inside the Forest. But as you open the door of the Tower, Heeseung comes stumbling through the entrance, collapsing on the floor with blood splattered all over his clothes.
“Heeseung!” You cry out, going to examine him and his wounds instantly. He groans when you turn him to his back, and you notice a large bite from what you can only assume was an oversized wolf on his shoulder. “What happened?” you mumble.
“Your music,” Heeseung whispers. “It’s—”
“No, shh.” Putting your hand over his mouth, you shut him up. “I need to treat your wounds first. Then you can explain yourself,” you say, heart pounding in your ears.
Heeseung is an immortal sorcerer. This is probably not as severe as it looks to him, but it doesn’t change the fact that it worries you. That you are worried for him.
From the kitchen, you grab a dittany solution and a piece of cloth to wash the wound with, before finding a kit for wound-treating in the bathroom.
Your hands shake while you tear Heeseung’s tunic off of him for better access to the wound. It allows you to see not only his toned chest and stomach, but also the many scars that tatter his honey-coloured skin.
Pouring the solution over his shoulder, you ignore the hiss he lets out, grateful that he isn’t fighting you.
You do your best to wash the bleeding wound before dressing and wrapping it in bandages. See, being close to three boys of your age gave you some expertise in treating wounds, but it had never been this severe before. It was never a large bite from a monster of the Forest.
“I need to get you to your room,” you say weakly, wrapping your arm around Heeseung’s torso. “Can you move?”
The sorcerer doesn’t respond with words, but he doesn’t let you use all your strength to carry him around either. While most of his weight is still on your shoulders as he drapes his arm over your shoulders, he does his best to walk on his own.
You never complained about the stairs in the Tower before, but today is the day when they seem to be your absolute doom. Luckily, Heeseung’s bedroom is not too far up.
Huffing and puffing by the time you reach the door to Heeseung’s room, you’re happy to find relief in opening the door that leads into a large bedroom with… almost nothing inside. Sure, there are some books and a desk, but other than a bed, the room is painfully empty and plain.
You have no time to question it. Instead, you lead Heeseung toward his bed, helping him lie down. But when you want to leave him to rest, he grabs your wrist, not letting you go.
“Heeseung, you need to rest.”
“Don’t leave,” he says, shaking his head. “Stay, please.”
“Heeseung—”
“I need you here.”
“That’s—”
Heeseung, with what strength he has left, pulls you toward him onto the bed. You fall on top of his chest with a yelp, and you seem to be the only one bothered about it. Especially when the sorcerer wraps his arms around you, refusing to let go of you.
“It’s you the Forest wants. He won’t let you go. I can’t protect you if you’re not with me,” he rambles into your hair, strangely frantic. Though you write it off as a side-effect of his injury.
“He can’t have you, Eunjin. Please don’t leave me. You’re my heart.”
Eunjin.
Who’s Eunjin?
When Heeseung wakes up, it’s in a cold sweat. The room spins in his vision, and when it finally settles on the open window, he can only feel a strange sense of emptiness.
Attempting to move is a terrible idea. Heeseung groans in pain, hand reaching for the bandaged shoulder that you treated. The wound is still fresh, but you made sure to keep it from getting infected.
His recollection of yesterday’s events is blurry, but he does remember you helping him to his room and him asking you to stay. So finding his room cold and empty without your presence hurts. Not that he would admit such a thing out loud.
Heeseung is supposed to be the aloof, mysterious and brooding sorcerer from the Tower, yet you’ve made him smile more times than he can count in the past months that he fears more than usual for your safety.
He always managed to keep a professional relationship with the other women during his time as Keeper of the Forest, one could say, because keeping distance between himself and people who didn’t want to be here was never hard. However, it proves to be difficult with you. Especially when you act like you actually enjoy his company rather than him being a nuisance in your corner.
You enter Heeseung’s room without knocking. Though in your defence, you did not expect him to be awake just yet. Breakfast is clutched in your hands, ready to be served to Heeseung on an actual silver platter.
“Oh. Good morning,” you say softly with a tiny smile. “Are you feeling alright?”
The sigh of relief that leaves Heeseung’s lips at the sight of you and the knowledge of your safety is unfamiliar to him. Obviously, he has always worried for the women staying with him, but never this much. Not when he is the one who got hurt.
Besides, they never brought him breakfast to bed either. In fact, nobody has ever done that, as far as Heeseung is aware. So maybe the way his heart begs to jump out of his chest when you approach him is an entirely reasonable reaction.
“I could be better,” Heeseung replies quickly, when he notices a frown forming on your lips because he was quiet for too long. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says.
“But you got hurt.” You shake your head in disapproval. “I feel like this is the least I can do,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair.
A sigh of defeat leaves your lips. One that Heeseung is familiar with as he has felt powerlessness many times before. But the last thing you are is powerless. You don’t even know it, but the reason Heeseung had to leave yesterday was specifically because you’re too powerful.
Your music is its own kind of magic, and unfortunately, it lures the creatures of the Forest directly to you. But Heeseung can’t tell you that. Music is an important part of your life, and he’s willing to fight whatever comes for you rather than disappoint you or make you upset.
There is also this underlying feeling of having come across this kind of magic before. It was from… he cannot not remember who had the magic or when exactly in his life he came across it. Yet he knows it’s important. This person who wielded this magic meant something. Whoever they were.
“All I need from you is to be safe,” Heeseung says almost too intimately, surprising even himself. Your lips part in shock as you stare at him, hands tightly gripping onto the tray with breakfast.
Gulping, you nod. “I am safe.”
You dare moving closer to Heeseung, offering the freshly made breakfast to him with a timid smile, which he accepts gratefully. It isn’t just the tea you prepared that makes him feel warm inside.
“Please, rest now. I promise not to leave the Tower while you recover,” you reassure the sorcerer.
“But how will you—”
“I wrote to Taehyun,” you reply, and Heeseung hates the pang of jealousy he feels within his heart at the mention of the other sorcerer. “I know he’s been keeping an eye on us, so it was easy to contact him and ask for a small favour.”
“You mean turning him into a delivery man?” Heeseung's brow raises, and you shrug.
“It’s the least he can do.”
Heeseung snorts, amusement filling his bones. Of course, you would be the one to reduce a Sorcerer General of a large army to something as measly as a delivery man.
And the best part about it? Taehyun is going to do it.
“Thank you,” you say to Taehyun when he enters the Tower with bags of ingredients. Since Heeseung got hurt, you plan to make a large lunch and dinner to help him recover faster.
“No problem.” The man shrugs. “You had something to ask me?” he adds, since your request for groceries was not the only one you made in your message to him.
Pursing your lips, you nod. Leading Taehyun into the kitchen to put away the food, you think of the best way to form your question. Though the base is simple: you want to know more about Heeseung. Things that not even he knows, it seems.
“Oh.” He chuckles in understanding. “You want to know what I meant before.” Looking at you, his brows furrow. “Why the sudden interest? Did something happen?”
You shake your head. “I just want to know what you meant by it,” you argue. “How can the Forest be Heeseung’s fault only?”
“It’s simple, isn’t it?” Taehyun answers with a question of his own. “It’s a curse that he’s not aware of because the curse itself makes him forget. He doesn’t know it himself, but he’s far older than two centuries.”
“He is?”
Taehyun nods. “I don’t know that much myself, but his history is something sorcerers study in the capital. It’s just that all the details are very blurry and every book that mentions him is merely a different interpretation of what could have happened rather than what truly did happen.
“A detail that remains the same, however, is that there used to be seven of them. Seven Sorcerer Guardians who protected a princess of the Old Kingdom. She was a powerful priestess and her magic was beyond anyone’s understanding, so she created these seven sorcerers who helped her as her power grew. But she died alongside them in a war that destroyed the Old Kingdom, and unlike her, the seven sorcerers were reborn in a completely new world with magic that likely came from the princess.
“Nobody knows where the other six sorcerers are. They’re likely alive and well, but we’re not sure where they are nor who they are. But Heeseung… The power he wields now is only a sliver of what he had two centuries ago due to a curse of an unknown origin to us all. And the speculation is that the power that he lacks is now what makes the Forest what it is.”
“Which is why he’s the only one fighting it…” you finish for Taehyun, and he hums.
“I’m not saying he’s a monster or anything. It’s just that there is so much we don’t know about him.”
“I understand.” You nod. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Where is he anyway? Are you alright?” Taehyun worries for you, and you chuckle. “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry. But Heeseung got hurt last night, so I don’t want to leave him here all alone.”
“He’d be fine,” Taehyun scoffs. “We heal faster than normal people. Immortality and all that.” He continues to help you put things away in silence for barely a minute before speaking again. “You’re different from the other women Heeseung has protected in the past,” he claims.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance at Taehyun. “Am I?”
“Something is different about you.” Taehyun nods. “Your aura is so much more… it’s stronger. Like… I think you have magic, Y/N.”
“What? No.” You shake your head in denial. “How could I have magic? Am I not way past the age for finding that out?”
“Magic manifests in many ways, Y/N. Yours could be so subtle nobody ever noticed, but it is there. It’s strong, just not… obvious,” Taehyun disagrees with you.
“But then… why wouldn’t Heeseung tell me that?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Taehyun counters. “I think he’s scared, Y/N. The Forest behaves differently than it used to. It no longer searches anywhere. It’s dormant.”
“But Heeseung fought some creatures yesterday.”
“Because something called them forth. I monitored the Forest’s activity, and it was like… they found what they were looking for last night.”
“Wait…” you pause, staring at Taehyun. “If you were monitoring the Forest, why didn’t you help Heeseung?”
“It’s not in my jurisdiction.”
“Bullshit,” you spit, shaking your head. “You could’ve prevented his injury.”
“He’ll be fine, Y/N.”
“But he’s not fine now!” you counter, shaking your head. “He was partly delirious yesterday and… he called me Eunjin.”
Taehyun’s face turns grave at the mention of the name. “Eunjin’s dead,” he says with a deadpan.
“Yeah? I figured,” you scoff. There are many things you could guess based on what Heeseung said last night. But you did not like the way it made you feel.
“Eunjin was different from the other women Heeseung has protected,” Taehyun sighs, offering an explanation in an attempt to quell your indignation. “She was a sorceress studying in the capital before, you know, the mark.” Taehyun points at the one you have on your wrist.
“And she died? I never heard of anyone dying—”
“It was covered up well,” Taehyun says. “Besides, we don’t really know if she died. All we know is that she went into the Forest on her own and never came back. Heeseung searched for her, I think, but she disappeared.” A frown settles on Taehyun’s lips, and you study him with your head tilted to the side.
“She’s the reason you don’t like Heeseung,” you say matter-of-factly.
Taehyun chuckles, shaking his head. “That obvious, huh?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “Eunjin was my best friend in the capital; we studied together. She was… stronger than me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” you say, moving toward Taehyun with uncertain steps. Not that long ago, you were still upset with him, but now you want to comfort him somehow. The way he looks at you, with big sad eyes, you can’t resist the urge to take his hand in yours and offer a warm smile.
“You really need to be careful around him.” Taehyun looks at you solemnly, covering your hand in his. “Eunjin wanted to go into the Forest because of him. Please, don’t make the same mistake.”
“I won’t.” You can’t promise that.
Taehyun smiles ruefully. “Who’s the liar now, huh?” He clearly wants to say something else, perhaps a wish that should not be spoken aloud, but he doesn’t get the chance.
“Y/N, I think my wound started healing—” Heeseung walks into the kitchen, watching you jump away from Taehyun, yanking your hand out of his grip. Confused, Heeseung glances between you and Taehyun.
“Woah, that— that is great news!” you exclaim hastily, a large grin breaking across your lips as you pretend not to have learned about Heeseung’s past.
“See, I told you he’d be fine,” Taehyun adds lamely in an attempt to resume the conversation.
“It’s a relief.” You nod. “Do you need anything, Heeseung? More food? Water? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Heeseung gives you a weird look. He knows you’re hiding something, but doesn’t press the issue with Taehyun right next to you.
“You do realise you’re not his maid, right?” Taehyun raises his brow at you.
“Taehyun—”
“Would you prefer it if she was yours?” Heeseung challenges in turn.
“She’s not property to give out like that.” Taehyun glares at the other sorcerer.
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” you say firmly, fixing both men with a stern stare. It’s especially pointed at Taehyun because of the conversation you two shared literally moments ago. “I know you two have issues, but do not make me a ball the two of you get to kick around to prove a point.”
This gets both sorcerers to look at you, their expressions turning apologetic.
“I’m my own person, and I can do whatever I want. If I want to offer Heeseung a cup of tea then I can do that,” you say, looking at Taehyun. They seem to look regretful now, realising that their words may have been hurtful toward you, when that is the last thing they intended. “I think it’ll be better if you leave now, Taehyun.”
♟️ synopsis: He shouldn't have come back, but the silence of separation was louder than his pride. Standing soaked and undone outside her door, Yunho doesn't just apologize—he breaks. He yearns for the pain, the push, the volatile life only she can offer. He begs her to take him back, surrendering completely to the admission that he is utterly addicted to her…..
♟️ notes: He didn't just crawl back; he annihilated his own pride for her, standing in the rain and begging to be hurt again. This fic is about the sickening satisfaction of watching a desperate man sacrifice his sanity for the 'chaos' you engineered. Every tear he sheds is a victory for her. Brace yourself for the brutal reality of loving the beautiful monster who destroys you. 💔
♟️ disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does NOT represent the written member in any way.
The rain came down like it had a grudge.
Each drop sounded like a heartbeat Yunho couldn’t calm. He stood in front of her apartment door, soaked through, fingers trembling against the metal handle. He shouldn’t have come. He knew what seeing her did to him , it hollowed him out and filled him with her all over again.
He knocked once. Twice. The door opened.
Y/N stood there, framed in the dull hallway light. No expression. Just those eyes … empty and unreadable, the same ones that used to look at him like he hung the stars.
He broke first.
“Y/N, please… I just-… I can’t do this anymore.”
His voice cracked. He hated that it cracked. The words spilled out like something had finally broken loose inside him.
“I know I hurt you. I shouldn’t have left, I shouldn’t have said those things-…but I can’t breathe without you.”
She tilted her head slightly, like she was studying a stranger.
“You always say that,” she murmured, her voice calm, almost soft. “You always come back when it’s convenient for you.”
He dropped to his knees before she could shut the door. The rain soaked his jeans, his palms flat against the cold concrete.
“No, please, just listen- I didn’t mean to leave. I thought I could forget you but I can’t. You’re everywhere, Y/N. I see you when I wake up, when I sleep—”
Her expression didn’t change. He looked up at her, eyes wide, like a lost child waiting for forgiveness.
She sighed a slow, tired sound that cut deeper than any scream could. She stepped closer and knelt down, fingers ghosting through his wet hair. The touch was gentle, almost affectionate, but her gaze never softened.
“You shouldn’t have come back, Yunho.”
He blinked, confused.
“Why? Don’t you miss me? Even a little?”
Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Miss you? Maybe. Trust you? Never again.”
She stood, crossing her arms, and for the first time, Yunho noticed the flicker of something in her eyes ,pain, anger, or maybe something darker.
“You think you can just walk back into my life, apologize, cry a little, and I’ll fall for you again?”
“I don’t care if you hate me,” he whispered. “Just… don’t shut me out. Please.”
Y/N looked down at him. For a second, the wall around her almost cracked. Almost.
“You really don’t get it,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Yunho. But every time you’re near me, I become someone I don’t recognize. You bring out the worst in me.”
The hallway was silent except for the rain. Yunho stood slowly, meeting her eyes. There was a flicker of something … a memory of warmth, of laughter, of love that once felt endless.
“Then let me stay,” he said. “Let me be your worst. I don’t care.”
That broke her composure. She laughed … soft, humorless, fragile.
“You think that’s love?”
He nodded, eyes shining. “If it’s not, then what is?”
She stared at him for a long moment, like she was searching for the right way to destroy him. Then, finally, she whispered:
“You don’t love me, Yunho. You’re addicted to the chaos we made together.”
She turned her back and opened the door wider, stepping aside. For a heartbeat, Yunho thought she was letting him in. Thought maybe she still cared even just a little.
But then she said, quietly,
“You should go.”
His breath caught. “Go?”
She didn’t turn around.
“You came here looking for the version of me you remember. The one who waited for your calls. The one who cried when you left. She’s gone, Yunho. You buried her yourself.”
He shook his head, stepping closer. “No… no, I can see her. She’s still there, I know she is.”
He reached out, fingers brushing her arm. She froze . not pulling away, but not leaning in either. That stillness was louder than any scream.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she whispered. “Every time you come back, you take another piece of me.”
He let out a broken laugh. “Then take mine too. Take all of it. Maybe that way you’ll feel something again.”
Finally, she turned to face him. Her eyes glistened under the dim light, emotion flickering for the first time but not the kind he hoped for.
It was guilt. Or maybe pity.
“You don’t understand,” she said softly. “You think I don’t feel anything, but I feel too much. That’s the problem.”
For a second, the air between them changed heavy, magnetic, dangerous. The way her voice dropped, the way his breath hitched it was like they were standing on the edge of something they both knew they shouldn’t touch again.
He whispered, “Then why can’t you just let me in?”
She smiled faintly, but her eyes didn’t match it.
“Because if I do… I’ll never let you leave again.”
That silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating. Yunho took a step back, realizing she meant every word , not as a threat, but as a truth she was trying to protect him from.
He wanted to speak, but she reached out and pressed a finger gently to his lips.
“Go home, Yumurmured. “Before we destroy each other again.”
“Y/N…” His voice broke on her name. “Please.”
She didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, still as the rain outside, her face unreadable , almost too calm. The kind of calm that comes after you’ve already fallen apart once and promised yourself never to do it again.
He reached her, breath uneven, eyes glassy. “Don’t send me away. Not again. I can’t—” His voice cracked before he could finish. The words dissolved into silence, into the trembling sound of his breathing.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Her gaze flicked over his face. the desperation, the trembling hands, the tears threatening to spill. He looked at her like a man begging for air, like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
Then, with a quiet exhale, she reached out. Her cold hands brushed his cheeks, and before he could even react, she drew him in slow but firm , wrapping her arms over his neck and pulling him against her chest.
His breath hitched, a sharp sound swallowed by the fabric of her sweater. He clutched at her waist, burying his face into her shoulder as if he could hide from everything the pain, the distance. His tears soaked into her skin, warm against her cold composure.
She held him tighter. Her expression didn’t change; her face remained calm, distant that same mask she always wore. But her arms… her arms said everything. They trembled faintly as she held him close, fingers curling into the back of his shirt like she was afraid to let go.
“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Always coming back, even when you know it’ll hurt.”
Yunho shook his head against her chest, his voice muffled. “I don’t care. I’d rather hurt with you than be numb without you.”
Her breath caught. For a second, the façade slipped , her eyes softened, the tension in her jaw loosened. She pressed her lips gently to the top of his head, closing her eyes.
“You’ll destroy yourself like this,” she murmured.
“Then let me,” he breathed, looking up at her, eyes red and glistening. “If it’s for you… then let me.”
Something in her broke then - not loudly, not visibly, but deep inside, like a fracture that had been waiting too long. Her thumb brushed away a tear from his cheek, slow and deliberate.
“You’re impossible,” she said, her voice shaking now. “And I hate that I can’t stop you.”
He smiled weakly through his tears, resting his forehead against hers. “Don’t stop me. Just… stay. Even if it’s only for tonight.”
Her fingers tightened behind his neck, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched. “Just tonight,” she whispered.
But they both knew neither of them would ever really let go.
The rain outside turned to mist, and for that one fragile moment, the world felt quiet. His trembling breath against her skin, her heartbeat steady beneath his ear , two broken souls finding warmth in the ruins of what they used to be.
Not healed. Not whole. But together.
A/N: *sigh* your girlys tired (what do we think!!!!)
thank uu guys for 100+interactionss, check out part 2 on my page🙈
NOOOO I CAN'T BELIEVE CRUSHOLOGY ENDS ON A CLIFF HANGER 😭😭😭 i was so curious to know how the story would unravel and progress with all of them meeting.. sob.. i'm devastated lol. do we think part 2 will ever come out any time soon? 😅
soon is not the word i would use but... it does exist and i am thinking about it, i just have 0.00000000001s of time to do anything it's depressing
synopsis! the immortal sorcerer lives in a tower by the forest filled with dark creatures. he protects the surrounding villages from its dangers, and in exchange, every decade, a girl from one of the villages is chosen to live as his companion. this time, it’s you.
genre! fantasy romance, angst
content warnings! swearing and the fact this is unfinished so this is part one
word count! 11.4k
author's note! i'm scared of making this longer but i'm literally just halfway through...
Throughout your life, a girl from the villages has only been taken twice. And the first time, you were barely one year old, so it could hardly affect you in any way. The second time, however, you were eleven. At the time, you already understood what was happening and why. A girl around the age of twenty had been chosen to live with the lone and mysterious sorcerer who lived in a tower at the edge of the Forest to prolong his protection of the villages.
Nobody likes to talk about it much. How the girls are chosen, when he comes for them and what he does to them. None of that information is known. Although you’ve heard that usually, once the decade passes, the girls are free to go and live as they please with a solid fortune to their name. The girl you witnessed being taken away ten years ago has been released recently, and you heard from the whispers of the other villagers that she moved to the city and is starting her own business in dressmaking.
For that very reason, every village surrounding the Forest lives in restless anticipation. Any day now, a new girl will be chosen to join the sorcerer in his tower. Ten years, she will live with him and do whatever it is that she’s got to do to keep her family and friends safe from the darkness of the Forest.
You wish you could know how the girls are chosen to be better prepared. It’s glaringly obvious that some villagers think you might be the next girl chosen. You’re the perfect age for it, and apparently, there is also the fact that the girls that go to the sorcerer are usually deemed objectively beautiful or somehow talented.
You’re not exactly talented, but you’re not that beautiful either. You’d argue that Yeji or Chaeryong are far better choices in that regard, but somehow the eyes are still on you. It’s strange, knowing that everyone is convinced you will be next while you can’t see a single reason why. Maybe they just want to be rid of you. Although that is most certainly not the way the girls get chosen.
Everyone simply overestimates your talent with the violin and your voice. That has got to be it. You’re not a genius nor a prodigy, you play the instrument and sing merely because you want to. It’s a hobby, but it’s not something to make you a desirable choice for the sorcerer. And you don’t want to be his choice either. You’d rather stay in your village with your family and friends.
“Y/N!” One of those friends, Jaeyun, calls after you with a grin on his lips, waving enthusiastically. “Do you have time today? I’d like to practise together.” Because both of you play the violin. In fact, it was Jaeyun who made you fall in love with the instrument in the first place.
You smile and nod. “Of course. I always have time,” you say, although untruthfully. For Jaeyun, however, everyone makes time. He is the village’s golden boy. Loved and adored by everyone. He can talk his way into and out of anything. You’re sure he’s never paid for anything either because everyone is happy to give him everything for free — a gift for the beloved boy of Riverfeld.
Whenever you and Jaeyun visit the local tavern, the tab made on his name is never paid, and the owner has never even asked for it to be paid. It’s as if his mere existence is payment enough. But you guess that’s what happens when you’re the people’s happy pill.
“Awesome! Let’s go,” Jaeyun says, grabbing your hand.
You expect him to let you get your violin at home, but it isn’t necessary as he has done that for you. He prepared the whole scene, already knowing you would say yes because why would you not?
“Look,” Jaeyun says, grabbing a sheet that is laid by his instrument. “Sunghoon and I have been working on a new composition and I wanted to try playing it with you.”
You hum, waiting for Jaeyun to approach you. He practically sticks himself to your side with the sheet in hand, showing you the new song they’ve been working on.
It’s a love song.
There are no lyrics, but as you imagine the sound of the melody, your imagination bringing it to life, you know it’s a ballad. A song of love meant for someone specific. A confession of adoration and admiration.
“You think you can do this?” Jaeyun asks, solemnly looking at you.
Smiling, you nod. “Of course.”
Both of you grab your violins, sharing the singular sheet in between as you prepare. Sitting down on the ground, you settle the violin on your shoulder and rest your chin atop. A smile adorns your lips at the feeling of holding the instrument in your hands again.
“Can we?” Jaeyun asks softly, also ready. All he needs is a nod from you to lift his bow to the strings of the violin and start the melody. He acts as your guide as this is your first time playing the song.
It starts off slowly. A sweet melody of two people getting to know each other, growing closer and beginning to care. The tempo picks up when the two lovers begin to realise they are in love. They struggle with the fear, the melody conveying the uncertainty, until finally, they gain the courage to confess. And by the time the song is over, the two lovers are together.
“We named it Only If You Say Yes,” Jaeyun grins.
“It’s beautiful, Jaeyun,” you say, fighting the growing uneasiness within your belly. Not because of the boy across from you, but a general burning feeling in your body that spreads from your chest to the rest of your body. As if it’s pumping fire instead of blood.
The frown that contorts your expression springs Jaeyun up to his feet, dropping by your side. “Y/N? Are you okay?” he asks, and while you’d love to nod and say yes, it would be a lie. Nothing about this scorching feeling is okay.
You hiss and groan, grabbing onto your wrist where most of the pain begins to concentrate. It leaves your other limbs in favour of your right wrist where it burns so much you think your entire limb might melt.
The scream that escapes you is unintentional. You wanted to hold it in, but it was impossible with the pain coursing through you. Jaeyun grabs you by the shoulders, holding onto you. Confused about what is happening to you.
And as he holds you in his embrace, the pain subsides. Slowly but surely, it leaves your body the same way it entered, and you slump against the dark haired boy with your head buried in the crook of his neck.
“Y/N,” he whispers softly, one arm wrapped around your waist to support you while the other moves up to cup your face. He examines you, sweat coating your forehead.
“My… wrist,” you breathe out, and try to pull away from Jaeyun, but his grip on you is strong, and you can barely do anything without him supporting your weight. So you wait for him to look for you.
“There’s a tattoo,” Jaeyun says, discomfited. Staring at it closer, he grabs onto your wrist. “Golden antlers,” he describes it while his fingers softly trace the pattern, and you furrow your brows, getting a look yourself.
Jaeyun blanches with a realisation that pains him, glancing at you. “Y/N,” he mumbles, cupping both your cheeks to make you look at him. “It’s his sign.”
You both know who he is.
Your eyes widen. “But… that can’t be,” you breathe out, shaking your head vigorously. “I know everyone thought it would be me, but I didn’t— I’m not special—”
Jaeyun smiles ruefully, disagreeing with you. “Clearly, you’re more special than you realise,” he says, voice low. “He’ll be paying us a visit soon, then.”
“I don’t want to go,” you say quietly. But what else is there to do? If you don’t go, you will put everyone you care about and other innocent souls in danger. And for what? For your own selfish reasons?
Jaeyun sighs mournfully, hands still cupping your cheeks. “What am I going to do without you for ten years?” he asks himself.
“Live your life,” you say pragmatically, your hands grabbing his own. “It’ll be fine, right? As long as it means you’ll be safe.”
“Y/N.” Jaeyun licks his lips, wishing there was something he could do for you to make it easier.
“It’ll be fine,” you repeat to yourself.
It has to be fine.
It was not supposed to happen so soon.
Usually, the Forest takes about a month or more since the previous girl’s departure to choose another. But the Forest is not dallying this time, having picked its next target.
Heeseung stares at the golden tattoo on his wrist that connects him with you, not knowing who you are just yet. He will, soon, however, as once the Forest picks a girl, she has to come to him as soon as possible.
He hates doing this, if he’s being completely honest. He’d be just fine living on his own and protecting the people, but in order to keep the darkness in check, there has to be some light. Heeseung isn’t exactly a good fit for that. Which means that every ten years, a girl with the purest of souls must live near the Forest to control it. And with a carefully crafted spell from him, the Forest gets to choose that girl by itself.
That is the only reason he is now away from his home, riding his horse toward Riverfeld. The village where you live.
Nobody ever knows that he’s coming. He figured it’s better this way, since it stops the villagers from making a scene whenever he does arrive. He learned pretty early on, when it comes to this. He hated how awkward it was when they used to line up just to see at least the tiniest bit of his face, or when they tried to give him gifts instead of their daughters.
Not how it works. Unfortunately.
He’d rather take the gifts, too.
But here he is, entering the small village almost unnoticed aside from the few glances here and there as people wonder who he is. To them, he’s a stranger, and they probably don’t get many of those. He did make sure to dress as a regular traveller, so hopefully they don’t suspect him much.
The tattoo on his wrist calls for its twin, and it pulls him toward the village’s tiny square. A stage has been set up in the centre, and a girl and a boy sit there, both playing the violin together, creating a beautiful song of wistful love.
A concept Heeseung isn’t familiar with, but he does like the sound of it. It’s a youthful song full of hope. Asking for acceptance where it truly can be found.
His eyes fixate on the girl playing.
You.
You are smiling brightly despite knowing your fate, and you don’t stop playing until the song is well and truly over. Both you and the boy stand to bow to the audience when they begin to clap and fawn over you and your talent.
You keep shaking your head, acting as if you deserve none of it. And the boy throws an arm around your shoulders with a grin, proud for the both of you. Another boy, taller than the other, joins and celebrates with you.
So Heeseung waits. Until everyone around you has said their praising piece to you. Until you’re well and truly alone, and the smile from your lips has dissipated the tiniest bit because you know what will eventually come. That these people who adore you will not be with you for long. That you will have to leave them.
You’re not surprised when he approaches you as a complete stranger. Instead, you look him in the eye and face him directly. “It’s you, isn’t it?” you ask, examining him from head to toe. “You’re the sorcerer.”
It takes a second for Heeseung to recover from it. He has met many girls over the years, each different but same in spirit, and he never thought much of them. But you stand in front of him with a pensive smile, accepting what is to come. There is a beauty to you that many probably don’t see. Though you are gorgeous in general, with big cheeks yet defined features, hair falling over your shoulders. One would have to be blind not to see it.
“Am I that obvious?” he asks, and you shake your head.
“I think it’s the tattoo,” you reply. “I can sense it. You have it too, right?”
You’re quite clever.
Heeseung nods, and rolls up the sleeve of his cape to show you his identical tattoo. “It connects us,” he says plainly.
You hum. A playful glint enters your gaze, and your smile grows slightly. “I thought you’d be older,” you say matter-of-factly. “You look—”
“Handsome?” He cuts you off because he does not like it when people say he looks young. He knows he looks young. He’s looked the same for the past two centuries, and will continue to do so for as long as the Forest exists.
“My age,” you finish instead. Not young, just your age. That is certainly a new way to describe what he looks like. And he decides at this very moment that he likes it the best. Yes, he can accept looking your age — whatever it actually is. “But I suppose handsome is also a reasonable descriptor,” you add, eyeing his face.
This time, Heeseung is truly robbed of words. Whenever he arrives to take a girl to the Forest, they’re usually afraid of him. The last thing they’d call him is handsome. Yet here you are, standing in front of him, calm and accepting. You’re not crying, screaming or begging to stay. You just are. (a/n: Very demure, very mindful.)
“You should stay for a bit before we leave. My parents are making supper that could feed the whole village. It would be rude to leave before we got to taste it.” You don’t wait for Heeseung’s response before you are making your way toward what he deduces is your home. It’s humble enough, a house fit for a family of four, perhaps. But when you enter, it is filled with more than four people.
The two boys that Heeseung saw with you at the performance are both present alongside some older villagers and a girl some years younger than you. He’s not even sure why he followed you anyway. He should’ve stayed outside and waited for you to say your goodbyes. That’s usually the standard procedure for him, so why is he thoughtlessly breaking tradition all of a sudden?
“Y/N! Who’s—”
“That’s the sorcerer,” you say nonchalantly, shrugging.
“But why—”
“I’m not a monster,” Heeseung speaks, facing the boy you played the violin with. “I won’t take her away without saying her goodbyes… and it’s Heeseung.”
“Who?” you ask.
“Me.”
“You what?”
“Heeseung.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“My name is Heeseung.” He rolls his eyes, lips in a thin line.
“Oh! Well, I’m Y/N. Then this is Jaeyun, Sunghoon, Mum, Dad, Mrs Sim, Mr Sim, Mrs Park, Mr Park and Sunghoon’s little sister.” You point at everyone respectively with a soft smile upon your features. “I’m guessing Jongseong forgot he was supposed to come?” you say more to yourself, but Jaeyun hums in agreement.
“He’s been working on the new guitar that he’s trying to make,” he responds. “Forgets he has other duties or the fact he should, you know, eat and drink and sleep to live.”
“Said it’s for you, though,” Sunghoon mumbles, glancing at you. “He thought he’d have enough time to finish it.” Then he throws an apprehensive glance at Heeseung.
“But I don’t play the guitar,” you reply with a pout.
“He was going to teach you…”
Look, the next words that leave Heeseung’s mouth will probably make him regret it later, but watching you with your friends is doing weird things to the organ in his chest he thought had long been forgotten. So it’s a surprise to not just you and your friends when he says: “I know how to play the guitar. If your friend will not mind it, I will allow that guitar to be sent to you.”
The way your eyes widen in sheer surprise and gratitude makes Heeseung think that maybe it’s not such a regretful action.
The Forest must’ve truly known what it was doing this time around. Everyone in this village seems to genuinely adore you. The purest of hearts among them all, living without the knowledge of it.
“I’m here! I’m here! I got it!” A boy bursts through the door with a guitar in hand, and Heeseung makes the safe assumption that this is Jongseong. Even in him, Heeseung can sense a very beautiful soul through and through, though the innocence is gone.
It makes sense that you would surround yourself with people just as lovely as you on the inside. Whether you knew it or not.
“JJ,” you coo when he goes toward you with the instrument to hand it to you. “Why would you do all this for me?”
“So you remember me. Us. To come back to us.”
It occurs to Heeseung then that all three of these boys around you love you. As friends or more that is out of his field of knowledge, but the love between you is raw and just as pure and innocent as you are.
“I could never forget you guys.” You smile and shake your head. “All three of you better be married and with kids by the time I’m back, though.”
“It’s not fair,” Jaeyun says, properly looking at Heeseung. “She’s a good person. Never done anything wrong in her life. Why—”
“I know,” Heeseung cuts him off, shaking his head. “That’s why.” Maybe being curt with them is not the best choice, but they won’t dare attack him.
“Nothing in this life is fair,” Jongseong murmurs sagely, his eyes finding you. But you are staring at Heeseung, brow arched with curiosity.
“Y/N! Boys! Come eat! Supper is done.”
Your parents did not say much when you introduced the sorcerer to them. They merely stared to assess him as if a mere look could tell them what kind of person he was. But, whatever their consensus was, they let him eat supper with you, so it was probably quite positive.
“Won’t deny supper to the man who fights to protect us on a daily basis,” your mother murmured before you all sat down at the table to eat.
You enjoyed yourself for the rest of the day because Heeseung let you. He was letting you say your goodbyes before ultimately whisking you away to his tower, and you appreciated it.
Everything is going to be fine, you constantly remind yourself.
Especially as you saddle your horse with Sunghoon’s help because he’s the tallest of your friends. Jay and Jake help carry your bags and attach them to the white mare.
Heeseung says the ride to the tower will take a few days, which means that your mother packed enough food to last you a month. It’s a bitter kind of goodbye, knowing that you’re leaving to protect the ones you love. You still don’t really want to leave.
You never imagined yourself leaving home before. But now you have to.
“Are you ready?” Heeseung asks, his inquisitive gaze searching your expression for whatever lie you want to tell him.
And you smile, shaking your head. “Not really,” you reply honestly. “But I have to do this, don’t I?”
Heeseung blinks at you, discomfited by your transparency. “Yes,” he says. “The Forest chose you, and its decision is final.”
“Then I’m as ready as I can be.” You purse your lips, nodding. “Let’s go.”
Heeseung is not a very chatty sorcerer. Like, you haven’t known any sorcerers before him, of course, but the books usually depict them as these supernatural and immortal beings who like to have fun. Heeseung is anything but that. He is quiet and brooding. He only speaks up when it’s important, and you decided it would be better not to ask him many questions while you’re travelling lest you annoy him too much.
But by the second night of staying over at a tavern while on the road, it brings you a sense of peace. Usually, you’re not a fan of lack of communication, but with the sorcerer, it seems to be its own form of speaking and conveying what needs to be known.
You lie on the bed, reading a book provided to you by the innkeeper, biting your bottom lip as you wonder whether the sorcerer would scold you for daring to speak at him. He sits on the chair near the fireplace, merely gazing into the fire in silence.
Sighing, he turns his head ever so slightly to glance at you from the corner of his eye. “If you have something to say, then say it,” he grumbles before his attention is snatched away by the snapping fire again.
You shift in your seat, allowing yourself to fully stare at the sorcerer. His hair is as dark as night, loosely framing his face in waves. His honey-glazed skin looks slightly darker with just the fire casting light upon him, and despite his tall frame and broad shoulders, it seems he makes himself smaller in his chair. He must be exhausted.
“Can I ask a question?”
There is silence at first as if Heeseung ponders whether to say yes or no. Then, he responds, “Isn’t that already one? What stops you from asking another?” He doesn’t even look at you as he speaks, and your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “I appreciate you being considerate, but if there is something on your mind, just say it. I’ll decide whether I want to answer or not.”
Closing your book, you put it aside. You allow yourself to admire the sorcerer from afar, quite taken by his beauty. Though that is not what you need to quell your mind. “So…” you start, unsure of how to word your question. Though what you come up with is not exactly an elegant way to ask either. “Why me?”
You’re met with another round of silence. It almost feels like a decade of stillness, the only sounds made inside the room being your breathing and the crackling fire. But the sorcerer finally turns to you, swallowing whatever comes to his mind at first to give you a composed answer. “Because the Forest chose you,” he says plainly. “And once the Forest chooses, it cannot be undone.”
“The Forest?” You furrow your brows in confusion. “I thought you chose the girls that stay with you?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “That is not how it works. I made the spell that chooses the girls, but ultimately, it is the Forest itself that chooses which girl must live near it.” The solemn expression in his eyes makes you stop for a moment and think about it.
The girls are taken in order for the sorcerer to protect the surrounding villages from the Forest. And now you know that the Forest chooses the girls itself at that. It makes sense, in a strange way. Because you still don’t understand why you only need to live near it, for it sounds like the girls should be some sort of sacrifice to the Forest. Except you will be allowed to go back to your old life after ten years.
“Then how exactly does that work?” you ask, frowning. “If the Forest chooses the girls, what are the specifics? And what do we do? We just live with you?”
“Yes,” Heeseung answers with a sigh. Licking his lips, he glances back at the fire, then at you. “The Forest is a dark place. In order to control it, there needs to be light. Which is when you come in,” he explains, pointing at your heart. He makes a pause, checking your expression to see whether you were still listening to him, only to find you intently staring at his face, not missing a single word that left his mouth. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I designed my spell in a way for the Forest to find the purest soul within the radius of the villages. This time, it’s you.”
You purse your lips in thought. Never in your life have you thought of yourself as somebody with a pure soul, but apparently that is who you are, according to the sorcerer and his spell. Which is what got you into this situation of having to leave your childhood home and friends. Because the Forest chose you.
“Wait,” you say, a thought coming to you suddenly.
“Yes?” Heeseung raises his brow, watching your expression slowly change into that of distress.
“If the Forest chose me…” you start, frowning, “Does that mean that the creatures of the Forest would be after me? Whether I am at home or—”
“Yes.” The sorcerer nods in affirmation. “That is part of the magic. The Forest is drawn to you, and therefore, it makes my job of protecting the other villages from monsters that much easier. Since all of them are, well… headed for the tower.”
“For me, you mean.”
Heeseung gives a thin smile. “Even now, the Forest is already searching for you. But while we are on the way, and you are with me, you should be hidden until we reach the tower.”
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” you mumble, wondering how you’re going to fall asleep now, knowing that there are monsters specifically looking for you. Which means that, in a way, you are a sacrifice to the Forest, after all. The sorcerer just protects you and the other villages from them by killing said monsters.
“You asked,” he says with a shrug. “Nobody has ever asked before, so I’m not sure to what extent you’re interested in the topic,” he adds.
It occurs to you then, that maybe the only reason Heeseung hasn’t spoken much is because the other girls never had any interest in speaking to him due to the circumstances. He’s being distant simply because that’s how it’s always been for him.
“So, what exactly am I to do at the tower, once we get there?” you ask to continue the conversation. And unlike you thought, Heeseung does not seem annoyed by your questions at all.
“Whatever you want to do,” he replies. “I have an extensive library if you’re fond of reading. I can teach you to play the guitar your friend gave you. You can choose to pick up whatever hobby you want. All you have to do is just… live there as if it were your home for the next ten years so I can continue to protect your real home and other villages.”
“Okay,” you say, smiling, which takes Heeseung by surprise (again). “That sounds like a good deal, I suppose. I will miss my friends and family dearly, but I can do this.”
The Forest chose far too well, this time around, Heeseung thinks to himself and shakes his head. He’s been doing this for centuries, and he has never met anyone quite like you.
Home.
Heeseung lets out a huge sigh of relief when he finally steps inside the tower that has been his beloved home for many, many years. You trail behind him nervously, all of your luggage already sent to your room with a single flick of his hand. You’re not used to such magic just yet, but as time will pass, nothing will be able to surprise you later on.
Although Heeseung has still been keeping rather quiet around you, you felt more comfortable simply speaking at him because you knew he was listening. During the remainder of your travels, you told him much about your life at home and your friends. Oftentimes, if you asked a question regarding his life, you would wait for his answers even if it took him minutes to respond.
“Let me show you all the important rooms,” Heeseung says to you, the corner of his lips lifting in a smile. He’s not sure what it is about you that makes him behave this way, but your aura seems to wear off on him, too. He’s caught himself smiling more often than usual.
When you nod, he starts the tour with the library. You had told him you weren’t that big of a fan of reading, but whenever you had the time and the mood, you liked to nestle with a good book. He also shows you the kitchen, the washing rooms, his office and your bedroom. There are more rooms within the tower, but for now, Heeseung leaves those doors closed.
“Unpack and make yourself at home,” he says, pointing at the plain room. It is not the same one as the girls before you have had, for this one is much closer to his bedroom and office. He knows he probably shouldn’t have done that, but this strange feeling in his chest told him that he might need to keep a much closer eye on you than the other girls.
“Okay,” you say, nodding. “What will you be doing?”
“I’m going to make us supper,” Heeseung informs you.
“Oh. You can cook?” you ask brightly, and the sorcerer scrunches his nose, shaking his head.
“I hope you like bread with butter.”
You blink at him, speechless. “Who doesn’t like bread and butter?” You tilt your head to the side. “But that isn’t all you eat whenever you’re at the tower, is it?”
Heeseung presses his lips together. “No?” he lies, and you narrow your eyes at him.
“You must let me cook, then!” you claim, ready to storm past him into the kitchens rather than to unpack your things, but Heeseung places his hands on each of your arms to stop you from going anywhere.
“I don’t have any ingredients for cooking,” he says, shaking his head. “Unless you are the one with magic, capable of making food out of thin air.”
“Well…” You pout, looking into the sorcerer’s eyes. “I do not have magic, but I know a hefty trick for getting ingredients.” You grin, aware of Heeseung’s hands still on you. “It’s called shopping.”
“You can’t leave the tower on your own,” Heeseung sighs. “It’s too dangerous. It won’t happen.”
“Then come with me,” you suggest nonchalantly, still smiling. “You will protect me, and I will make sure we have proper supper. Did the other girls truly agree to living on plain bread and butter?” Your brow furrowed, and Heeseung shrugged.
“Sometimes we had meat,” he says.
“I’m surprised they lasted ten years like this.” You shake your head in disbelief. “We live in modern times. There is much more food to eat than just bread and butter and meat.”
“I never needed anything more,” Heeseung grumbles.
“Well, now you do,” you say finally, crossing your arms. “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, we are visiting the closest village and visiting their market for ingredients.”
“As long as it’s not too early,” Heeseung says defeatedly.
Living with the sorcerer was much easier than you thought it would be. Even if he constantly complains about you waking him up far too early for chores such as shopping for ingredients.
Today, however, when you approach his door to wake him up as usual, he opens the door right in front of your nose, pushing a cloak toward you. “Here. With this, you can go to the village on your own.”
“But… it’s a cloak.” You pouted, eyeing the piece of black fabric. It had a slight purple shimmer to it, however, and when the sorcerer spoke next, it confirmed your suspicions.
“It’s enchanted. To protect you from the Forest. It shouldn’t be able to track you while you’re wearing it. So put it on and let me sleep.” Heeseung runs a hand through his hair.
You raise your brow at him, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” you attempt to tease him, but he merely sighs.
“More like someone didn’t wake up in the bed because they haven’t even gone to bed yet, trying to figure out the enchantment on this damned thing.” He points at the cloak indignantly. “I need my beauty sleep. I can’t keep going to the market with you,” he whines.
This is the revered sorcerer who protects the people from monsters that you got to know. He’s not any different from your friends other than the fact that he’s centuries older, yet somehow his mind seems to be stuck at a specific age — perhaps that is a thing of immortality. Because one doesn’t age, their mind nor body does not develop any further.
“Well, I was never forcing you to,” you say, finally accepting the cloak from him. “But thank you. I’ll make sure to wear this well.”
“Good.” The sorcerer nods.
“You know you could’ve just told me to stop going to the market if you don’t like it so much, right?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. “You’re the one with power here. And I’m the one in danger.”
Heeseung licks his lips and shrugs. “That means you’d stop cooking, though,” he says, not keen on admitting that he prefers your meals to anything he’s had in the last several decades. “Just… go by yourself. And make sure to come back in one piece.”
“How are you so sure I won’t just run away?” you keep questioning him, and he rolls his eyes this time.
“You see this?” He grabs your wrist, pointing at the magical tattoo created by his spell. “We’re connected, Y/N, remember? I will find you wherever you go. But it also means the Forest could do the same thing. Eventually, the enchantment on this cloak could wear out, and if you get stuck somewhere without me and something from the Forest comes for you, then you’ll have nobody but yourself to blame.”
You bite your lip, nodding. He’s certainly made his point. Not that you ever truly considered leaving on your own. You truly are not well equipped to fight monsters on your own. “I understand,” mumbling the response, you yank your wrist out of Heeseung’s grasp.
“Sorry,” Heeseung sighs, rubbing his eyes leisurely. “I don’t mean to be so… irritable. I’m just—”
“Tired,” you finish for him, offering a thin smile. “I know. And I’m thankful for this, really.” You raise the cloak. “Get all the sleep you need, Heeseung. I’ll make sure to come back and prepare breakfast in the meantime.”
“Okay,” he says, allowing himself to grace you with the tiniest smile. Heeseung doesn’t smile often, so the few times that he does, it’s a precious sight. One to be remembered for days to come.
“I’ll get going now. Sleep well, Heeseung.”
As always, the market is buzzing with its early morning magic. Farmers from around the village and many other merchants have their stands prepared, beckoning anyone who shows even the smallest bit of interest in any of their wares. You always like to buy something from each to help them. Besides, the sorcerer’s resources are not exactly limited the same way your family’s used to be.
“No sorcerer today, Miss?” asks the farmer whose wares you’re eyeing. He’s an older man with grey streaks in his hair, and you remember him mainly because he’s always been the nicest to Heeseung out of all the villagers. While the others treat him with distrust and fear, this man has been nothing but respectful.
“Unfortunately, he chose not to make the trip.” You give a thin smile, shaking your head. “But I plan to make a nice breakfast for him. So, what would you say are your best products today?”
“The sweet potatoes.” A new voice joins the conversation. A boy probably around your age steps into your view, grinning from you to the farmer. “They’ve been growing really well this season.”
“I see,” you hum, examining the newcomer. His big eyes and warm smile are incredibly inviting, and you hope you will see him more often from now on. “I’ll take five, then.”
“Great choice,” the boy says cheerfully, immediately getting to work. “I’m Taehyun, by the way. Are you the new girl living with the sorcerer? It’s a bit novel for us that you’re here since they used to always stay at the tower.”
You smile, making a noncommittal noise. “I’m Y/N. And I think this is new for everyone involved.”
“I’m glad you’re here. It would be a waste for someone so pretty to rot away at the tower,” Taehyun claims, handing you a bag of the best sweet potatoes that he could pick in their batch.
“Stop flirting with the customers, son,” the elder farmer scolds, glancing between you and Taehyun.
Your cheeks burn due to the unexpected compliment. While you are used to your friends telling you that you’re pretty, it’s quite different when it comes from someone you don’t know. “It’s okay, sir. Thank you.”
Taehyun grins, his doe eyes lighting up. “Do you need any more help? I want to ask you some things,” he says, and you turn to his father with furrowed brows.
“What about—”
“Don’t worry, Miss. I’m not that old.” He chuckles, letting Taehyun do whatever he wants. “Besides, you were always curious why I don’t regard the sorcerer with the same apprehensiveness as the others, no?”
You blink at the man. “I suppose yes, but how is that—”
“I have magic,” Taehyun answers simply. “It’s nothing quite grand like the sorcerer’s, but I have it. Look.” Lifting up a sweet potato, Taehyun makes it float in the air, just above his hand. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the potato vanishes and appears back in its original box.
“Woah. That’s still impressive,” you say. “Isn’t it rare, still? To have magic.”
“I think so. But apparently, I wasn’t powerful enough to be allowed to study about it more in the capital.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” You pout, but Taehyun shakes his head.
“Don’t be. I learned all I needed to know on my own. And now I get to help my parents with the farm, and don’t have to leave them.” Taehyun smiles, sharing a fond look with his father.
“That is admirable.” You nod, your affection growing for the boy in front of you with every passing second. Besides, you’re possibly going to see him more often, so why not make a new friend?
“So would you like any help? I can carry a lot on my own.” Taehyun speaks proudly, and you giggle, watching him flexing his arms the tiniest bit just to show off.
“If it is okay with your father that I steal you for myself, then I wouldn’t mind another hand, since Heeseung decided to miss out today,” you agree, your heart swelling at the sight of Taheyun’s toothy smile.
“Completely okay,” the farmer says, shaking his head amusedly.
“So, what are you looking for?” Taehyun claps his hands, plastering himself to your side. “I can recommend all the best stands for everything.”
“That would be lovely, thank you so much.”
“It’s no problem, Y/N. I’m really just trying to spend the most time possible with you.”
You giggle again, taken aback by the boy’s frankness. “I’m not that special, you know?”
“And yet you’re all I want to see.” Taehyun’s lines are smooth, making your face feel hotter than the sun. “Come on, would you like to know where to get the best bread around here?”
And so you follow.
Maybe you shouldn’t have let Taehyun help you all the way back to the tower, but he was so insistent. You couldn’t tell him no. Especially with his large deer eyes. They almost reminded you of Heeseung’s.
Almost.
Until he stands in the kitchen, looking well-rested, glaring at Taehyun’s figure. To him, he’s a complete stranger in his home, and you invited him in without asking for permission.
“What is this?” he asks, pointing at Taehyun who has been diligently helping you put all your newly acquired items away. He intended to stay in his study until you’d call for him, but then he heard laughter bouncing off the walls of the tower, and it filled him with dread. “I let you out by yourself once, and you bring a stranger to my home?”
“Technically, it’s also my home for the next ten years,” you argue, shaking your head. “And Taehyun is very sweet.” Smiling at him, Taehyun gives you a grateful nod.
“Just because you think someone is sweet, doesn’t mean it’s still not dangerous to let a stranger into the Tower.” Heeseung scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Do you realise how dangerous that is? Maybe I shouldn’t let you go out anymore…” he speaks to himself, but you and Taehyun can hear him perfectly well.
“You can’t be serious. Just because the other girls were fine staying inside, I’m most definitely not going to be,” you say, putting your foot down.
“It would be for your own good,” the sorcerer says matter-of-factly.
“My good, or your benefit?” You raise a brow at him. Heeseung’s face contorts in anger for the briefest of moments before he schools his expression, staring you down.
“My benefit? You think any of this is beneficial to me?” he asks you calmly, but it’s somehow more terrifying than if he had exploded with fury. “I have been fighting whatever creatures come outside of the forest for centuries, and I don’t even know why, or why I have to. How in the world could that be beneficial to me?” The question is aimed at you, but it’s clear that it is rhetorical — something he has long given up on finding the answer to.
If you weren’t furious with the sorcerer, you would’ve empathised with him, but all you could hear in your head right now was his threat to keep you locked away in his tower by the forest. “Sorry, I misspoke,” you correct yourself, frowning. “I just meant that you’re the reason why I even have to be here.”
“You think I enjoy that?” Heeseung tilts his head, glaring at you this time. “Fine! Whatever. You are free to leave of your own free will, Y/N. Since you’re, oh, so fine without me.” He says, looking at Taehyun this time. A different emotion flashes in his eyes as he presses his lips tightly together. “I’m sure he would love to protect you anyway,” Heeseung scoffs and runs a hand over his face.
Your face falls as you glance at Taehyun and then look back at Heeseung. “What do you mean?”
“Y/N—” Taehyun attempts to speak, but Heeseung only laughs. It’s such a deprived sound it almost scares you.
“Are you telling me you don’t know that the person you brought here is currently the youngest Sorcerer General? That he works for the capital as one of the most powerful sorcerers aside from me?”
“What?” This time, you turn to Taehyun fully. “But you said— did you lie to me?” you ask softly, and as Taehyun apologetically stares down at his feet, licking his lips, you know that he, in fact, did lie to you. “Was the farmer truly your father?”
“Yes! Yes, he was!” Taehyun exclaims immediately, shutting his eyes close tightly before meeting yours again. “That’s why I came to the village. Because he told me that Heeseung has been coming there with you… so the capital sent me.”
“Oh.” You step away from Taehyun, not knowing how to feel. “But you still lied to me.”
“Y/N, I’m sorry— I just didn’t want to scare you off—”
“So you made up a whole lie about how you were helping at the family farm with your magic?” you scoff, shaking your head.
“You should’ve been honest with her.” Heeseung chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Y/N is the most honest person I’ve ever met, so the truth would have hardly scared her off.”
You look at the sorcerer, surprised to hear those words leave his mouth. You’re never sure what exactly he thinks of you, but somehow, knowing that he considers you an honest person warms your heart. He certainly must’ve met many liars in his lifetime. And Taehyun is clearly one of them.
“Yes. So whatever you or the capital want from me, or from Heeseung, just leave us alone. Let them know he’s doing his job just fine.”
“Is he, though?” Taehyun questions, staring at you. “He did let you out of his sight this morning.”
“I have protections placed on me,” you claim, but Taehyun laughs dryly.
“If you mean that flimsy scuffed cloak, then I doubt it was powerful enough to protect you from a monster that wants to directly attack you,” he says, unimpressed. “So, I’d dare say he should do his job better.”
“You little—”
“Don’t.” You sigh tiredly, stepping in front of Taehyun. “I can sense animosity between the two of you, but I’m not willing to hear it. I’m sorry, Heeseung, I see your point, I’ve made a mistake.”
“You don’t need to apologise to him, of all people,” Taehyun says from behind you, and you turn to face him, meeting his big eyes with a blank stare.
“Whatever your problem is with Heeseung, I don’t care. You lied to me, and I don’t appreciate it. The last thing you get to do is insult Heeseung under his roof.” You place your hands on your hips, frowning. “Either be nice, or stay quiet.”
Taehyun clenches his hands into fists, glaring back at Heeseung. But he gives in, sighing in defeat. “He’s not just the reason you have to be living in this tower for the next ten years, you know?” He tells you quietly, enough for Heeseung not to hear. “He’s also the reason the Forest is as dangerous as it is. That’s why he’s the only one tasked with fighting it. So don’t think he’s being honest with you either.”
Colour drains from your face as you listen to him. This time, you’re certain it is the truth because of the graveness in Taehyun’s voice. Though you don’t understand why he’s being secretive about it. Why doesn’t he say it directly even to Heeseung?
Shaking his head, Taehyun moves to leave. “If you ever need help, let me know. I’ll be around, making sure that Heeseung is doing his job well.”
“Dickhead,” the taller sorcerer murmurs under his breath even before Taehyun departs entirely, possibly having heard him. But he didn’t react in any way, simply leaving you alone with Heeseung once again.
You look at Heeseung, not knowing what to think of him now. Though when he smiles at you as if nothing happened, you want to forget Taehyun’s harrowing words.
“Do you need any help with breakfast? I can fry eggs.”
Despite Taehyun’s words, you continued going to the market on your own. You noticed a deer following you around whenever you did so, and you assumed it was another one of Heeseung’s protective precautions to keep you away from danger.
Whenever you come across Taehyun now, he has this distinct look on his face of sharing a secret with you that Heeseung doesn’t know about. Of course, you didn’t tell him. How could you relay such information onto him, not knowing how he’d take it? How would one react to finding out they are the reason so many lives are in danger?
“Ah, crap!” you curse under your breath after what feels like the millionth time of failing to strike the correct chord on the guitar from Jongseong. It shouldn’t be difficult considering your expertise with the violin, but you’re struggling regardless.
You close your eyes, knowing it’s probably because you can’t focus. You keep thinking back to Taehyun’s words and how it’s somehow his fault that the forest is dangerous. Which also means he is the reason why you’re in danger, and why the forest wants to take you. Though you don’t know how, or what it means.
“Do you plan to torture the poor instrument for long?” Heeseung, as if hearing your thoughts, appears in the music room with a soft, amused smile playing on his lips.
“Sorry,” you say instantly, looking up at him. “I simply can’t seem to figure it out.”
“Allow me.” Heeseung steps closer to you, outstretching his hand to take the guitar.
You let him, watching him nestle next to you on the small sofa that you had chosen for practice. With a smile, he begins playing a song that both sounds foreign and familiar to you. The melody begins merrily, yet as it goes on, the song turns into a mixture of fury and betrayal. A tale that strikes to the very core of your heart, leaving you breathless.
“What song was that?” you ask once the sorcerer is finished.
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “It’s just been on my mind for a while…” Heeseung tries to hide his confusion, but not even he knew that these emotions have been festering within him.
“Here.” He hands the guitar back to you.
Accepting it, you let the instrument sit on your lap while Heeseung moves to kneel on the ground in front of you. He’s tall enough to still be at eye level with you, and you startle when his fingers brush against your hand.
“Sorry, allow me,” he says quietly, taking your hand in his and placing your fingers on the strings of the guitar. “I’m going to teach you some basic chords first, so you don’t torture the guitar at random.”
You blink at him, not sure how to react. With the sorcerer this close to you, it’s hard to process anything, let alone his words. All you can hear is intense buzzing in your ears, and the storm within your heart.
Gulping, you nod carefully. Heeseung smiles, guiding your fingers along the strings to show you each chord, making sure that you understand everything perfectly.
It becomes easier when you know the chords. Now that you can connect each sound to what you already know, it doesn’t seem as difficult anymore. With a grin, you find yourself playing the very melody Jaeyun and Sunghoon composed, and it makes you miss home — though in a good way.
Being here means they are safe. That is what matters most.
“You’re a natural,” Heeseung says, but the proud feeling is gone within moments.
He makes an expression unfamiliar to you as his eyes roam the music room, and you wonder what he is thinking. He abruptly stands up instead, walking toward the window with a frown.
“Stay here,” he commands, closing the window. You shouldn’t be surprised when he disappears as fast as he appeared, but it hurts the tiniest bit.
You watch him head to the forest from your closed window, wishing for him to have told you that he had sensed danger and needed to leave instead of departing almost without a word.
After hours had passed, you considered running to the village over to find Taehyun so he’d help you find Heeseung somewhere inside the Forest. But as you open the door of the Tower, Heeseung comes stumbling through the entrance, collapsing on the floor with blood splattered all over his clothes.
“Heeseung!” You cry out, going to examine him and his wounds instantly. He groans when you turn him to his back, and you notice a large bite from what you can only assume was an oversized wolf on his shoulder. “What happened?” you mumble.
“Your music,” Heeseung whispers. “It’s—”
“No, shh.” Putting your hand over his mouth, you shut him up. “I need to treat your wounds first. Then you can explain yourself,” you say, heart pounding in your ears.
Heeseung is an immortal sorcerer. This is probably not as severe as it looks to him, but it doesn’t change the fact that it worries you. That you are worried for him.
From the kitchen, you grab a dittany solution and a piece of cloth to wash the wound with, before finding a kit for wound-treating in the bathroom.
Your hands shake while you tear Heeseung’s tunic off of him for better access to the wound. It allows you to see not only his toned chest and stomach, but also the many scars that tatter his honey-coloured skin.
Pouring the solution over his shoulder, you ignore the hiss he lets out, grateful that he isn’t fighting you.
You do your best to wash the bleeding wound before dressing and wrapping it in bandages. See, being close to three boys of your age gave you some expertise in treating wounds, but it had never been this severe before. It was never a large bite from a monster of the Forest.
“I need to get you to your room,” you say weakly, wrapping your arm around Heeseung’s torso. “Can you move?”
The sorcerer doesn’t respond with words, but he doesn’t let you use all your strength to carry him around either. While most of his weight is still on your shoulders as he drapes his arm over your shoulders, he does his best to walk on his own.
You never complained about the stairs in the Tower before, but today is the day when they seem to be your absolute doom. Luckily, Heeseung’s bedroom is not too far up.
Huffing and puffing by the time you reach the door to Heeseung’s room, you’re happy to find relief in opening the door that leads into a large bedroom with… almost nothing inside. Sure, there are some books and a desk, but other than a bed, the room is painfully empty and plain.
You have no time to question it. Instead, you lead Heeseung toward his bed, helping him lie down. But when you want to leave him to rest, he grabs your wrist, not letting you go.
“Heeseung, you need to rest.”
“Don’t leave,” he says, shaking his head. “Stay, please.”
“Heeseung—”
“I need you here.”
“That’s—”
Heeseung, with what strength he has left, pulls you toward him onto the bed. You fall on top of his chest with a yelp, and you seem to be the only one bothered about it. Especially when the sorcerer wraps his arms around you, refusing to let go of you.
“It’s you the Forest wants. He won’t let you go. I can’t protect you if you’re not with me,” he rambles into your hair, strangely frantic. Though you write it off as a side-effect of his injury.
“He can’t have you, Eunjin. Please don’t leave me. You’re my heart.”
Eunjin.
Who’s Eunjin?
When Heeseung wakes up, it’s in a cold sweat. The room spins in his vision, and when it finally settles on the open window, he can only feel a strange sense of emptiness.
Attempting to move is a terrible idea. Heeseung groans in pain, hand reaching for the bandaged shoulder that you treated. The wound is still fresh, but you made sure to keep it from getting infected.
His recollection of yesterday’s events is blurry, but he does remember you helping him to his room and him asking you to stay. So finding his room cold and empty without your presence hurts. Not that he would admit such a thing out loud.
Heeseung is supposed to be the aloof, mysterious and brooding sorcerer from the Tower, yet you’ve made him smile more times than he can count in the past months that he fears more than usual for your safety.
He always managed to keep a professional relationship with the other women during his time as Keeper of the Forest, one could say, because keeping distance between himself and people who didn’t want to be here was never hard. However, it proves to be difficult with you. Especially when you act like you actually enjoy his company rather than him being a nuisance in your corner.
You enter Heeseung’s room without knocking. Though in your defence, you did not expect him to be awake just yet. Breakfast is clutched in your hands, ready to be served to Heeseung on an actual silver platter.
“Oh. Good morning,” you say softly with a tiny smile. “Are you feeling alright?”
The sigh of relief that leaves Heeseung’s lips at the sight of you and the knowledge of your safety is unfamiliar to him. Obviously, he has always worried for the women staying with him, but never this much. Not when he is the one who got hurt.
Besides, they never brought him breakfast to bed either. In fact, nobody has ever done that, as far as Heeseung is aware. So maybe the way his heart begs to jump out of his chest when you approach him is an entirely reasonable reaction.
“I could be better,” Heeseung replies quickly, when he notices a frown forming on your lips because he was quiet for too long. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says.
“But you got hurt.” You shake your head in disapproval. “I feel like this is the least I can do,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair.
A sigh of defeat leaves your lips. One that Heeseung is familiar with as he has felt powerlessness many times before. But the last thing you are is powerless. You don’t even know it, but the reason Heeseung had to leave yesterday was specifically because you’re too powerful.
Your music is its own kind of magic, and unfortunately, it lures the creatures of the Forest directly to you. But Heeseung can’t tell you that. Music is an important part of your life, and he’s willing to fight whatever comes for you rather than disappoint you or make you upset.
There is also this underlying feeling of having come across this kind of magic before. It was from… he cannot not remember who had the magic or when exactly in his life he came across it. Yet he knows it’s important. This person who wielded this magic meant something. Whoever they were.
“All I need from you is to be safe,” Heeseung says almost too intimately, surprising even himself. Your lips part in shock as you stare at him, hands tightly gripping onto the tray with breakfast.
Gulping, you nod. “I am safe.”
You dare moving closer to Heeseung, offering the freshly made breakfast to him with a timid smile, which he accepts gratefully. It isn’t just the tea you prepared that makes him feel warm inside.
“Please, rest now. I promise not to leave the Tower while you recover,” you reassure the sorcerer.
“But how will you—”
“I wrote to Taehyun,” you reply, and Heeseung hates the pang of jealousy he feels within his heart at the mention of the other sorcerer. “I know he’s been keeping an eye on us, so it was easy to contact him and ask for a small favour.”
“You mean turning him into a delivery man?” Heeseung's brow raises, and you shrug.
“It’s the least he can do.”
Heeseung snorts, amusement filling his bones. Of course, you would be the one to reduce a Sorcerer General of a large army to something as measly as a delivery man.
And the best part about it? Taehyun is going to do it.
“Thank you,” you say to Taehyun when he enters the Tower with bags of ingredients. Since Heeseung got hurt, you plan to make a large lunch and dinner to help him recover faster.
“No problem.” The man shrugs. “You had something to ask me?” he adds, since your request for groceries was not the only one you made in your message to him.
Pursing your lips, you nod. Leading Taehyun into the kitchen to put away the food, you think of the best way to form your question. Though the base is simple: you want to know more about Heeseung. Things that not even he knows, it seems.
“Oh.” He chuckles in understanding. “You want to know what I meant before.” Looking at you, his brows furrow. “Why the sudden interest? Did something happen?”
You shake your head. “I just want to know what you meant by it,” you argue. “How can the Forest be Heeseung’s fault only?”
“It’s simple, isn’t it?” Taehyun answers with a question of his own. “It’s a curse that he’s not aware of because the curse itself makes him forget. He doesn’t know it himself, but he’s far older than two centuries.”
“He is?”
Taehyun nods. “I don’t know that much myself, but his history is something sorcerers study in the capital. It’s just that all the details are very blurry and every book that mentions him is merely a different interpretation of what could have happened rather than what truly did happen.
“A detail that remains the same, however, is that there used to be seven of them. Seven Sorcerer Guardians who protected a princess of the Old Kingdom. She was a powerful priestess and her magic was beyond anyone’s understanding, so she created these seven sorcerers who helped her as her power grew. But she died alongside them in a war that destroyed the Old Kingdom, and unlike her, the seven sorcerers were reborn in a completely new world with magic that likely came from the princess.
“Nobody knows where the other six sorcerers are. They’re likely alive and well, but we’re not sure where they are nor who they are. But Heeseung… The power he wields now is only a sliver of what he had two centuries ago due to a curse of an unknown origin to us all. And the speculation is that the power that he lacks is now what makes the Forest what it is.”
“Which is why he’s the only one fighting it…” you finish for Taehyun, and he hums.
“I’m not saying he’s a monster or anything. It’s just that there is so much we don’t know about him.”
“I understand.” You nod. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Where is he anyway? Are you alright?” Taehyun worries for you, and you chuckle. “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry. But Heeseung got hurt last night, so I don’t want to leave him here all alone.”
“He’d be fine,” Taehyun scoffs. “We heal faster than normal people. Immortality and all that.” He continues to help you put things away in silence for barely a minute before speaking again. “You’re different from the other women Heeseung has protected in the past,” he claims.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance at Taehyun. “Am I?”
“Something is different about you.” Taehyun nods. “Your aura is so much more… it’s stronger. Like… I think you have magic, Y/N.”
“What? No.” You shake your head in denial. “How could I have magic? Am I not way past the age for finding that out?”
“Magic manifests in many ways, Y/N. Yours could be so subtle nobody ever noticed, but it is there. It’s strong, just not… obvious,” Taehyun disagrees with you.
“But then… why wouldn’t Heeseung tell me that?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Taehyun counters. “I think he’s scared, Y/N. The Forest behaves differently than it used to. It no longer searches anywhere. It’s dormant.”
“But Heeseung fought some creatures yesterday.”
“Because something called them forth. I monitored the Forest’s activity, and it was like… they found what they were looking for last night.”
“Wait…” you pause, staring at Taehyun. “If you were monitoring the Forest, why didn’t you help Heeseung?”
“It’s not in my jurisdiction.”
“Bullshit,” you spit, shaking your head. “You could’ve prevented his injury.”
“He’ll be fine, Y/N.”
“But he’s not fine now!” you counter, shaking your head. “He was partly delirious yesterday and… he called me Eunjin.”
Taehyun’s face turns grave at the mention of the name. “Eunjin’s dead,” he says with a deadpan.
“Yeah? I figured,” you scoff. There are many things you could guess based on what Heeseung said last night. But you did not like the way it made you feel.
“Eunjin was different from the other women Heeseung has protected,” Taehyun sighs, offering an explanation in an attempt to quell your indignation. “She was a sorceress studying in the capital before, you know, the mark.” Taehyun points at the one you have on your wrist.
“And she died? I never heard of anyone dying—”
“It was covered up well,” Taehyun says. “Besides, we don’t really know if she died. All we know is that she went into the Forest on her own and never came back. Heeseung searched for her, I think, but she disappeared.” A frown settles on Taehyun’s lips, and you study him with your head tilted to the side.
“She’s the reason you don’t like Heeseung,” you say matter-of-factly.
Taehyun chuckles, shaking his head. “That obvious, huh?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “Eunjin was my best friend in the capital; we studied together. She was… stronger than me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” you say, moving toward Taehyun with uncertain steps. Not that long ago, you were still upset with him, but now you want to comfort him somehow. The way he looks at you, with big sad eyes, you can’t resist the urge to take his hand in yours and offer a warm smile.
“You really need to be careful around him.” Taehyun looks at you solemnly, covering your hand in his. “Eunjin wanted to go into the Forest because of him. Please, don’t make the same mistake.”
“I won’t.” You can’t promise that.
Taehyun smiles ruefully. “Who’s the liar now, huh?” He clearly wants to say something else, perhaps a wish that should not be spoken aloud, but he doesn’t get the chance.
“Y/N, I think my wound started healing—” Heeseung walks into the kitchen, watching you jump away from Taehyun, yanking your hand out of his grip. Confused, Heeseung glances between you and Taehyun.
“Woah, that— that is great news!” you exclaim hastily, a large grin breaking across your lips as you pretend not to have learned about Heeseung’s past.
“See, I told you he’d be fine,” Taehyun adds lamely in an attempt to resume the conversation.
“It’s a relief.” You nod. “Do you need anything, Heeseung? More food? Water? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Heeseung gives you a weird look. He knows you’re hiding something, but doesn’t press the issue with Taehyun right next to you.
“You do realise you’re not his maid, right?” Taehyun raises his brow at you.
“Taehyun—”
“Would you prefer it if she was yours?” Heeseung challenges in turn.
“She’s not property to give out like that.” Taehyun glares at the other sorcerer.
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” you say firmly, fixing both men with a stern stare. It’s especially pointed at Taehyun because of the conversation you two shared literally moments ago. “I know you two have issues, but do not make me a ball the two of you get to kick around to prove a point.”
This gets both sorcerers to look at you, their expressions turning apologetic.
“I’m my own person, and I can do whatever I want. If I want to offer Heeseung a cup of tea then I can do that,” you say, looking at Taehyun. They seem to look regretful now, realising that their words may have been hurtful toward you, when that is the last thing they intended. “I think it’ll be better if you leave now, Taehyun.”
synopsis! the immortal sorcerer lives in a tower by the forest filled with dark creatures. he protects the surrounding villages from its dangers, and in exchange, every decade, a girl from one of the villages is chosen to live as his companion. this time, it’s you.
genre! fantasy romance, angst
content warnings! swearing and the fact this is unfinished so this is part one
word count! 11.4k
author's note! i'm scared of making this longer but i'm literally just halfway through...
Throughout your life, a girl from the villages has only been taken twice. And the first time, you were barely one year old, so it could hardly affect you in any way. The second time, however, you were eleven. At the time, you already understood what was happening and why. A girl around the age of twenty had been chosen to live with the lone and mysterious sorcerer who lived in a tower at the edge of the Forest to prolong his protection of the villages.
Nobody likes to talk about it much. How the girls are chosen, when he comes for them and what he does to them. None of that information is known. Although you’ve heard that usually, once the decade passes, the girls are free to go and live as they please with a solid fortune to their name. The girl you witnessed being taken away ten years ago has been released recently, and you heard from the whispers of the other villagers that she moved to the city and is starting her own business in dressmaking.
For that very reason, every village surrounding the Forest lives in restless anticipation. Any day now, a new girl will be chosen to join the sorcerer in his tower. Ten years, she will live with him and do whatever it is that she’s got to do to keep her family and friends safe from the darkness of the Forest.
You wish you could know how the girls are chosen to be better prepared. It’s glaringly obvious that some villagers think you might be the next girl chosen. You’re the perfect age for it, and apparently, there is also the fact that the girls that go to the sorcerer are usually deemed objectively beautiful or somehow talented.
You’re not exactly talented, but you’re not that beautiful either. You’d argue that Yeji or Chaeryong are far better choices in that regard, but somehow the eyes are still on you. It’s strange, knowing that everyone is convinced you will be next while you can’t see a single reason why. Maybe they just want to be rid of you. Although that is most certainly not the way the girls get chosen.
Everyone simply overestimates your talent with the violin and your voice. That has got to be it. You’re not a genius nor a prodigy, you play the instrument and sing merely because you want to. It’s a hobby, but it’s not something to make you a desirable choice for the sorcerer. And you don’t want to be his choice either. You’d rather stay in your village with your family and friends.
“Y/N!” One of those friends, Jaeyun, calls after you with a grin on his lips, waving enthusiastically. “Do you have time today? I’d like to practise together.” Because both of you play the violin. In fact, it was Jaeyun who made you fall in love with the instrument in the first place.
You smile and nod. “Of course. I always have time,” you say, although untruthfully. For Jaeyun, however, everyone makes time. He is the village’s golden boy. Loved and adored by everyone. He can talk his way into and out of anything. You’re sure he’s never paid for anything either because everyone is happy to give him everything for free — a gift for the beloved boy of Riverfeld.
Whenever you and Jaeyun visit the local tavern, the tab made on his name is never paid, and the owner has never even asked for it to be paid. It’s as if his mere existence is payment enough. But you guess that’s what happens when you’re the people’s happy pill.
“Awesome! Let’s go,” Jaeyun says, grabbing your hand.
You expect him to let you get your violin at home, but it isn’t necessary as he has done that for you. He prepared the whole scene, already knowing you would say yes because why would you not?
“Look,” Jaeyun says, grabbing a sheet that is laid by his instrument. “Sunghoon and I have been working on a new composition and I wanted to try playing it with you.”
You hum, waiting for Jaeyun to approach you. He practically sticks himself to your side with the sheet in hand, showing you the new song they’ve been working on.
It’s a love song.
There are no lyrics, but as you imagine the sound of the melody, your imagination bringing it to life, you know it’s a ballad. A song of love meant for someone specific. A confession of adoration and admiration.
“You think you can do this?” Jaeyun asks, solemnly looking at you.
Smiling, you nod. “Of course.”
Both of you grab your violins, sharing the singular sheet in between as you prepare. Sitting down on the ground, you settle the violin on your shoulder and rest your chin atop. A smile adorns your lips at the feeling of holding the instrument in your hands again.
“Can we?” Jaeyun asks softly, also ready. All he needs is a nod from you to lift his bow to the strings of the violin and start the melody. He acts as your guide as this is your first time playing the song.
It starts off slowly. A sweet melody of two people getting to know each other, growing closer and beginning to care. The tempo picks up when the two lovers begin to realise they are in love. They struggle with the fear, the melody conveying the uncertainty, until finally, they gain the courage to confess. And by the time the song is over, the two lovers are together.
“We named it Only If You Say Yes,” Jaeyun grins.
“It’s beautiful, Jaeyun,” you say, fighting the growing uneasiness within your belly. Not because of the boy across from you, but a general burning feeling in your body that spreads from your chest to the rest of your body. As if it’s pumping fire instead of blood.
The frown that contorts your expression springs Jaeyun up to his feet, dropping by your side. “Y/N? Are you okay?” he asks, and while you’d love to nod and say yes, it would be a lie. Nothing about this scorching feeling is okay.
You hiss and groan, grabbing onto your wrist where most of the pain begins to concentrate. It leaves your other limbs in favour of your right wrist where it burns so much you think your entire limb might melt.
The scream that escapes you is unintentional. You wanted to hold it in, but it was impossible with the pain coursing through you. Jaeyun grabs you by the shoulders, holding onto you. Confused about what is happening to you.
And as he holds you in his embrace, the pain subsides. Slowly but surely, it leaves your body the same way it entered, and you slump against the dark haired boy with your head buried in the crook of his neck.
“Y/N,” he whispers softly, one arm wrapped around your waist to support you while the other moves up to cup your face. He examines you, sweat coating your forehead.
“My… wrist,” you breathe out, and try to pull away from Jaeyun, but his grip on you is strong, and you can barely do anything without him supporting your weight. So you wait for him to look for you.
“There’s a tattoo,” Jaeyun says, discomfited. Staring at it closer, he grabs onto your wrist. “Golden antlers,” he describes it while his fingers softly trace the pattern, and you furrow your brows, getting a look yourself.
Jaeyun blanches with a realisation that pains him, glancing at you. “Y/N,” he mumbles, cupping both your cheeks to make you look at him. “It’s his sign.”
You both know who he is.
Your eyes widen. “But… that can’t be,” you breathe out, shaking your head vigorously. “I know everyone thought it would be me, but I didn’t— I’m not special—”
Jaeyun smiles ruefully, disagreeing with you. “Clearly, you’re more special than you realise,” he says, voice low. “He’ll be paying us a visit soon, then.”
“I don’t want to go,” you say quietly. But what else is there to do? If you don’t go, you will put everyone you care about and other innocent souls in danger. And for what? For your own selfish reasons?
Jaeyun sighs mournfully, hands still cupping your cheeks. “What am I going to do without you for ten years?” he asks himself.
“Live your life,” you say pragmatically, your hands grabbing his own. “It’ll be fine, right? As long as it means you’ll be safe.”
“Y/N.” Jaeyun licks his lips, wishing there was something he could do for you to make it easier.
“It’ll be fine,” you repeat to yourself.
It has to be fine.
It was not supposed to happen so soon.
Usually, the Forest takes about a month or more since the previous girl’s departure to choose another. But the Forest is not dallying this time, having picked its next target.
Heeseung stares at the golden tattoo on his wrist that connects him with you, not knowing who you are just yet. He will, soon, however, as once the Forest picks a girl, she has to come to him as soon as possible.
He hates doing this, if he’s being completely honest. He’d be just fine living on his own and protecting the people, but in order to keep the darkness in check, there has to be some light. Heeseung isn’t exactly a good fit for that. Which means that every ten years, a girl with the purest of souls must live near the Forest to control it. And with a carefully crafted spell from him, the Forest gets to choose that girl by itself.
That is the only reason he is now away from his home, riding his horse toward Riverfeld. The village where you live.
Nobody ever knows that he’s coming. He figured it’s better this way, since it stops the villagers from making a scene whenever he does arrive. He learned pretty early on, when it comes to this. He hated how awkward it was when they used to line up just to see at least the tiniest bit of his face, or when they tried to give him gifts instead of their daughters.
Not how it works. Unfortunately.
He’d rather take the gifts, too.
But here he is, entering the small village almost unnoticed aside from the few glances here and there as people wonder who he is. To them, he’s a stranger, and they probably don’t get many of those. He did make sure to dress as a regular traveller, so hopefully they don’t suspect him much.
The tattoo on his wrist calls for its twin, and it pulls him toward the village’s tiny square. A stage has been set up in the centre, and a girl and a boy sit there, both playing the violin together, creating a beautiful song of wistful love.
A concept Heeseung isn’t familiar with, but he does like the sound of it. It’s a youthful song full of hope. Asking for acceptance where it truly can be found.
His eyes fixate on the girl playing.
You.
You are smiling brightly despite knowing your fate, and you don’t stop playing until the song is well and truly over. Both you and the boy stand to bow to the audience when they begin to clap and fawn over you and your talent.
You keep shaking your head, acting as if you deserve none of it. And the boy throws an arm around your shoulders with a grin, proud for the both of you. Another boy, taller than the other, joins and celebrates with you.
So Heeseung waits. Until everyone around you has said their praising piece to you. Until you’re well and truly alone, and the smile from your lips has dissipated the tiniest bit because you know what will eventually come. That these people who adore you will not be with you for long. That you will have to leave them.
You’re not surprised when he approaches you as a complete stranger. Instead, you look him in the eye and face him directly. “It’s you, isn’t it?” you ask, examining him from head to toe. “You’re the sorcerer.”
It takes a second for Heeseung to recover from it. He has met many girls over the years, each different but same in spirit, and he never thought much of them. But you stand in front of him with a pensive smile, accepting what is to come. There is a beauty to you that many probably don’t see. Though you are gorgeous in general, with big cheeks yet defined features, hair falling over your shoulders. One would have to be blind not to see it.
“Am I that obvious?” he asks, and you shake your head.
“I think it’s the tattoo,” you reply. “I can sense it. You have it too, right?”
You’re quite clever.
Heeseung nods, and rolls up the sleeve of his cape to show you his identical tattoo. “It connects us,” he says plainly.
You hum. A playful glint enters your gaze, and your smile grows slightly. “I thought you’d be older,” you say matter-of-factly. “You look—”
“Handsome?” He cuts you off because he does not like it when people say he looks young. He knows he looks young. He’s looked the same for the past two centuries, and will continue to do so for as long as the Forest exists.
“My age,” you finish instead. Not young, just your age. That is certainly a new way to describe what he looks like. And he decides at this very moment that he likes it the best. Yes, he can accept looking your age — whatever it actually is. “But I suppose handsome is also a reasonable descriptor,” you add, eyeing his face.
This time, Heeseung is truly robbed of words. Whenever he arrives to take a girl to the Forest, they’re usually afraid of him. The last thing they’d call him is handsome. Yet here you are, standing in front of him, calm and accepting. You’re not crying, screaming or begging to stay. You just are. (a/n: Very demure, very mindful.)
“You should stay for a bit before we leave. My parents are making supper that could feed the whole village. It would be rude to leave before we got to taste it.” You don’t wait for Heeseung’s response before you are making your way toward what he deduces is your home. It’s humble enough, a house fit for a family of four, perhaps. But when you enter, it is filled with more than four people.
The two boys that Heeseung saw with you at the performance are both present alongside some older villagers and a girl some years younger than you. He’s not even sure why he followed you anyway. He should’ve stayed outside and waited for you to say your goodbyes. That’s usually the standard procedure for him, so why is he thoughtlessly breaking tradition all of a sudden?
“Y/N! Who’s—”
“That’s the sorcerer,” you say nonchalantly, shrugging.
“But why—”
“I’m not a monster,” Heeseung speaks, facing the boy you played the violin with. “I won’t take her away without saying her goodbyes… and it’s Heeseung.”
“Who?” you ask.
“Me.”
“You what?”
“Heeseung.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“My name is Heeseung.” He rolls his eyes, lips in a thin line.
“Oh! Well, I’m Y/N. Then this is Jaeyun, Sunghoon, Mum, Dad, Mrs Sim, Mr Sim, Mrs Park, Mr Park and Sunghoon’s little sister.” You point at everyone respectively with a soft smile upon your features. “I’m guessing Jongseong forgot he was supposed to come?” you say more to yourself, but Jaeyun hums in agreement.
“He’s been working on the new guitar that he’s trying to make,” he responds. “Forgets he has other duties or the fact he should, you know, eat and drink and sleep to live.”
“Said it’s for you, though,” Sunghoon mumbles, glancing at you. “He thought he’d have enough time to finish it.” Then he throws an apprehensive glance at Heeseung.
“But I don’t play the guitar,” you reply with a pout.
“He was going to teach you…”
Look, the next words that leave Heeseung’s mouth will probably make him regret it later, but watching you with your friends is doing weird things to the organ in his chest he thought had long been forgotten. So it’s a surprise to not just you and your friends when he says: “I know how to play the guitar. If your friend will not mind it, I will allow that guitar to be sent to you.”
The way your eyes widen in sheer surprise and gratitude makes Heeseung think that maybe it’s not such a regretful action.
The Forest must’ve truly known what it was doing this time around. Everyone in this village seems to genuinely adore you. The purest of hearts among them all, living without the knowledge of it.
“I’m here! I’m here! I got it!” A boy bursts through the door with a guitar in hand, and Heeseung makes the safe assumption that this is Jongseong. Even in him, Heeseung can sense a very beautiful soul through and through, though the innocence is gone.
It makes sense that you would surround yourself with people just as lovely as you on the inside. Whether you knew it or not.
“JJ,” you coo when he goes toward you with the instrument to hand it to you. “Why would you do all this for me?”
“So you remember me. Us. To come back to us.”
It occurs to Heeseung then that all three of these boys around you love you. As friends or more that is out of his field of knowledge, but the love between you is raw and just as pure and innocent as you are.
“I could never forget you guys.” You smile and shake your head. “All three of you better be married and with kids by the time I’m back, though.”
“It’s not fair,” Jaeyun says, properly looking at Heeseung. “She’s a good person. Never done anything wrong in her life. Why—”
“I know,” Heeseung cuts him off, shaking his head. “That’s why.” Maybe being curt with them is not the best choice, but they won’t dare attack him.
“Nothing in this life is fair,” Jongseong murmurs sagely, his eyes finding you. But you are staring at Heeseung, brow arched with curiosity.
“Y/N! Boys! Come eat! Supper is done.”
Your parents did not say much when you introduced the sorcerer to them. They merely stared to assess him as if a mere look could tell them what kind of person he was. But, whatever their consensus was, they let him eat supper with you, so it was probably quite positive.
“Won’t deny supper to the man who fights to protect us on a daily basis,” your mother murmured before you all sat down at the table to eat.
You enjoyed yourself for the rest of the day because Heeseung let you. He was letting you say your goodbyes before ultimately whisking you away to his tower, and you appreciated it.
Everything is going to be fine, you constantly remind yourself.
Especially as you saddle your horse with Sunghoon’s help because he’s the tallest of your friends. Jay and Jake help carry your bags and attach them to the white mare.
Heeseung says the ride to the tower will take a few days, which means that your mother packed enough food to last you a month. It’s a bitter kind of goodbye, knowing that you’re leaving to protect the ones you love. You still don’t really want to leave.
You never imagined yourself leaving home before. But now you have to.
“Are you ready?” Heeseung asks, his inquisitive gaze searching your expression for whatever lie you want to tell him.
And you smile, shaking your head. “Not really,” you reply honestly. “But I have to do this, don’t I?”
Heeseung blinks at you, discomfited by your transparency. “Yes,” he says. “The Forest chose you, and its decision is final.”
“Then I’m as ready as I can be.” You purse your lips, nodding. “Let’s go.”
Heeseung is not a very chatty sorcerer. Like, you haven’t known any sorcerers before him, of course, but the books usually depict them as these supernatural and immortal beings who like to have fun. Heeseung is anything but that. He is quiet and brooding. He only speaks up when it’s important, and you decided it would be better not to ask him many questions while you’re travelling lest you annoy him too much.
But by the second night of staying over at a tavern while on the road, it brings you a sense of peace. Usually, you’re not a fan of lack of communication, but with the sorcerer, it seems to be its own form of speaking and conveying what needs to be known.
You lie on the bed, reading a book provided to you by the innkeeper, biting your bottom lip as you wonder whether the sorcerer would scold you for daring to speak at him. He sits on the chair near the fireplace, merely gazing into the fire in silence.
Sighing, he turns his head ever so slightly to glance at you from the corner of his eye. “If you have something to say, then say it,” he grumbles before his attention is snatched away by the snapping fire again.
You shift in your seat, allowing yourself to fully stare at the sorcerer. His hair is as dark as night, loosely framing his face in waves. His honey-glazed skin looks slightly darker with just the fire casting light upon him, and despite his tall frame and broad shoulders, it seems he makes himself smaller in his chair. He must be exhausted.
“Can I ask a question?”
There is silence at first as if Heeseung ponders whether to say yes or no. Then, he responds, “Isn’t that already one? What stops you from asking another?” He doesn’t even look at you as he speaks, and your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “I appreciate you being considerate, but if there is something on your mind, just say it. I’ll decide whether I want to answer or not.”
Closing your book, you put it aside. You allow yourself to admire the sorcerer from afar, quite taken by his beauty. Though that is not what you need to quell your mind. “So…” you start, unsure of how to word your question. Though what you come up with is not exactly an elegant way to ask either. “Why me?”
You’re met with another round of silence. It almost feels like a decade of stillness, the only sounds made inside the room being your breathing and the crackling fire. But the sorcerer finally turns to you, swallowing whatever comes to his mind at first to give you a composed answer. “Because the Forest chose you,” he says plainly. “And once the Forest chooses, it cannot be undone.”
“The Forest?” You furrow your brows in confusion. “I thought you chose the girls that stay with you?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “That is not how it works. I made the spell that chooses the girls, but ultimately, it is the Forest itself that chooses which girl must live near it.” The solemn expression in his eyes makes you stop for a moment and think about it.
The girls are taken in order for the sorcerer to protect the surrounding villages from the Forest. And now you know that the Forest chooses the girls itself at that. It makes sense, in a strange way. Because you still don’t understand why you only need to live near it, for it sounds like the girls should be some sort of sacrifice to the Forest. Except you will be allowed to go back to your old life after ten years.
“Then how exactly does that work?” you ask, frowning. “If the Forest chooses the girls, what are the specifics? And what do we do? We just live with you?”
“Yes,” Heeseung answers with a sigh. Licking his lips, he glances back at the fire, then at you. “The Forest is a dark place. In order to control it, there needs to be light. Which is when you come in,” he explains, pointing at your heart. He makes a pause, checking your expression to see whether you were still listening to him, only to find you intently staring at his face, not missing a single word that left his mouth. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I designed my spell in a way for the Forest to find the purest soul within the radius of the villages. This time, it’s you.”
You purse your lips in thought. Never in your life have you thought of yourself as somebody with a pure soul, but apparently that is who you are, according to the sorcerer and his spell. Which is what got you into this situation of having to leave your childhood home and friends. Because the Forest chose you.
“Wait,” you say, a thought coming to you suddenly.
“Yes?” Heeseung raises his brow, watching your expression slowly change into that of distress.
“If the Forest chose me…” you start, frowning, “Does that mean that the creatures of the Forest would be after me? Whether I am at home or—”
“Yes.” The sorcerer nods in affirmation. “That is part of the magic. The Forest is drawn to you, and therefore, it makes my job of protecting the other villages from monsters that much easier. Since all of them are, well… headed for the tower.”
“For me, you mean.”
Heeseung gives a thin smile. “Even now, the Forest is already searching for you. But while we are on the way, and you are with me, you should be hidden until we reach the tower.”
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” you mumble, wondering how you’re going to fall asleep now, knowing that there are monsters specifically looking for you. Which means that, in a way, you are a sacrifice to the Forest, after all. The sorcerer just protects you and the other villages from them by killing said monsters.
“You asked,” he says with a shrug. “Nobody has ever asked before, so I’m not sure to what extent you’re interested in the topic,” he adds.
It occurs to you then, that maybe the only reason Heeseung hasn’t spoken much is because the other girls never had any interest in speaking to him due to the circumstances. He’s being distant simply because that’s how it’s always been for him.
“So, what exactly am I to do at the tower, once we get there?” you ask to continue the conversation. And unlike you thought, Heeseung does not seem annoyed by your questions at all.
“Whatever you want to do,” he replies. “I have an extensive library if you’re fond of reading. I can teach you to play the guitar your friend gave you. You can choose to pick up whatever hobby you want. All you have to do is just… live there as if it were your home for the next ten years so I can continue to protect your real home and other villages.”
“Okay,” you say, smiling, which takes Heeseung by surprise (again). “That sounds like a good deal, I suppose. I will miss my friends and family dearly, but I can do this.”
The Forest chose far too well, this time around, Heeseung thinks to himself and shakes his head. He’s been doing this for centuries, and he has never met anyone quite like you.
Home.
Heeseung lets out a huge sigh of relief when he finally steps inside the tower that has been his beloved home for many, many years. You trail behind him nervously, all of your luggage already sent to your room with a single flick of his hand. You’re not used to such magic just yet, but as time will pass, nothing will be able to surprise you later on.
Although Heeseung has still been keeping rather quiet around you, you felt more comfortable simply speaking at him because you knew he was listening. During the remainder of your travels, you told him much about your life at home and your friends. Oftentimes, if you asked a question regarding his life, you would wait for his answers even if it took him minutes to respond.
“Let me show you all the important rooms,” Heeseung says to you, the corner of his lips lifting in a smile. He’s not sure what it is about you that makes him behave this way, but your aura seems to wear off on him, too. He’s caught himself smiling more often than usual.
When you nod, he starts the tour with the library. You had told him you weren’t that big of a fan of reading, but whenever you had the time and the mood, you liked to nestle with a good book. He also shows you the kitchen, the washing rooms, his office and your bedroom. There are more rooms within the tower, but for now, Heeseung leaves those doors closed.
“Unpack and make yourself at home,” he says, pointing at the plain room. It is not the same one as the girls before you have had, for this one is much closer to his bedroom and office. He knows he probably shouldn’t have done that, but this strange feeling in his chest told him that he might need to keep a much closer eye on you than the other girls.
“Okay,” you say, nodding. “What will you be doing?”
“I’m going to make us supper,” Heeseung informs you.
“Oh. You can cook?” you ask brightly, and the sorcerer scrunches his nose, shaking his head.
“I hope you like bread with butter.”
You blink at him, speechless. “Who doesn’t like bread and butter?” You tilt your head to the side. “But that isn’t all you eat whenever you’re at the tower, is it?”
Heeseung presses his lips together. “No?” he lies, and you narrow your eyes at him.
“You must let me cook, then!” you claim, ready to storm past him into the kitchens rather than to unpack your things, but Heeseung places his hands on each of your arms to stop you from going anywhere.
“I don’t have any ingredients for cooking,” he says, shaking his head. “Unless you are the one with magic, capable of making food out of thin air.”
“Well…” You pout, looking into the sorcerer’s eyes. “I do not have magic, but I know a hefty trick for getting ingredients.” You grin, aware of Heeseung’s hands still on you. “It’s called shopping.”
“You can’t leave the tower on your own,” Heeseung sighs. “It’s too dangerous. It won’t happen.”
“Then come with me,” you suggest nonchalantly, still smiling. “You will protect me, and I will make sure we have proper supper. Did the other girls truly agree to living on plain bread and butter?” Your brow furrowed, and Heeseung shrugged.
“Sometimes we had meat,” he says.
“I’m surprised they lasted ten years like this.” You shake your head in disbelief. “We live in modern times. There is much more food to eat than just bread and butter and meat.”
“I never needed anything more,” Heeseung grumbles.
“Well, now you do,” you say finally, crossing your arms. “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, we are visiting the closest village and visiting their market for ingredients.”
“As long as it’s not too early,” Heeseung says defeatedly.
Living with the sorcerer was much easier than you thought it would be. Even if he constantly complains about you waking him up far too early for chores such as shopping for ingredients.
Today, however, when you approach his door to wake him up as usual, he opens the door right in front of your nose, pushing a cloak toward you. “Here. With this, you can go to the village on your own.”
“But… it’s a cloak.” You pouted, eyeing the piece of black fabric. It had a slight purple shimmer to it, however, and when the sorcerer spoke next, it confirmed your suspicions.
“It’s enchanted. To protect you from the Forest. It shouldn’t be able to track you while you’re wearing it. So put it on and let me sleep.” Heeseung runs a hand through his hair.
You raise your brow at him, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” you attempt to tease him, but he merely sighs.
“More like someone didn’t wake up in the bed because they haven’t even gone to bed yet, trying to figure out the enchantment on this damned thing.” He points at the cloak indignantly. “I need my beauty sleep. I can’t keep going to the market with you,” he whines.
This is the revered sorcerer who protects the people from monsters that you got to know. He’s not any different from your friends other than the fact that he’s centuries older, yet somehow his mind seems to be stuck at a specific age — perhaps that is a thing of immortality. Because one doesn’t age, their mind nor body does not develop any further.
“Well, I was never forcing you to,” you say, finally accepting the cloak from him. “But thank you. I’ll make sure to wear this well.”
“Good.” The sorcerer nods.
“You know you could’ve just told me to stop going to the market if you don’t like it so much, right?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. “You’re the one with power here. And I’m the one in danger.”
Heeseung licks his lips and shrugs. “That means you’d stop cooking, though,” he says, not keen on admitting that he prefers your meals to anything he’s had in the last several decades. “Just… go by yourself. And make sure to come back in one piece.”
“How are you so sure I won’t just run away?” you keep questioning him, and he rolls his eyes this time.
“You see this?” He grabs your wrist, pointing at the magical tattoo created by his spell. “We’re connected, Y/N, remember? I will find you wherever you go. But it also means the Forest could do the same thing. Eventually, the enchantment on this cloak could wear out, and if you get stuck somewhere without me and something from the Forest comes for you, then you’ll have nobody but yourself to blame.”
You bite your lip, nodding. He’s certainly made his point. Not that you ever truly considered leaving on your own. You truly are not well equipped to fight monsters on your own. “I understand,” mumbling the response, you yank your wrist out of Heeseung’s grasp.
“Sorry,” Heeseung sighs, rubbing his eyes leisurely. “I don’t mean to be so… irritable. I’m just—”
“Tired,” you finish for him, offering a thin smile. “I know. And I’m thankful for this, really.” You raise the cloak. “Get all the sleep you need, Heeseung. I’ll make sure to come back and prepare breakfast in the meantime.”
“Okay,” he says, allowing himself to grace you with the tiniest smile. Heeseung doesn’t smile often, so the few times that he does, it’s a precious sight. One to be remembered for days to come.
“I’ll get going now. Sleep well, Heeseung.”
As always, the market is buzzing with its early morning magic. Farmers from around the village and many other merchants have their stands prepared, beckoning anyone who shows even the smallest bit of interest in any of their wares. You always like to buy something from each to help them. Besides, the sorcerer’s resources are not exactly limited the same way your family’s used to be.
“No sorcerer today, Miss?” asks the farmer whose wares you’re eyeing. He’s an older man with grey streaks in his hair, and you remember him mainly because he’s always been the nicest to Heeseung out of all the villagers. While the others treat him with distrust and fear, this man has been nothing but respectful.
“Unfortunately, he chose not to make the trip.” You give a thin smile, shaking your head. “But I plan to make a nice breakfast for him. So, what would you say are your best products today?”
“The sweet potatoes.” A new voice joins the conversation. A boy probably around your age steps into your view, grinning from you to the farmer. “They’ve been growing really well this season.”
“I see,” you hum, examining the newcomer. His big eyes and warm smile are incredibly inviting, and you hope you will see him more often from now on. “I’ll take five, then.”
“Great choice,” the boy says cheerfully, immediately getting to work. “I’m Taehyun, by the way. Are you the new girl living with the sorcerer? It’s a bit novel for us that you’re here since they used to always stay at the tower.”
You smile, making a noncommittal noise. “I’m Y/N. And I think this is new for everyone involved.”
“I’m glad you’re here. It would be a waste for someone so pretty to rot away at the tower,” Taehyun claims, handing you a bag of the best sweet potatoes that he could pick in their batch.
“Stop flirting with the customers, son,” the elder farmer scolds, glancing between you and Taehyun.
Your cheeks burn due to the unexpected compliment. While you are used to your friends telling you that you’re pretty, it’s quite different when it comes from someone you don’t know. “It’s okay, sir. Thank you.”
Taehyun grins, his doe eyes lighting up. “Do you need any more help? I want to ask you some things,” he says, and you turn to his father with furrowed brows.
“What about—”
“Don’t worry, Miss. I’m not that old.” He chuckles, letting Taehyun do whatever he wants. “Besides, you were always curious why I don’t regard the sorcerer with the same apprehensiveness as the others, no?”
You blink at the man. “I suppose yes, but how is that—”
“I have magic,” Taehyun answers simply. “It’s nothing quite grand like the sorcerer’s, but I have it. Look.” Lifting up a sweet potato, Taehyun makes it float in the air, just above his hand. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the potato vanishes and appears back in its original box.
“Woah. That’s still impressive,” you say. “Isn’t it rare, still? To have magic.”
“I think so. But apparently, I wasn’t powerful enough to be allowed to study about it more in the capital.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” You pout, but Taehyun shakes his head.
“Don’t be. I learned all I needed to know on my own. And now I get to help my parents with the farm, and don’t have to leave them.” Taehyun smiles, sharing a fond look with his father.
“That is admirable.” You nod, your affection growing for the boy in front of you with every passing second. Besides, you’re possibly going to see him more often, so why not make a new friend?
“So would you like any help? I can carry a lot on my own.” Taehyun speaks proudly, and you giggle, watching him flexing his arms the tiniest bit just to show off.
“If it is okay with your father that I steal you for myself, then I wouldn’t mind another hand, since Heeseung decided to miss out today,” you agree, your heart swelling at the sight of Taheyun’s toothy smile.
“Completely okay,” the farmer says, shaking his head amusedly.
“So, what are you looking for?” Taehyun claps his hands, plastering himself to your side. “I can recommend all the best stands for everything.”
“That would be lovely, thank you so much.”
“It’s no problem, Y/N. I’m really just trying to spend the most time possible with you.”
You giggle again, taken aback by the boy’s frankness. “I’m not that special, you know?”
“And yet you’re all I want to see.” Taehyun’s lines are smooth, making your face feel hotter than the sun. “Come on, would you like to know where to get the best bread around here?”
And so you follow.
Maybe you shouldn’t have let Taehyun help you all the way back to the tower, but he was so insistent. You couldn’t tell him no. Especially with his large deer eyes. They almost reminded you of Heeseung’s.
Almost.
Until he stands in the kitchen, looking well-rested, glaring at Taehyun’s figure. To him, he’s a complete stranger in his home, and you invited him in without asking for permission.
“What is this?” he asks, pointing at Taehyun who has been diligently helping you put all your newly acquired items away. He intended to stay in his study until you’d call for him, but then he heard laughter bouncing off the walls of the tower, and it filled him with dread. “I let you out by yourself once, and you bring a stranger to my home?”
“Technically, it’s also my home for the next ten years,” you argue, shaking your head. “And Taehyun is very sweet.” Smiling at him, Taehyun gives you a grateful nod.
“Just because you think someone is sweet, doesn’t mean it’s still not dangerous to let a stranger into the Tower.” Heeseung scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Do you realise how dangerous that is? Maybe I shouldn’t let you go out anymore…” he speaks to himself, but you and Taehyun can hear him perfectly well.
“You can’t be serious. Just because the other girls were fine staying inside, I’m most definitely not going to be,” you say, putting your foot down.
“It would be for your own good,” the sorcerer says matter-of-factly.
“My good, or your benefit?” You raise a brow at him. Heeseung’s face contorts in anger for the briefest of moments before he schools his expression, staring you down.
“My benefit? You think any of this is beneficial to me?” he asks you calmly, but it’s somehow more terrifying than if he had exploded with fury. “I have been fighting whatever creatures come outside of the forest for centuries, and I don’t even know why, or why I have to. How in the world could that be beneficial to me?” The question is aimed at you, but it’s clear that it is rhetorical — something he has long given up on finding the answer to.
If you weren’t furious with the sorcerer, you would’ve empathised with him, but all you could hear in your head right now was his threat to keep you locked away in his tower by the forest. “Sorry, I misspoke,” you correct yourself, frowning. “I just meant that you’re the reason why I even have to be here.”
“You think I enjoy that?” Heeseung tilts his head, glaring at you this time. “Fine! Whatever. You are free to leave of your own free will, Y/N. Since you’re, oh, so fine without me.” He says, looking at Taehyun this time. A different emotion flashes in his eyes as he presses his lips tightly together. “I’m sure he would love to protect you anyway,” Heeseung scoffs and runs a hand over his face.
Your face falls as you glance at Taehyun and then look back at Heeseung. “What do you mean?”
“Y/N—” Taehyun attempts to speak, but Heeseung only laughs. It’s such a deprived sound it almost scares you.
“Are you telling me you don’t know that the person you brought here is currently the youngest Sorcerer General? That he works for the capital as one of the most powerful sorcerers aside from me?”
“What?” This time, you turn to Taehyun fully. “But you said— did you lie to me?” you ask softly, and as Taehyun apologetically stares down at his feet, licking his lips, you know that he, in fact, did lie to you. “Was the farmer truly your father?”
“Yes! Yes, he was!” Taehyun exclaims immediately, shutting his eyes close tightly before meeting yours again. “That’s why I came to the village. Because he told me that Heeseung has been coming there with you… so the capital sent me.”
“Oh.” You step away from Taehyun, not knowing how to feel. “But you still lied to me.”
“Y/N, I’m sorry— I just didn’t want to scare you off—”
“So you made up a whole lie about how you were helping at the family farm with your magic?” you scoff, shaking your head.
“You should’ve been honest with her.” Heeseung chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Y/N is the most honest person I’ve ever met, so the truth would have hardly scared her off.”
You look at the sorcerer, surprised to hear those words leave his mouth. You’re never sure what exactly he thinks of you, but somehow, knowing that he considers you an honest person warms your heart. He certainly must’ve met many liars in his lifetime. And Taehyun is clearly one of them.
“Yes. So whatever you or the capital want from me, or from Heeseung, just leave us alone. Let them know he’s doing his job just fine.”
“Is he, though?” Taehyun questions, staring at you. “He did let you out of his sight this morning.”
“I have protections placed on me,” you claim, but Taehyun laughs dryly.
“If you mean that flimsy scuffed cloak, then I doubt it was powerful enough to protect you from a monster that wants to directly attack you,” he says, unimpressed. “So, I’d dare say he should do his job better.”
“You little—”
“Don’t.” You sigh tiredly, stepping in front of Taehyun. “I can sense animosity between the two of you, but I’m not willing to hear it. I’m sorry, Heeseung, I see your point, I’ve made a mistake.”
“You don’t need to apologise to him, of all people,” Taehyun says from behind you, and you turn to face him, meeting his big eyes with a blank stare.
“Whatever your problem is with Heeseung, I don’t care. You lied to me, and I don’t appreciate it. The last thing you get to do is insult Heeseung under his roof.” You place your hands on your hips, frowning. “Either be nice, or stay quiet.”
Taehyun clenches his hands into fists, glaring back at Heeseung. But he gives in, sighing in defeat. “He’s not just the reason you have to be living in this tower for the next ten years, you know?” He tells you quietly, enough for Heeseung not to hear. “He’s also the reason the Forest is as dangerous as it is. That’s why he’s the only one tasked with fighting it. So don’t think he’s being honest with you either.”
Colour drains from your face as you listen to him. This time, you’re certain it is the truth because of the graveness in Taehyun’s voice. Though you don’t understand why he’s being secretive about it. Why doesn’t he say it directly even to Heeseung?
Shaking his head, Taehyun moves to leave. “If you ever need help, let me know. I’ll be around, making sure that Heeseung is doing his job well.”
“Dickhead,” the taller sorcerer murmurs under his breath even before Taehyun departs entirely, possibly having heard him. But he didn’t react in any way, simply leaving you alone with Heeseung once again.
You look at Heeseung, not knowing what to think of him now. Though when he smiles at you as if nothing happened, you want to forget Taehyun’s harrowing words.
“Do you need any help with breakfast? I can fry eggs.”
Despite Taehyun’s words, you continued going to the market on your own. You noticed a deer following you around whenever you did so, and you assumed it was another one of Heeseung’s protective precautions to keep you away from danger.
Whenever you come across Taehyun now, he has this distinct look on his face of sharing a secret with you that Heeseung doesn’t know about. Of course, you didn’t tell him. How could you relay such information onto him, not knowing how he’d take it? How would one react to finding out they are the reason so many lives are in danger?
“Ah, crap!” you curse under your breath after what feels like the millionth time of failing to strike the correct chord on the guitar from Jongseong. It shouldn’t be difficult considering your expertise with the violin, but you’re struggling regardless.
You close your eyes, knowing it’s probably because you can’t focus. You keep thinking back to Taehyun’s words and how it’s somehow his fault that the forest is dangerous. Which also means he is the reason why you’re in danger, and why the forest wants to take you. Though you don’t know how, or what it means.
“Do you plan to torture the poor instrument for long?” Heeseung, as if hearing your thoughts, appears in the music room with a soft, amused smile playing on his lips.
“Sorry,” you say instantly, looking up at him. “I simply can’t seem to figure it out.”
“Allow me.” Heeseung steps closer to you, outstretching his hand to take the guitar.
You let him, watching him nestle next to you on the small sofa that you had chosen for practice. With a smile, he begins playing a song that both sounds foreign and familiar to you. The melody begins merrily, yet as it goes on, the song turns into a mixture of fury and betrayal. A tale that strikes to the very core of your heart, leaving you breathless.
“What song was that?” you ask once the sorcerer is finished.
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “It’s just been on my mind for a while…” Heeseung tries to hide his confusion, but not even he knew that these emotions have been festering within him.
“Here.” He hands the guitar back to you.
Accepting it, you let the instrument sit on your lap while Heeseung moves to kneel on the ground in front of you. He’s tall enough to still be at eye level with you, and you startle when his fingers brush against your hand.
“Sorry, allow me,” he says quietly, taking your hand in his and placing your fingers on the strings of the guitar. “I’m going to teach you some basic chords first, so you don’t torture the guitar at random.”
You blink at him, not sure how to react. With the sorcerer this close to you, it’s hard to process anything, let alone his words. All you can hear is intense buzzing in your ears, and the storm within your heart.
Gulping, you nod carefully. Heeseung smiles, guiding your fingers along the strings to show you each chord, making sure that you understand everything perfectly.
It becomes easier when you know the chords. Now that you can connect each sound to what you already know, it doesn’t seem as difficult anymore. With a grin, you find yourself playing the very melody Jaeyun and Sunghoon composed, and it makes you miss home — though in a good way.
Being here means they are safe. That is what matters most.
“You’re a natural,” Heeseung says, but the proud feeling is gone within moments.
He makes an expression unfamiliar to you as his eyes roam the music room, and you wonder what he is thinking. He abruptly stands up instead, walking toward the window with a frown.
“Stay here,” he commands, closing the window. You shouldn’t be surprised when he disappears as fast as he appeared, but it hurts the tiniest bit.
You watch him head to the forest from your closed window, wishing for him to have told you that he had sensed danger and needed to leave instead of departing almost without a word.
After hours had passed, you considered running to the village over to find Taehyun so he’d help you find Heeseung somewhere inside the Forest. But as you open the door of the Tower, Heeseung comes stumbling through the entrance, collapsing on the floor with blood splattered all over his clothes.
“Heeseung!” You cry out, going to examine him and his wounds instantly. He groans when you turn him to his back, and you notice a large bite from what you can only assume was an oversized wolf on his shoulder. “What happened?” you mumble.
“Your music,” Heeseung whispers. “It’s—”
“No, shh.” Putting your hand over his mouth, you shut him up. “I need to treat your wounds first. Then you can explain yourself,” you say, heart pounding in your ears.
Heeseung is an immortal sorcerer. This is probably not as severe as it looks to him, but it doesn’t change the fact that it worries you. That you are worried for him.
From the kitchen, you grab a dittany solution and a piece of cloth to wash the wound with, before finding a kit for wound-treating in the bathroom.
Your hands shake while you tear Heeseung’s tunic off of him for better access to the wound. It allows you to see not only his toned chest and stomach, but also the many scars that tatter his honey-coloured skin.
Pouring the solution over his shoulder, you ignore the hiss he lets out, grateful that he isn’t fighting you.
You do your best to wash the bleeding wound before dressing and wrapping it in bandages. See, being close to three boys of your age gave you some expertise in treating wounds, but it had never been this severe before. It was never a large bite from a monster of the Forest.
“I need to get you to your room,” you say weakly, wrapping your arm around Heeseung’s torso. “Can you move?”
The sorcerer doesn’t respond with words, but he doesn’t let you use all your strength to carry him around either. While most of his weight is still on your shoulders as he drapes his arm over your shoulders, he does his best to walk on his own.
You never complained about the stairs in the Tower before, but today is the day when they seem to be your absolute doom. Luckily, Heeseung’s bedroom is not too far up.
Huffing and puffing by the time you reach the door to Heeseung’s room, you’re happy to find relief in opening the door that leads into a large bedroom with… almost nothing inside. Sure, there are some books and a desk, but other than a bed, the room is painfully empty and plain.
You have no time to question it. Instead, you lead Heeseung toward his bed, helping him lie down. But when you want to leave him to rest, he grabs your wrist, not letting you go.
“Heeseung, you need to rest.”
“Don’t leave,” he says, shaking his head. “Stay, please.”
“Heeseung—”
“I need you here.”
“That’s—”
Heeseung, with what strength he has left, pulls you toward him onto the bed. You fall on top of his chest with a yelp, and you seem to be the only one bothered about it. Especially when the sorcerer wraps his arms around you, refusing to let go of you.
“It’s you the Forest wants. He won’t let you go. I can’t protect you if you’re not with me,” he rambles into your hair, strangely frantic. Though you write it off as a side-effect of his injury.
“He can’t have you, Eunjin. Please don’t leave me. You’re my heart.”
Eunjin.
Who’s Eunjin?
When Heeseung wakes up, it’s in a cold sweat. The room spins in his vision, and when it finally settles on the open window, he can only feel a strange sense of emptiness.
Attempting to move is a terrible idea. Heeseung groans in pain, hand reaching for the bandaged shoulder that you treated. The wound is still fresh, but you made sure to keep it from getting infected.
His recollection of yesterday’s events is blurry, but he does remember you helping him to his room and him asking you to stay. So finding his room cold and empty without your presence hurts. Not that he would admit such a thing out loud.
Heeseung is supposed to be the aloof, mysterious and brooding sorcerer from the Tower, yet you’ve made him smile more times than he can count in the past months that he fears more than usual for your safety.
He always managed to keep a professional relationship with the other women during his time as Keeper of the Forest, one could say, because keeping distance between himself and people who didn’t want to be here was never hard. However, it proves to be difficult with you. Especially when you act like you actually enjoy his company rather than him being a nuisance in your corner.
You enter Heeseung’s room without knocking. Though in your defence, you did not expect him to be awake just yet. Breakfast is clutched in your hands, ready to be served to Heeseung on an actual silver platter.
“Oh. Good morning,” you say softly with a tiny smile. “Are you feeling alright?”
The sigh of relief that leaves Heeseung’s lips at the sight of you and the knowledge of your safety is unfamiliar to him. Obviously, he has always worried for the women staying with him, but never this much. Not when he is the one who got hurt.
Besides, they never brought him breakfast to bed either. In fact, nobody has ever done that, as far as Heeseung is aware. So maybe the way his heart begs to jump out of his chest when you approach him is an entirely reasonable reaction.
“I could be better,” Heeseung replies quickly, when he notices a frown forming on your lips because he was quiet for too long. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says.
“But you got hurt.” You shake your head in disapproval. “I feel like this is the least I can do,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair.
A sigh of defeat leaves your lips. One that Heeseung is familiar with as he has felt powerlessness many times before. But the last thing you are is powerless. You don’t even know it, but the reason Heeseung had to leave yesterday was specifically because you’re too powerful.
Your music is its own kind of magic, and unfortunately, it lures the creatures of the Forest directly to you. But Heeseung can’t tell you that. Music is an important part of your life, and he’s willing to fight whatever comes for you rather than disappoint you or make you upset.
There is also this underlying feeling of having come across this kind of magic before. It was from… he cannot not remember who had the magic or when exactly in his life he came across it. Yet he knows it’s important. This person who wielded this magic meant something. Whoever they were.
“All I need from you is to be safe,” Heeseung says almost too intimately, surprising even himself. Your lips part in shock as you stare at him, hands tightly gripping onto the tray with breakfast.
Gulping, you nod. “I am safe.”
You dare moving closer to Heeseung, offering the freshly made breakfast to him with a timid smile, which he accepts gratefully. It isn’t just the tea you prepared that makes him feel warm inside.
“Please, rest now. I promise not to leave the Tower while you recover,” you reassure the sorcerer.
“But how will you—”
“I wrote to Taehyun,” you reply, and Heeseung hates the pang of jealousy he feels within his heart at the mention of the other sorcerer. “I know he’s been keeping an eye on us, so it was easy to contact him and ask for a small favour.”
“You mean turning him into a delivery man?” Heeseung's brow raises, and you shrug.
“It’s the least he can do.”
Heeseung snorts, amusement filling his bones. Of course, you would be the one to reduce a Sorcerer General of a large army to something as measly as a delivery man.
And the best part about it? Taehyun is going to do it.
“Thank you,” you say to Taehyun when he enters the Tower with bags of ingredients. Since Heeseung got hurt, you plan to make a large lunch and dinner to help him recover faster.
“No problem.” The man shrugs. “You had something to ask me?” he adds, since your request for groceries was not the only one you made in your message to him.
Pursing your lips, you nod. Leading Taehyun into the kitchen to put away the food, you think of the best way to form your question. Though the base is simple: you want to know more about Heeseung. Things that not even he knows, it seems.
“Oh.” He chuckles in understanding. “You want to know what I meant before.” Looking at you, his brows furrow. “Why the sudden interest? Did something happen?”
You shake your head. “I just want to know what you meant by it,” you argue. “How can the Forest be Heeseung’s fault only?”
“It’s simple, isn’t it?” Taehyun answers with a question of his own. “It’s a curse that he’s not aware of because the curse itself makes him forget. He doesn’t know it himself, but he’s far older than two centuries.”
“He is?”
Taehyun nods. “I don’t know that much myself, but his history is something sorcerers study in the capital. It’s just that all the details are very blurry and every book that mentions him is merely a different interpretation of what could have happened rather than what truly did happen.
“A detail that remains the same, however, is that there used to be seven of them. Seven Sorcerer Guardians who protected a princess of the Old Kingdom. She was a powerful priestess and her magic was beyond anyone’s understanding, so she created these seven sorcerers who helped her as her power grew. But she died alongside them in a war that destroyed the Old Kingdom, and unlike her, the seven sorcerers were reborn in a completely new world with magic that likely came from the princess.
“Nobody knows where the other six sorcerers are. They’re likely alive and well, but we’re not sure where they are nor who they are. But Heeseung… The power he wields now is only a sliver of what he had two centuries ago due to a curse of an unknown origin to us all. And the speculation is that the power that he lacks is now what makes the Forest what it is.”
“Which is why he’s the only one fighting it…” you finish for Taehyun, and he hums.
“I’m not saying he’s a monster or anything. It’s just that there is so much we don’t know about him.”
“I understand.” You nod. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Where is he anyway? Are you alright?” Taehyun worries for you, and you chuckle. “Do you need anything else?”
“I’m fine, don’t worry. But Heeseung got hurt last night, so I don’t want to leave him here all alone.”
“He’d be fine,” Taehyun scoffs. “We heal faster than normal people. Immortality and all that.” He continues to help you put things away in silence for barely a minute before speaking again. “You’re different from the other women Heeseung has protected in the past,” he claims.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance at Taehyun. “Am I?”
“Something is different about you.” Taehyun nods. “Your aura is so much more… it’s stronger. Like… I think you have magic, Y/N.”
“What? No.” You shake your head in denial. “How could I have magic? Am I not way past the age for finding that out?”
“Magic manifests in many ways, Y/N. Yours could be so subtle nobody ever noticed, but it is there. It’s strong, just not… obvious,” Taehyun disagrees with you.
“But then… why wouldn’t Heeseung tell me that?”
“Why would he tell you that?” Taehyun counters. “I think he’s scared, Y/N. The Forest behaves differently than it used to. It no longer searches anywhere. It’s dormant.”
“But Heeseung fought some creatures yesterday.”
“Because something called them forth. I monitored the Forest’s activity, and it was like… they found what they were looking for last night.”
“Wait…” you pause, staring at Taehyun. “If you were monitoring the Forest, why didn’t you help Heeseung?”
“It’s not in my jurisdiction.”
“Bullshit,” you spit, shaking your head. “You could’ve prevented his injury.”
“He’ll be fine, Y/N.”
“But he’s not fine now!” you counter, shaking your head. “He was partly delirious yesterday and… he called me Eunjin.”
Taehyun’s face turns grave at the mention of the name. “Eunjin’s dead,” he says with a deadpan.
“Yeah? I figured,” you scoff. There are many things you could guess based on what Heeseung said last night. But you did not like the way it made you feel.
“Eunjin was different from the other women Heeseung has protected,” Taehyun sighs, offering an explanation in an attempt to quell your indignation. “She was a sorceress studying in the capital before, you know, the mark.” Taehyun points at the one you have on your wrist.
“And she died? I never heard of anyone dying—”
“It was covered up well,” Taehyun says. “Besides, we don’t really know if she died. All we know is that she went into the Forest on her own and never came back. Heeseung searched for her, I think, but she disappeared.” A frown settles on Taehyun’s lips, and you study him with your head tilted to the side.
“She’s the reason you don’t like Heeseung,” you say matter-of-factly.
Taehyun chuckles, shaking his head. “That obvious, huh?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “Eunjin was my best friend in the capital; we studied together. She was… stronger than me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” you say, moving toward Taehyun with uncertain steps. Not that long ago, you were still upset with him, but now you want to comfort him somehow. The way he looks at you, with big sad eyes, you can’t resist the urge to take his hand in yours and offer a warm smile.
“You really need to be careful around him.” Taehyun looks at you solemnly, covering your hand in his. “Eunjin wanted to go into the Forest because of him. Please, don’t make the same mistake.”
“I won’t.” You can’t promise that.
Taehyun smiles ruefully. “Who’s the liar now, huh?” He clearly wants to say something else, perhaps a wish that should not be spoken aloud, but he doesn’t get the chance.
“Y/N, I think my wound started healing—” Heeseung walks into the kitchen, watching you jump away from Taehyun, yanking your hand out of his grip. Confused, Heeseung glances between you and Taehyun.
“Woah, that— that is great news!” you exclaim hastily, a large grin breaking across your lips as you pretend not to have learned about Heeseung’s past.
“See, I told you he’d be fine,” Taehyun adds lamely in an attempt to resume the conversation.
“It’s a relief.” You nod. “Do you need anything, Heeseung? More food? Water? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Heeseung gives you a weird look. He knows you’re hiding something, but doesn’t press the issue with Taehyun right next to you.
“You do realise you’re not his maid, right?” Taehyun raises his brow at you.
“Taehyun—”
“Would you prefer it if she was yours?” Heeseung challenges in turn.
“She’s not property to give out like that.” Taehyun glares at the other sorcerer.
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” you say firmly, fixing both men with a stern stare. It’s especially pointed at Taehyun because of the conversation you two shared literally moments ago. “I know you two have issues, but do not make me a ball the two of you get to kick around to prove a point.”
This gets both sorcerers to look at you, their expressions turning apologetic.
“I’m my own person, and I can do whatever I want. If I want to offer Heeseung a cup of tea then I can do that,” you say, looking at Taehyun. They seem to look regretful now, realising that their words may have been hurtful toward you, when that is the last thing they intended. “I think it’ll be better if you leave now, Taehyun.”
A Gryffindor who radiated light and laughter, yet craved the solace of quiet moments. A Slytherin who wore a mask of unshakable composure, concealing a heart warmer than anyone could guess.
Your friendship had always teetered on the edge of something more—a connection that felt too fragile to name.
But when a trip pulled you closer than ever, the boundaries began to blur. When Beomgyu stumbled into your orbit one night, bruised and battered, the distance you've maintained dangerously faltered.
As you tended to his wounds in the hushed intimacy of your hotel room, in that quiet, fleeting moment, the months of yearning and longing began to unravel, threatening to upend everything you’ve had carefully built.
⊹₊⟡⋆ 24.4k
pairing: gryffindor! Choi Beomgyu x slytherin! afab! reader
warnings: hogwarts college/uni au, characters are 20+, og character, slight slowburn, sort of modern setting? they use phones, not your typical gryffindor-slytherin toxic relation, mention of other idols, amortentia, yearning and lots of yearning, tensions, drinking games, drinking, depictions of injury, physical fighting, wound care, probably missed some eh
[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, dry humping, fingering, kinda switch!reader, beomgyu is mostly dom!, multiple orgasms, slight pain kink, making out with a split lip, slow sex, a lot of feelings, protected sex (huzzah!)
I'm aware it's not the 13th anymore, but that's alright. Happy birthday to my aubade Choi Beomgyu.
Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!
You were afraid of many things, but nothing frightened you more than how little you knew about him, yet the gentle smile he’d give you always managed to shake you off your orbit.
It wasn’t the bright, boisterous grin he wore like the stars when surrounded by others, no—it was rather a quiet, small downward curve of his lips—a smile that only ever seemed to find its way to you. As if it carried a secret, a silent gravity pulling you closer despite the careful distance you maintained. It was something muted, something that felt like both a promise and a question, drifting between you like a thread waiting to be pulled.
The more you tried to look away, the more you found yourself drawn in. It was a dangerous feeling—the kind that settled beneath your ribs and grew roots before you even noticed. You should have known better. But when he looked at you like that, like he saw something in you worth knowing, worth staying for, your resolve wavered.
Your path with Beomgyu would have never intertwined if not for the entanglement of mutual friends. It was through them that you learned his name wasn’t just a name, that his reputation wasn’t just a reputation. It was through them that you found yourself in a space where his presence became an inevitability, where the quiet corners you once occupied alone were now shared.
Ever since Kai had stumbled upon the Room of Requirement, it had become your group’s refuge—a place that bent itself to your needs, where walls shaped themselves around whispered conversations and laughter softened by candlelight. You liked the quiet comfort of it, the way it allowed you to exist among others without being swept away. And yet, no matter how much you tried to stay on the fringes, Beomgyu was always there, impossible to ignore.
He was the kind of person who filled a room without trying. The kind whose presence was a gravitational force, pulling people in, setting them alight. His laughter rang out like the chime of a bell, his energy infectious. Charming. And yet, despite all of it, he never overwhelmed you. He never demanded your attention. He never reached for you. But somehow, he already had you in his orbit.
You weren’t sure when you started watching him the way you did. When admiration turned to curiosity, when curiosity turned to something far more treacherous. But once you noticed the cracks in his brilliance, the moments where exhaustion tugged at the edges of his expression, where laughter faltered just a second too soon—you couldn’t stop noticing.
The way his shoulders drooped ever so slightly after a long day, as if the weight of his own shine was something he carried alone. The way his fingers found the hem of his sleeve when praise was given too freely, pressing into the fabric like a tether. The way his gaze sometimes drifted, unfocused, as if he were somewhere else entirely, somewhere only he knew how to reach.
These were the things no one else seemed to see. But you did. And that, more than anything, terrified you.
Across the room, Beomgyu laughed, leaning back in his chair in that uncurbed way he always did, balancing it on its hind legs like gravity meant nothing to him. The others hung onto his every word, drawn into whatever story he was weaving, their delight feeding off his light. And you—you sat with an open book in your lap, the words forgotten, your gaze betraying you each time it sought him out.
Then, as if sensing it, Beomgyu looked up. The world didn’t stop, not really. But for a breath, it felt like it did. His grin softened, just enough that it wasn’t for them, but for you.
And then it was gone. He turned back to his audience, spinning another tale, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.
Despite everything, to you, Beomgyu remained just out of reach. He was there, always there, and yet—not quite. Like something ephemeral, like light breaking through water—close enough to touch, but never enough to hold.
Later that night, long after the room had emptied, you found him before the fireplace, his usual exuberance dimmed to something quieter, softer. He sat cross-legged on the rug, a pencil in hand, sketching into a worn notebook balanced against his knee. The firelight painted golden warmth onto his face, casting shadows beneath his lashes, softening his features.
You had seen him in a hundred different ways, but this—this was new. This was a Beomgyu stripped of performance, lost in a world of his own making. You wondered—if you reached for him, if you spoke his name now, would he finally let you in?
You hesitated by the doorway, caught between the pull of curiosity and the instinct to retreat. He hadn’t noticed you yet, absorbed in whatever he was sketching—it made you feel like you were intruding on something intimate, something not meant to be seen.
“Are you coming?” Yeonjun’s voice broke the stillness. He stood a few steps down the hall, arms crossed, watching you with mild curiosity.
You turned to him, and plainly said, "Go ahead. I forgot something inside."
Yeonjun’s gaze flickered toward the room, then back to you. He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press either. “Alright. Don’t take too long,” he said before turning away, his footsteps fading into the corridor’s hush.
The silence settled again, broken only by the faint scratch of pencil against paper. You dallied a moment longer, watching the way his hand moved fluidly over the page. You found yourself losing into the abyss of mesmerization.
“I thought you were going to stand there all night.”
His voice cut through the quiet, as if gently holding your hands and pulling you back on your feet from falling off. Heat rushed to your ears, but you kept your composure, stepping inside as if his words hadn’t fazed you. "Shouldn’t you rest?" you asked softly, shutting the door behind you. "We have Potions in the morning."
He huffed a quiet laugh, far from the bright, unrestrained laughter he shared with others. “Needed some space,” he admitted. “Gets tiring being everyone’s entertainment.”
That was the first time you had ever heard him say something like that—openly acknowledging the burden behind the persona he carried so well for everyone. He glanced up at you then, and for the second time that night, his expression softened in a way that wasn’t meant for anyone else.
You hesitated before settling into the armchair nearest to him. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not stealing the spotlight.”
“Disappointed?” he teased, but there was no sharpness in it.
“No,” you said, more earnestly than you meant to. “It’s... different.”
He considered that, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the page. The moment stretched, and something about his silence made you self-conscious, so you added, a little softer, “A good different.”
His lips curved slightly. "You think so?"
You nodded, fingers curling over the armrest. “It suits you. This side of you.”
Beomgyu’s smile turned faintly self-conscious. His gaze dropped, as if he wasn’t used to hearing that. “Most people wouldn’t agree,” he murmured. “They’d probably think something was wrong if I wasn’t bouncing off the walls.”
You tilted your head slightly, watching the way his hand fidgeted with the edge of the notebook. “Then they don’t really know you, do they?”
The words had left you before you could think twice, and for a moment, you regretted it—because how well did you know him, really? Yet, across from you, Beomgyu stilled. His fingers no longer toyed with the page. He seemed caught off guard, as if you had touched on something he hadn’t meant to share.
“I suppose you could say that,” he murmured, almost to himself.
The fire crackled softly between you. You felt an unexpected warmth—not from the hearth, but from the softness of his gaze. Your throat felt dry.
“What are you working on?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch too long.
He blinked, like you had pulled him from some far-off thought, and then he held up the notebook. The sketch was rough but intricate—a cluster of flowers, their petals curling at the edges, almost lifelike in their detail.
“You’re an artist?” you asked, surprised.
“Not really,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just draw sometimes. It’s nothing special.”
You leaned in slightly, studying the page. The flowers looked as if they could be plucked straight from the parchment. “It’s good,” you said. “More than good. Why do you downplay it?”
He let out a breath, closing the notebook with a quiet thud. “Habit, I guess. It’s easier to pretend it doesn’t matter than to let someone see that it does.” His voice was levelled, like he was testing the words.
You studied him, again realizing how little you actually knew about him—how much of Beomgyu was wrapped in layers you’d only seen hints of. The loud, playful version of him you’d become so used to was just that—a version. Here, in the firelight, he felt like something else entirely. The Beomgyu who carried more than he let on. The one who, despite his light, had shadows of his own.
He reminded you of an aubade. The thought came unexpectedly, lingering in your mind like the echo of a half-remembered song. Beomgyu thrived in the daylight, filling every space with his presence. But now, in this quiet, he was something softer. A melody that didn’t demand to be heard but stayed with you all the same.
You didn’t realize you’d been staring until he tilted his head slightly. "What?"
You hesitated, the words caught on the tip of your tongue. But something about the way he looked at you—unguarded, open in a way you rarely saw—made you brave enough to speak. "You remind me of an aubade."
His brows knitted together. "An aubade?"
“It’s a poem or song for the morning," you explained. "Not just loud or bright—it can be quiet too. Steady. Beautiful in a different way."
Beomgyu’s expression shifted, the confusion giving way to something else. You braced for teasing, for a dismissive remark, but it never came. Instead, he looked at you like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with your words.
"You think I’m like that?" he asked, voice softer than before.
You nodded, your fingers tracing the seam of your sleeve in idle thought. "When you’re like this, yeah."
A quiet breath of laughter escaped him, small and surprised. He glanced away, thumb idly running along the edge of his notebook. "No one’s ever said anything like that to me before."
“It’s how I see you,” you said simply, surprised at how easily the words came. You turned toward the fire, suddenly aware of its crackling embers—but when you looked back, your breath caught. His gaze was on you, intense and intrigued, and for a moment, you wondered if he was studying you to understand what was beneath your facade, just the way you’ve been trying to understand him.
“You aren’t like what they say about you,” he said quietly, leaning back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You have a warm heart.”
You exhaled a soft laugh, shaking your head. You knew what he meant. Your reputation had long preceded you, tangled in the legacy of your house. A Slytherin, one of the best in centuries, they said. Ruthless in duels, a prodigy in Defense Against the Dark Arts. People admired you, envied you, feared you. They spoke of you with awe or with caution, rarely anything in between. You had grown used to it—the wary glances, the hushed whispers, the way admiration and fear blurred so easily in their eyes. You became someone to either idolize or keep their distance from.
Even among those who considered themselves allies, there was always a distance. A line no one dared to cross. And though you had long learned to live with it, a part of you had always wondered—hoped, even—that someone might see past it. That someone might look at you and not just see the expectations, the legacy, the carefully maintained facade.
Maybe that was why Beomgyu’s words settled so deeply. Why, in that moment, you realized something you hadn’t before.
Perhaps you and Beomgyu were not so different after all.
The fire crackled softly. Beomgyu rested his chin on his hand, watching you with newfound curiosity. "An aubade," he repeated, testing the word. "I kind of like that."
His gaze lingered for another moment, and you swore the space between you shrank. But then he leaned back, breaking the moment with a quiet chuckle, his smile still carrying that touch of sincerity.
"I’ll have to remember that one."
When you returned to the Slytherin common room, Yeonjun’s waiting figure greeted you from the leather sofa. He pinned you with a blank stare as you passed, but you felt no need to share what had happened with Beomgyu. Some moments weren’t meant to be spoken aloud—they were meant to be kept. They were meant to be held close in your heart.
That night, you dreamt of gentle smiles and the hush of dawn’s song.
The library was unusually peaceful today—no hushed giggles from gossiping students, no rustling of hurriedly flipped pages. You took the opportunity of such a phenomenon's mercy and indulge yourself in reviewing your upcoming final’s notes. Though Transfiguration was a subject you didn’t quite dislike, it was still one of the hardest ones for you, hard enough to make you lose sleep over it trying to get everything perfect.
Then, as if summoned by some cosmic force designed to disrupt your calm, a figure slid into the chair across from you, the deafening screeching of chair legs against the floor entirely unapologetic.
“Guess where they’re taking us for the vacation trip?” Yeonjun’s voice cut through the silence like a blade wrapped in silk, brimming with barely restrained excitement. His smirk was all mischief, eyes glowing under the dim light. “To Paris!”
You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. You hadn’t even heard the professors announce anything yet. Which meant only one thing.
“How do you know that?” You narrowed your eyes at him, though you knew the answer.
Yeonjun tapped a finger to his temple, his grin widening. “I have my ways.”
Of course, he did. Slytherins always did.
With a sigh, you shut your book, methodically packing your things. “That’s nice,” you murmured, slinging your bag over your shoulder as the two of you slipped into the corridor. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.”
Yeonjun let out a dreamy sigh, stretching his arms behind his head as you walked. “Ah, the city of love. Romance in the air, the Seine shimmering under moonlight… you, me, a rendezvous at a charming little café.” Then, after a beat, the corners of his lips tugged up revealing his canines into a sly smile, he drawled, “And maybe you’ll finally find love there.”
You didn’t even glance at him. “I’m actually looking forward to finding some good chocolate croissants.”
Yeonjun snorted. He had a way of reading people, of slipping between their defenses with the ease of a snake in creeping waves. He never pried—he teased, but only when he knew you could handle it. And when he sensed something deeper, he didn’t push. He just gave you space to reveal what you wanted, when you wanted.
The corridor stretched ahead, bathed in golden afternoon light that streamed through the high-arched windows. Outside, past the courtyard, the Great Lake glimmered. Amidst the scattering of students, Beomgyu stood by the Great Lake with a few Gryffindors, chortling at something one of them said. They gathered around him, drawn to him, the way leaves surrendered to the wind.
“Sup, buddy!” Yeonjun called, raising a hand in greeting.
Beomgyu glanced up. His hand lifted in greeting, but the moment his gaze found yours a new, slow smile graced his lips. You had expected it by now—watching the way the mirth in his expression dimming into something more private.
You returned the wave, your own lips curving faintly, the warmth in your chest unfurling before you could push it away.
Yeonjun made a low noise beside you, a hum that bordered on amusement. “That guy will be with us on the trip,” he mused, his tone light, but his gaze sharp. “It’s going to be a lot livelier.”
You turned back to Beomgyu, watching the way he had already slipped back into conversation, laughing so brightly that drew his eyes in crescents. You took note of the contrast between that and when he wears the rare quietness around him like a comforting veil, when his eyes quietly shine like the full moon; and everyone knew that crescents could never rival the marvellous beauty of the full moon.
It wasn’t hard to imagine how Paris would be for him—always surrounded, always with someone calling his name. You wondered if he’d have a moment to himself at all.
As you stepped into your next class, that thought lingered. You found yourself hoping that, somehow, in the midst of all the noise, he’d get the chance to enjoy the trip in his own way.
A week before the trip.
Most of your exams were done, with only two remaining—Transfiguration among them. The mere thought of the library now, packed wall to wall with frantic students, made you cringe. The idea of fighting for a quiet corner, the hushed but ceaseless whispers fraying your patience, was enough to send you elsewhere. So instead, you chose the Room of Requirement, as you often did when solitude was a necessity.
Tonight, the room had shaped itself to your liking—a warm fireplace crackling softly, its amber glow licking at the dark wooden walls. Two comfortable couches sat near the hearth, but you preferred the floor, parchment and ink scattered around you in careful disarray. The lighting was warm and unobtrusive. Just the way you like it.
You had just settled into a focused rhythm, quill scratching against parchment, when the door creaked open. Your eyes flickered toward the entrance—a little too quickly—and you froze in place.
Beomgyu stepped inside, dark hair still damp, strands clinging to his forehead in careless disarray. He took in the room before his gaze landed on you, and that damn gentle smile surfaced. You blinked, raising a brow at his sudden unannounced appearance. You didn’t hate it, though.
“Yeonjun told me I’d find you here,” he said, voice laced with something almost sheepish. “I need help with Transfiguration.”
Ah. That explained it.
You made a mental note to have a word with Yeonjun. His tendency to play messenger was starting to feel suspiciously intentional.
Still, before you could voice a response, your gaze betrayed you, drawn to the damp mess of Beomgyu’s hair—dark, soft, tousled in a way that shouldn’t be worth noticing. And yet, you couldn’t look away, caught in the way the dim firelight accentuated every stray lock, made them seem almost soft, and an overwhelming urge to run your fingers through them engulfed your mind.
Did he just come back from Quidditch?
"I did." His voice broke through your reverie, as he answered your unspoken question without a second thought.
Your stomach twisted in brief confusion. How did he—
Then you realized. You had said it aloud.
Mortification crept in, a slow, creeping heat crawling up your neck. You busied yourself with your parchment, adjusting the edges as if they needed perfecting. Anything to regain the upper hand. Anything to make it seem as though your thoughts hadn’t strayed.
Beomgyu dropped to the floor beside you with a quiet groan, stretching his arms overhead before flipping open his textbook. You wondered where he got such energy from to study right after his grueling quidditch practices. You yourself would have to take at least half a day break after slytherin’s quidditch practices before you gained back the motivation and will to even get up from your bed.
"What can I help you with?" you asked, finding your voice again as you focused on your notes. The thought of helping him with Transfiguration wasn't so bad, you told yourself. There was no reason to turn him away—he was a friend, and if he needed your help, then so be it.
"Professor says my conjuration spells are correct, but my wand movements are off. It’s frustrating. I know the theory—I just can’t seem to execute it properly." He admitted, rubbing his temple.
You glanced at him. "Show me."
He raised a brow but obeyed, adjusting his grip on his wand. With a precise flick, he muttered the incantation under his breath. A flicker of magic pulsed in the air, but the form wavered, incomplete.
You caught the flaw immediately.
Shifting onto your knees, you moved toward him, your hand brushing over his wrist to adjust his stance. He stilled under your touch.
"Your wrist is too stiff," you murmured, guiding his hand into a looser hold. "You need to let the magic flow, not force it. Try again."
His gaze flickered to you—close enough that you could see the way his lashes fanned over his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly, as if about to say something. But he only nodded.
He cast again, this time smoother, the flick of his wrist was more fluid. A bright shimmer sparked at the tip of his wand, and within seconds, a parrot materialized—vibrant green feathers ruffling as it stretched its wings before promptly flapping up and perching itself atop your head.
Beomgyu choked on a laugh, biting down on his bottom lip.
Unamused, you sent him a flat look.
"Real mature," you deadpanned, though the corners of your lips threatened to twitch.
"Sorry, sorry," he wheezed, not looking sorry at all. "Guess he likes you."
With a resigned sigh, you raised your wand, smoothly transfiguring the parrot into a sleek black hat, which dropped into your waiting hands. Then, with another flick, it morphed into a mirror, its polished surface reflecting Beomgyu’s grinning face. Finally, you uttered ‘Evanesco’, Latin for ‘disappear’, countering the conjuration spell perfectly with vanishment.
He let out a low whistle. "That was impressive."
You gave a small smile, gathering the scattered parchments. "You’re getting there. Your movements are still a little stiff, but if you keep practicing, you’ll be fine."
You were beginning to relish in the moments you shared with him, and the thought both startled and thrilled you. If you told yourself this a year ago, you'd have refused to believe it. You’d never have guessed that you’d find yourself drawn to him like this, looking forward to every small, fleeting moment spent in his presence. But now… now, you couldn’t quite explain it. The idea almost seemed unfathomable. You wanted this. It had become a guilty pleasure to feel the warmth spreading in your chest whenever you were alone with him.
Sorting through your parchments, you quickly gathered the notes Beomgyu would need. It only took a few minutes to explain the key points he needed to focus on, pointing to the sections in your notes. As you spoke, his eyes remained focused on you, nodding occasionally, though his attention seemed distant, as if his mind was elsewhere.
Once you finished, you returned to your place on the floor, skimming through your notes one last time. You stretched, arms lifting above your head, trying to shake off the tiredness creeping in from hours of studying prior to his appearance.
It had been a little over half an hour, but as your gaze shifted toward Beomgyu, you couldn’t help but notice something was off.
He was slouched against the couch, legs crossed beneath him, eyes half-lidded and glazed over. He blinked slowly, as if trying to fight the heaviness pulling at his eyelids, a soft sigh escaping his lips. His posture was slumped, shoulders weighed down with exhaustion. He’d just come back from practice, after all. His body was likely sore, muscles still humming from the strain of the game. No wonder he hadn’t made much headway on his notes.
His head lolled back against the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling before his eyes slipped shut. You observed him for a moment—the subtle tremble of his lips as he exhaled, the exhaustion etched into his features. It was rare, seeing him like this.
With a quiet sigh of your own, you realized the inevitable: Beomgyu wasn’t going to get any studying done in this state.
Without a word, you stood and moved toward him, crouching beside his scattered papers. He didn’t notice you at first, lost in the pull of his own fatigue.
It was only when you began to gather his notes that his eyes fluttered open, his expression softening in surprise. You said nothing, just continued tidying up his things because—well, you simply could.
“I didn’t mean to doze off,” he muttered, his voice rough from exhaustion.
Your fingers paused over the parchment, but your expression remained steady. “Let’s take a break.” Your voice was quieter than usual. “Do you read books?”
Beomgyu blinked at you, caught off guard. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again, as if uncertain how to respond to something so simple.
You didn’t wait for an answer. Reaching for the storybook you always carried, you settled beside him, mirroring his crisscrossed position. The proximity sent a subtle flutter through your chest, but you pushed it aside as you opened the book and held it between you both.
Beomgyu leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing to read the page. The boldness of your actions surprised you—how naturally you had done this, without hesitation. But when his gaze flickered with interest, a spark of curiosity lighting his tired features, you realized it didn’t really matter.
Moments later, the story had you both engrossed, the silence settling around you like a comforting blanket. You hadn’t noticed the change at first, but the now-dried strands of his hair brushed lightly against the side of your left cheek. He had his legs stretched out in front of him, while you remained crisscrossed, and that difference in position somehow brought you even closer together.
He was close enough now that you could catch a faint trace of his scent. Even though the sweat from practice had long since dried, his cologne mixed with the residual warmth of his skin, and the combination was... distracting. Not unpleasant, just overwhelmingly intimate.
For a moment, you became acutely aware of how close he was—too close. You hesitated to even breathe, afraid that the smallest movement might draw attention to the space—now barely there—between you. You turned your head slightly, curiosity winning over restraint, and—gosh, he was beautiful.
Lashes fluttering with every slow blink, casting delicate shadows over his cheekbones. The curve of his nose, the soft part of his lips, the quiet, almost dreamlike expression he wore as he read beside you. Heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it, the urge to look away overwhelming, but you couldn’t.
Trying to steady your hands, you set the book on your thigh. Before you could focus, you felt the faintest brush of warmth—his fingers grazing the other side of the book. He stifled a yawn with his free hand.
“You can rest your head on my shoulder.”
The words left you before you could stop them. Careless in their honesty. You hadn’t planned to say it, but now that you had, there was no taking it back.
Beomgyu stilled. It was as if your words had broken through the fog of his exhaustion. He sat up slightly, and in that small shift, his warmth—his presence—seemed to pull away from you. A strange absence, one that left the air colder than before.
For a fleeting second, you regretted saying anything at all.
He fumbled with his words, the usual Gryffindor confidence slipping, replaced with hesitation. But before he could say anything, you patted your shoulder lightly, a small, reassuring gesture.
“I insist.”
There was a brief pause. Then, with a quiet sigh, Beomgyu gave in. Carefully, almost as if unsure of himself, he leaned in. His head came to rest on your shoulder, and just like that, his warmth seeped back into you.
Beomgyu stretched his legs out fully, another yawn slipping past his lips. “Thanks for helping me,” he mumbled, feeling sleep taking over him. “And for everything you did.”
You didn’t understand what he meant. You didn’t try to decipher his words either, because you couldn’t trust yourself with your words—not when Beomgyu was so close, not when he was being so vulnerable.
You simply settled with a hum. “Anytime.”
That night, you let him nap on your shoulder as long as he needed. By the time he woke up, you had finished reading the storybook twice. The goodbye was hasty, drawn out with apologies, thank yous, and reassurances—but beneath it all, neither of you really wanted to leave, hesitating, unwilling to go back to your respective common rooms. Unwilling to leave each other so soon.
“What’s going on with you and Beomgyu?”
The Slytherin tent was silent. The pre-practice hustle and bustle had yet to begin, leaving only you and Yeonjun in the dimly lit space. You had just finished fastening the last buckle when his voice cut through the quiet.
Your hands stilled momentarily before turning, lifting a brow. “You need to be a bit more specific than that.”
Yeonjun didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The slow, knowing smirk stretching across his face was enough to make your brow twitch in mild irritation. You had known Yeonjun for almost your entire life. You were well-versed in his tactics, and had learned how to counter his cunning approaches with equal cunning. But despite your best efforts, there were still moments when he managed to slip under your skin.
You exhaled, pulling on your gloves. “If you’re going to make a point, make it.”
Yeonjun hummed, following your movements as you moved through the tent. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” he said, not unkindly. “Alone.”
You shot him a dry look. “He needed help with Transfiguration. Wasn’t it you who told him to come to me?”
“I was curious.” He leaned against one of the support beams, arms loosely crossed. “Wanted to see if I was right.”
You adjusted the strap on your glove, feigning disinterest. “About what?”
“That you’d let him in.”
Something in your chest tightened. Yeonjun took the pause as permission to continue, his voice quieter now, edged with something that almost sounded like understanding. “You keep people at arm’s length. Always have, haven't you? But him?” His gaze softened. “You’re different with him.”
You forced a scoff, shaking your head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Yeonjun didn’t sound convinced. “You watch him when you think no one’s looking. You listen—to every little thing he says, even when it has nothing to do with you. And when you talk to him, you’re not just speaking. You’re—” He made a vague gesture. “Letting him see you.”
You had to turn away. “Yeonjun, you’re overanalyzing.”
“I don’t think I am.”
The air felt suddenly too still. You liked Beomgyu’s presence in your life. That much had never been a question. And the meaning of your feelings wasn’t lost on you. What you hadn’t realized, however, was just how long Yeonjun had been watching. Observing. You weren’t sure if him knowing that made your unease kick up more, or lift the anchor of burden that had sunk deep in your heart. Either way, a gnawing hollowness formed in the depth of your chest.
“I like his company more than I thought I would,” you admitted quietly.
It wasn’t much. Just a handful of words, barely even spoken aloud. You don’t explain anything either. But in the stillness of the tent, that transparency—the muted confession—must have caught Yeonjun off guard. His smile flickered, something akin to excitement sparking behind his eyes before melting into a fond softness.
Then, voice uncharacteristically gentle, he said, “You know I never mix friend circles,” he began, “Before you got into this big social network with Beomgyu, I practically raised that guy.” His lips quirked, something warm and distant crossing his features. “If it eases your ailing, just know that he’s a good person.”
You knew that already. But hearing it from Yeonjun—who knew him in ways you didn’t—made it feel different. It was quite childish, but you felt a pang of jealousy at that moment. You wish you knew Beomgyu better, too.
“And don’t worry,” he added, the gleam of mischief returning. “Paris, the city of love, has a way of pulling people closer—”
The solid thud of your broomstick whizzing through the air smacking him in the back cut him off. Yeonjun stumbled forward, yelping as the broom settled neatly into your grip.
You sighed, dryly lamenting, “So sad. And here I was, giving you the benefit of the doubt that you’d act like an adult.” You shook your head in mock disappointment. “Truly, truly tragic.”
The corners of your lips barely twitched upwards before you turned on your heel and strode out of the tent. Behind you, Yeonjun let out a disgruntled noise, jogging after you. “Paris is going to be a lot more interesting now,” he mused to himself, as he caught up easily, matching your stride as you neared the practice field.
It was the day of departure, and Beomgyu had been awake since four in the morning.
He wasn’t particularly tired—on the contrary, he felt well-rested for the first time in what felt like forever. It was strange, the absence of stress gnawing at his mind, the deadweight of exams and Quidditch matches momentarily lifted from his shoulders. He had been looking forward to this trip for days. The idea of finally escaping Hogwarts, of wandering through unfamiliar streets of Paris, of watching the world stretch beyond the castle walls—it had been a comforting thought, something to hold onto when things felt suffocating.
But that wasn’t the only reason he had been looking forward to it.
He sighed, shaking his head as he swung his legs over the bed, his feet meeting the cool floor. No use sitting around. He might as well make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.
By the time the rest of Gryffindor began to stir, Beomgyu was already dressed, double-checking his trunk with the kind of precision that felt almost excessive. The common room grew livelier as everyone prepared for departure, the excitement palpable in the air. And by five, they were all at the station, the cold biting at their skin as steam from the train billowed into the sky.
Beomgyu adjusted his muffler, his breath visible in the crisp morning air as he glanced around the platform. The Slytherins hadn’t arrived yet, but he knew they would soon. His fingers tightened around the fabric of his coat, yet it wasn’t the cold that had set a restless energy thrumming beneath his skin.
“Morning, Beomgyu.”
He turned to find Chaeryeong beside him, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. She grinned, tilting her head slightly.
“Morning,” he greeted, his voice still thick with lingering drowsiness.
She exhaled, glancing around. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? Knowing we won’t be seeing Hogwarts for a little while?”
“It’s been this way every winter vacation,” Beomgyu murmured. “Guess it hasn’t really hit me yet.”
“Well, you better start getting excited,” she teased. “It’s not every day we get to go to Paris.”
He hummed in response. Her voice morphed into white noise in Beomgyu’s ear as he zoned out, unable to find himself focusing. Instead, his gaze kept flickering around on every new face toward the station entrance, only looking for you.
Just then, he saw the Slytherins arrive. He filtered out all the faces that aren't yours, and when he finally found you, his heart lurched. There was a feeling of anticipation recoiling in his stomach as he contemplated whether to walk up to you and say hello.
“Oh, she made it.” There was a note of relief in Chaeryeng’s voice. “I was worried she wouldn’t join us.”
“What?” Beomgyu’s brows furrowed.
She turned to him, blinking. “You didn’t know?”
He didn’t like the way those words sat in his stomach. His head snapped to your direction once more before prompting her to explain. “Know what?”
Chaeryeong hesitated for half a second, then said, “She got hit by a Bludger the other day. Some Ravenclaw beater sent it her way by accident. It got her right in the side. Heard she was in pretty bad shape.” She winced as if she recalled seeing you. “Yeonjun looked pissed the whole day.”
The cold suddenly felt sharper, needling into his skin. His eyes darted back to you, and now, it was impossible to ignore. The slight hesitancy in your gait, the stiffness in your posture, and Yeonjun carrying your bag while his hand held your arm, supporting your steps.
You, however, immediately scowled and swatted his hand away. It prompted Yeonjun to let out a long-suffering sigh, but his gaze flickered to you every now and then.
Beomgyu was already moving towards you, mind occupied by sheer urgency and each of his steps pulled him closer to you like a magnetic force. Yeonjun was the first to notice him. The older Slytherin softly snorted a laugh, shaking his head before giving you a small smile.
“I’ll go find our compartment,” Yeonjun muttered to you, slipping away from your side the moment Beomgyu stopped in front of you.
You noticed him a second later, eyes flickering toward him, surprised by his sudden presence. The Gryffindor’s wide, doe eyes searched you—for any sign of pain or discomfort, his nose and cheeks a shade of peach from the cold. The muffler wrapped around his neck looked warm, but on the inside, he was feeling anything but warm—his blood ran cold.
“Are you alright?” It took everything in him to not stumble over his words. He was sure the worry in his voice overflew but he couldn’t bring himself to hide it. “I just heard what happened,” he added, already taking a small step forward closer to you, but he faltered and stepped back at the last moment.
You stared at him, eyes slightly wide—like you weren’t expecting that level of urgency from him. For you.
Your gaze softened when the realization seeped into you. Beomgyu was worried about you? It rattled your heart against your ribcage more strongly than the bludger that hit you. The latter brought you immense pain, however, the former brought pain that hurt good.
“I’m fine.” Your voice carried a gentle touch to it. “You don’t have to look like that.”
Beomgyu exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away for half a second before shaking his head. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve known sooner.”
“You couldn’t have.” Your reply came quickly, almost urgent. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
You were sure you caught his eyes glow for the faintest moment, but it was gone as quickly as it showed up, fooling you into thinking you must've misjudged it. Eitherway, you felt your lungs constrict from the way his gaze was locked onto yours. It was compelling you to look away, yet at the same time, it was pulling you in. You had to hear it from him.
“Were you… worried?” Your voice was cautious, trying not to show the expectations laced within before offering them to him.
“I was.” He did not hesitate the slightest.
The raw sincerity of it all, the honest admission caused the fire in your chest to only burn brighter. He swallowed before continuing, quieter this time. “I was looking forward to this trip because…” He hesitated, but only for a second. “Because you’d be here. It’d be a shame if you couldn’t go on the trip with us.”
He didn’t know what kind of reaction he was expecting, but the gentle smile that graced your lips wasn’t one he was prepared for. It was small, barely there, but enough to make his breath hitch. Enough to make his fingers twitch with the overwhelming urge to brush them against your cheek. The thought startled him, and he buried his clammy hands deep inside the pockets of his coat.
And then, without a word, you reached out.
Beomgyu stiffened as your hand met his head, the warmth of your palm seeping through the strands of his hair. The touch was brief, barely more than a ruffle, but it left him completely, utterly frozen. He blinked at you, wide-eyed, feeling the exact moment his brain short-circuited.
You didn’t say anything about it—just let your fingers slip away. “Thank you,” you mumbled softly, as earnestly as you could muster it.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Of course.”
You grinned, placing a hand over the right side of your torso where you got hit. “I’m really fine. The Bruisewort Balm did its magic. I only feel a little worn out but I plan to sleep through the journey anyway, so I know I should be fine.”
Hearing your assurance, Beomgyu could only nod. Because at that moment, he didn't trust himself with words.
Before either of you could say anything else, Yeonjun’s voice rang out from across the platform. “You two done? We need to start getting in the cabins.”
You let out a small breath, closing your eyes briefly before turning back to Beomgyu. You let your voice fall a little lower. “I hope you enjoy this trip, Beomgyu. You need it.” And then, just like that, you were gone, disappearing into the crowd with Yeonjun at your side.
Beomgyu remained where he stood, the lower half of his face burying into his muffler—an attempt to hide his red cheeks, the phantom of your touch lingering in his hair.
He wasn’t cold anymore.
You had dozed off almost the moment you settled down in your cabin, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs. The chatter from outside had faded into the background, a distant murmur of excitement. Someone had passed by the door earlier, exclaiming in utter confusion, "How is the train gonna take us straight to Paris?" only for another to scoff in reply, "Bro, this is the Hogwarts Express. Be so for real now."
Sleep had come easily after that.
When you woke, the daylight had shifted. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, golden and soft, casting warm hues over the compartment. A lingering grogginess clung to you, your head muddled with sleep, body heavy from hours of stillness. Blinking, you sat up, only to freeze.
Yeonjun and the other Slytherin were gone. Instead, across from you, Beomgyu sat with a book in his hands—the same storybook you had read with him the night before your Transfiguration exam. He got himself a copy of that?
He glanced up at the movement, his dark eyes skimming over your face before he asked, "How are you feeling? You were out for a while."
You sighed, running a hand over your face. "Shit," you admitted, voice rough with sleep, "but not in pain."
His gaze pinned on you, as if assessing the truth of your words. Then he shut the book with a quiet thud. "Yeonjun went to hang out with your friends," he explained. "I figured I’d watch over you in his place."
You eyed him, searching his expression for any hint of reluctance, but there was none. Only a calm acceptance laced with assurance that he was here now. You murmured a quiet thanks, and he only nodded. The silence between you settled naturally, undisturbed, until your mind wandered back to what had happened before boarding the train.
Your gaze drifted, drawn to his hair again. The memory of ruffling his hair carved into the skin of your hands, still far too easy to recall. You looked away before the feeling could consume you whole.
"You should eat something," Beomgyu said after a while. "You missed lunch."
You waved a hand. "I have emergency snacks. Don’t worry."
You stood, reaching for the bag in the overhead compartment, but the moment you tilted up on your feet, the train jolted. The motion threw you off balance, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over you from your long rest.
"Careful," Beomgyu’s voice was low, close—too close.
Before you could stumble, your back found solid warmth. His chest pressed against you, his grip firm but cautious as his fingers curled around your arm, careful to avoid the bruised side of your torso. His other hand braced against the overhead compartment, effectively caging you in.
Your breath hitched. The heat of him seeped through the layers of your clothing, the closeness dizzying in a way that had nothing to do with sleep imbalance.
"Sit down," he murmured. "I’ll get it."
His hold loosened just enough to guide you back to your seat, and only when you were settled did he step in front of you again, reaching up with ease.
You found yourself at eye level with his waist, his sweater lifting slightly as he rummaged through the bag. A sliver of skin peeked out, warm against the dim afternoon light. You swallowed, forcing your gaze elsewhere.
Beomgyu pulled out the box of treacle tart Yeonjun had packed for you, setting it down before offering you one. With a quiet sigh, you took it, splitting the portion between the two of you as you leaned forward, the box balanced between you.
The sweetness wasn’t something you typically enjoyed, but after so many hours without food, the pastry felt awfully good. Your body slowly regained energy, the light conversation between you keeping the moment steady.
"Do you have any plans for Paris?" he asked eventually.
You chewed thoughtfully. "No idea yet. Yeonjun’s probably going to drag me around. If it gets too much, I might shut myself in my room or sneak off for a solo adventure."
Beomgyu huffed a small laugh. "Yeah. I’m not sure what I’ll do either. I might get swept up by people and won’t even be able to look around freely."
You watched him for a moment, taking the last bite of your tart. "If it gets too much," you said, voice quieter, "you can come find me. Or Yeonjun. Or both of us." There was a pause before you added, softer, "If you can’t, then I’ll come find you."
Beomgyu stilled. His lips parted slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his dark eyes before he quickly stuffed the last of his pastry into his mouth, chewing hastily. The action might have been smooth—if not for the streak of cream now smudged at the corner of his lips.
You noticed instantly. "Oh—" you started, reaching up with your thumb. "You have something—"
The compartment door suddenly slammed open. Yeonjun stood in the doorway, a pair of oversized, obnoxiously flashy sunglasses perched on his nose.
You and Beomgyu both froze.
Yeonjun, his eyes hard to read behind the dark lenses, tilted his head. Then, in an eerily delighted tone, he drawled, "Oh, look at that, Beomgyu. You’ve got my treacle tart’s cream on your lips!"
Before either of you could react, he whipped out a tissue from absolutely nowhere, lunged forward, and grabbed Beomgyu’s head with one hand. Beomgyu screeched, his voice resonating against the walls of the small place.
Yeonjun ignored it, cheerfully wiping his mouth with the other hand like a mother cleaning up her child. "There we go, nice and clean," he chirped, voice laced with exaggerated fondness.
Beomgyu struggled, half-laughing, half-indignant. "Get off me!" he yelped, swatting Yeonjun’s hands away, but the damage had already been done.
Yeonjun stepped back, inspecting his work with great satisfaction, hands on his hips like a proud parent. "Perfect. Now you won’t embarrass yourself in front of anyone."
Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you," he muttered, but the pink at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
You sat back, watching the spectacle unfold with great amusement, while the train rumbled on, Paris drawing closer by the minute.
The rest of the journey was a blur of raucous laughter and camaraderie, your group huddling together in the cramped chair car of the express, swapping secrets and gossip like your lives depended on it. Someone had smuggled in a portable speaker, leading to impromptu karaoke battles and dramatic sing-alongs. At first, you joined in, allowing yourself to be swept up in the energy. But as the hours stretched on, your stamina waned.
With a quiet excuse, you slipped away, accompanied by a few others who were also tired of the noise. Before you left, your gaze flickered toward Beomgyu. He was still immersed in the chaos, laughing brightly at something Kai had said. But beneath the mirth, you caught an exhaustion you had come to recognize. Still, he kept the atmosphere alive, playing his role seamlessly. The image lingered with you long after you shut the compartment door behind you.
The Hogwarts Express pulled into Paris at the crack of dawn, the city stirring to life under the first blush of morning. From the window, you caught your first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, its iron lattice tinged with gold as the sun crested the horizon. The Seine, dark and languid, snaked through the city, bridges arching elegantly over its waters. Rows of Haussmann-style buildings stretched along the boulevards, their cream-colored facades bathed in the soft glow of street lamps not yet dimmed.
Before disembarking, the professors gathered the students for a final briefing. "No magic in front of Muggles," they reminded sternly. "You are free to explore, but remain in groups and report any trouble immediately. Most importantly—enjoy yourselves. You deserve it."
The hotel was an opulent blend of old-world charm and modern luxury, its grand foyer boasting marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prisms of light across the gilded moldings. The professors had booked two separate hotels side by side—one for Slytherins and Gryffindors, another for Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Their reasoning? "You should have learned how to get along by now." Naturally, friends among the houses protested, claiming they were getting along just fine.
Your stomach turned slightly at the arrangement, the thought of running into Beomgyu in the lobby or hallways setting your nerves alight. When room assignments were handed out, relief flooded you upon seeing Yeji’s name beside yours. She was a Slytherin senior. The alternative—rooming with a stranger, or worse, a Gryffindor who resented you—was unthinkable.
Your room sat high above the city, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking panorama of Paris. The Eiffel Tower stood proudly in the distance, framed perfectly against the morning sky. Sheer curtains billowed softly with the breeze as you stepped inside, the scent of fresh linen and polished wood filling the air. The room was a study in elegance—high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings, deep emerald velvet armchairs positioned near a sleek black coffee table, and two queen-sized beds with crisp white sheets that looked nearly too pristine to disturb.
Yeji whistled lowly, dropping her bags by the door. "Well, this isn’t half bad."
You huffed a quiet laugh, tossing your coat onto the bed before making your way to the en-suite. The bathroom was just as extravagant, the walls lined with marble, a rainfall shower glistening behind glass panels. You let the hot water wash away the fatigue of the journey, steam curling around you like a cocoon. By the time you stepped out, refreshed and awake, Yeji had already sprawled across her bed, flipping through a fashion magazine.
"I’ll meet you downstairs," you told her, slipping into your shoes.
Yeonjun was already waiting outside the breakfast lounge when you arrived, one hand in pocket as he scrolled through his phone. He barely looked up as he greeted you. "Took you long enough. I was about to starve."
The two of you found a quiet table, the scent of freshly baked pastries filling the air as waiters flitted about, balancing trays laden with croissants and steaming cups of coffee. You glanced around at the Muggles, feeling oddly at ease in the absence of magic. The clinking of silverware, the hushed murmurs of morning conversations—it was comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.
As you ate, Yeonjun rattled off a list of places to visit, swiping through his phone. "There’s the Louvre, obviously. We have to go at night—it’s insane then. Oh, and this bookstore, Shakespeare and Company. You’d love it. We could—"
His voice faded into the background as voices rang out from the Gryffindor table. You turned instinctively, gaze landing on Beomgyu.
Ah. He had already been swept away by the crowd.
Yeonjun followed your gaze, then turned back to you with a smirk. "You should help him escape, you know. Whisk him away somewhere quiet, just the two of you—"
You shoved a piece of bread into his mouth before he could finish, ignoring his muffled protest. He choked out a laugh.
But as your gaze found Beomgyu again, lingering just a second too long, a thought flickered through your mind. You had considered that scenario before, hadn’t you? The thought of stealing him away, just for a moment, just for yourself. Of finding a quiet corner in this city meant for lovers, where no one could pull him away from you.
And the sight of him in your mind—hovering above you, close enough to count each delicate lash framing his deep brown eyes, close enough to feel the softness of his lips—
—Well. That was a pleasant thought, indeed.
Yeonjun observed your face for a while, then shook his head with a groan. Yeah, no, he absolutely did not want to know what was going on in your head.
After breakfast, your group meandered through the city, between narrow alleyways lined with quaint cafés and antique bookshops. Your circle had morphed together naturally, though you were close to only a handful. The others were good acquaintances, but they didn’t carry the same comforting company as the ones by your side.
The morning air in Paris carried the remnants of dawn, crisp yet mellowed by the sun climbing its way over the horizon. The city was awake by now—cobblestone streets damp from the morning drizzle, the scent of freshly baked bread curling through the air as bakeries opened their doors, and wrought-iron balconies adorned with trailing ivy swaying ever so slightly in the breeze.
The Louvre loomed ahead, a masterpiece in itself, its glass pyramid gleaming against the grandeur of the historic façade. The vast courtyard was teeming with tourists, some attempting to take forced perspective photos, others craning their necks to admire the sheer scale of it. The air carried the song of different languages, a medley of awe and excitement.
At some point, the group naturally dispersed in smaller clusters, everyone absorbed in their own conversations. You found yourself walking beside Beomgyu, the world around you fading into a pleasant hum.
A soft bark caught your attention. You turned, eyes lighting up at the sight of a fluffy white puppy trotting alongside its owner. “Oh,” you cooed, crouching slightly as the tiny creature wagged its tail in excitement. “Look at you. Aren’t you the cutest?”
Beomgyu watched you with a fond tilt to his lips. “I didn’t take you for a puppy person.”
You glanced up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You just seem like you’d have one of those dramatic-looking cats that sit by the window and judge people.”
You let out a soft laugh, straightening. “I’ve always wanted a puppy as a kid, actually.”
He hummed, eyes flickering with something thoughtful. “I had one. Sort of.”
You turned to him in surprise. “You did?”
He exhaled, a breath of nostalgia woven into his tone. “My brother and I begged my parents for a dog for ages. We finally got one—on my mother’s birthday. So we named him June, after the date," he said, smiling fondly as if reminiscing a happy memory. "But two days later, my parents decided we couldn’t keep him. Said we didn’t have the time to take care of him properly.” He let out a quiet chuckle, though there was something wistful in his eyes. “I held him and cried for nearly eight hours straight.”
Your chest ached at the image. “That’s—” You paused, unsure how to phrase it. “That must’ve been really hard.”
He gave a small nod, then brightened just a fraction. “We ended up finding Toto instead. A Turquoise Fronted Amazon parrot. My mom could take care of him even when she was alone at home.”
You smiled at that. “Toto,” you echoed. “That’s a cute name.”
“He’s kind of a menace,” Beomgyu admitted, shaking his head with a fond grin. “But he’s family.”
The revelation settled somewhere deep within you—a new piece of Beomgyu you hadn’t known before. And it made you irrationally happy.
The wind picked up, teasing at the hem of your coat, threading cool fingers through your hair. A few strands whipped across your face, catching on your lips, your lashes. You lifted a hand to push them away, but before you could, Beomgyu reached out first.
His fingers brushed against your cheek—something he’d been wishing to do for a while—as he tucked a loose strand behind your ear. You felt it in the way your pulse stuttered, your eyelashes fluttered as you looked up at him. He looked as if he wanted to say something.
Beomgyu hesitated, his gaze soft yet you couldn’t quite read his eyes as he looked at you. His lips parted, a thought poised on the edge, trembling like the wind itself.
You look beautiful.
The words never left his mouth. He swallowed them down, an ache blooming in his throat. Perhaps he feared what saying them aloud might mean. Perhaps he feared you wouldn’t know what to do with them.
And so, in the end, neither of you spoke. The spell broke when the Louvre loomed ahead, its glass pyramid gleaming against the gray-blue sky, and the moment dissolved into the crisp air.
Inside the Louvre, the grandeur of history stretched in every direction—endless halls adorned with masterpieces, the hush of reverence echoing in the vast spaces. Your group wandered between exhibits, pausing at paintings and sculptures, some making exaggerated interpretations just to get a laugh, others attempting to recreate poses of the statues with varying degrees of success.
At one point, Yeonjun challenged Beomgyu to a ridiculous game of “who can stare at the Mona Lisa without blinking the longest,” which resulted in the both of them getting scolded by a museum staff member. You and Yeji exchanged amused glances, shaking your heads as the boys feigned innocence.
Hours melted away in seamless enjoyment, the museum becoming a maze of stolen moments and shared laughter. And through it all, you found yourself drawn to Beomgyu, the wordless exchanges between you growing heavier, stealing glances at each other while laughing, and even when the other wasn't looking.
By the time you returned to the hotel, exhaustion settled into your bones, but the day had left something lingering—something you weren’t quite ready to shake off just yet.
As you reached your hotel room, Beomgyu passed by, his own keycard in hand. He paused, glancing toward you. You met his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moved.
“Goodnight,” you murmured, voice softer than you intended.
His lips tugged at the corner, but there was something else in his eyes now, the glint that you once caught. “Goodnight.”
Neither of you looked away immediately. The hallway felt too silent, the space between you far too charged for such a simple exchange. And then, with a slight nod, he disappeared down the lobby, leaving behind an inexplicable warmth curling in your chest.
The next day, the group scattered across Paris, some weaving through boutiques, others lingering in quaint cafés, savoring the city’s flavors. Beomgyu had brought a camera, the strap looped around his wrist as he snapped photos of everything that caught his eye. Often, students from other houses approached him, asking him to take their pictures, and he obliged with a small smile, adjusting angles, stepping back to frame them against the golden morning light.
You had drifted toward the glass display of a pastry shop, your breath lightly fogging the surface as your eyes traced the delicate layers of a chocolate croissant. Beomgyu watched you from afar. You’d mentioned wanting to try one back on station, and you were so focused on it now that you didn’t notice him approaching until he was beside you.
“Come,” he said, tilting his head toward the entrance. “It’s on me.”
You turned to him, brows drawing together in surprise. “That’s not necessary.”
Beomgyu huffed a quiet laugh. “Please, I insist. It’s a token of my appreciation.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“For helping me with Transfiguration,” he clarified, though something about the way he said it felt like an excuse. “And because I feel like it.”
You exhaled, a soft sigh slipping past your lips. “You really don’t have to—”
“I know.” He nudged the door open with his shoulder and shot you a look, something playful but insistent. “Come on.”
A sigh of resignation, but you stepped in anyway, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping around you. True to his word, he paid for the croissant before you could even consider arguing further. The two of you lingered at the glass counter, surveying the intricate rows of bite-sized pastries lined neatly on silver trays. One of them particularly caught your eye—a tiny bear-shaped pastry, its icing ears round and slightly lopsided, giving it a look of perpetual confusion.
“That one,” you murmured, pointing.
Beomgyu followed your gaze. “The bear?”
“It’s so stupid,” you said flatly, head tilting ever so slightly as you examined it. And then, without thinking, you tapped the glass with a single finger, voice barely above a whisper. “…Cute.”
You didn’t seem to notice the way his gaze traced over your face, too busy scrutinizing the bear as though you were sizing up an opponent. Wordlessly, he bought two bear pastries; your protests falling deaf to his ears.
As he handed you one, you turned it over in your hands, brushing a thumb against its soft edges. It was adorable in a ridiculous way. Then, you reached up and tapped one of its icing ears.
“Boop,” you said.
Beomgyu felt his world stop. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until the moment passed. Something unfamiliar curled in his chest, something that made his fingers tighten around the little pastry in his own hands. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the way you’d said it, and the unguarded smile that graced your lips afterwards, like you’d forgotten to keep your walls up, just for a second. But there it was—an utterly unfiltered moment, so fleeting yet so wholly you that it nearly knocked him off balance.
He took a bite, if only to distract himself. But even as the sweetness melted on his tongue, his thoughts remained tangled in the sound of your voice.
You took a decisive bite as well, nodding to yourself as you chewed. “You okay?” you asked suddenly, glancing up at him, licking off the remnants of crust on your thumb. “Is it too sweet?”
“No,” he said, too quickly. His gaze fell on your thumb in between your lips, the sight making him wet his chapped lips. He swallowed, clearing his throat. “It tastes alright.”
Your eyes narrowed just the slightest at his sudden avoidance of eye contact.
“Let’s catch up with the group,” he muttered at last, stuffing his hands into his pockets. And with that, he turned, already striding toward the door.
By evening, the Seine stretched before you, silver ribbons of water reflecting the glow of streetlights and distant bridges. Boats drifted lazily along the water, their lights flickering like floating stars.
A few of the students gathered along the stone walkway. Someone groaned about nearly using wizarding terms in front of a Muggle, looking horrified at the memory. A Muggleborn student cackled, shaking their head. “I wonder how the purebloods are doing.”
“The purebloods are living their best lives, thank you very much.” Yeonjun chortled and scoffed, crossing his arms.
Laughter rang through the night air. Someone suggested taking pictures, and naturally, Beomgyu lifted his camera, angling it as the others huddled together.
You watched him, the way he stepped back, adjusting the focus, snapping a few quick shots before lowering the camera. His fingers lingered over the buttons, and you realized he’d stopped taking pictures after only a few frames. His gaze flickered briefly to the group before shifting away again.
“Beomgyu,” you said, and he glanced at you. “You should be in one, too.”
He shook his head with a small smile. “I’m usually the one taking the pictures.”
You didn’t bother arguing with him. Instead, you turned toward a passing stranger, gesturing toward the camera. “Excuse me, would you mind taking a group photo for us?”
Beomgyu looked at you, taken aback, as the stranger agreed. You pushed him lightly toward the group. “Come on.”
He hesitated but relented, slotting in beside you as everyone squeezed together. The camera clicked, and just as the shutter went off, your hands brushed—brief, a touch so light it might have been an accident.
But when you turned your head slightly, he was already looking at you. And in that moment, with the Seine behind you and Paris stretching endlessly beyond, you thought to yourself—maybe you’d been wrong about how much a single touch could mean.
“How’s it going with Beomgyu?”
The hotel lobby was quiet at this hour. You sat into one of the sofas, an empty cup of coffee resting before you, long since forgotten. The book in your hands had begun to blur at the edges, your focus slipping every few pages.
You glanced up when Yeonjun settled onto the single sofa beside you. A sigh escaped your lips as you closed the book, resting it on your lap. “I don’t know, honestly.”
It was the truth. You had noticed something off about him lately—but you weren’t one to jump to conclusions. Maybe it was the comfort you offered him that he mentioned to you once. Maybe that was all it was. And yet, deep down, you hoped it wasn’t.
You glanced at him, considering. “You think so too?”
“I have eyes, don’t I?” He scoffed.
Before you could retort, the hotel doors swung open, and a trio of Gryffindors stepped inside. You recognized them immediately—Beomgyu’s Quidditch teammates. The one in the center, Yoo Jaekyung, was their Seeker. And he was also someone who never missed an opportunity to make his distaste for you known.
Your brows twitched. Whether his hostility stemmed from the house rivalry or your direct competition as Slytherin’s Seeker, you still weren’t sure. But the disdain in his gaze whenever he looked at you was clear enough. Prejudice ran deep in people like him.
He caught sight of you and Yeonjun, his steps slowing for the briefest second before something smug flickered across his face. With a smirk, he changed course, making his way toward you.
Yeonjun muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. You braced yourself.
Jaekyung stopped just short of your seat, tilting his head in mock concern. “I heard about your little accident.” His voice was honeyed, far too sweet to be sincere. “Nasty hit from that Bludger, wasn’t it? Are you feeling better?”
You met his gaze, unfazed. “I’m fine.”
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if in sympathy. “Accidents like that—well, they’re bound to happen when you’re not skilled enough to avoid them. You should be more careful. Can’t have Slytherin losing their star player, after all.”
Yeonjun made a sound of irritation, he rose to his full height, towering over Jaekyung with ease. “Right. Are you done acting like a child, or should we wait for you to throw a tantrum too?”
Jaekyung’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. You, however, placed a hand on Yeonjun’s arm, stopping him before things escalated. Your voice was even. “Let’s hear him out. It’s rare that he has something to say.”
Jaekyung’s smirk deepened, mistaking your patience for something else.
You tapped a finger lightly against your knee, feigning contemplation. “Though, that does raise a problem.” You let your voice drop just a fraction, letting the next words land sharper. “Because in every match against me, you’ve never managed to catch the Snitch.”
The satisfaction of watching the vein in his temple twitch was almost enough. His jaw clenched, the forced smile doing little to mask his irritation. “Get well soon,” he bit out, before pivoting on his heel and striding away, his teammates trailing behind him.
Yeonjun dropped back onto the sofa with a groan. “Merlin, people get so bloody ass-hurt over everything.”
You only shrugged, offering him a small smile. You were used to it.
“I have some dirt on Jaekyung.”
A new voice cut through the air, causing both of you two to startle. Yeonjun flinched, nearly spilling his drink. “Bloody hell—Jeongin—” Yeonjun swore, hand over his heart. “What is wrong with you?”
The Hufflepuff only blinked, expression blank as ever. He crouched down beside you, voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “He’s used charms to win a few matches. There is proof latched within his broomstick.”
Beside you Yeonjun went on a spiteful rant about Jaekyung being an absolute bloody asshole and a sore loser. But all you could think of is, where did Jeongin get such information? Your brows lifted slightly in curiosity. “How do you know that?”
Jeongin shrugged. “I just do.” Then, casually, “I thought I’d tell you. Might be useful one day.”
You studied him, taking in his innocent demeanor, the unbothered way he delivered the information. A Hufflepuff, the Sorting Hat had declared. And yet, in this moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had made a mistake. Still, you chose not to voice it. Instead, you simply nodded, filing the information away for later.
“Duly noted.”
The next two days slipped by in a blur, the hours spent trailing behind Yeonjun through cobblestone streets and warm-lit bookstores, occasionally merging into the chaos of group hangouts. Someone’s room always seemed to be the designated meeting spot for the evening, where everyone sprawled across beds and armchairs, playing muggle games with the kind of reckless abandon that came with being far from home. Cards flicked across the floor, dice rolled under furniture, and soft music hummed in the background as someone recounted a ridiculous story from earlier in the day. These nights were filled with a quiet kind of joy, but you couldn’t ignore the gnawing awareness that something was missing.
You had been seeing Beomgyu less. Not because of chance, but because Jaekyung made certain of it. You weren’t stupid. By now, it was obvious to you that others had taken notice of your closeness to him, none more so than Jaekyung himself. The Gryffindor Seeker carried himself with the pathetic confidence of someone who always got what he wanted, and lately, what he wanted was to keep Beomgyu occupied. He made a game of it—boasting that the Gryffindor Quidditch team deserved their own exclusive outing, and whisking him away before you could say otherwise. Beomgyu never resisted, never even seemed to notice the way your eyes lingered when he left, and that, more than anything, made your stomach curl in something uncomfortably close to irritation.
So you spent your time elsewhere. Yeonjun, ever attuned to your moods, filled the space Beomgyu left behind without needing to be asked. He took you to the bookshop he’d promised, where the scent of papers and new books curled into the air like something sacred. You wandered between the shelves, tracing the spines of books with absent fingers, letting your mind get lost in stories that weren’t yours.
The afternoons were spent shopping with Yeji and the girls, their laughter drifting through the streets like birdsong, but in the quieter moments, you found solace in your room. With its sprawling balcony overlooking the Eiffel Tower, it felt like something out of a dream. You would curl up with a warm cup of coffee, watching the city shift from golden daylight to dusk.
On the fourth day of the trip, a campfire was arranged by the banks of Seine.
The fire crackled in the cool evening, its soft amber glow spilling over the group of friends gathered around. You sat at the edge of the circle, your gloved hands wrapped around a steaming mug of cocoa. You aren't cold exactly, but the crisp air nipped at your cheeks and the tip of your nose.
Your gaze drifted toward Beomgyu, unbidden, as it often did. He was seated across the fire, leaning back on his hands, the sight tugged at something deep in your chest. His hoodie—a deep gray that seemed impossibly soft—hung loosely around his frame, the hood falling slightly over his hair. It looked so comfortable, so warm, that you couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be wrapped in it.
Or more accurately, to be wrapped in him.
The thought came suddenly, without warning, and it made your breath catch. You took a small sip from your mug, trying to focus on the heat spreading through your fingers instead of the ache settling in your chest.
It was a silly thought, really. The idea of stepping closer, of tucking yourself into the space between his arms and resting your head on his chest—it felt so vivid, so painfully out of reach. Your heart ached as the question echoed in your mind like a prayer.
Why was Beomgyu so unreachable?
You perhaps made the error of thinking he let you in. Because at the end, he wasn’t yours to lean on like that, to hold onto when the air felt too cold and the world too distant. And he never would be. You stilled as the last thought settled in the crevices of your brain, eyes widening slightly.
Oh, God.
You were in love with Beomgyu.
Love was the swelling, hopeful feeling in your chest every time you saw him. Love was the way you could forget about everything when you were with him. Love was the catch in your breath when he looked at you in his intense way. Love was the way you could be yourself around him.
You thought you were the one saving him from the world’s relentless grasp by offering him a piece of solace in your company, but it was Beomgyu who had been your saviour all this time.
You risked a glance at his way, which you immediately regretted. Seeing his smiling face lit up with the golden glow of the campfire, you realized how much you've missed being near him these two days.
And then you knew that you could become homesick for people too.
The room buzzed with anticipation as Heeseung's impromptu gathering took shape. Students lounged on beds, sprawled across the floor, and perched on chairs. You had attempted a discreet exit upon hearing the mention of "truth or dare," only to have Yeonjun snatch your wrist and haul you back with an exasperated, “Oh, come on, don’t be boring. Loosen up a little.”
Resigned, you had settled into a corner chair, trying to blend into the background. You counted down the minutes until you could leave.
Your stomach twisted when your gaze involuntarily drifted to the doorway as Beomgyu entered, his presence immediately lighting up the room. However, your mood soured when Jaekyung and his entourage flanked him, steering him to the opposite side before he could acknowledge you.
The game commenced with the dreadful spin of a bottle, its neck pointing to various participants amidst cheers and playful jeers. First, it landed on Yeonjun. He chose dare, of course, and was promptly ordered to step onto the balcony and scream at the top of his lungs.
He did so with theatrical flair, gripping the railing and shouting into the Parisian night, “I AM SEXY AND MYSTERIOUS, COME FIND ME IF YOU DARE—” before a professor’s sharp voice echoed from somewhere below, “Whoever that is, get back inside before I hex you!”
Yeonjun scrambled back into the room to the sound of uproarious laughter, dramatically clutching his chest. The next victim was Kai. He picked truth, and someone immediately asked, “Who was your first crush?”
Kai groaned, rubbing his face before mumbling a name. A chorus of “No way!” and “I knew it!” rang through the room, followed by a good-natured shove from his friends.
The bottle spun again.
And this time, it stopped on Beomgyu.
The room erupted in cheers and anticipated exclamations. He chuckled, running a hand through his hair, and after a brief moment of deliberation, chose truth.
Whistles and mischievous laughter followed, then someone finally asked, “When was the last time you cried the hardest?”
The question sounded innocent, yet you couldn't help but sit a little upright as you closely inspected Beomgyu. He seemed to consider his answer for a few seconds, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chain. But before he could even speak, Jaekyung took the lead.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Jaekyung cooed. “Our golden Gryffindor boy cried like a baby when he heard his mother was sick.”
Your body went rigid, blood boiling dangerously underneath. Something akin to anger and speechlessness glinted in your eyes as you glared daggers at Jaekyung. But he did not stop there. Instead he continued, making matters worse.
Jaekyung made a face, mock-pouting, and cooed, “A real mama’s boy, aren’t you?” He even had the audacity afterwards to wrap his arms around Beomgyu’s neck.
People around laughed, others with coos of mock sympathy. Beomgyu laughed along with them, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Too forced.
You saw it immediately—how could you not? The way his shoulders tensed under Jaekyung’s arm, the way his fingers curled subtly into the fabric of his pants. His gaze dropped to his lap, then for the briefest moment when he looked up, you saw him searching around the room—and found yours.
Your vision shook, breath choking in your throat when you saw the look in his eyes. It was quick, barely perceptible, but in that single glance, you made out the absolute desperate look of pleading. The dim lighting caught the faint sheen in his eyes before he blinked it away, tearing his gaze from yours and smiling even wider, like it would drown out everything else.
You had to get him out of here.
And so, you tilted your head, feigning idle curiosity. “You know, Jaekyung,” you mused, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I heard an interesting rumor about you the other day.”
The sound of your voice quietened the entire room in an instance. These were the times when you relished in the power of your reputation; whether it was because of your deliberate participation in such a crowd, or the fact that it was a showdown between the two rival Seekers, either way you had the attention of the entire room on you.
Jaekyung turned, brow raising. “Yeah?”
People perked up, eager for another potential story.
You hummed. "Mhm. It’s funny—I wasn’t even going to mention it. But now that I think about it, it really was hilarious.”
Someone leaned in. "Oh, do tell."
You shrugged, taking your time. “Something about a certain game of Exploding Snap gone terribly wrong. Something about you running down the corridors with a sack covering your head and screaming for your life.”
"That was you?” One of Jaekyung’s lackeys burst out, turning to him in disbelief.
People erupted into conversation, overlapping voices piecing together the memory, adding their own exaggerated details. Jaekyung stiffened as someone reenacted his supposed sprint through the corridors. Amidst the overexcited bunch, Jeongin let a small smirk tug on his lips that went unnoticed by everyone.
Chaos ensued as another fit of laughter erupted, now mocking Jaekyung who remained awkwardly laughing, trying to prove his innocence. And just like that, the attention was diverted, Beomgyu completely forgotten.
From your place in the corner of the room, you caught a sight of a figure slipping through the doors. You exhaled softly, relief barely settling in before you felt the eyes of Yeonjun. When you turned to him, he smiled at you, an encouraging nod followed.
That was all you needed to follow Beomgyu out the door.
Out in the dimly lit hotel lobby, you scanned the space with quick, searching eyes, your pulse hammering against your ribs. The adrenaline of what happened back in the room still pressed against your skin, but you pushed it aside, thinking only of where he could have gone. Then, a memory surfaced—Hogwarts, late at night, when curfew had long since passed. More often than not, you would find him alone in the Astronomy Tower, sitting in the hush of the night sky. Back then, neither of you spoke, only acknowledging each other's presence in the quiet. And so, trusting your instinct, you turned on your heel and made your way to the rooftop.
The night air met you with a crisp bite as you stepped onto the rooftop terrace. The city stretched beneath you in a glittering sprawl, the Eiffel Tower casting its golden glow against the dark. There, sitting on the steps with his back to you, was Beomgyu. He was still, unmoving, save for the faint rise and fall of his shoulders.
He didn’t notice you at first. You stepped forward carefully, pausing when you heard it—barely audible, but unmistakable. A sniffle. Your heart twisted at the sound. You made your arrival known when the ground beneath echoed your approaching steps.
"That was very brave," Beomgyu's voice broke the silence, rough with an attempt at humor. "And also very stupid. He’ll make sure to get back at you now."
You watched his hunched figure before finally speaking, voice quiet. "We Slytherins are brave, yes. But not stupid,” you murmured, looking skyward. “Given the choice, we'll always save our own necks."
He turned then, looking at you in the low light, something unreadable shifting in his gaze. "Is that why you're here?" His voice was quieter now. "Did you follow me to save yourself?"
It was only when he faced you that you realized how much you had missed seeing him up close. How much distance had settled between you these past few days. And perhaps that was why, without thinking twice, you descended the last few steps until you were right in front of him. Then, slowly, you lowered yourself onto your knees, meeting his eyes. The tension in your chest unfurled as you shook your head.
"No," you admitted softly. "I told you, didn't I? That I'd find you when you couldn't."
His bottom lip trembled, throat clogging up as he let his head fall, eyes squeezing shut. He fought against it—fought against the weight pressing against his ribs, the storm brewing behind his eyes. But his entire world seemed to stop when he felt it—the warmth of your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him close. His breath stuttered. And then, before he could stop himself, his body caved into yours.
"I'm sorry for not asking first," you whispered, your breath fanning against his ear. "But I figured you might need this hug."
That was all it took for his resolve to shatter. A choked breath left him as he curled into you, his hands gripping the back of your shirt. His shoulders shook, the quiet sobs muffled against your skin. You felt the tremor of his body against yours, the sadness seeping into your own bones. Your throat burned, but you stayed still, holding him tighter, refusing to let go, refusing to let him drown in that pain alone.
Distance meant nothing when the person meant everything.
You didn’t speak for a while. This wasn’t the scenario you imagined when you so desperately wanted to hug him. However, you didn’t complain. You’d hold him whenever he wanted it, whenever he needed it, and you would continue to do so as long as it required. His sobs quieted eventually, though the quiet ache remained.
When his breathing evened out, you murmured, "How’s she now?"
His arms remained around you, but his voice was steadier when he answered, "It was a long time ago. She’s fine and healthy now, but..." He swallowed thickly. "I guess it was the memory that made it feel like it just happened all over again."
Your gaze softened. Fondly, you reached up, brushing away the single tear trailing on his cheek with your thumb. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch. "I don’t want to sound rude, but... you need a change in friends."
Beomgyu let out a breath, something like a half-laugh. "I despise Jaekyung, actually."
You blinked. "Oh."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "My acquaintance with him is... necessary. Because of Quidditch. But most of the time, I wish I could rip his head off."
You hummed in amusement, lips twitching. Then, after a beat, "I saw a fair in the city earlier today,” you said, eyes brightening a little as the thought came to you. “Do you want to go? If you'd rather head back to your room, that's fine, too."
Beomgyu was quiet for a moment, as if contemplating your offer. Then—"No. I don’t want to go back yet."
You nodded with a smile. "Alright then, let's visit the fair."
But just as you started to stand, Beomgyu’s hand found yours, and the sudden contact froze you in place. His fingers tightened around yours—a little reluctant, but firm. Then, in a voice so small you almost missed it, he said, "Thank you."
You barely had the chance to respond before he exhaled a quiet laugh, gaze dropping to where your hands remained clasped. "You know," he said, his tone light but distant, "I always thought you were a bit too unreachable for me."
Your breath stilled. The world tilted, the ground beneath you shifting. A quiet, electric tremor shot down your spine. Beomgyu thought you were unreachable?
It was absurd. It was ridiculous. Because all this time, you had thought it was him who had been just out of reach. That no matter how close you got, no matter how many nights you spent at his side in quiet companionship, there had always been something unattainable about him—something you dared not long for because it had never been yours to have. And yet, here he was, speaking as if you were the one perched on some distant pedestal, as if he had been the one looking up all along.
A breath rattled in your chest, the weight of the realization crashing down with a force that left you reeling. Every glance, every lingering moment, every ache in your ribs that you had swallowed down without question—had he felt it too? Had you spent all this time yearning for something that had been yearning right back at you?
And then, even softer, as if he was only speaking to himself—
"Where have you been all my life?"
Something inside you curled tight, heat coiling in your chest, in your throat, in the very marrow of your bones. You felt lightheaded, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. You forced yourself to your feet, swallowing hard.
"The fair," you said, voice even despite the hurricane within you. "Let’s hurry before everything closes."
You made a quick stop at your room to grab your jacket and wallet before heading back out. When you reached the elevator, Beomgyu was already there, leaning against the wall with his hands tucked into his pockets. His eyes were a little puffy, a trace of exhaustion lingering in them, but the warmth in his smile softened the edges of his weariness.
Paris at night had always been breathtaking, but there was something different about seeing it like this—with him. The glow of string lights stretched above, casting golden halos over the cobbled pathways. The scent of caramelized sugar and roasted chestnuts drifted through the cool air, mixing with laughter and the distant strumming of a guitar from a street performer tucked into the corner of a square.
Beomgyu nudged your arm, tilting his head toward the rows of stalls ahead. “Where to first?”
You scanned the fair, the swirl of activity pulling at your attention. “Food,” you said. “You barely ate today.”
His brows lifted, feigning offense. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”
You shot him a look, but his grin only widened, dimples pressing into his cheeks. With a scoff, you turned toward the nearest stand, and he fell into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours in the moving crowd.
You both settled on crepes, their warmth seeping into your fingers as you took the first bite. Beomgyu, instead of eating his, watched you, waiting for your verdict. When you nodded in approval, he finally took his own bite, eyes flickering shut as a low hum of satisfaction escaped him.
“Good?” you asked, a trace of amusement lacing your voice.
“Mmh,” he murmured around another mouthful before swallowing. “I think I just fell in love.”
Your lips twitched despite yourself. As you wandered further, the fair unfolded around you—a blur of color, the rise and fall of laughter, the clinking of game tokens. Beomgyu tested his luck at a stall, missing the target on his first try. His brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as he rolled his shoulders, preparing for another attempt.
But before he could, you nudged him aside and took your own shot. The ball hit dead center, toppling the target with ease.
His jaw slackened. “No way,” he breathed. “That was pure luck.”
“Skill,” you corrected, reaching for the small stuffed bear the vendor handed you. You turned, pressing it into his hands. “Here. Since you tried so hard.”
He stared at the plush toy, then back at you, his fingers curling around the soft fabric. Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not,” you said, entirely unconvincing.
He shook his head, tucking the bear under his arm as you strolled onward. The night stretched around you, a haze of laughter and playful ribbing, of moments that lingered just a second longer than they needed to. Eventually, you both slowed near a stall adorned with ribbons, clips, and various hair accessories, their silk and satin edges fluttering under the glow of the lanterns above.
The vibrant flowers and intricate designs caught your eye, drawing you in. Your fingers traced over a delicate floral piece—soft ivory petals tinged with a faint blush. It was simple but striking.
Beomgyu followed your gaze, then reached forward, plucking the ornament from its place. His fingers brushed yours in the process, a brief touch that sent a ripple through your senses.
"This would look great on you," he mused, voice light yet sincere.
You hesitated, glancing at him before shifting your focus back to the clip. "I don’t know if I’m really the flower type."
He tilted his head, considering you. "I think it would suit you."
Before you could protest, he stepped closer, lifting a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. His touch was featherlight, his fingertips warm against the cool night air. The motion almost absentminded as he tucked the flower into place, adjusted the clip with an almost delicate sort of care.
"There," he murmured. "Perfect."
He was close enough that you could see the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes, the way the streetlights cast a glow in his hair. When he pulled back, his gaze lingered, as if admiring his work.
Under his intense gaze that pinned you to the ground, you glanced away, feeling your airways constricting. You looked at yourself in the small mirror the vendor offered, grazing the ornament.
"You’re beautiful," he said, soft but certain.
Your eyes widened. Turning your gaze back at him was a bad idea because the blood from your cheeks earlier which had subsided, rushed back immediately. He was watching you with such a dreamlike, dazed smile. The words settled somewhere deep, unshaken by embellishments, and yet they held a weight that left you grasping for balance.
"You know," the stall owner chimed in, smiling knowingly, "if you're looking for a couple's discount, I can give it to you for the matching set."
A startled breath caught in your throat. Your hands shot up waving as you opened your mouth, your voice coming out far less composed than usual. "Oh, no, it’s not like that—"
"We’ll take it," Beomgyu cut in smoothly, reaching for his wallet before you could finish.
You turned to him, eyes widening. "Wait, what are you—"
He waved you off, handing the cash to the vendor without missing a beat. "Consider it my gift," he added, his voice laced with satisfaction.
The stall owner chuckled, handing you the packaged clip. "A good choice," she remarked with a wink. "It suits her perfectly."
You exhaled, the warmth creeping up your neck, but Beomgyu only looked pleased, a victorious gleam in his eyes.
"Tonight was supposed to be about you," you sighed, holding the small package in your hands. "Why are you the one giving me gifts?"
Beomgyu held up the stuffed bear you had won for him earlier, his lips curling into a smirk. "You already got me this," he pointed out. Then, more quietly, "Besides, you brought me here. You made sure I was alright. A small gift is the least I can do."
You had no response to that.
"Accept it," he added, nudging your shoulder lightly. "For my sake."
A single snowflake drifted between you, catching the golden fair lights as it fell. Then another. And another.
Beomgyu tilted his head up, watching the first snowfall of the season settle over Paris. The world around you seemed to hush, the fair’s glow casting a warm halo over the descending frost. A slow smile spread across his face, something wistful in the way his gaze traced the sky.
"I want to see the Seine."
You glanced at him, the request unexpected. He turned back to you, eyes shining. "That day we visited, I couldn’t really take it in—not properly, not with everything else going on."
The quiet honesty in his voice softened something in you. "Then let’s go."
The walk to the bridge was slower, the fair’s noise fading behind you as the Seine stretched before you in its midnight stillness. The river carried the reflection of the city’s lights, a gentle shimmer under the falling snow. Beomgyu leaned against the railing, his hands curled over the frost-kissed iron, the glow of the streetlamps painting his profile in gold and shadow. Snowflakes clung to his hair, caught in the sweep of his lashes, but he didn’t seem to notice.
You watched him take it all in, his shoulders rising and falling with a quiet breath. He turned to you then, his exhaustion evident in the way his body carried itself—but there was warmth in his gaze, something that made the air between you shift.
"How are you feeling now?" you asked, voice softer than you intended.
His lips parted, hesitation flickering over his features before he finally answered. "I feel much better." His eyes didn’t leave yours. "Thank you."
And you tried—God, you tried—not to say that you loved him. Tried to swallow it down, push it away, because tonight wasn’t about you. Tonight was about him, about making sure he was okay.
But then he reached up, fingertips ghosting against your cheek, light as snowfall. The warmth of his touch burned through the cold. Your breath hitched, caught somewhere between restraint and surrender. He was close, close enough that the city blurred around you, close enough that his gaze flickered down—to your lips, then back up, eyes locking with a silent plea—
“Shit.”
—Beomgyu’s foot slid against the fresh snow, his arms flailing as he yelped. The moment snapped, the sharp bite of reality returning all at once. Instinct took over—you reached out, grabbing his arms before he could stumble further, fingers tightening around the fabric of his sleeves.
Your pulse was a riot against your ribs. "Beomgyu—"
And then, as if the universe itself was conspiring against you, your phone buzzed loudly in your pocket, Yeonjun’s name flashing on the screen.
You hesitated, the moment still hanging between you like an unfinished sentence. Beomgyu exhaled, something obscure passing over his expression before he turned back toward the river.
When you hung up the call, your voice felt foreign in your throat. "They’re making rounds. It’s time to go back."
The walk back to the hotel was silent. You didn’t meet his eyes when you reached the entrance, didn’t look back when you passed a very curious Yeonjun, locking the door behind you as soon as you stepped inside your room.
That night, sleep did not come easily to you.
Beomgyu was losing his mind.
Sleep had evaded him, slipping through his fingers like sand, and now, as the pale morning light filtered through his curtains, his thoughts remained tangled around you. He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply, but it did nothing to ease the restless ache in his chest. Last night’s scenes replayed behind his eyes in an unrelenting loop, haunting him, taunting him. What was he thinking?
His mind reeled back, drifting to the first time he had truly seen you—not as the girl everyone whispered about, the cold and cunning Slytherin, but as someone real. The flickering glow of the fireplace in the Room of Requirement had softened your sharp edges, revealing a warmth beneath the frigid surface. That night had unraveled everything he thought he knew about you. Without even realizing it, he had begun craving your presence, finding solace in it, drawn to the peace that rested between you.
Since when had you become his safe haven?
Beomgyu closed his eyes and draped an arm over them, lying motionless against the mattress. But the memory of you persisted. The way your arms had wound around him on the rooftop, the way your scent had lingered against his skin—soft florals, a trace of vanilla, and something that was just you. Maybe it was exhaustion clouding his mind, or maybe he had simply stopped pretending, but he wanted to feel your lips against his. The thought struck him like a force of nature, leaving him breathless in its wake.
His spiraling thoughts were abruptly shattered by the creak of the door. Heeseung sauntered in first, voice already animated as he recounted how he had caught two professors making out last night. Jeongin followed behind him, slipping onto the bed beside Beomgyu without a word.
Heeseung, noticing Beomgyu’s silence, slowed his chatter, his tone shifting. "What Jaekyung did during Truth or Dare—I'm sorry, it was very low of him."
Beomgyu sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It’s fine."
"No, it’s not. Did you see me laughing?" Heeseung pressed. "Yeah, exactly. None of us found it funny. Jaekyung knew he messed up. He barely said a word the rest of the night. Well, specifically after that revelation."
Beomgyu let out a small breath, forcing a half-smile. "Really, it doesn’t bother me."
Heeseung wasn’t convinced. He studied Beomgyu, his sharp gaze flickering over the dark circles beneath his eyes. "You look awful, man. You sure you’re good? You had a long night, huh?"
Beomgyu hesitated. It wasn’t about Jaekyung. It wasn’t about what had been said. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but he couldn't tell them that. Because the real reason for his unrest was you.
Heeseung, ever oblivious, started rummaging through the room, muttering about finding anything to help. But Jeongin, who had been silent all this time, finally spoke.
"Wanna see something?"
Both boys turned to the Hufflepuff as he casually reached into his sling bag and pulled out a small vial. He held it up, letting the light catch on the iridescent liquid inside.
Heeseung nearly choked. "Dude, is that—?"
"Amortentia."
Beomgyu sat up abruptly. "How the hell did you manage to sneak that into Paris?"
Jeongin only grinned, his fox-like eyes gleaming with mischief. "I just did."
"You’re a Slytherin in disguise, aren’t you?" Beomgyu gave him a pointed look.
Jeongin merely shrugged, shaking the vial slightly. "So, do you want to take a whiff or not?"
Beomgyu hesitated—he had smelled Amortentia before, but that was a long time ago. The things he had loved back then surely couldn't compare to now. Slowly, he took the vial, uncorking it with careful fingers. The moment the scent reached, a laugh threatened to break out from him.
Because of course, it was you.
It had always been you.
Your scent filled his lungs, weaving into his very essence, curling into the spaces between his ribs, settling in the marrow of his bones. The delicate trace of your floral shampoo, the warmth of vanilla that clung to your skin, the bittersweet coffee that lingered on your lips. And beneath it all, something intangible—something that wasn't just a scent, but a feeling. A muted gravity pulling him home. It filled him like the hush of the tide against the shore, constant and inevitable.
Beomgyu had spent his life bending, shifting, molding himself into what others needed him to be. Always laughing, always the light, always the reflection of what others wanted. He had blurred the lines of himself so many times that he feared there was nothing real left underneath.
But here, now, he knew.
Because for once, he wasn’t afraid of what he wanted. For once, he wasn’t running away. He was running toward it—toward you.
Beomgyu loved you.
And it was the truest thing he had ever known; the truest he had been to himself.
You weren’t doing any better.
When Yeji left for breakfast, you refused to leave your bed, burying yourself deeper into the sheets. Time passed in a haze until Yeonjun dropped by, setting down a tray of food with an expectant look that left no room for argument. He made sure you ate, his gaze watchful as if he could see right through you. And in the end, he did.
With little effort, Yeonjun coaxed the truth out of you—the tangled mess of last night, the words unsaid, the emotions left raw and aching.
"Wait," he blinked. "You’re saying—I cockblocked you?"
You groaned, shoving a pillow over your face. His choice of words made you cringe, but in a way, he wasn’t wrong. Instead of confirming it, you merely grumbled in protest.
Yeonjun only laughed, ruffling your hair in a rare display of fondness. "It’ll work out," he said, voice softer now. "You two just need to stop being idiots about it."
“Easier for you to say,” you muttered bitterly, throwing another pillow.
He caught it easily, his laughter carried by the wind that visited through your open balcony. Moments like these reminded you why you were grateful to have him in your life—not just as a friend, but as family.
Today, though, you weren’t in the mood to go out. You hadn’t slept a wink last night, and exhaustion pulled at your limbs. So, as the world carried on beyond your window, you curled back under the blankets, surrendering to sleep.
But before you drifted off, a decision settled firmly in your mind.
Tomorrow before leaving, you will talk to Beomgyu.
Beomgyu didn't know who he was expecting when he opened the door, but it certainly wasn't Jaekyung.
His face remained blank, devoid of any welcoming expression, though irritation simmered just beneath the surface. Jaekyung, with his usual cocky nonchalance, stood there holding up two beer bottles as though they were old friends sharing a casual drink. "Let’s have a chat over drinks?"
A bitter taste coated Beomgyu’s tongue. He didn’t want this conversation, didn’t want to spend another second in Jaekyung’s presence, but with the inevitability of Quidditch matches and shared spaces, dragging this out seemed more of a hassle. Exhaling sharply through his nose, he stepped aside, wordlessly agreeing.
That’s how he found himself on the rooftop of the hotel, the night air crisp against his skin, the city lights sprawling endlessly beneath them. Jaekyung popped open his can, tilting his head back for a long chug before sighing, relishing the bitter taste. He started talking—about last night, about how he hoped Beomgyu didn’t take it to heart, how it was all just a joke, how he hadn’t meant to hurt Beomgyu’s feelings or disrespect his mother. The words tumbled out in a half-hearted apology, as though he expected Beomgyu to nod along and laugh it off.
Beomgyu remained silent, his grip loose around his own can, having only taken a single sip. He wasn’t really here to make peace, just to tolerate the moment until it passed.
Jaekyung scoffed, took another sip, and muttered, "That Slytherin bitch really had to ruin shit for me."
Beomgyu’s fingers tensed against the can. His brows furrowed as he turned his head, eyes sharp. "What?"
Jaekyung exhaled in exasperation. "You heard me. That girl—she really has some nerve. If she hadn’t butted in, everything would’ve gone fine for me. But no, she just had to stick her nose where it didn’t belong." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if disappointed. "You should be careful around her, Beomgyu. I mean, come on. You know how those Slytherins are. Always scheming, always looking out for themselves. Who knows how dirty her hands are? Wouldn't be surprised if she's dabbled in the Dark Arts."
Beomgyu’s grip on the can tightened, metal bending under the pressure of his fingers.
Jaekyung let out a dry chuckle, swirling the beer in his hand. "Hell, I wouldn’t even be shocked if she ended up killing someo—"
The words couldn't fully leave Jaekyung’s mouth, Beomgyu’s fist curled into the front of his shirt, shoving him back with enough force to slam him against the wall. The dull thud of impact echoed in the night air. Jaekyung’s beer can clattered to the ground, spilling its contents across the concrete.
The moment stretched, heavy with unfiltered rage. Beomgyu’s chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths, his knuckles white against the fabric of Jaekyung’s shirt. His heart pounded, his vision blurred in a haze of fury.
Jaekyung, momentarily stunned, let out a breathless laugh, his lips twitching into a smirk despite the pressure against his collar. "Don’t tell me you like her?" he taunted, his voice dipping into something almost mocking. "Do you even know what you’re doing?"
Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening. "Say another word about her, and I swear to God, I won’t hold back next time," he warned, his voice low, deadly.
Jaekyung only grinned wider, eyes glinting with amusement. "You’re ruining Gryffindor’s image by hanging around with that filthy Slytherin."
That was all it took.
His fist snapped forward, knuckles colliding with Jaekyung’s jaw in a brutal, sickening crack that rang through the night. Jaekyung’s head jerked to the side, his smirk wiped clean as he staggered, nearly losing his footing.
Beomgyu didn’t care about the consequences. Not the whispers, not the wary glances, not the tarnish on his image this could bring. If it meant protecting you—from slander, from the storm of false assumptions, from people who spat on your name without knowing the first thing about you—then his reputation could burn.
By the time you woke up, the sun had already begun its slow descent beyond the horizon, painting the sky in muted shades of amber and violet. A dull throbbing pulsed behind your eyes as you pushed yourself upright, the remnants of sleep still clinging to your limbs. Blinking away the haze, you scanned the room, your gaze landing on the empty space where Yeji had been. Her absence was quickly explained by the neatly folded note left on the bedside table.
Spending the night with the girls. Don’t wait up!
You sighed, rubbing at your temples before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. The headache lingered—a dull, persistent ache that made deciding between coffee and painkillers a heavier task than it should have been. Eventually, you settled on coffee, craving the warmth more than anything, but you shot Yeonjun a quick text anyway, asking him to grab some medicine on his way back.
At that moment, Yeonjun was at a bar with his friends. His phone buzzed just as Heeseung announced he was heading back to the hotel. Yeonjun barely glanced at the screen before catching Heeseung by the wrist.
"Hey, do me a favor? Grab some painkillers from the pharmacy on your way back and drop them off for her?"
Heeseung, already halfway out the door, gave a lazy salute before disappearing into the night. The city lights flickered against the polished streets as he made his way to the nearest pharmacy, the mild buzz of alcohol in his veins making everything feel a little lighter. The store was nearly empty save for one other customer browsing the aisles, and in his attempt to maneuver past them, Heeseung’s shoulder clipped theirs, sending both their purchases tumbling to the ground.
"Shit, my bad," he muttered, hastily gathering his things. The stranger offered a muttered reassurance, but embarrassment burned at the tips of his ears. Before he could make a bigger fool of himself, he all but bolted out the door.
By the time he reached the hotel, the sky had deepened to a velvety blue, the streets humming with the distant sounds of nightlife. He knocked on your door, shifting on his feet as he waited. When you finally opened it, brows furrowed in confusion, Heeseung only grinned.
"Yeonjun’s gonna be late, so he asked me to drop this off for you."
You blinked at the offered packet before reaching out to take it. "Oh. Thanks, Heeseung. You should get some rest."
"Yeah, yeah," he waved a hand dismissively, then let out a sheepish chuckle. "Almost didn’t make it in one piece. I crashed into some poor stranger at the pharmacy and sent both our stuff flying. Thought they were gonna curse me on the spot."
You shook your head with a small laugh, watching as he sauntered off down the hall before shutting the door. Tossing the packet onto the bed, you turned your attention to the half-packed suitcase waiting for you. With your departure set for tomorrow night, you figured it was best to finish now, leaving only the essentials untouched.
By the time you were done, you were exhausted. You turned off the lights to ease the dull headache, leaving the room bathed in the faint glow of the city beyond the balcony doors. Drawn by the cool night air, you stepped outside, letting the gentle breeze carry away the last remnants of your lingering headache. The trip had been a blur of moments, each one folding into the next, but despite everything, your thoughts inevitably drifted back to Beomgyu.
You hadn’t seen him all day. Not since last night on the bridge.
Heat rushed to your cheeks at the memory, and you groaned, dropping your face into your palms. Shaking your head, you turned away, desperate for a distraction. That’s when your gaze landed on the packet resting on your bed. Right. You should put it away.
Grabbing it, you tore it open with little thought—only to freeze. There were no painkillers inside. Instead, a mix of unfamiliar medicine stared back at you, along with—
Your stomach dropped.
—several packets of condoms.
For a second, you just stared, unable to process what you were looking at. Then, realization struck like a slap to the face.
Heeseung must've picked up the wrong packet. Oh god.
A strangled sound crawled up your throat as you dragged a hand down your face. There was no way you were keeping this. You had to return it. Now.
Exhaling sharply, you marched toward the door, and yanked it open—only to stumble back in surprise.
Beomgyu stood just outside, equally startled, his eyes widening as yours did the same. Your breath caught, pulse stumbling over itself as you took another step back.
He looked as if he’d been caught red-handed, lips parting slightly before snapping shut, his fingers twitching at his sides. For a moment, neither of you spoke, both frozen in place, the tension crackling between you like a frayed wire. Your heart pounded, his gaze settling heavy in your chest, leaving you breathless in a way that had nothing to do with surprise.
Your eyes widened, and then widened even more when you took in his face—a deep bruise darkening his right cheekbone, his lower lip split and raw. The sharp inhale you took was nearly drowned by the surge of panic crashing through you. Without thinking, you stepped forward, reaching for him, but the movement seemed to shake him from his daze.
“S-Sorry, I should go back—” Beomgyu stammered, already taking a step back.
Your fingers caught his wrist before he could slip away, your grip firm despite the hammering of your pulse. "Get inside."
Beomgyu hesitated, but the authority in your voice left no room for argument. You tugged him in, shutting the door with more force than necessary before turning on the lamp atop the dresser. The warm glow cast soft shadows across the room, illuminating the damage on his face. You exhaled sharply through your nose, frustration simmering beneath your skin as you pushed him onto the bed.
He let you, watching in silence as you crouched before him, scanning his injuries with an expression that left no space for anything but raw, unfiltered concern. He should have been saying something—assuring you, maybe—but he found himself caught instead, watching the way your brows knit together, the way your fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to touch him.
Beomgyu didn’t know what came over him after the fight with Jaekyung, but he was sure of one and one thing only—he needed to see you. That was why he let his feet take him to your room, but as he was about to knock, he woke up from his daze. Caught in between the dilemma of letting his desire to see you win or turn away and go back to his room, he spent more time standing in front of your door than necessary
“Who did this to you?” The question left you in a voice steadier than you felt. But you didn’t wait for an answer. You already knew. “Jaekyung?”
Beomgyu's hand shot out, grasping yours before you could rise. “Listen to me. Please.” His voice was hoarse, his grip warm. “I started the fight.”
You froze, stunned. He sighed, lips pressing together before he spoke again. “He said some things about you he shouldn’t have. I couldn’t just let him run his mouth when he assumed the worst about you.”
Something in your chest twisted—something sharp, something ugly. Your pulse thrummed as a thousand thoughts warred within you. Was this your fault? Did he feel like he had to defend you? Anger flared, not at him, but at the situation, at Jaekyung, at the bruises marking Beomgyu’s skin.
Without a word, you pulled away, heading for the bathroom. You needed something—anything—to fix this mess. But you found nothing, except opting for a bowl of water from the basin. Frustration burned as you muttered a curse under your breath. You yanked open your bag, grabbing your wand and a handkerchief instead. You threw a Mufffliato charm at your door before getting hold of the dresser stool.
Returning, you dragged the stool in front of him, sitting so close your knees brushed. His fingers curled against his lap, his gaze heavy as it followed your movements.
“Are you upset with me?”
“No.” The clipped response did little to ease him. His fingers found yours again, tentative this time. “Don’t be upset,” he murmured, and the quiet weight in his voice sent something quivering through you.
You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “I’m not upset,” you whispered. “But I need you to let me take care of you.”
You may have appeared frigid outwardly as you pulled your hand away from his and worked to wet the cloth with water, but inside, you were trembling. Your emotions threatened to spill over, pressing against the tight control you struggled to maintain. You chose silence, but the longer Beomgyu stared at you with those dark, blazing eyes, the harder it became to hold everything in.
Beomgyu, as if sensing it, tried to assure you that he was fine.
“Stop.” Your voice wavered despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You refused to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the bruise marring his cheekbone as you brought the cloth to his skin.
The moment it touched his wound, he went rigid, eyes squeezing shut, a strangled groan escaping his lips. The sound shouldn't have sent a shiver down your spine, but it did, settling uncomfortably in the back of your mind. His hand found your thigh, fingers curling into the flesh. Your breath became uneven, hands trembling, but you carried on, ignoring it.
You wrung the cloth in your hands, the fabric twisting between your fingers. "Do you think this changes anything?" The words came measured, steady despite the storm within. "Do you think I care what Jaekyung says about me?"
You dabbed at his wound again, perhaps a little too firmly. Beomgyu hissed softly, but he didn’t pull away. His grip on your thigh tightened instead.
"If he spreads shit about me to the entire Hogwarts, it wouldn’t matter." You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you dipped the cloth back into the water. "I’m used to it." The tremor in your fingers betrayed you as you wrung it out again, your knuckles paling from the force. "Nothing would have made a difference."
You pressed the cloth to his skin once more, frustration bleeding into every action.
Beomgyu’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching against your leg.
You swallowed, hands tense as you tossed the cloth aside. "You didn’t have to act so rashly," you muttered, softer now, though no less strained. Your grip on your wand tightened. "You didn’t have to taint your hands for me." Your lips parted, but the words felt heavy on your tongue. You inhaled sharply, forcing them out anyway. "I’m already in ashes."
The weight of it all pressed down on you, suffocating. Still, you forced your hand steady as you lifted your wand. With a muttered, "Episkey," the bruise on his cheek faded, healing instantly under the glow of magic.
You finally looked at him then, your eyes searching his face. Beomgyu held your gaze, the fire in his own unwavering.
Your hands curled into fists in your lap. "Why?" The question slipped out, quieter than before, like it had been torn from somewhere deep inside you. "Why would you go this far for me? When doing so now will destroy your reputation?"
A shaky breath left you as you ran a hand through your hair, then buried your face in your palms. Silence stretched between you, but it suffocated you and dragged you down as if drowning in the deep sea with no hopes of swimming back up.
Beomgyu watched you, his jaw tightening. Even now, you were worrying about him rather than feeling any anger over being disrespected. How could you be so selfless? How many years of cruel judgment had it taken for you to be this nonchalant about people dragging your name through the dirt?
Regret wasn’t something Beomgyu felt tonight.
He exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re worked up.”
Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
Beomgyu only offered a lopsided smile, tilting his head. “Did you really think I’d just stand there and let that son of a bitch talk about you like that?” His voice was quiet but firm. “You don’t deserve that.”
You felt waves of gratitude wash over the shore of frustration and guilt, mixing into a cacophony of intangible emotions in your chest. To know the person you loved so dearly saw you for who you were and stood up for you even at the risk of being ruined—it was getting harder to fight back the clog in your throat, the sting behind your eyes.
“But will you ever let me do the same for you?” The words tumbled out before you could even think, slipping past the restraint you had been holding onto.
He stared at you for a moment, his face softening in the dim light. “I didn’t think you needed to,” he said at last, voice quieter now.
“I do,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the vulnerability in your words. “I want to.”
You held your wand up to heal the split in his lip, but he caught your wrist again, stopping you before the spell could form. You froze when he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the curve of your neck.
“You already do,” he murmured, his voice no louder than the snow drifting outside. “I don't think you realize how much you change everything just by being here.”
His scent was dizzying, warm and intoxicating, pressing into your senses until it became difficult to think of anything else. But nothing could have prepared you for the wildfire coursing through your veins when his lips grazed the skin just above your collarbone. A quiet gasp slipped from you before you could swallow it down. Your free hand moved on instinct, gripping his bicep, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his hoodie.
“Beomgyu,” you managed to breathe out, mind unraveling at the fact that such a simple touch from him had set your entire body ablaze. You weren’t sure if you were trying to stop him or yourself.
You felt it then—the shudder that passed through him, as though he was holding back something just as consuming as what had taken root inside you. He didn’t move away. Instead, his grip on your hand tightened slightly as he lifted his head, eyes finding yours. His gaze was heavy, dark with restraint, his breath uneven against your lips.
“And I don’t think you understand how hard I’m trying to resist.”
Your chest ached. Because he had been holding back, all this time. And you had, too.
The realization unraveled you. It wasn’t just tonight. It had been every moment before this one—every touch avoided, every glance turned away too soon, every night spent swallowing words that threatened to spill. You had forced yourself into stillness, even when everything inside you begged to reach for him.
But now, with his words settling deep, breaking apart the last of your restraint, there was nothing left to stop you.
Your hand trailed from his bicep, slipping into his hair, fingertips threading through the strands. His lashes fluttered, and then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes slipping closed as though savoring the warmth of your palm. A breath escaped him, quiet, shivering.
Your heart pounded. Your emotions curled tight in your chest, coiling, pressing, threatening to consume you whole.
And so you kissed him.
His lips felt soft against yours. The touch was careful, lasting for just a few fleeting seconds before you pulled back, shamelessly breathless, searching his face for his reaction. Beomgyu remained still, gaze lowered, lips parted as he lifted a trembling hand to touch where your lips had been. His fingertips brushed over his busted lip, smearing the faint trace of blood left behind.
“More.”
The word was barely a whisper, but the desperation in his voice sent a spark skittering down your stomach. He let go of your hand, his palms cupping your face instead and pulled you in, crashing his lips onto yours with more intention this time. The sheer intensity of it clawed out a tattered whimper from the back of your throat as you tumbled forward into him.
The taste of blood mixed into the kiss, coppery and intoxicating, the sting of his split lip making him hiss against your mouth. It should have made you pull away, should have given you pause, but instead, it only fueled the heat roaring between you. Your tongue swiped over the wound, drawing a sharp, shuddering moan from him. You noted how he liked the pleasure that came with pain before sliding your tongue deeper into his mouth, claiming him.
He met you with equal fervor, his tongue tangling with yours in a battle for dominance. But you refused to lose. Your body moved on its own, pulling him even closer as you straddled his waist. Your fingers tugged at his hair, drawing a broken moan from him, and just as you felt him start to crumble beneath you, you pushed him back against the mattress.
Beomgyu let out a quiet yelp, eyes wide as he stared up at you, dazed and breathless. Your heart stuttered, not expecting it to be so utterly, devastatingly adorable.
Your gaze flickered over him, your breath shaky, heart thundering in your chest. You had wanted this for so long—to feel him like this, to have his scent clinging to your skin, to taste his lips, even if they were bruised and tinged with blood. It felt surreal, intoxicating, overwhelming in every sense.
A fond smile ghosted your lips as you reached out, fingers brushing through his tousled hair. His skin was already covered in a sheen of sweat, the winter air failing to cool the fire blazing between you. His chest heaved with each breath, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.
“Are you still upset with me?” he asked, voice hoarse, breathless.
You shook your head, reaching for his bruised knuckles. Bringing them to your lips, you pressed a soft kiss against them.
“Just promise me you’ll never let yourself get hurt for me.”
His fingers curled against yours, before he lifted his other hand, tangling it in your hair, pulling you down to him. He sealed the promise with another searing kiss, one that stole the breath from your lungs and ignited every nerve in your body. He flipped you over in one swift movement, deepening the kiss.
This time, it was fervent, consuming—his lips moving against yours like he’d been starving for this. His body slotted between your parted legs, pressing against you entirely. Your eyes flew open when you felt him grinding his hips against yours, his hardness rubbing against your torrid core—and despite both of you being clothed, the scorching pleasure it was bringing was mind numbing. A broken gasp spilled from your lips as your back arched against him.
Beomgyu pulled away just enough to look at you, watching the string of saliva connecting your lips before it disappeared. His gaze darkened at the sight of you beneath him—lips swollen and red-stained, face flushed, hair framing you so perfectly that it made his breath hitch. His entire body burned with the need for you, an ache so deep he could barely think.
God, he needed you.
So badly it was nearly unbearable.
“I need you,” he almost pleaded, his hips kept grinding against yours, making your sanity crumble away further. Your mind had nothing left but his name chanted over and over again like a prayer. “Can I have you? Please let me have you?”
You nodded through your haze, because how could you refuse?
He pulled his hoodie and shirt off over his head in a quick motion, and your eyes, heavy with lust, trailed down his body, his flexing muscles as he threw the clothes across the room. Beomgyu dipped down to press his lips to yours once more, his arm wrapping around your head, the other hand tugging at the waistline of your pants. "You're so beautiful," he mumbled against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbones before biting down on the supple flesh, eliciting a strained moan from you. "So perfect."
Beomgyu groaned against your pulse point when his fingers slid in between your folds, collecting your arousal before lathering all of it in an up and down motion over your slit, each time bumping against your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerve. It sent jolts of pleasure through your body as your nails dug around his shoulders, your back arching into his body. When his name came in the form of a broken melody past your lips, he pushed two fingers in your waiting core, curling them deliriously against your sweet spot that had you seeing stars.
Your hips stuttered, grinding up to meet his thrusting fingers as you writhed underneath him while Beomgyu’s torrid lips drew wonders on your neck, leaving behind a trail of fire. It felt so good, your lips caught between your teeth, your head buzzed with unfathomable ecstasy at the feeling of his long, thick fingers massaging your walls. You only could wonder how his cock would feel inside you. The thought alone had your thighs trembling.
The familiar sensation of heat coiling in your lower stomach began to embrace you, and you knew Beomgyu knew, because your walls clenched around his digits. He lifted his head to lock eyes with you, as his fingers picked up their pace, encouraging you to come undone. “You’re doing so good for me,” he coaxed. “You’re doing amazing, love.”
“Beomgyu,” you whined, voice trembling and gasping. “I’m—I’m almost—”
The relentless pace along with his sweet praises sent your senses into a euphoric haze as you cried out, your walls fluttering around his fingers. Beomgyu ran his fingers through your hair, soothing your scalp as you came down from your high, chest heaving with every breath you took. The sinful sight of him wrapping his lips around his fingers, licking and sucking off your arousal from them made you glance away.
“Sweet. How do you taste so sweet?” His thumb pressed against your bottom lip before pulling it down. His tongue pushed past your lips, the feeling of your arousal melting into your mouth was so overwhelming that it drawled out a groan from you.
Your mind was already so fucked out that you had to snap yourself into reality when Beomgyu repeated his question. He cooed, gently caressing your cheek when you blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Do you want to keep this on?” he tugged on the hem of your shirt, eyes trailing the skin of your arms where goosebumps have risen. The goosebumps didnt come from the cold, no—it was the mere effect he had on you, so you shook your head, propping yourself up just enough to tug your shirt over your head, leaving only your bra on.
Beomgyu swallowed thickly, sitting back on his heels as his eyes roamed around your body—over the soft swell of your breast, the dips of your collarbone, the curves of your sides—and he kept wondering how he managed to get so lucky. His hand glided up the small of your back and with nimble fingers he unclasped your bra before letting it join the discarded clothes on the floor. Pulling you flushed against his chest, Beomgyu peppered soft kisses on your shoulder and he inhaled your scent. Gosh, he was going crazy—absolutely, maddeningly insane for you.
Your bleary gaze fell on the outline of his hardened shaft, waiting and beginning to be pulled out from its restraints. With shaky hands you reached out to tug on his sweatpants, expectantly looking up at him. Beomgyu wasted no time working on his pants, strong hands pulling you closer to him before his leaking cockhead grazed your clit. The choked moan that escaped from the back of your throat made you wonder if it truly was your voice.
“Protection?” he asked, his voice momentarily cutting through your heady haze.
You nodded, looking at the packet that, now thanks to Heeseung’s clumsiness, came in handy. Beomgyu followed your gaze, reaching for the packet before emptying its contents on the bed. Even if he had any questions, he chose not to voice it as he silently tore one packet with his teeth and rolled the thin rubber over his shaft, giving it a few pumps.
The anticipation that coiled within your stomach crawled up to your throat and through your chest, gathering all your oxygens from your lungs on its way. Beomgyu shuddered over you, hands roaming, fingers mapping out your skin like he was committing every inch of you to memory. He lined the tip of his cock against your entrance—then suddenly stilled all his movements.
Your heart stopped as your eyes searched his face, looking for any semblance of discomfort—or worse, if he was thinking it was all a mistake, if he was thinking of backing out at the last moment. Beomgyu closed his eyes, brows knitting together as he exhaled sharply. The silence felt too thick for you to disturb it. You could only wet your chapped lips—a futile attempt to ease your nerves.
Finally, in a low whisper, he said, “I think I might be a terrible person.”
For a split second, you believed him—you thought he was about to confess something unforgivable. Then you realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before asking someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.
You let out a shaky breath. Was it relief? Perhaps. Perhaps it was also the love that you felt for this man. He was already so deeply tangled in your soul, you weren’t ready to let go of him so easily. Not in this lifetime, not in the next, not in any lifetime to come.
You cupped his face, tilting it to make him look at you. You tried to pour all your love, your admiration, your desire into the way you gazed at him. With a fond smile, you murmured, “I’m a terrible person too. And I want you. I just want you—all your flaws, your mistakes, your smiles, your jokes, everything.”
He kissed you, so deeply, so fiercely, that the gasp you let out when you felt him stretching you was entirely devoured by his mouth. Fingers clawing his back, you couldn't decide where to focus—the sheer euphoric wave of pleasure engulfing your body, or the way Beomgyu muttered apologies in your ear.
“Does it hurt? I’m sorry—ah, I'm so sorry, love,” he whispered softly, giving you time to adjust as he slowly sank into your aching core. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching as he had to fight the urge to cum from just feeling your tight walls clench around him. “I promise, it will feel good. I’ve got you.”
The bed creaked beneath you as he pulled out slowly before pushing back in, setting the pace into deep languid thrusts that had you gasping and moaning with every movement. Beomgyu tried to hold onto the last bit of his sanity when he felt your hand trail up to the hair on his nape, curling and tugging on a fistful. He buried his face into your neck, strained moans filling your ear deliciously as his hips snapped against yours. You didn't notice his arms buckling, one of his hands having to brace the mattress beside your head, fist twisting into the sheets.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to bring him even closer to you—as if such an act of desperation could alone imprint every pattern of his body on yours. The depraved sound of skin against skin along with your mingling groans and gasps resonated off the walls of the room. Your already sensitive cunt throbbed with pleasure with every shallow drag of his cock, reaching unfathomable places inside you.
It wasn't the cold air that sent a shiver down your spine but rather his featherlight touch over your hardened nipple. You squirmed at the sensation and he immediately moved his hand away. “Too much?” concern laced his voice as he let his hand find purchase on your hips instead, massaging the soft flesh. His consideration and care towards you knocked the air out of your lungs, chest constricting painfully.
“Kiss me,” you pleaded breathlessly, “Beomgyu, please kiss me.”
He didn't need to be told twice, stealing your breath in a slow, languid kiss that matched his pace. His lips moved against yours with aching slowness, savoring every second, every press, every stolen breath. His hand from your hip trailed up your sides, leaving a searing path in their wake, fingertips pressing into your skin as if he needed to reassure himself that you were real, that this was real.
All the whimpers and moans that spilled from you—he swallowed them down greedily, a low hum of approval vibrating against your lips. He broke away only to pepper kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “You drive me insane,” he murmured between kisses, voice thick with desire, each word punctuated by his shallow thrusts. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of you.”
His words sent a tremor down your spine, and when he found the pulse point beneath your jaw, sucking lightly, you let out a soft gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. You felt your high approaching you again, your whimpers getting louder by the seconds as your eyes rolled back to your head. He groaned at the sensation of your walls spasming, the sound reverberating against your skin like a plea, a promise, a confession.
You were his undoing—and he was yours.
“Let go, love,” he muttered in a strained voice as you clenched around him like a vice, your body quivering when you finished, his name spilling from you so sinfully that it drove him over the edge. He helped you ride out your orgasm, seeds spilling inside the condom but the warmth seeped into your walls, making you bite down on your lips harshly.
There was a beat of silence as you both chased for air. Beomgyu moved first, helping you sit up with the same gentleness and care as before. When he returned with a damp towel, he pressed it softly against your skin, wiping away the sheen of sweat. His eyes, dark yet brimming with unmistakable adoration—something tender, something irrevocable—never wavered from yours.
You took in the quiet love in his gaze, the way it mirrored your own, and let yourself smile. Your fingers brushed against his bruised lips, tracing them with featherlight touches. "Remind me to fix this," you murmured.
Beomgyu chuckled, a boyish grin breaking across his face before he tugged you down with him onto the bed. He pulled the covers over both of you, cocooning you in warmth, in safety, in him.
For a fleeting moment, you still thought it was a dream. If it was, then it would be the happiest one you've ever had. But the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the rhythmic beat of his heart against your skin, and the way his body heat shielded you from the bitter Parisian winter told you otherwise. This was real. Every second of it was real.
"I love you," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
You tilted your face up, capturing his lips in a tender kiss, sealing the words against his mouth before murmuring them back to him.
And then, like an echo in your mind, Yeonjun’s words from before resurfaced—that Paris, the city of love, truly had a way of bringing people together.
The morning air was tinged with the scent of freshly baked bread and coffee as you walked through the narrow streets lined with breakfast cafés. The quiet hum of Paris waking up surrounded you, but your mind was far from the charming scenery. Your hands remained tucked in the pockets of your coat as you thought back to the last message exchanged with Beomgyu—your simple note telling him not to wait for you, that he should go ahead and get breakfast without you.
You slowed your steps as you neared a particular café, your gaze settling on the man seated near the window. He hadn’t noticed you yet, too lost in his own world—perhaps nursing the remnants of last night’s misjudgment.
The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped inside, your presence unnoticed at first. You made your way toward him with unhurried steps, pulling out the empty chair across from him with an ease that belied the tension hanging between you.
“Good morning, Jaekyung.”
Your voice was pleasant, smooth—almost sweet—but your eyes held none of the warmth your tone suggested. The cruel amusement dancing in them, however, was impossible to miss.
Jaekyung stiffened, his expression shifting the moment he looked up and met your gaze. He stared as though he had seen a ghost. A reaction you found deeply satisfying.
You leaned back against the chair, taking in the damage Beomgyu had left on his face. A slow smile curled your lips. A shame, really, that Beomgyu’s fist had gotten to him first. You had so much more to say.
Jaekyung recovered quickly, forcing an unimpressed scoff as he crossed his arms. “Are you looking for more trouble?”
Your brow lifted at his audacity. For all his bravado, he didn’t seem as comfortable now. When you didn’t immediately respond, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly at the movement. “Look, if this is about your boyfriend, then I have nothing to say. He hit me first, so obviously, I had to act.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, tilting your head slightly as if considering his words. Then, with the same polite smile, you spoke. “Jaekyung,” you said lightly, “if I were you, I’d choose my next course of action very carefully.” You let the words settle, your gaze never breaking from his. “Specifically with the amount of dirt in your hands.”
His fingers twitched against the ceramic cup, his brows knitting together as his body stiffened. His voice dropped slightly. “What do you mean?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned forward just enough for your presence to fully command his attention. “Between you and me,” you murmured, voice carrying the air of something far more dangerous than idle threats, “I think we both know who truly has tainted hands here, don’t we?”
Silence. A thick, suffocating pause where the realization dawned in his eyes.
You watched him struggle to formulate a response, but you had already grown bored. You pushed back your chair and rose to your feet. You adjusted the cuffs of your coat, smoothing out an imaginary crease as if this entire encounter had been nothing more than a passing chore.
Before turning away, you allowed one last look at him—one that stripped away the pleasantness in your smile and replaced it with something far colder.
“Take it as a word of advice.” You paused. Then, with a sharpened edge that left no room for misinterpretation, you added, “Or better yet—a warning.”
You turned on your heel and walked away, the quiet sound of your departure swallowed by the morning bustle outside. Behind you, Jaekyung remained frozen in his seat, the reality of your words settling deep into his bones.
When you returned to the hotel, you found Beomgyu seated in the lobby by the fireplace, a book in his hands—the same one he had been reading on the train. The sight of him made your heart swell, a warmth unfurling deep within you.
Sensing your presence, Beomgyu lifted his head, his lips curving into a gentle smile—the one he reserved only for you. His face was free of bruises now; you had tended to them carefully that morning before he left your room, making sure every mark was soothed away by your touch.
“You’re back,” he murmured, rising to his feet. His hands found your face, cradling it with the kind of tenderness that made the world around you disappear. Then, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the muted words between you.
A loud gasp shattered the moment.
Oh. Right. You had completely forgotten that your friends were still around.
You turned to find Heeseung standing a few feet away, his mouth comically wide open. Beside him, Jeongin looked positively delighted before promptly dragging Heeseung away, muttering something about giving people privacy. You didn’t miss the way Yeonjun smiled at you from where he sat across the room—there was something genuine, something deeply affectionate in his gaze, as if he was truly, wholeheartedly happy for you.
Beomgyu’s thumbs traced soft circles against your cheeks. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, as if this moment belonged only to the two of you.
You shook your head. “No. Let’s stay here. It’s warm here.”
You tugged him back to the sofa, the flickering fire enveloping its warmth around you. As you settled in beside him, a playful smile ghosted your lips. Lifting the book in your hands, you turned to him and asked, “Do you read books?”
The same question you had asked him weeks ago, back in the Room of Requirement. Back when you had lent him your shoulder, when he had dozed off beside you as you read together.
Beomgyu huffed out a soft chuckle, recognizing the memory you were drawing upon. Tenderness and something softer flickered in his gaze as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
“Yes, love,” he murmured, smiling against your skin. “Yes, I do.”
And as you sat there together, wrapped in the soft glow of the fire, you couldn’t help but think that Beomgyu was exactly like an aubade—a gentle reminder of all the warmth and beauty that could be found in unexpected moments, lingering long after the night had passed.
synopsis: as you find yourself stuck on a deserted island, you meet five boys who happened to be living there. you begin to notice something different about the boys as you attempt to find a way back home. with no sense of boundaries and strange glitter all over their bodies, your curiosity of who or what these boys are peaks. you begin getting close to the strangers, them helping you on your journey, but it leads you into a spiral of your own thoughts and emotions. now feeling some sort of connection to the five boys, the question begs: will you even end up leaving? if not, which boy makes you stay?
or: landing on a stranded island, you find yourself surrounded by five strangers who happened to be covered in glitter.
pairing(s): txt ot5 (individually) x gender neutral!reader
rating: pg 13
genre: fairy au, deserted island au, multiple endings, strangers to (potential) lovers
featuring: bts v, kepler huening bahiyyih, + more to be added.
warning(s): will be stated in each chapter.
status: started 03.01.23 - ongoing
update schedule: varies; trying to get back to regular updates!
note: inspired by the sugar rush ride music video heh i'm so excited for this fic aahhh ^^ remember this story is fiction, do not associate any actions in this work with the idols themselves.
Soobin had always lived quietly-the kind of boy who never asked for more than what was already his. Reserved and content to remain within the lines of his own small world, he didn't chase after people, and he never pushed himself into places where he didn't belong. Not until he met you. You were warmth wrapped in laughter. So radiant and curious about the world, pulling people into your orbit without even realising it. And for everyone else, being around you was simple. But for Soobin, it was different. He fell in love with you at first sight, and it was like stepping into a dream he didn't deserve to have. You made him want to step outside his comfort zone, to follow you into places he had never once cared to go, just for the chance to stay near you.
However, loving you meant living in a world that wasn't his, reaching for something he was never meant to hold. And though you glowed like sunlight, all he could do was watch from the shadows, because you already belonged to someone else!
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authors note: sorry for the late upload!!!! ive been swamped with work and every time i tried to proofread this i ended up hating it ;xxx i think its a bit better now, but don’t get your hopes too high.
happy reading 🥹
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pairing: soobin x fem!reader, yeonjun x fem!reader, uni AU
genre: angst, slice of life, unrequited love, friends to ??, quiet(and not so)admirer, love triangle
warnings: hmm, this chapter has mentions of alcohol and envy
word count: 13k+
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taglist: @soobinieswife
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The first time Soobin saw you was on an ordinary afternoon. You came to his apartment helping Matthew move in. A random situation, really. Matthew had been in a rough spot with his old roommate, and he desperately needed a new place. So, Soobin, the ever dependable, decided to let his spare room at least until Matthew found something suitable. Not like he would do that for just anyone, Matthew was a friend. However, what Soobin didn't expect was for you to come along, and worse, the way you would shift his world with nothing more, but a soft smile. It was ridiculous. It was ridiculous, how fast it happened. One look, and pause. You pressed a pause on the world, leaving only yourself moving.
To Soobin you weren’t supposed to matter, but…with that first look he took at you he knew it would be a moment he would never forget. You were wearing a cream white blouse with flaring sides that swayed like petals, a tiny beige skirt, and platform sneakers. Your hair was falling in gentle waves across your shoulders. That was a screen-worthy presence. The kind that he would love to get framed in his camera lenses. Develop your picture and keep it on his wall. Probably the only thing he would ever put on his wall, actually. He stood frozen in the living room, looking at the doorway, where you were and listened to the sound of your voice as you slipped off your shoes and spoke something to Matthew.
“No, but having an actual corridor is enough of a win, Matt.” you laughed softly.
Soobin blinked painfully, eyes dry because of the stretched glance he was stealing from you. Your voice was even sweeter than he had imagined it would be. Almost melting. He knew about your existence, due to Matthew never seeming to stop talking about you. He knew you were his ride-or-die. You were the person that Soobin was lowkey interested to meet, only because of the stories about you. Matthew held such an unshakable respect when your name was mentioned, it would’ve been strange if he didn’t say he wasn’t intrigued. The problem, however, was. . . nothing Matthew had said came close to the real you. He did mention you were girly and gentle, that’s one thing completely true, but standing in front of him right now, Soobin thought you looked like something that didn’t belong to this world. Just like a fairy. Tinker Bell. You were more than what Matthew had said. You were more than what Matthew gave away. But it also made sense, because how do you describe someone so beautiful with just words? His heart hit the floor at the sight of you, and his ears turned red. You were gorgeous, almost too much to bare.
“Yeah, Soobin’s a real saviour for taking me in.. And- oh, hi Soobin!” Matthew greeted mid sentence. Soobin watched you follow the direction of Matthew’s eyes and excitedly land on him. You smiled like it was your second nature.
“H-Hi,” he greeted back, cursing himself for the awkward crack in his voice.
“Hi!” you chirped, grinning widely as you took a few steps toward him, offering your hand. He almost passed out from how disarmingly cute you looked this up close.
“I’m Y/N. You’ll probably see me around too much, thanks to this roommate of yours being my best friend” you giggled, light and effortless.
Sobbing returned the giggle automatically, without realising you pulled that from him “There’s enough room for all three of us. I’m Soobin. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Matthew talks about you a lot.” Soobin didn't want to speak that fast, but words kept coming out. You lifted an eyebrow and turned to Matthew with a fond expression.
“Aw, thank you, Matt.” Soobin found it amusing how you immediately assumed Matthew must’ve spoken kindly about you. But of course.
The afternoon after your initial introductions stretched a bit, and you managed to fill it with your presence. You carried so much joy and happiness leaving traces of it in Soobin’s apartment. Soobin’s eyes followed you everywhere. One moment, you were perched on the kitchen counter, teasing Matthew about previous failed attempts at baking. In the next, you were on tiptoe in Matthew’s room, carefully arranging his wall with Polaroids and postcards. It was endearing watching you do those little things. Really. Even Soobin, who usually disliked clutter, couldn’t help but encourage it. Matthew clearly meant a lot to you, and you to him. Hours later, you stood in the doorway of Matthew’s room and called over his name with hands on your hips as you presented the finished wall. In a sweet moment like this Soobin found himself staring more at the curve of your proud smile than the decoration itself. He thought he could watch you forever and never grow tired of it.
Once Matthew declared that he had finished with the moving process he suggested to order pizza as a “thank you for the help”. It didn’t take long for it to arrive, in no time pizza boxes and small tubs of dip sauces were spread across the table in the living room. Matthew put a pillow on the floor and guided you to sit there while he and Soobin sat on the carpet. You and Soobin were in the middle of a conversation about dogs when he watched Matthew open the pizza box and nudge a slice onto your plate, plucking off the mushrooms from his own.
“Here, you like these more than me,” he said, dropping them onto your slice. Your eyes softened, but you didn’t look surprised.
“Yey,” you emoted in return. Cute.
“Aaand, this-” Matthew added, already peeling the lid off one of the dips. You laughed, reaching for it, only for him to lean over and catch a loose strand of your hair. “Hold still,” he muttered, pulling a tie from his wrist. “Wanna end up eating half your hair with the pizza?” you pouted, sitting still while he looped your hair back neatly.
It was playful, nothing serious to see, but from Soobin’s place at the table, it looked like something else entirely. The way Matthew slid mushrooms onto your plate without asking, the way you let him touch your hair.. if someone walked in right then, they’d think you two were a couple. But like, the kind that had settled into years of easy habits. Soobin had heard you both confirm your friendship, but seeing how you acted when you were together, it wasn’t hard to feel somehow deceived. Matthew was taking care of you in ways Soobin could swear he would do only if it was a romantic relationship. It was different. Strange and unfamiliar. Still, Soobin just sat there and admired you. You clearly appreciated how Matthew was looking after you, and it didn't bother you how touchy he was.
The time you spent chatting slipped by so easily that Soobin hardly noticed it passing at all. When you rushed off with apologetic waves, he was left with an odd emptiness, as though the room had lost something essential the second you stepped out. It was strange, he hadn’t realised you filled in the space of this apartment so well. The whole time you spoke to him like you had known him forever and were just picking up where things left off. It almost made him jealous how you had a way of being so comfortable around him without even trying. Because, like how could not a single conversation feel forced? It was fascinating. You carried yourself like you were meant to fall into people’s lives and stay there. You would just smile, and the warmth of it would be enough for the person in front of you to feel comfortable.
The thought of you stayed in Soobin’s mind for a little while Matthew was out taking you home. He was just looking at the table and thinking. He was really fond of you. He was never a hyperactive person, or someone who talks a lot, but with you no matter how long the conversation was, it wasn't enough. No matter how excited and loud you got he wanted to see more of you. And that really was coming as a shock to him, because.. was he slowly developing a crush on you? The one that you are not supposed to have, but you do?! He had to see you again to confirm.
“She’s not usually that talkative. I mean- ,” Matthew commented later that night as he washed the last few dishes. “She’s actually pretty shy with new people. I don’t know what got into her today. Hope she didn’t scare you off.” Soobin shook his head as an answer, careful to keep his voice steady and not expose himself to how swayed he actually was by you.
“Not at all. She seems like a… nice company.” well, in fact, Soobin was already thinking how he wanted to see you again.
“She is,” Matthew said with a grin. “You should join our outings sometimes, I bet you’d like the group too.” it wasn’t the first time Matthew had asked him, actually. Normally, Soobin would brush it off. He had his own circle, his own quiet corner of the world, and he never felt the need to fill it with more noise. Especially not with the noise Matthew was known for. However, this time was different. Maybe it would be fun? For the first time, the thought of stepping into a bigger crowd didn't feel so heavy. And even so, if you were there, then maybe it was going to be worth it?
“Yeah, why not?” he said, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t already decided.
“Great. Actually, wanna join our study session tomorrow at the library.” Matthew quickly took the opportunity to invite him.
“Yeah, I can tag along for a bit,” he murmured, grabbing a cold drink from the fridge. “I’ll head to bed, let me know if you need anything” Soobin waved Matthew a goodnight and slipped away to his room. When he finally threw himself onto the bed, a long sigh escaped him, one that had been waiting all evening. And, what now?
۶ৎ
Soobin woke up early. Well, actually, he didn’t sleep much at all. The thing he felt for you yesterday didn't seem to bother leaving. He felt a little lovestruck. . .and he barely knew you. His mind kept circling back to you with thoughts of how to approach you, how to start a basic conversation again. How to keep himself interesting enough so that you could be drawn the same way he was drawn to you. But finding that answer wasn’t easy. In fact, it was pretty damn hard. He never thought of himself as a boring person, yet when he compared himself to you, and how you carried yourself as if everything around you had purpose and meaning, he felt there was nothing he could possibly use to impress you. He turned and turned in his bed the whole night, sheets tangling between his legs. What could possibly grab your attention? You were a pretty good listener, you picked up casual topics naturally, but.. would you perhaps be interested in his camera collection too? Or maybe you'd like to talk about reading? No, his book choices were dreadful. They were all heavy stories full of sorrow, where emotions weren’t a taboo but the very essence. How many people would enjoy that kind of company? He had no idea. Questions just kept appearing, and he couldn’t find the one that felt the most genuine of all, not even when he was walking towards the table at the library where Matthew was waving him over.
“You came!” Matthew grinned. “Beomgyu, Chaewon, this is Soobin! My new roommate! Well, technically my landlord. I’ve mentioned him before.”
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” Soobin said warmly. He slipped into the seat beside Matthew, and rested his bag on the chair next to him before pulling out his laptop. After that Beomgyu and Chaewon asked him a few questions, politely searching for common ground, but the conversation quickly faded into silence. Eventually, they all buried themselves in their work. Well, all except Soobin. His eyes just kept drifting: you weren’t here. And the longer time stretched, the less certain he felt that you would show up. Asking Matthew where you were was not an option. It would be awkward, especially since no one else had mentioned your name the entire time. Maybe you weren’t coming after all.
“Sorry I’m late. An apology?” your playful voice cut through suddenly. It snapped Soobin out of the fog he had been trapped in, and annoyingly he wished he had more time to prepare himself. You looked gorgeous. Again. You were holding four cups of coffee balanced carefully on a carry tray, and flashing a peace sign. That small emote made the whole group laugh as if it were some secret trademark of yours. He told himself not to stare, but it was hard. His eyes just kept betraying him. He wanted to catch every detail of you. You looked comfortable, casual, just so damn beautiful. How did Matthew manage to be normal around you, he couldn't phantom. You then paused, frowning slightly as you counted something in your head, and your eyes slowly turning to Soobin.
“Soobin?!” you said, surprise spilling into your voice. You grabbed a cup overloaded with cream instinctively, and held your drink out to him. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be here!” you hesitated with your hostility for a second, unsure if it was too much, but then pushed the drink further to his hands. “Here, take mine. I’ll share with Matt instead.” and just like that you offered your drink to him.
“I’m oka-” Soobin began, but Matthew leaned forward, cutting him off with a cheeky smile.
“Take it before she cries that no one tried her choice of drink again. She gets too sensitive when people won’t taste-test her recommendations.”
“Hey!” you huffed back at Matthew, pouting. Soobin instantly bit back a smile. He didn’t even like sweet drinks, but for you? Of course he would try it. Without hesitation, he lifted the straw to his lips and took a sip. It was indeed sweet, and honestly, far sweeter than anything he would ever choose for himself. You then leaned in with wide and hopeful eyes, waiting for his verdict. He was basically forcing the corners of his mouth to stay up in a smile, doing everything he could to hide the grimace the sugar nearly pulled out of him.
“It’s good,” he said, forcing his expression to stay as genuine as possible. There was no way he’d admit he didn’t actually like it.
Your face lit up instantly, and you clapped your hands together in delight. “See? I knew it. Finally, someone who appreciates the perfect level of sweetness! They all hated it.” you stuck your tongue out at your friends in playful victory.
“Why are you late anyway?” Beomgyu joined with a curious expression.
“She probably met with the union. They’ve been on her trail for days, begging her to run their end-of-semester event,” Matthew answered simply, as if the question was aimed at him.You just nodded in return and scanned the table for a seat. Soobin half-rose, ready to give up his spot so you could sit beside Matthew, but you shook your head firmly. Instead, you slid into the empty chair next to him. It was something so small, but his heart started beating fast in excitement.
“Again? With that Yeonjun guy?” Beomgyu groaned, pulling a face. “How do you even finish anything with him around? He never stops talking. Ugh.” Chaewon nodded after Beomgyu’s statement. Soobin couldn’t manage to put a face to the name, but it seemed like he was a someone not so favourited.
“The head of Yeonjun’s hate club speaks again” Matthew replied, and Beomgyu just shrugged.
“He’s fine, you guys. Besides, Taehyun does great damage control anyway,” you confirmed, pulling your laptop out of your bag. “Matt, you working this week? Taehyun asked me to tell you to answer his messages.” Soobin just watched and listened. The first half an hour was mainly all of you catching up. Everyone just spoke and giggled. It was fun. You were fun.
Once you all locked in, the session after that went well, perhaps a bit too well. Mostly because Soobin had you sitting next to him and quietly working. You radiated energy he wasn’t familiar of, he couldn’t describe it, but the whole time he watched you. How you chew the inside of your cheeks when you were thinking. How your fingers stopped and tapped the space keycap before actually finishing writing the sentence you had started. He felt like every movement you made, no matter how ordinary, he had to memorise before it slipped away. And that kind of feeling unsettled him, not in a bad way, just.. he wasn’t sure if he actually started to like you, or if he was just thrown off by how effortlessly beautiful you were.
After a while, you pushed your chair back and leaned closer to him, voice soft like you didn’t want to break the room’s quiet. He leaned back instinctively to listen.
“I need to grab some books. I’ll be back.” you said. The others were too engrossed in their work, headphones pulled over their ears.
“Can I come with? I really need to stretch my legs.” it was a flimsy excuse, but he wanted to steal a moment with you
“Oh..” you glanced at his legs. “Yeah, c’mon.” you giggled. It was pretty obvious a tall guy like him needed to stretch, but more than anything you didn’t mind his company. Both of you headed to the shelves of your major, while in the meantime Soobin was trying his best to think of something to start a conversation with you.
“So… what is your major exactly?” Soobin spoke, he didn’t want to sound so dull and boring, but..that was all he came with in such a short time.
“Events. Events and Marketing, to be exact.” you smiled a little as you stacked weight into your arms, visibly too heavy for a small person like you. Soobin opened his hand toward you, with an inviting palm.
“Can I carry them for you?,” he said, trying to sound casual. You weighed his request for a moment, but then gave in.
“Thank you!” with a small nod you passed two books into his hands.
“So, events,” he continued carefully. “ and, how do you find it?”
“I like it. A lot. Honestly, it’s been my dream since I was a kid. And now…” you let out a little sigh, half-proud, half-exhausted. “I’m officially the Event Organiser for the union. Which also means, say goodbye to whatever social life I had left.”
“I’m sorry,” Soobin murmured, and you shook your head immediately, giving him a playful look.
“Why are you apologising? That was the most pitiful ‘I’m sorry’ I’ve ever heard,” you teased, squinting at him.
His ears immediately turned red. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It sounded like you were apologising for… stealing my pen or something. Not my entire social life,” you said dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. If he had to describe your whole personality right now he would say a game character. Naturally emoting. You were just so adorable.
Soobin’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “Fine. Should I try again?”
“Yes, with more emotion this time. Convince me you’re truly devastated about me losing my social life.”
He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and in an overly serious tone said, “I deeply regret the loss of your upcoming weekends, your Friday nights, and your freedom. May they rest in peace.” your laugh came out a little louder than the library probably allowed, but it made Soobin realise he’d gladly make a fool of himself if it meant hearing it again. You then squatted back toward the shelves, searching for a book again. He watched you with such interest, and patiently studying you. He genuinely couldn’t understand how you managed to look so effortlessly soothing. Soobin was a stranger to you, and yet you spoke like you were old friends. You met him yesterday? How can you already feel so comfortable around him?
“What about you?” your soft voice brought him back to reality when you asked. “What’s your major?”
“I major in Film and Photography.” Soobin said, swapping the books you gave him in his other hand.
“Film and Photography? How did you even meet Matthew?” you looked at Soobin with a small confusion in your eyes.
“I need a good grasp of visual communication and storytelling, so I picked Media and Communication as my sub-module. Matthew literally never stopped beefing with the professor, that I had to ask him to stop wasting my time” he answered straight away.
“Pfft.” you held back a laugh. “Typical Matthew. He’s been like this from high school, trying to outsmart the teachers giving us homework. Never really worked” you rolled your eyes reminiscing.”Anyway, so.. you tell stories through lenses? That’s beautiful.” you straightened your posture, signalling that you had found everything you needed. But Soobin didn’t move; he didn’t want this moment to end. It was way too short. He wanted to talk to you more.
“Yeah… it is,” was all he managed to say, but the truth was, the only beautiful thing here was you.
“You should show me your work sometime.” that sentence caughed him off guard. He didn’t expect you to show interest so soon. The thoughts that kept him up last night now seemed to unfold into reality. You wanted to know more about his work? The excitement in him bubbled dangerously and was almost threatening to give him away, but he swallowed it down and disguised it as a soft, “Of course.”
When the two of you returned to the table where the others were, you buried yourself in your assignment once again. Flipping through the books he just carried for you, typing the important parts. As for Soobin, it was already confirmed. He had fallen for you, and was now plotting small ways to draw you into his world. He had one wish only: to pull you gently, and to give you reasons to stay there. The method didn’t matter, right? As long as you seemed interested he would give his all.
۶ৎ
The third time Soobin saw you was in the campus café, where you sat alone by the big window. It had been a few days since the library study session where he’d realised his feelings for you, and after that.. nothing. You hadn’t visited, probably because Matthew was stuck on crazy and unsuitable work shifts. In the meantime, Soobin tried to keep himself busy, stacking his days with workshops and errands, because if he didn’t he knew he'd just end up sitting in the living room, waiting for the sound of your knock on the door, asking for Matthew. He was slowly snowballing. He fought against thoughts of you more than he cared to admit, and it scared him. If you knew what was going on inside his head, you would probably think he was weird, maybe even obsessed, but worst of all, you wouldn’t be wrong.
That was why he was on his way to yet another workshop, one of dozens he had forced himself to attend just to stay sane. But when he saw you, all his careful plans crumbled. How could he possibly walk away now?
“Hey,” he said with a small smile, holding on the the strap of his crossbody bag for support. It wasn’t like him to approach anyone first, but with you… with you it felt impossible to just stay still. He had to move. Always.
“Oh, hi, Soobin” you answered with a small surprise in your voice, “Going back home?”
“Actually, I was on my way to a workshop. What about you?”
“Sounds fun.” you nodded with a smile. “I’m waiting for Matthew. He’s at work, so I’m just hanging here.” you spoke calmly.
“Would you maybe want to come to the workshop with me? It’s open to anyone. ” the second the question left his mouth, his stomach twisted. He hadn’t really prepared beforehand. It was reckless, and a bit too soon. You were practically strangers. He probably looked like a looser who was shooting his shot without even aiming? What was he even thinking?“Sorry, that was… weird. We don’t really know each other that well.” he rushed out. “Forget I asked.” he then braced himself for you to brush him off with polite distance. But you didn’t. You didn’t even look startled in the slightest by what he just blabbed out to you. No wide eyes, no awkward laugh, no unconfortable shifting in your seat. The fact that a guy you’d met only a few days ago was inviting you to a class didn’t seem to rattle you at all. Instead, you just took a slow sip of your coffee with a curious expression.
“You’re Matthew’s friend,” you finally said. “If he trusts you, then I do too. So… if you don’t mind having me around…” your expression didn’t move, but your eyes were warm, as if you were smiling with them. It relieved the tension he felt when he so suddenly asked you to join him.
“Of course,” he shooted quickly, though the words came out far too small compared to the way his heart was racing. What the hell just happened? He had no idea how that worked. He shifted aside, giving you space to stand, and together you started walking toward the workshop.
“So,” you tilted your head playfully, “What exactly is this mysterious workshop you’re dragging me to?”
“Film-making” he answered softly, “But, nothing serious, it is more about interest than skill. Just… experimenting, really.”
“Oh, experimenting how?” you raised a brow in interest.
“Well…” Soobin started. “Sometimes we take a random object, photograph it, and then analyse it according to a theme.” he then looked at you trying to analyse if you’re interested or what he is saying makes you bored, then continued “Other times, we watch films and break down the emotions they carry. It sounds technical, but it’s more about learning how people see and feel.”
“That actually sounds… kind of fun,” you admitted, your eyes brightening. “Matthew’s always making me pose for his pictures, so I know a little how picky photographers can be.” you giggled memories popping in your head. “But other than that, I know nothing. Am I even allowed to join?” it didn’t come as a surprise to Soobin that you felt out of place, but he shook his head quickly.
“It’s open to anyone. You don’t even have to participate if you don’t want to. Most of us don’t.” he shrugged casually. “I almost never do, honestly. I just like watching how other people tell their stories.”
“You are truly passionate about photography, aren't you?” you smiled as you both stepped into the hall. Once you were already in, the difference hit you right away. Your major’s workshops never had more than twenty people crammed into a room. Things were always kept quiet, and almost intimate. But here was different. It was loud, and so damn alive. Over fifty students spread out with tripods and cameras you couldn’t even name. It felt like walking into another world. It was fascinating. Soobin guided you toward a row of seats in the middle. But you couldn’t help but keep turning your head, soaking it all in.
After the usual introductions of the lecturer, today’s theme was presented. The focus was going to be lightning. Covering topics such as shadows, brightness, and the way a small shift could changethe whole mood of an image. It was pretty straightforward.
As instructions unfolded, Soobin found his eyes drifting towards you. He still couldn’t believe you had agreed to join him. He couldn’t believe he had you for himself, even if only for this one small pocket of time. The more he kept his eyes on you the more he realised how fully locked in you were in what the professor was saying. It was rare to see someone pay attention with that kind of focus, rare to see someone so present even as a student of that major. The sight of your intrigued eyes pulled a warm smile out of him. The whole time, you never strayed from what the professor was saying. Every time something complex was mentioned, you leaned closer to whisper your confusion, and it struck him how unafraid you were to admit what you didn’t know. You weren’t pretending. You weren’t trying to impress. And that was beautiful, because it gave him the chance to step in, to explain, and most importantly to feel useful to you. Soobin cherished that closeness. Your warmth brushing against his arm, the quiet confidence it took for you to ask him. He cherished everything.
And yet, he just couldn’t understand how you always managed to reveal something new about yourself that made him fall even deeper. Was it possible to grow this attached, this quickly? He had always thought feelings took time, that they unfolded slowly and carefully. But with you, everything seemed to race forward, and he couldn’t stop it. Sitting there beside you, watching you lean into the world with such openness, he wanted to hold onto that. He wanted to brush your hair to the side, tell you how beautiful you were, ask you what you would like to eat. He wanted every single moment from now on to include you.
When the professor asked everyone to pair up, Soobin didn’t even think, of course he chose you. In an instant his fingers grabbed his camera and tapped lightly against it with a nervous rhythm. That small movement acted as a disguise to how badly he wanted to capture you, not just for the workshop, but in memory.
“Smile,” he whispered to you, so softly it almost didn’t sound like a request. Almost without realising it, he turned the focus ring everything around you blurring and only you remained sharp before him. For a second, you didn’t move. Then, slowly, your lips lifted in a genuine smile. Before he could even steady his hands, the shutter clicked, capturing you in a moment he already knew would live in his mind for a long time.
“One more?” he murmured, not wanting to break your limits of acceptance.
You tilted your head, studying him for a moment before nodding. “You’re really serious about this.
“About photography?” he asked, adjusting the lens again to give his hands something to do.
You hummed, then teased lightly, “No. About making me your model.”
“I just think you’re… beautiful.” the truth came out before he could stop himself, and for a moment he regretted it. He wished he could snatch it back before it landed between you, but he couldn’t. That was too honest.
Your eyes instantly flickered. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a gesture so small and shy it made his breath catch. Then a small giggle escaped your lips teasing how unsure you were how to handle what he’d just said. And right that second, his camera clicked again. He captured what seemed to be the most genuine reaction he had ever seen, Soobin lowered the camera slowly with fingers already sweaty, staring at the screen as though he couldn’t believe what he’d caught. He felt his ears burning, you were folding him so easily, he couldn’t manage to keep up.
For the rest of the workshop, Soobin guided you through the play of light across your portrait. He pointed with the mouse, explaining with a slow and soft tone. You leaned your head into your palm, eyes following his cursor, but half the time you weren’t sure if you were studying your image on the screen or the quiet focus in his profile. There was something about him at that moment.
“When using artificial lights,” he began gently, “you have to balance their strength, so the right parts of the image rise, and the others soften into shadow.”
You leaned your head closer, “Ohhh. Woah, it does make a difference.” then you glanced sideways at him. His sleeve was almost brushing your wrist, the warmth from his body transmitting to yours “You’re really good at this.” you continued “Honestly, you explain it in a way that makes me want to hear more.” the words slipped out like a confession dressed as a compliment.
That made Soobin’s stomach twist. He tried to not to let the reaction show, but his hand tightened slightly on the mouse. “You… listen differently,” he said quietly, then he let his eyes flicker to yours, braver. “It makes me want to get it right.” you caught the sudden shift in his tone, it felt as if it wasn’t about the photograph anymore.
“Careful,” you murmured playfully, “say things like that and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to impress me.”
He then let out a nervous chuckle, but didn’t look away. “Maybe I am.”
You told yourself it was nothing, just banter, but the tone of his voice felt too…honest. “Well…” your started. “If that’s the case, you’re doing a good job.” for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. “and I would love to be your student,” you finally said, pulling back just enough to breathe again.
He swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck. “Then I guess I’ll have to be a good teacher,” the effect on Soobin from this conversation was anything but small. He fought hard to keep eye contact, pretending there was no tension in between. But only when you leaned back fully in your chair, he realised the conversation had more meaning than intended. It was about you and about him. About the closeness you weren’t sure either of you were brave enough to name.
۶ৎ
The fourth time he saw you, his head spun three full turns before his mind could even catch up with the sight of you. He barely even remembered how to speak. You walked into the apartment looking breathtaking, wrapped in an elegant white lace dress. Its fabric flowed longer at the sides of your hips while the front was cut shorter, just enough to reveal your thighs and make him go crazy. You weren’t intentionally provocative, but still impossibly alluring. Hunger built up in him with the speed of light. Your dress was hanging on two thin strips with your shoulders bare and softly exposed. He felt as if you were testing his patience. Testing how fast he would fold, little did you know he was literally folding from day one. But where were you going, dressed like this?
The moment your eyes locked, a small sound escaped you, a startled squeak he didn’t know you could make. Was it keek? Eek? He couldn’t grasp, but you sounded like a scared cat. You instantly covered your face after with your fingers spread apart just enough for him to see your squeezed-shut eyes blinking rapidly through.
“Clothes!” you blurted out with a flustered voice. Oh, right, he was sitting right there in front of you, fresh out of the shower, half-naked, and only with a towel hanging on his hips. The realisation made him flush a little, but in some hidden corner of his chest, he felt oddly pleased by your reaction. Like, did he just flustered you in a way he didn’t even dare to imagine? “Forgot you were… you know. A guy.” you muttered quickly, still shielding your face as you stepped into the living room, slowly walking towards Matthew who was in the kitchen. The sound of commotion drew Matthew’s head out from the kitchen, where he was busy steaming some buns.
“Y/N!” he exclaimed, making you freeze by the wall. “Why didn’t you text me you were coming?” Matthew continued, eyebrows still raised. “Sorry, Soobin. I gave her the code to the apartment for emergencies but-”
“It’s okay,” Soobin cut, biting down nervous smile. Matthew’s figure hid behind the fridge once again, checking on his food. Soobin turned his eyes on you, his naked body moving closer to you, with a hand reaching out almost in an instinct, and brushing over the top of your head. Before he knew it, he was leaning down, close enough that his face hovered near yours. and spoke “Didn’t think I was that easy to forget,” he said playfully. You risked a glance. Just a glance. And it was enough to catch the way his hair clung to his forehead, how pointed out his collarbone was.
“That’s not what I meant.” you said looking away quickly. You tried to stop your mind going places unholy, but you couldn’t. Soobin’s figure was… pretty. Not fit like Matthew’s, but clearly defined. Soobin caught a small witch of your lips, and then he realised the flush rising over your cheeks. It wasn’t the makeup, definitely. It was you. You had a real blush, very delicate and impossible to ignore.
“I’ll put a shirt on” from the kitchen, Matthew called your name again, and you took that as an opportunity to slip away. Soobin knew he had been unfair, but that was payback. Ever since that day in the workshop when you flustered him with nothing more than your words and a glance, Soobin hadn’t been able to steady himself when he thought of you. Especially not now, not when you looked like this, like something he wanted to call his. He didn’t want to scare you away with the weight of his feelings, but neither could he keep standing behind, watching from a distance, and pretending he didn’t long to step in closer to you. Once away from his sight, Soobin headed to his room with sulk movements.
“Are you really going out like this?” you exclaimed loudly with a tone of annoyance he hadn’t studied yet.
“No, I’m changing. Let me just finish that.” Matthew started with what sounded like an excuse.
“Matt, we’re supposed to leave in five minutes,” you cut in, pouting.
“Are you guys going somewhere?” Soobin then asked gently, careful not to sound too nosy, as if the question wasn’t burning inside him from the second he saw you. He knew it wasn’t just a casual fit. Dressed like this, glowing like this, you were planning to impress.
“We’re going to the club,” you replied refusing to meet his eyes. “He booked us all out, and now he’s late.” Soobin followed how you swatted Matthew’s arm playfully.
“Wanna join us?” Matthew offered suddenly.
“You have 5minutes, both of you, before I leave alone!” you ordered, not even waiting for Soobin to answer.
Soobin had never felt so suddenly alive at the thought of a night out. He wasn’t the club type. Oh, not at all. He hated places like these. Cramped with people high and drunk with eyes carrying nothing but lust. Soobin was more of a night-walker where people were hidden in their houses and where streets were empty. But he couldn’t possibly say no, not when you were going to be there.
۶ৎ
At the club, Soobin felt slightly overwhelmed. Very much an expected reaction, but still. He tried to ease his mind by looking at you, but it wasn’t working well. You moved your body in ways that played with Soobin’s mind dangerously. You had a drink in your hand, and Hiyyih was standing in front of you. Both of you were laughing and singing as if every song touched deep into your souls. Soobin, however, was sitting quietly on the couch of the booth that Matthew had booked for the night. He really wasn’t sure what to do. Everyone seemed comfortable, in their element, probably nothing out of the ordinary. Beomgyu and Chaewon were eating their faces off, Matthew was talking something to a guy named Taehyun, and Kai, bless him, was playing games on his phone like an iPad kid. He had caught other questionable things happening on the dance floor, but nothing was more interesting than you, so that’s why he was just watching you. How your eyes wandered, how your drink, although swung around on the beats of the music, never lost a drop. How the long laces of your dress tried to keep up with your moves, but couldn’t. Soobin slowly sipped from his drink, cursing everyone around you for being closer than he was.
It didn’t take long before Hiyyih was pulled away by someone she knew, leaving you on your own. Soobin didn’t think twice before he took that chance. He stood up quickly, crossing the small distance in a few long steps and slipping between you and the other intoxicated bodies.
“Having fun?” he asked gently, his voice low enough for only you to catch. He couldn’t think of anything clever to say. Your balance was shaky, but instead of stepping away, you pressed closer, your arm brushing his. It was more than obvious that you were tipsy. He also knew he should probably guide you back to the booth, but his body completely refused to listen. His hand found your waist in an instant, a bit gentle, yet trembling at the contact. It was a genuine reaction to steady you, but it made you laugh against his chest. Before he could process it, your arms hooked loosely around his neck. Clearly a drunk affection, but the way your fingertips grazed the bare skin at the nape of his neck sent fire down his spine. That was dangerous and if you had been sober, he might have kissed you right then. Boldly, recklessly and in front of everyone. But now? He had to force it back, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. “You’re supposed to be careful,” he murmured near your ear, breath brushing your skin.
“And you’re supposed to be sitting on that couch,” you teased in return, grinning at your own comeback.
“Couldn’t sit still,” he admitted. You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly, you were trying to read him, but the alcohol in your system didn’t seem to help you find an answer.
“So you came to dance with me?” you asked.
“Maybe,” he said, gaze dipping into your eyes. His hand was still on your waist, thumb brushing lightly. He was slowly going insane for you, and you probably had no idea.
“Then dance!” you pulled him closer. The music carried you both, your hair swinging with every turn, brushing against his jaw, then against his shoulder, until he couldn’t tell if the heat in his chest came from the crowd or just you. Your collarbones glistened under the flashing lights, catching his attention no matter how many times he tried to drag his eyes back up to yours. It was becoming unclear how he could endure before the line between patience and desire snapped. And just when his control frayed, when he thought he might really forget himself…
“Alright, miss,” Matthew’s voice cut through, sharp and very much disapproving, dragging you out of Soobin’s arms and snapping him back to reality. “Too early, too drunk?!” Matthew’s eyes flicked to Soobin for an answer, but he had none to give. He felt awful, as if he was caught doing something bad.
“I am not that drunk,” you pouted, stumbling into Matthew’s hold.
“Couch jail! Now! Flirting with Soobin is prohibited.” Soobin froze. Flirting? You? No, it was him. It had always been him, wasn’t it? He was the one holding back everything he wanted. You rolled your eyes in response but still let Matthew guide you back toward the booth. The one Soobin was observing you from earlier. He followed you silence, his eyes on you as Matthew eased you down with the care of someone who knew exactly how to handle you. “Stay here,” Matthew instructed firmly, brushing your hair out of your face. Soobin watched him open a bottle of water and place it into your hand. You looked away, sulking, but still followed his lead, even if water spilt down your chin in the attempt to drink it
“Where’s Hiyyih?” you mumbled, wiping your face clumsily.
“I will tell you once I find her and her brother.” Matthew muttered, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes. “Why do I always end up babysitting all of you?” Soobin felt the tone of Matthew’s voice carrying a level of worry, but really not surprised. It wasn’t the first time. He’d been through this routine before, pulling you out of the noise, making sure you weren’t left vulnerable in the wrong company. Matthew hated how easily you trusted, and how easily you laughed your way into trouble. Tonight was no different. He let you have too many drinks getting his protective streak on overdrive.
“Hey, Matthew,” Soobin spoke. “I don’t mind staying with her here. You should go find the rest.” Matthew studied him for a long moment, measuring the offer, suspicion flickering across his face as he looked between you and Soobin. You were out of it smile up to your ears just swinging left and right close to Soobin. Eventually, he gave a small nod.
“Could I trust you that you would keep her out of trouble? She gets too much when drunk.” Matthew sighed through his nose, “I’m not joking, Soobin. I need to know she’s safe.” unfortunately for Soobin, that wasn’t a promise he could make, at least not fully. Not when he, himself, already felt like the trouble. Especially now that he had seen the playful more confident side of you.
“You can trust me.” Soobin finally said. Matthew gave him a small nod, then disappeared into the press of bodies, swallowed by music.The second he was gone, you slumped back onto Soobin’s shoulder with a dreamy little smile.
“See?” you murmured, eyes half-lidded. “Now you’re stuck with me.”
“Stuck?” he asked palms against his jeans rubbing slowly to remove the sweat away. “I think I got lucky.”
“Lucky?” you tilted your head in confusion “So, you don’t like clubs?”
“I don’t. But… I like being where you are,” he shrugged, trying to sound casual. That made you laugh, a little surprised. Realisation hit. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. One second he was standing back, trying to blend into the noise, the next he was here, closer than he should be.ou didn’t know his intention, but neither did he. All he knew was that something about you kept pulling him in without giving him a chance to fight.
“You know… you look really good when you’re serious.” you giggled as if it was the most casual thing you could say.
“I do?” he blinked in confusion, his heart racing.
“Mmhm,” you hummed, “At the workshop.., when you explained the things to me, I thought, ‘wow, he looks like he could teach me anything.” his mouth twitched, you were dangerous and Matthew was right.
“You think too much of me. Making me better than I actually am.” Soobin shifted in his seat a bit.
“No,” you countered, poking gently at his sleeve. “You just don’t see yourself like I do. You make everything sound interesting. Even… contrast and shadows.” did you even realise what you’d just handed him? Soobin shot his head back at you, locking eyes with yours, they were unfocused but sincere. That was enough to undo him completely. He really wanted to tell you how those words burnt through his chest, but the risk of hearing them dismissed as drunken rambling kept him still. He wouldn’t want you to forget.
“Does it make you want to come back?” he then asked, gently.
“I think…” you hiccuped, but then continued “I’d always come back if you’re there.” you then blinked slowly. For a moment, the world around Soobin stopped moving. He had to look away before you caught the storm in his eyes. The music pounded in the background, but instead all he could hear was your voice, burning deeply into his mind.
“You shouldn’t say things like that when you’re drunk.” Matthew’s heads up about you wasn’t strong enough. You were too much, far too honest for what Soobin was able to take.
“But I mean them,” you said back softly, “Even if I won’t remember tomorrow… you should.” his lips parted, a protest forming but never leaving. He felt your breathing slowing, lashes falling against your cheeks. He stayed perfectly still and was unwilling to let the world disturb you. Of course he would remember, far more than what you could actually bare.
The night after this moment with you went by too fast. Fortunately for him, you didn’t wake up, unfortunately for all, you weren't the only one out of it. Surprise. Beomgyu had gotten into an argument with someone who tried to sway his girlfriend away. Taehyun, had stepped in to calm things down. By the time everyone gathered around you and Soobin, Matthew was done with this night out. Kai slopping on his shoulder with visibly too many drinks in his system.
“So glad you’re here,” Matthew muttered, exhaling like he’d been holding the evening together with his bare hands. “I don’t know if I could’ve managed as the only sober here.” Soobin shook his head. He actually didn’t mind being here. If it meant being your safety net, he would shoulder more than this.“We should go now. We’ll bring Y/N to ours, if that’s okay.” Soobin agreed. Carefully, he lowered your head against the armrest of the sofa, and lifted you gently onto his back. You were so light in his hold, fragile almost.
۶ৎ
At Soobin’s apartment, Matthew stepped in with a familiarity that made Soobin sit at the back like a side character. Once you were laid gently across the bed, Matthew tied your hair into a loose bun. He had the confidence of someone who had done it before, probably numerous of times. The sight reddened Soobin’s face a little, but it wasn’t jealousy what he was feeling, well, not quite that, more like something between envy and longing. Matthew was inside your world in ways Soobin hadn’t yet been allowed. And oh, how badly he wanted that. He wasn’t sure he had the right to compare himself to Matthew, but after tonight, Soobin yearned to be the one you leaned on without hesitation. To be the one who could quietly take care of you without a second thought. But he couldn't, at least not yet.
Soobin left Matthew’s room quietly, closing the door softly enough not to wake you up. When he came to his room your presence still followed him after. The memory of your head against his shoulder. You had no idea what those small touches meant to him. Those moments with you were unfolding faster than he could steady his heart. And Soobin knew, with a frightening clarity, that it wouldn’t be long before his feelings slipped free. It was impossible to hold back. He wanted to tell you how he felt. He wanted to let the words fall and he trusted you would catch them.
۶ৎ
The next morning you woke up with a grunt due to the sunlight creeping in between your lashes. For a moment you looked lost, blinking at the unfamiliar space, but then you realised where you were. You slipped out of bed and padded toward the kitchen where he was making himself breakfast. You stirred with a faint groan, the dull ache of a hangover written across your face.
“Good morning,” your voice came out a little hoarse, and you rubbed your temples as if trying to push your headache away. Bare-faced, hair tied messily, and swimming in one of Matthew’s t-shirts, Soobin forgot every rational thought. You were… too much, and too early.
“Morning,” he replied. You hovered awkwardly for a moment, chewing your lip before sitting at the kitchen table. “I… don’t remember much from yesterday. Not all of it, at least.” you glanced at him carefully, as if bracing for disappointment. “Did I… Was I really annoying?” you asked with a disgusted grimace, and Soobin shook his head as a response almost instantly. He reached for a knife and began to slice fruit without even thinking.
“No. You weren’t.” he said confidently.
“You’re just being nice. Matthew always tells me I get unbearable.”
“I’m not,” he insisted, more firmly this time “You were… happy. That’s all.” your expression softened though you still seemed doubtful.
“Still, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want you to think less of me.” he paused mid-cut, meeting your eyes with a steadiness you didn’t expect.
“If anything,” he said quietly, “I think more of you.” his hands fumbled a little as he placed a small plate of apples in front of you.
“Oh! Did Matthew you asked you to do this?” surprise building in your voice, Soobin looked confused for a second. “Sorry. It’s just, Matthew always cuts apples for me after a night out” for Soobin, watching you pick an apple and eat it felt like a strange kind of a lesson. The bitterness of Matthew’s name landed as a first. Matthew’s care for you had become pretty obvious now, but it hit him harder that you were already so used to this. How natural it seemed for you to be looked after. To have someone anticipate your needs before you even ask. Just like yesterday, and the time before, it was all normal. It was all Matthew’s doing, and that was hard to swallow. Because for Soobin, serving you apples like that was intentional. In a way to impress you. It felt huge, as if he was leaving his heart sitting right there on that plate. But for you, it blended in with the rhythm Matthew had already built into your life. And what he planned to stand out, didn’t, it possibly couldn’t. He couldn’t argue with the fact that your personality made it easy for people to want to take care of you, and easy to fall into the same pattern of devotion. But unfortunately, that wasn’t enough for him. Soobin didn’t just want to be another person who offered you comfort like it was routine. He didn’t want to be your second Matthew. He wanted to be the one who gave you something different, something that would actually reach you. The problem was, he had no idea what that was. Soobin’s intentions were clear, he wanted everything that goes beyond friendship. He wanted to be more than what Matthew was already to you.
“Soobin…” you said, pulling him back to reality. He zoned for far long than he wanted. “Did I… do anything stupid? Be honest,” you asked, glancing at him with hesitant curiosity.
“You danced,” he answered, his lips twitching as if fighting a smile.
“Oh no.” immediately, you covered your face with both hands.
“And you laughed a lot.” you peeked at him through your fingers, and his chest thighterned at the sight of you. “Oh, right,” he added suddenly, almost too casually. “Matthew went somewhere earlier, I couldn't ask him where, he was rushing”
“Hm?” you blinked.
“You didn’t even ask where he was, so...” his brows pulled together slightly, studying you. Was it too obvious he had been thinking about you and Matthew too much?
“He probably went to class early. He might not seem like the reliable type, but he is when it comes to studying.” you laughed. “I don’t need to check on him all the time.”
“Of Matthew,” he admitted. His eyes flicked toward the empty living room, then back to you. “… because he gets to have this kind of friendship with you. You seem to trust him a lot,”
“With everything,” you admitted. “He’s… Matthew’s always been my person.” what came out of your mouth seemed to have no weight, but for Soobin those words were huge. Your person? He forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach the end of his eyes.
“It almost sounds more like… a relationship than a friendship.” Soobin’s approach to that was deliberate, he just wanted to confirm. Were you romantically attracted to each other? But you only laughed softly at that, leaning your chin on your hand.
“You wouldn’t be the first to say that,” you sighed, and he looked at you thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?” he asked, and your eyes dropped to the table. The next words coming out a little slower and weighed with memory.
“My last relationship ended because of Matthew.” then you suddenly waved your hands as if to clear a misunderstanding. “Not because of anything he did wrong, but because… my boyfriend at the time couldn’t handle how close we were. He thought there had to be more between us.”
“And was there?” the question slipped out before Soobin could catch it. You met his eyes, steady, and fully sure.
“No?! Matthew has never crossed a line, not once. He’s… everything to me, but not like that.” Soobin swallowed on nothing, his throat was dry, and his heart was hammering into his ribs. He hoped he hadn’t offended you, but the image of Matthew yesterday, and how confidently he’d taken care of you really clung to him the whole night. He was observing you and Matthew since day one, you were annoyingly close. To see another guy touch you so comfortably was… foreign, you let your body rest in his presence. Caressing, leaning, supporting your waist, touching your cheek, moving your hair aside, he wouldn't bear it, letting another man touch you if he was your boyfriend too.
Your voice cut through his doubt once again,“If the person I’m dating can’t accept that Matthew is part of my life, then I don’t need them. I don’t want to be with someone who tries to cut him out.” you paused, then added with a level of certainty Soobin was unable to oppose, “I’m not confrontational, but I know where I stand on that. Matthew’s staying.” those words echoed in Soobin’s mind, carving way deeper than you probably intended. He forced his expression to stay calm, but inside, he was spiralling. What you had with Matthew was untouchable, and that terrified him. Because if Soobin wanted a place in your life, he wouldn’t just have to earn your affection, he’d have to compete with the pedestal Matthew already stood on. And that alone was almost impossible.
۶ৎ
After Soobin left for class, the apartment felt unusually quiet, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of quiet you didn’t get for yourself that often. You didn’t have any lectures scheduled today, which meant a rare stretch of hours just for yourself. Fun times. Especially with the end-of-semester event looming over you, your schedule would soon be swallowed up by student union meetings and endless details, and honestly, the thought of it already made your shoulders feel heavy. Twice a week in the rep room with Yeonjun, Taehyun, and the rest of the team was no small commitment. That ‘s why you accepted today as a day to let yourself slow down. You curled up on the sofa with a blanket, managed to catch up on a few episodes of a show you’d been putting off, and then you even let yourself doze for a while. By the afternoon, though, you started to feel restless. Maybe it was the lingering hangover, or perhaps the guilt of being unproductive. You weren’t sure, but on a whim, you drifted into the kitchen and decided to bake. It was nothing fancy, just a pie. You half-expected it to be a disaster, but when it came out of the oven golden and warm, you couldn’t help but feel a little proud. You knew Matthew’s bum would hit the ceiling with excitement. He had begged you to bake for a month now.
“You baked?!” Matthew gasped dramatically once the boys entered, just like you had expected “No way. I’m about to cry.” you laughed, waving him off, but Soobin leaned on the counter, peering down at the dish as if it were a science project.
“This smells… really good,” he said carefully, eyes flicking to you. “What did you put in it?”
“Um… everything?” you hesitated, laughing nervously. “I just grabbed whatever was in the fridge and hoped for the best.” Soobin blinked at you, almost disappointed by your answer.
“So… no measurements? No recipe?”
“Not even a little,” you confessed. He nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Interesting,” he then cut himself a slice, careful and neat. “You don’t mind if I…”
“Go ahead, it’s for you” you encouraged, watching him take the first bite. His expression stayed neutral as he chewed, but you could see him working it out.
“Don’t overthink it, Gordon Ramsay,” Matthew teased, snatching a forkful for himself. “It’s perfect. Y/N, I’m in love.” he then blew you a playful kiss across the table, making you burst into laughter. Soobin set down his fork, lips pressed together. No recipe, and it tasted this good? He almost set the kitchen on fire a few months ago, and he only put cookie dough to bake for 30 minutes. You must have some magical hands.
Later, while Matthew was still raving about “chef Y/N” and making plans for your “next creation,” Soobin stayed in the kitchen, helping you tidy the counter.
“I didn't say it earlier,” he said softly, “But I really liked your pie.”
“Even when it was just random stuff from the fridge thrown in the oven?” you smiled at him, a little confused.
“Still tasted better than anything I’ve had in a while.” he gave a small shrug, lips tugging into a shy smile. “Would… love to try more of your food,” he added, “Maybe you could even teach me how to bake.”
“You would like to bake?” you turned to him with a surprised look. “I thought guys only liked eating? Matthew cannot cook for the life of him.” you snorted. Soobin felt a flicker in his chest. This was something he could hold onto, something that could make him stand out in your eyes. Bingo.
He tried to play it cool, tugging lightly at the hem of his sleeve. “Well… I actually like baking,” he said. “But obviously it depends on the teacher.”
“Deal.” you cut. “You teach me more about photography, I teach you more about baking” you pulled out your hand for a handshake and smiled brightly. Soobin was a little startled that you still remembered what happened in the workshop and you didn't mind hearing more. You probably thought it was just a casual joke, but his mind held onto it like a promise. He will definitely bring it up if you forget. He was not going to back off.
“Deal.” he managed to say back, and the conversation ended there. You moved out of the kitchen and curled up on Matthew on the sofa. You had no idea what was happening inside Soobin’s head, every part of his brain was filled with you. He could possibly go mad just because of your existence.
۶ৎ
The next morning, all three of you headed to uni together. Soobin was utterly happy to be able to spend more time with you. Having breakfast, chatting the morning away, getting ready and everything. It was special. At some point once in uni, Matthew peeled off toward his own class, leaving you and Soobin alone. Since your schedule didn’t line up perfectly, you had an extra half-hour to spare. Soobin suggested spending time at the cafe, and that's how you found yourselves chatting idly about baking.
“I’ve got that meeting with the student union soon, I am kind of dreading it.” you sipped your drink and leaned back with a sigh.
“Why? Is something wrong withe the union?” Soobin tilted his head, and you pulled a face.
“Not really, they are all fun. You actually met Taehyun the other night, he is a union member too. The problem is, it will eat up all my free time. Twice a week meetings are going to kill me.” you looked at your phone checking the time and then continued. “Ah, Yeonjun should be here shortly” before Soobin could even say something, a smooth voice cut through the air.
“Hi, beautiful.” Soobin’s head snapped up, a frown forming immediately. You, on the other hand, let out a small laugh. Damn, so that was the guy you were all talking about. He knew who Yeonjun was, very much so.
“You’re here.” you said, almost unfazed, as if his presence just reminded you you have to work. Yeonjun, however, stood in front of the table with hands shoved in his pockets, and with a certain presence about him, that annoyed Soobin to his core. People always noticed when he walked into a room, and honestly, he looked like he expected them to, anyway. It was the complete opposite of Soobin, who usually blended into the background, never wanting attention in the first place. Yeonjun, was the type almost everyone on campus knew about. When you mentioned his name it was hard for him to register you were talking about THE Choi Yeonjun. No wonder Beomgyu hated him. Soobin did too, even someone as someone who barely paid attention to any of the campus gossip, couldn’t miss Yeonjun’s name being thrown around. Still, he never thought he’d see you two actually connected, and this casual too. That was naïve of him, and a fat reality check in his face. You are beautiful, and it only made sense that people like Yeonjun would gravitate toward you too. Shit.
“In the flesh,” Yeonjun grinned at you. “Taehyun’s on the way, but the others are already waiting in the study room.” you nodded, it was an invitation for you to go, but Soobin could see it in your eyes that you didn’t really want to. “You look incredible today. I like your dress.” Soobin shifted in his seat, his discomfort probably clear from miles away. But he saw it, you liked that blunt compliment.
“Thanks, Yeonjun. You don’t look too bad yourself,” you replied lightly. Then Yeonjun leaned closer to you, resting his palms on the table.
“Not bad? That’s all I get? I was going for something like… unforgettable.”
“Unforgettable might be a stretch, but… fine. You look great.” Soobin watched your eyes wander on Yeonjun’s outfit for a bit, as if confirming that he, in fact, looked great. And he did. He always looked great, he carried himself like a star. He was a star on campus.
“That’s better,” Yeonjun said, visibly satisfied. Then his gaze flicked to Soobin, pausing for a moment before he extended his hand casually. “Yeonjun, the union’s rep.” Soobin took the handshake but couldn’t return the grin. God damnit, and he is the union representative?
“Soobin,” he said simply, as if the introduction itself was enough.
“Ah,” Yeonjun mused, eyes narrowing just slightly, as if he’d already read the tension. “Good to meet you. Do you two always hang out? Surprised Matthew’s not around.”
“Yeah, and he’s in class,” you answered oblivious to the fact how Yeonjun’s eyes stayed on Soobin.
“Well,” he drawled. “I guess I’ll be seeing more of you, then, Soobin” but Soobin didn’t quite know how to take that. It wasn’t Yeonjun inviting himself into your space, oh definitely not, it sounded more like a warning. Had he just stumbled into a rivalry he wasn’t really prepared for? “You should save me a seat later, yeah?” Yeonjun turned your way with a cheeky grin.
You rolled your eyes in return, your hand pushing his arm. Soobin bit his lower lip. Even Yeonjun had a closeness with you already, one that came effortlessly. But, of course. That was it, people were just drawn to you. He knew that from the moment he saw you. That warmth in your eyes, the way you carried yourself, it just.. made sense. Maybe Soobin’s feelings weren’t rare at all. Maybe it was just… the way everyone felt around you.
“Come on, let’s go,” you said, and cutely stretched your hand to wave Soobin goodbye. He only nodded, observing the way Yeonjun hovered around you closer than he himself dared. Yeonjun’s confidence filled the space in ways Soobin’s quietness definitely couldn’t. But what was more annoying was that you let him. Yeonjun had a completely different approach to you. Maybe you didn’t notice, maybe you just assumed Yeonjun came with good intentions. Or maybe… you liked it? Maybe you liked being flirted with so openly, and maybe Yeonjun knew exactly how far he could push that line. But wait, surely it wouldn’t be that easy if you already had Matthew treating you like a royal? Right? That cheeky annoying guy next to you couldn't possibly impress you that easily, right? You were tripped in Soobin’s mind, yet again. He just couldn’t figure you out yet. By the time you disappeared through the doors with Yeonjun at your side, Soobin still couldn’t find himself an answer. But he was certain of one thing. He’d been a fool. Thinking Matthew was the only one he had to compete with. Complete idiot. If he doesn’t take a move, if he keeps sitting in silence like this, you’d be taken away even before he has the chance to reach for you.
۶ৎ
The meeting with the student union itself passed in a blur of notes, awfully long discussions, and… Yeonjun’s flirting. But at least plans were set. By the end, you and the group managed to decide what event you will be organising. You were all in for an elegant and ambitious masquerade ball. The exact kind of event that would leave a mark on campus.
As you stepped out of the room, your phone immediately buzzed.
│Matthew: Me and Soobin are waiting outside. Pizza? 🍕
Relief washed through you instantly. You typed back a quick “on my way” and slipped your bag over your shoulder. The moment you walked out of the building, Matthew had both hands in the air, calling you over as if you had been away for days.
“Finally! We’re starving,” Matthew groaned, reaching for your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Soobin just watched quietly, making sure Yeonjun wasn't following you behind.
Once you arrived, the three of you slid into a booth at the pizzeria. Menus quickly laid unopened, hardly even glanced at before Matthew ordered, “the biggest thing you’ve got.” The moment the waiter disappeared, Matthew leaned forward across the table dramatically and eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“So,” he started, “what event are you planning this time?
“Well, actually… a kinda fancy one.”
“Fancy?” his brows shot up. “How fancy are we talking? Champagne and violins fancy, or me wearing socks without holes fancy?” Soobin watched from across the table, catching the way Matthew, still laughing, reached over and set a napkin and cutlery in front of you. The box had been sitting by your elbow the whole time, close enough for you to grab yourself, but you didn’t. You didn’t even look at it, you were probably just used to someone else doing those little things for you. Matthew was so unfair. He was leaving Soobin with nowhere to fit, nowhere to be noticed.
“Neither. It will be a masquerade ball,” you said, a little tentative.
“Stop. A ball? You’re serious?”
“Very serious,” you said, grinning at his reaction. “Masks, music.. everything. It’s supposed to be the big end-of-semester event, after all.”
“That’s… a really creative idea. Not something people would expect.” Soobin’s voice slipped in then, carrying interest.
“Thank you, Soobin. I am thinking of adding a twist,” you leaned across the table, adding a dramatic effect. Both boys had their curiosity piqued.
“A twist?” Soobin asked quietly.
“Yeah. Like not allowing students to bring their own masks kind of twist. Instead they’ll be handed one out at the door. Just so we are sure nobody knows who’s who. Of course, the whole night, you would not be allowed to take it off until you leave the building. It’s kind of like a game… you get to talk, mingle, maybe even flirt, without labels or preconceptions.” you sipped from your water watching Matthew’s jaw drop.
“Hold on. So you’re telling me I could be talking to my professor and not even know?” he asked with a little bit of concern, and you burst into laughter.
“Well, it’s a student-only event, so no professors. But yes, basically. Anyone could be anyone.”
“So… it’s about seeing people differently. Without the image they usually have?” Soobin tilted his head with a thoughtful expression, “That’s clever.”
“Exactly!” you said, a little proud of yourself. “Oh, and no alcohol this time.”
Matthew groaned instantly. “Boooo.”
“Oh, C’mon mister party animal. There’ll be games instead. Like, icebreakers, challenges, stuff to make people actually talk to each other instead of just standing around.”
“Games at a ball?” Matthew narrowed his eyes, pretending to judge. “If I end up in musical chairs wearing a cape, I’m blaming you.”
“Relax. More like mystery dares, team challenges…, and something, I dunno maybe more fun? Something people will actually remember.” you sighed deeply, imagining the work you need to put in. “Yeonjun wouldn’t shut up about it. He kept saying it was the most brilliant idea he ever heard. Oh my god, even Taehyun was rolling his eyes at how hard he was laying it on.”
“Of course he was. That guy’s a walking compliment machine. I bet he was like, ‘Only you could come up with this, Y/N.’” Matthew made a voice mocking Yeonjun, and it made you giggle.
“Pretty much, yeah. He’s cute.” that small comment made Soobin freeze in his seat.
“Cute?” Matthew echoed in disbelief “I am calling Beomgyu”
“Shut up… he’s cute. Annoying, but cute.” you rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.
“Cute doesn’t cut it,” Matthew insisted, leaning closer like a protective older brother. “Please, just not Yeonjun.”
“Yeonjun’s not as shallow as people make him out to be.” that statement weighed more than you actually intended. You were clearly taking Yeonjun’s side in front of Matthew, and Soobin hated it probably more than Matthew.
“Unbelievable.” Matthew groaned, covering his face dramatically. “This is how it starts. Next thing I know, you would be bringing him over and asking me to play nice.” you nudged him under the table with your foot.
“Don’t act stupid. I am not implying that. And if anything, you’ll survive. You always do.”
“Still…” Soobin’s voice slipped in, trying to change the subject. “It’s a really good idea.” your gaze softened when it turned to him, and it took Soobin a second too long to look away. You were not fair.
“Thank you, Soobin. I am bracing myself for the struggle once I have to build the plan for the games” you sighed.
“Please, you’ll figure it out. Worst case, make everyone play charades. People are dramatic enough as it is.” Matthew added.
“Yeah, right. Can you imagine?”
Dinner wrapped up with the table scattered with empty plates and half-finished glasses of coke. The walk back was calm. Matthew was animated as always, telling some ridiculous stories from class. Soobin hung back a step, just watching you both walk. Observing the way you laughed, and how you held onto Matthew’s arm without thinking. Every touch seemed effortless, and every glance natural. Soobin wanted that too. He wanted you to look at him the same, even more, to lean into him the way you leaned into Matthew. And he felt that wasn’t going to stay just as a passing thought, it was becoming harder to deal with. Hunger was growing in him, one only you could possibly feed.
“Well, this is me.” you said once you reached your stop. You turned to Matthew first, opening your arms, and hugging him tightly.
“Get some rest, okay? Don’t let Yeonjun keep you up,” he teased, and you smacked his arm. After that you turned to Soobin. He didn't expect anything, but instead you took a step closer and wrapped your arms lightly around him. It was shorter and gentler than the hug you gave Matthew, but it was enough to make his pulse trip over itself a few times.
“Oh!” Matthew exclaimed, “I forgot to say. This month I’m taking some extra shifts, so if you’re coming over, text Soobin first.” the words barely landed before Soobin’s chest tightened. Text him? Your number? He didn’t even have it?
You nodded easily, then paused as the thought clicked. “Ah! I don’t have your number. How did that even happen?” you giggled and Soobin’s heart stuttered “Here.” you said, handing over your phone to Soobin, he fumbled grabbing it too quickly. He didn’t even have to think twice. It was something he should’ve asked for probably ages ago, anyway. “Now you can actually text me when you need a baking rescue,” you teased lightly, and he let out a small laugh. He typed his name into your contacts and gave your phone back.
“Goodnight, you two.” and just like that, with a small wave, you disappeared inside your block.
When you finally got home, you felt a sudden rush of excitement. You didn’t know if it was because of the meeting that had gone so well earlier, or the night out with Matthew and Soobin. Either way it was a strong feeling refusing to fade away. Soobin especially stayed on your mind a bit longer. You noticed how he always seemed to watch quietly, and listen more than he actually spoke. There was just something about the way he held back, but when you were just the two, always the first to start the conversation. He seemed so reserved in Matthew's presence, and that bugged you. You wanted to stir him a bit. Break the ice. From the very first day, you remember, he had been paying attention to everything you said, making sure you were alright in the smallest, most thoughtful ways. It made you wonder what else was there to him, what else was there that you hadn’t seen? Maybe you should try to get to know him better. He always asked about you, and your interests. Maybe it was time you asked about his?
As for Soobin, the moment he came back to his room, he had his phone in hand. So, now all he had to do was, what, wait? Again? He groaned, exhausted, and then- ping. The screen lit up.
│Y/N: Hi Soobin. It’s Y/N. see this..
│[link]
│this is my favourite cooktuber! her recipes are so easy to make, you should check her out!!!
Soobin stared at your message in surprise, his lips parting. It seemed like you were always ten steps ahead.
│Soobin: ohh trying to make me better at baking so soon? you should be worried i might beat you at your own game
│Y/N: pfft you? beating me? you literally asked for my recipe like 3 times when i made that pie 😂
│Soobin: true. but you didn’t even know the recipe yourself 😏
│Y/N: i call it freestyling. very professional.
│Soobin: ah yes… freestyling aka throwing half the fridge in a tray
You laughed into your pillow, imagining his straight face while sending that. Little did you know he was smiling ear to ear. Then another ping came in.
│Soobin: actually… hold on
│[one attachment]
A photo appeared. Blurry and clearly old, of a lopsided cake sitting on foil. The icing was uneven, sliding a little on one side.
│Soobin: this was my “masterpiece.” don’t laugh too hard.
│Y/N: HAHAHA oh my god. it looks like it’s melting off the plate 💀
│Soobin: it was supposed to be a surprise for my cousin’s birthday. she still made me cut it first though 😔
│Y/N: because she loves you. and probably didn’t want to hurt your feelings 😇
Soobin froze at your text. You were doing it again. Casually planning, unaware of how much it meant to him. His hands trembled slightly as he typed back.
│Soobin: promise?
│Y/N: promise. you’re my student, after all.
The chat stayed quiet for a minute before his next message slipped through..
│Soobin: this is gonna sound dumb but… i’m glad i got your number today. really glad.
│Y/N: not dumb at all. I’m actually glad too.
│Y/N: good night, Soobin. see ya tmr
│Soobin: good night.
He let the phone rest against his chest for a while. You hadn’t made official plans for tomorrow, yet somehow you’d spoken as if it was obvious that you’d see him? Just that was enough to keep him wide awake the whole night.
But that feeling, that anticipation, that quiet greed to keep you close would soon be shattered. Because the next time he would see you someone else’s hand would be tangled with yours, in the way he had dreamed of, the way he had been carefully and clumsily building toward.
How foolish of him to believe he had time. To believe he could hide his feelings until later, that your heart would wait patiently while he found his courage.
How foolish to imagine you’d fall for him slowly, when someone else had already persuaded you faster, and better.
He was a boy trapped like a bird in a gilded cage, of ruined brushes and swallowed screams, living in a house that smelled of money and rot, where even love had to tiptoe. The only warmth he ever knew was the tired embrace of a woman not by blood, but by heart, and yet even that fragile comfort couldn’t bury the hunger blooming in him for a life beyond the rot disguised as legacy, for a new beginning he never truly believed would come.
You were an uninvited presence in his decaying world, dressed like salvation. But were you truly his salvation, or the temptation that would lead him to ruin? A shadow sent to watch him rise just to see how far he’d fall? And yet if he was to fall, like Icarus chasing the sun he should have feared, then at least he would fall knowing he’d flown.
⊹₊⟡⋆ 37.7k
pairing: Choi Beomgyu x afab!reader
warnings: this is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings trigger you, please step back from this story right away. i am not responsible for the content YOU choose to consume, thank you. — parental abuse (both verbal and physical), limited perspective, beomgyu's pov centric aka we only know what he knows, themes of manipulation, doomed found family trope (?), reader's background is vague, lots of crying and angst, depiction of murder, character death, heavy reference of Icarus throughout the plot hence arson, lots of metaphors used, ambiguous ending, mention of blood, conflicting morals [definitely missed some lol forgive me]
[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, dry humping, cowgirl position, cum eating, snowballing (ohmygosh), unprotected sex (not huzzah!), pull out method (not good bro)
Author's note: Remember how I said in the teaser it was going to be 10k? Yeah. I don't usually write anything like Metamorphosis, though this story was written back in 2022 so bringing it back and working on it again felt refreshing. I hope you patiently read through the terrifying new wc and let me know your interpretations. I need to warn you tho - Beomgyu has the survival instinct of a fart here lol I'm sorry for this. There will be no sequel of this story!
I want to recommend only one song for you to play on loop as you read this story. It is Someone to Stay by Vancouver Sleep Clinic.
Reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!
It was getting rather difficult for Beomgyu to keep the heavy look of censure at bay because the more he worked, the more he began to get aggravated with each brushstroke he had once been so sure of. The shadows he had so painstakingly laid appeared ill-conceived under the afternoon light and the inordinate facial features only enunciated his dissatisfaction. Most offensive of all was the goldenrod hue he had selected for the dress. How terribly it clashed with the red of the subject’s hair — he must have been deranged when he decided on it.
He paused his movements, the bristles of the paintbrush trembling inches away from contacting the canvas as he was reluctant to land another error. The evident clash of loud colours only fueled his frustration towards the piece and it almost made him discard the poor canvas.
“It looks lovely to me.”
Beomgyu startled a little at the sudden presence of the woman. She held a lavish bouquet of yellow roses as she ambled across the pale marble floor. The same cursed shade of yellow that had been tormenting his senses. The flowers swayed with each movement, giving the illusion that they, too, were taunting him. Beomgyu barely managed to stifle the groan forming in his throat.
“Thank you, Miss Hyeeun,” he said, putting his paintbrush down as another sigh escaped shortly after. “But it’s a bit of a disaster. This piece deserves no praise.”
Hyeeun, the head caretaker, hummed as she arranged the bouquet in a vase on the sidetable beside him. Her dainty fingers caressed the soft petals. Beomgyu noticed the few wrinkles that were beginning to grace her skin, and how striking it looked holding the fresh blooms. He made a mental note to paint the scene later. The painting will need a good name as well, won’t it? He’ll surely come up with something captivating.
She looked up from the flowers, arching an eyebrow. “You’re not enjoying yourself,” she stated, brushing her hands on her apron. “Isn’t painting meant to be your greatest delight, young lord?”
Beomgyu made a face. “Oh, do not start with that again. Father isn’t here to eavesdrop behind the doors. There’s no need to call me that.” He tugged on her arm, bringing her in front of the canvas. “Come now, be honest with me. Does that yellow not look dreadful beside the red? Surely a paler tone would suit it better, right?”
“If I were to agree with that,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes, “I’d be adding a few more blocks to my tower of lies.”
Beomgyu frowned at the painting, as if by force of will he might somehow find it improved. But the more he looked, the worse it became. The dress overwhelmed the figure, the figure clashed with the background, and the background — he refused even to acknowledge it. The amount of flaws only piled up. So did the subtle, growing discomfort.
“No,” he said with certainty, “red and yellow simply do not complement one another.”
“It surely doesn't make me think of fried sweets, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Hyeeun gave him a side glance, smiling. It managed to get a laugh from Beomgyu. Then she gently tugged on his ear. “And just so you know, dear, it is a fitting combination.”
“Unfitting,” he murmured, almost under his breath.
Hyeeun exhaled, a breath that almost resembled laughter, though there was no real humour behind it. Beomgyu began to put his tools away. Suddenly, she held his arm and rolled the sleeve of his shirt, baring his skin. It startled him and before he could snatch his arm away, Hyeeun had already seen it.
Dark patches littered his pale skin — blues and violets tangled with sallow yellow edges.
"Oh, heavens above," she gasped, eyes widening as she took in the state of him.
Beomgyu tried to smile, though it barely reached the corners of his mouth. "It’s all right, Miss Hyeeun," he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. His fingers were smudged with oil, and his thumb left a faint mark on the fabric of her blouse. "They don’t hurt so much anymore, see? They’re beginning to heal."
The bruises were hardly more than three days old. Or was it four? He wasn’t sure. Time blurred when his body decided to forget. His mind, clever as it was, had learnt to tuck the worst bits into the furthest corners – something Beomgyu was glad he was capable of doing. After all, he had survived this long.
Hyeeun sucked in a sharp breath. “He’s a monster.” Her voice was trembling, eyes were glossy. Her hand, which had fallen away from his sleeve, now clutched at her apron. The sight tugged on his heart.
Without a word, Beomgyu wrapped his arms around the woman. She was smaller than he remembered, her back hunched with age and burden. He rested his chin on her shoulder.
"How could anyone treat a boy like this? The boy he brought into his home — how could he?"
Beomgyu smiled ruefully. He was glad she hadn’t called him that man’s son. She never did, and he cherished her all the more for it.
“It’s okay. You know I’m used to it by now,” he assured her.
When they drew apart, Hyeeun’s hands found his arms once more. Her fingers were rough from years of washing linen and chopping roots, but they were careful as they skimmed over his skin, avoiding the darkest bruises. Her thumbs moved in small circles near the edges. “You don’t deserve this. No child deserves to live in fear.”
“I don’t live in fear,” Beomgyu retorted. “I have you.”
Hearing him, Hyeeun let out a tearful laugh. It was a simple act yet it managed to ease the thumping discomfort in his chest. How could he not feel safe? She’s the only one in the house who treated him like a human being.
“Do you know why I never left this manor even after knowing how cruel that man is?” she asked. Beomgyu knew but he chose to stay silent, letting her finish. “It’s because of you. The day he brought you home from the orphanage, you looked so small and lost, Beomgyu. I told myself then—if he’s staying, then so am I. Someone had to be there for you." She was staring at the floor now, her expression twisted. "That lowlife bastard. He made your life a living hell."
Beomgyu shook his head. He cupped her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Well, he’s not doing a really good job at that either. Because I know I have someone who loves and cares for me.” — Which wasn’t entirely true but having someone like her by his side made the hell worth living.
Hyeeun’s teary eyes softened, the wrinkles at the corners deepening and it almost made Beomgyu’s eyes moisten. For a brief moment, it almost felt alright. But it all came crashing down when a thunderous voice rang behind the closed doors through the halls and all the colours drained from Beomgyu’s face at once. The panic in his eyes was so vivid, so alarming that he whipped his head towards the door — high on alert — as if that person would be here at any moment.
He wasn’t the only one who was in shock. Hyeeun was bewildered as well. Her voice came faintly. “He’s not meant to be back ‘til next week…”
That was true. Beomgyu’s father had only just departed for his business trip the day before. So why was he here now? And he was looking for Beomgyu. Beomgyu’s senses came back to him. His father was looking for him.
“You’ve got to go,” Beomgyu said urgently, already pushing Hyeeun toward the adjoining door.
All of her protests fell deaf to his ears. Hyeeun can't be seen with him. If his father saw her with him beside the painting — god knows what he’ll do to her and Beomgyu could never let anything happen to the only person who made this hellhole feel like a home to him.
“Beomgyu, wait—” she whispered-yelled, desperate. “He’ll hurt you.”
Her face was breaking as she clutched onto his hand. Beomgyu could tell she knew he was scared yet he put on a big grin for her. It was feeble and flickered out just as fast, but it was the best he could manage.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured, again. He reached for the doorknob, giving her that final push toward the corridor. “But you won’t be if he sees you.”
With that he closed the door, trying to control his heartbeat as he moved away and walked towards the canvas. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he heard the footsteps getting louder and in the blink of an eye the main door to the room flew open. Beomgyu didn’t move an inch. He held his breath in.
Standing at the door was a relatively shorter man but with a strong build. An aura of power and superiority hung in the air around him as walked in. The man didn’t bat an eye at Beomgyu and instead let his gaze travel around the room. It stopped on the canvas. Beomgyu felt his throat go dry, already knowing what was about to come.
As if fire had ignited, his father’s eyes lit up like an animal. He turned, nostrils flaring, and strode across the room with long, firm strides toward Beomgyu.
“You impudent little runt!” he barked, and before Beomgyu could so much as take a step back, the man’s hand had already lashed out.
The slap cracked through the air like a whip. Beomgyu’s head snapped to the side, his cheek immediately burning. He didn’t stumble, but his eyes watered and he clenched his jaw, the coppery taste of fear — or blood — thick on his tongue. He was sure the slap left a weal behind already.
A stunned silence followed, only the anger flared breathing of his father reached him because he was now standing right before him.
“How many blasted times do I need to tell you? Painting’s not for men!” the man spat, his large hand now balled around Beomgyu’s collar, dragging him forward.
“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu whispered, looking down.
“Oh, you will be sorry.”
With brute force, his father shoved him backward. The breath left Beomgyu’s chest as he staggered, nearly losing his footing. Beomgyu’s eyes widened as his father picked up a bottle of paint, remorselessly hurling it straight at the canvas.
Red.
It spattered across the canvas in messy rivulets that bled down the stretched linen and pooled onto the pristine white marble below. Disbelief and anger engulfed the boy but he remained silent, balling his fists as his nails dug crescents on the supple flesh. He waited for his father’s next move because Boemgyu knew it wouldn't simply end there.
The man approached him again. His eyes were glowering as his hand went for Boemgyu’s face again. Was he going to hit him again? It'd be a hassle for the wound to heal if he hit him on the same spot. He wasn't met with another slap. Instead, a burning pain shot through his scalp. This time he couldn’t bite back his yelp.
“Never,” his father spat through gritted teeth, yanking his hair, “pick up a paintbrush again.” Another wrench, this time enough to feel like hair being plucked off, and Beomgyu clenched his jaw through the sting of fresh tears. “Do you understand, boy?”
Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, the pain making him cry involuntarily. “I understand, father.”
The man left once he heard him speak. His retreating figure vanished through the doorway, leaving behind a room still humming with the remnants of his fury.
Beomgyu remained still for a moment, the sting in his scalp fading only slightly, replaced by the slow burn of anger and shame. He raised one hand, pressing his palm to his cheek, where the slap still throbbed in a bright, pulsing ache. His fingers were tacky with red paint now, mixing with the dampness from his tears. He took a breath through his nose, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. However, he was glad that was all his father did. A slap, no matter how much it stung, was better than bruised ribs or a fractured wrist. It would fade quickly enough.
The mess on the canvas was beyond salvaging, not that it mattered. He was going to paint over it anyway. The floor would be a problem. He looked around to search for any other places that had paint on and visibly flinched when he found it.
The red paint had touched the yellow roses.
The vibrance of the yellow extinguished as red traversed, streaks of it curved down their edges like veins, soaking into the softness with an almost grotesque contrast. It was enchanting to look at but in a discomforting way. He stared at it for a while before scoffing.
“I knew it. Red and yellow don't complement one another.”
He often escaped through the backdoor of the manor after such cruel ordeals, slipping past the kitchens and silent corridors, past the ornate arches and manicured hedges that had long since lost their meaning, until he reached the place where the stone path gave way to earth. A soft canopy of green filtered the light above him, its rustling leaves offering something close to reprieve. The groundskeeper no longer came out this far as no guests were shown this way, and the flowers here were left to bloom or wither on their own.
The path sloped gently into a shallow dirt road, broken in places and littered with dry leaves. It gave way to a small lake at the very outskirts of the manor's reach, where the water, still and golden in the afternoon light, reflected little of the estate’s imposing image. It was secluded enough to feel like a separate world. Out here, the land stopped obeying, and the estate lost its leash and that was precisely why Beomgyu came here. He found a strange comfort in that. This was where he could breathe without having to constantly look over his shoulder in fears of being watched.
The staff in the manor never participated in the abuse, but they didn't do anything to stop it either. Beomgyu understood the fear deeply rooted in them, and also how they’re bound to his father’s authority because they don't wish to bite the hand that feeds them. It didn’t mean he felt any less alone.
He wandered aimlessly, not looking for anything in particular, stepping over fallen branches and dipping his shoes into the wet earth as he walked toward the lake, where the view opened up wide and the sky was allowed to stretch. His thoughts felt too loud in the stillness. He pressed his palm to the back of his neck, trying to ground himself, letting his eyes close.
It was there, beside a twisted old willow, that he heard it. A soft melody — almost like a lullaby — carried by the wind.
Beomgyu frowned, uncertain if he imagined it. He hesitantly looked around the expanse of nature, feeling a little conscious because no one was supposed to be here. At least, no one has been here for years anyway. As long as he could remember, it was just him.
Still the melody continued, the faint sweet sound drew him in. His steps quietened as he left the trail, brushing past overgrown hedges and vines that caught at his sleeves.
It was just beyond the slope near the lake’s edge that he saw you.
Sitting leaning against a tree, back to him, knees tucked up as you balanced something in your lap. It was a small, wooden instrument, its polished surface catching small dappled specks of sunlight that filtered through the canopy. You played with care, thumbs dancing slowly over the keys.
Beomgyu almost turned back. He didn’t know you — what were you doing here?
But something in the melody held him there. The part you began to play was familiar. It was familiar not in a way he could identify, but it was there, lodged in the hollows of memory, where time pressed its thumbprint and left things dusty but intact. His heart churned, not understanding why he felt that way. He knew this melody. He had heard it before, he was sure of it, but where? It slipped just beyond reach, like a name he should’ve remembered.
Your fingers halted in their movement abruptly, though your shoulders stayed relaxed. Beomgyu had not expected to be noticed but you turned your head and looked directly at him. Your eyes didn’t flicker in surprise, nor did you fidget or make any show of being caught unaware. If anything, you looked like you had expected him. You offered a small smile almost as if you were welcoming a neighbor instead of a stranger.
“Oh,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Didn’t think anyone came out this far.”
He blinked, awkwardly aware of how out of place he felt now. “Neither did I,” he replied, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He sounded so stupid. What else was he supposed to say? He should have asked who you were, what you were doing here, why you were playing that tune — but something about your presence made it hard to summon suspicion.
You didn’t look like someone out of place. In fact, in his mind it felt like you were the remaining puzzle piece needed to finish the entire scenery. You looked like you belonged here more than he ever had.
“I hope I didn’t bother you,” you added, gently placing the kalimba on your lap. “The sound carries, I guess.”
“No, it’s... fine.” He hesitated, then nodded at the instrument. “That song… it’s—it sounds familiar. What’s it called?”
Your gaze sharpened just slightly but the smile didn’t slip. It made Beomgyu’s skin crawl a little, the goosebumps settling down persistently. “Really?” you said after a pause that wasn’t long enough to be awkward. “I’m afraid you’re probably mistaking it for some other melody. My parents used to sing it to me. It’s old and personal.”
He nodded, though he felt mildly foolish for asking so directly. He shouldn’t have said it like that, so brash outright. He was about to apologize but you laughed lightly.
“What else does it sound like other than familiar?”
What an odd question. He was caught off guard again, and his brows pulled together. It wasn’t a question he’d expected but Beomgyu found himself pondering, eyes narrowing faintly in thought. He tried to put the feeling into words. “Feels like a dream I forgot.”
You tilted your head at that, your gaze flicking to the side before returning to him. Your expression was thoughtful in a way that made Beomgyu stand a little straighter. Then you smiled, and this time there was a trace of approval in it. “That’s a nice way to put it. You’re an artist.”
“Pardon?” Beomgyu gaped at you. His posture stiffened, unsure of how you’d drawn that conclusion from so few words, from so short a meeting.
You only smiled again, putting the kalimba inside the small satchel by your side. "Only someone who sees the world in shapes and metaphors says things like that. Besides, look at your hands."
You stood up, brushing your clothes as you pointed a finger at his hands. He had cuffed the sleeves up to his arms. The red paint from earlier still decorated his skin as he didn’t clean it off, but what made him squirm on spot was the bruises that too were on display, and for you to see. Beomgyu thought you were pointing at those so he quickly began to cover them by tugging his sleeves down.
You had approached him by then, startling him by gently taking his hands into yours. Your hands were soft and clean unlike his calloused, paint and bruise tainted ones.
“You have pretty hands.” You looked up at him, squeezing his hands lightly. “Exactly like an artist’s.”
Beomgyu didn’t know what to do with your words. They weren’t coated with mockery. You hadn't looked away from him, not once, and though the bruises were in plain sight, you didn’t recoil or ask about them. It was simply as if they didn’t redefine what you saw when you looked at him.
The things you said, the things you did, and the way you’d arrived here and folded into this moment weren’t necessarily odd but at the same time they were.
“Who are you?” he quietly asked.
Beomgyu expected you to step away from him but you didn’t. Instead, your grin seemed to have regained a newer kind of life to it as you slightly leaned in towards him. “What do you want me to be? A friend, a stranger, or a dream?”
A gust of wind blew overhead, making the trees sing and the leaves dance around you and him. A ripple washed over the lake in subtle motion, its surface shifting just enough to catch the late afternoon light in warped patterns, as if nature herself waited with you in silence to hear his answer.
Beomgyu’s mind went into a static silence. His mouth parted but no words came out. Your hands were warm as you held him and that did little to no help making thoughts articulate easier for him. His silence rang loudly in his ears, or wait, was it his breathing? His heartbeat? The sound of his blood rushing into his ears, perhaps? He felt dizzy.
Before he could spiral even further, your soft laughter reached out and pulled him out of his mind like pulling him out from under a water surface. You hid your laugh behind a hand before using it to wave him off dismissively.
“I'm joking, I'm joking! I'm sorry for messing with you.” You let go of his hands and Beomgyu suddenly felt like he was losing his grip on the world. “I was looking for a quiet spot to play my kalimba and stumbled upon this place. I hope I didn't trespass… I didn’t think this area would have people around.”
Your explanation sounded believable. You looked like you were telling the truth too. You really had nothing else with you, just you and the kalimba, as if you’d simply wandered into the scene from somewhere outside the borders of his world. And technically, you weren’t trespassing. This stretch of land wasn’t private property — at least not under the holdings of his father — so there wasn’t any reason to accuse you of wrongdoing.
Even after conversing with himself in his mind over the rationality of your appearance, he could not speak. And you must have noticed, because you tilted your head just a little, your expression more apologetic than teasing now.
“I’ve probably already confused you enough for one day,” you said, and even though you spoke with a smile your words weren’t comforting to say the least. You were walking away. Your back was now facing him, already a few steps ahead and it didn’t sit right with him.
Beomgyu blinked as if just waking from a daydream. For the first time since you’d approached him, he felt his mind working. — “Will I see you again?” — or maybe no.
It came out more strained than he liked, not because he was desperate or flustered but because the words surprised even him. The moment he said them, he wasn’t sure whether he regretted asking.
The wind had stilled, and your fingers, which had been playing with the edge of your sleeve just a moment ago, fell still at your side. He recoiled internally, because up till now he was assuming you were the odd one between the two of you and now he went and asked such an absurd question. Oh God he must've sounded like a pervert. Hyeeun would be so disappointed.
But you turned slightly, and you did not smile rather had your gaze downwards on the grassy land. It was a different look from what you wore just moments before. It was more solemn, more rueful.
“If you wish for something with all your heart,” you said without trying to imply more than what the words meant, “it will come true, right?”
The hair on his arms and neck rose as goosebumps kissed his skin the moment you faced him as you said ‘right’ with a small tug of your lips. He felt compelled to look away and every atom in his body was screaming at him to run yet he didn’t want to. The intensity in your gaze enchanted him as much as it made his stomach churn uncomfortably.
“Goodbye, Beomgyu.”
He shifted slightly on his feet, a breath catching at the back of his throat as he tried to regain his balance. It wasn’t until you were already out of sight, your form swallowed up by the trees and their shadows, that the realization struck him cold and fast.
He never gave you his name.
It was one of those weary, sleepless nights, where Beomgyu lay in bed with his eyes fixed on the blank expanse overhead. The moonlight that slipped through the edges of the heavy curtains cast faint patches across the walls, and the stillness of the room was far too suffocating to be warm.
His cheek still ached. The maids had noticed; a few hours later, one had returned with an ice pack tucked in a folded cloth napkin, her fingers twitching nervously as she handed it over without meeting his eyes. Albeit some hesitated in fear of getting caught, they couldn’t hide the pity filling their eyes when they saw him. In between his loneliness, he still found reasons to be thankful whenever they did this much for him.
He turned to his side and closed his eyes, hoping that the simple act of shutting out the world might finally lull him into sleep, yet as soon as his eyelids met, that fragile attempt dissolved, leaving him trapped in a restless limbo where thoughts drifted aimlessly. Each night, the same battle raged within Beomgyu, wrestling with the tides of self-reproach, regret, and a gnawing sense of weakness that clung to him and asking why he hadn’t done more. Why did he never fight back?
There were never any answers, only that this was his life now. He had grown used to it. He was forced to grow used to it. His mind wandered through the memories of those countless sleepless nights, the haunting image of the roses tainted with red, the chaos he could neither control nor escape, and the youth he felt slipping away, bartered and sacrificed to forces beyond his command.
Unexpectedly, he thought of you. A sudden jolt of anxiety coursed through his chest as your presence echoed in the corners of his mind, leaving him bewildered and unsettled by the perplexing fact that you had spoken his name without him ever giving it away.
He shifted onto his back, staring up at the ceiling now illuminated only by the muted moonlight filtering through the curtains. His mind now more awake and alert despite the late hour, anxiety tightening its grip as he considered the reach of his father’s reputation. Granted his father was a man widely recognized as a famous assemblyman but he had hardly ever let the spotlight fall on Beomgyu. Beomgyu remained a shadow, scarcely seen and even less spoken of, his name almost lost amid the noise of his father’s power, making the fact that you had known it all the more unsettling and inexplicable.
Just then, a soft knocking pattern interrupted the swirl of his thoughts. Already knowing who stood on the other side, he sat up wiping a hand over his face to dispel the tension etched into his features. When the door creaked open, relief settled over him like a balm as Hyeeun entered briskly, her steps hurried yet careful as she crossed the room and wrapped him in a firm embrace that squeezed the breath from his lungs. It’s as if all the pain washed away from the prior incident of the morning the moment Hyeeun appeared into his room.
Pulling away she let her concerned gaze sweep over the angry swelling blooming across his face. “I heard from the other girls,” she said, the sight made her wince involuntarily. “I wish I had the power to save you from this man,” she added, her voice catching slightly as she battled the frustration and helplessness that so often accompanied the helplessness of watching someone you cared for suffer.
Beomgyu placed a hand on hers, the smile never fading. He was truly lucky, he thought, to have someone who still cared for him. That care was a luxury he often felt he hadn’t earned yet Hyeeun gave it freely.
She had raised him herself from the first moment he arrived at the estate, barely tall enough to reach the table and thin as a reed. She made sure he ate, even when he claimed he wasn’t hungry. She taught him his letters with the same care she used to scrub his muddy knees clean after he'd fallen in the garden. At night, she would tuck him into bed and smooth down his hair, pressing a kiss to his head, soft and instinctive, as if he’d always been hers.
His father — the man who had taken him in for reasons Beomgyu still couldn’t fully comprehend back then — had never even bothered to ask whether he needed help with anything; never once checked if he had enough to wear in the winter or if he was struggling to keep up with his lessons. All of that had fallen to Hyeeun, who bore the burden without ever treating it like one. And when his father’s temper turned violent, when a misplaced word or broken glass resulted in bruises darkening his ribs or his arms, it had been Hyeeun who sat beside him late into the night, treating his wounds and humming under her breath. Her hands, though aged by work, were always careful, never trembling even when he winced. If she hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t had her steady presence at his side through those long, difficult years, Beomgyu was certain he wouldn’t still be here.
She had already done more for him than most mothers did for their own children. Beomgyu suddenly became aware of the lump in his throat. He needed her to know how much he appreciated her.
“On that day…” he began, voice hoarse as he tried to recall it clearly, though time had made some of it hazy. “I wasn't looking at him. In fact, I was looking at you. I felt safe just by your presence, and the way you stared at me — with so much love. I felt I was already loved.”
There was a pause as he exhaled, laughing breathlessly like he was almost embarrassed to admit it. “Quite funny, isn't it? Because I didn't even know you back then. Yet—” he swallowed hard, feeling the familiar tightness at the base of his neck. “Yet something in my mind told me I'd be the happiest if I accepted to be adopted in this family.”
His gaze dropped, fixed on the carpet beneath their feet hoping the pattern might distract him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. If he did, he was sure everything he’d worked to suppress would come spilling out in an instant.
“And I know no one will agree with me if I say it — I truly am the happiest despite the things he put me through. Only because of you.”
His voice cracked so he bit down on his lower lip until the pressure bordered on pain, anything to stop himself from losing control. But it became harder to hold back when he felt her hand on his cheek gently coaxing his face upward. Her eyes met his, steady and full of a kind of ache that mirrored his own.
“You’re the closest to someone I can call a mother.
Tears slipped down his face but he didn’t bother wiping them away. There was shame, yes — in crying so openly, in being reduced to this state but there was also a strange sense of relief. He let himself be pulled into her arms once more, head bowed as rubbed comforting circles on his back. He cried until it felt like there was nothing left inside, until the tension in his shoulders began to ease and his body sagged with exhaustion.
“I’m going to get you out of here. I promise you, dear,” Hyeeun said softly, her voice filled with a quiet resolve that might’ve sounded more reassuring in another time, another place.
Beomgyu wanted to believe her but the words, kind as they were, felt hollow not because he doubted her intent, but because the world they lived in didn’t allow for such easy escapes.
Beomgyu heartily wished to find some way to leave the place with her. “I want you to leave with me,” he whispered. “Wherever I go, I want you to be with me.”
The older woman sighed with a sad smile. She squeezed his hand again — a gesture of reassurance, even if it carried more sadness than comfort. Maybe they both knew that saying such things was the only way to keep themselves afloat. It was in this lull, in this shared exhaustion where no one was trying to pretend strength anymore, that Beomgyu suddenly straightened with the flicker of a thought that hadn’t occurred to him until now.
“Have you perhaps... heard of any girl visiting the lake outside the estate?” — what were the odds? But if anyone knew of strange visitors, it would be Hyeeun. She managed the estate with a precision built from decades of service, and little ever happened around here without her catching wind of it. If she hadn't seen you, then perhaps no one did.
He was hoping, somehow, that she would say yes, that there’d been whispers or at least passing remarks from the groundskeepers or someone who might have seen a figure by the water.
“A girl?” she repeated, the crease between her eyebrows deepening. “No, dear, I haven’t. The lake is open to the public, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there are people out there walking around the place. But I haven’t heard of any particular visitor. Why? Is something the matter?”
She spoke while adjusting the edge of the woolen shawl draped over her shoulder, glancing at him with mild concern. If Hyeeun hadn’t seen you, hadn’t heard anything about you, then maybe you really had just wandered there on a whim, exactly like you said. There was a chance you’d never show up again, that this strange interruption to his life would stay just that: a one-time disruption.
But that didn’t explain how you knew his name. That detail kept catching in his mind like a thorn, refusing to let go and worse, it made him want to see you again. He hoped you came back so he could ask you himself how you knew his name.
He didn’t even know your name.
He didn’t want her to worry so he shook his head with a small shrug. "No, there’s no problem. You should get some rest. It’s getting late. I’ll try to sleep too. I'm tired."
Sleep eluded him entirely that night, and when his eyes did shut, his dreams twisted around the shape of you, around the tune you played and those eyes he couldn’t forget, as if they’d been watching him far longer than he realized.
Who will I be when I wake after enduring?
He hasn't picked up a paintbrush since then. The brushes had gathered dust at the back of the cupboard where Hyeeun hid them after wiping the blood off his bruises. Over time, Beomgyu had learned what could and could not be done under his father’s roof from the consequence of every innocent act that displeased the man who ruled over the estate like a god with no heaven, only wrath.
There were never no words to guide him, only the bruises that followed if he wandered too far into himself.
He could step out into the garden. He could take a walk as far as the border of the lake. He could even sit idly by the gazebo with a book in his lap. But the moment he picked up a brush, the moment his fingers touched paint, it became a rebellion. Painting was possession of the self, and in his father’s world, no one owned themselves but him.
His father believed a person with passion is a person with desire, and desire breeds autonomy. Autonomy, to a man like his father, was the root of disobedience. Passion lit fires, and he hated fires unless he was the one to set them. So he set fire to the wings Beomgyu just started to mold on himself, stripped him off of his passion and put him behind the bars of a gilded cage that was his father's control.
Since he was allowed to leave the manor, he kept going back to the lake in hopes of seeing you. But it’s been days, and you never showed up. Yet every day since, he returned to the tree where you once sat as though retracing the same dream over and over, hoping you’d step out again like a trick of the light.
Some days he stayed until the first star appeared and the wind grew colder, brushing through his clothes and reminding him that he had a house to return to, even if it never felt like home. Other times, he left just after the sun disappeared behind the trees, the sky a bleeding orange that faded too quickly into grey.
There was no logic to his waiting, just the persistent itch that maybe you’d come back. Perhaps when you do, you’ll offer some clue to why you knew his name and comfort his crumbling mind. Maybe you’ll say something that would make him feel less mad for being haunted by a single meeting. He hoped, and hoped, and hoped.
Should he start wishing with all his heart, just like you said, to make you come back?
Beomgyu’s eyes snapped open as heat crawled up his neck. He was lying under the tree, the soft blades of the grass tickling his skin and the dappled shadow of the leaves fell on him. He sat up abruptly, grunting softly and shaking his head as if that could physically shake off his prior thought.
“I think I'm going crazy,” he murmured, eyes casting downward on his lap.
“Why’s that?”
He didn't scream though it felt like his heart had tried to. It jolted violently in his chest, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs as pain bloomed somewhere under his ribs. He doubled over slightly, hand splaying against his sternum as he tried to pull himself together. But his heartbeat picked up again when his eyes found you.
Leaning sideways against the tree you stood there, half-shadowed by the dappled light filtering through the tree canopy. Hands were clasped behind your back and your eyes were on him, watching with a calm that made it impossible to tell whether you had just arrived or had been standing there all along. You were smiling, like always.
“You came back,” he said, barely more than a breath.
You walked toward him, steps muffled by grass, and crouched down beside him. You settled cross-legged in the grass, your skirt fanning out around you, knees brushing against the edge of his shin.
There was a pomegranate in your hand.
It looked heavy in your hands, its thick skin cracked down the middle like it had split open under its own ripeness. With nimble fingers, you worked it apart, thumbs pressing into the rind, and slowly pulled the halves away from each other. Some of the seeds spilled into your waiting palm, glistening red and slick like beads of glass. One by one, you plucked the arils free, cradling them, letting the juice stain your fingertips in blotches.
“You say that like I disappeared,” you replied without looking at him.
“You did,” Beomgyu said, and this time he sat up straighter. The pain had dulled to a throb. It felt distant now, overpowered by the sudden clarity of being near you again. “I waited here. For days.”
That finally earned him your eyes, tilting your head as though seeing him under new light. “Did you? That was sweet of you. But why?”
Why? — the question cut cleanly through the haze he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. Up until then, he’d been far more interested in watching the way your fingers pressed into the fruit, how the juice soaked your hands until it dripped down to your wrists in thin crimson trails. He found himself too spellbound by the color against your skin more than he was unnerved.
“I never told you who I was,” he said finally. “How did you know my name?”
You glanced back on the fruit. “Didn’t you?”
“No,” Beomgyu’s brows pulled together, a slight twitch of confusion and discomfort darkening his features. “No, I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t."
"Beomgyu," you said, the name drawn out gently, not as if correcting him but as if reminding. As if it had slipped only from his memory and not yours. You plucked a seed from your palm, turning it in your fingers. "You’re doing it again."
He blinked. "Doing what?"
You glanced up again, the movement languid. There was no challenge in your expression, only a vague softness that made his chest tighten. "Misremembering. You always do this when you’re flustered."
"That’s not—" He paused, recalibrating. "Always? We’ve met once."
You held the seed gently against his lips and he, caught in the spell of you, parted them. The seed slipped onto his tongue, and his lips closed around it with the faintest press. Juices traversed from your fingers to his mouth staining his lower lip a vivid red.
You tilted your head with a hum. "Mm. You think so."
The words landed strange and off-kilter. A trap he hadn't realized he’d stepped into until now and yet, part of him wanted to explain himself — to justify the gap in memory he was sure existed. To prove, somehow, that he hadn’t forgotten.
But instead, his voice came out thinner. "You’re saying I told you my name, and… I just forgot?"
You nodded once, as if he’d finally caught on to something obvious. “Well, I suppose it’s easier to think I’m the one making things up.”
He bristled. "That’s not what I meant."
You popped a seed in your own mouth, making a sound that near suggested you weren’t wounded. "Of course not. I’m teasing. But yes, you told me. You were standing exactly over there, and I remember thinking — Beomgyu. It suits him.” You held out a few seeds gripped in between your fingers toward him. “It really suits such an artistic person like him.”
The memory didn't exist in his head — but the way you said it, with such conviction, such warmth, he began to wonder. Did he say it? Maybe he had said it.
He’d read somewhere that trauma reshaped memory like heat to wax. That the brain could tuck things away in corners too high to reach, especially when it didn’t want to remember. It made sense, in a cruel sort of way. After everything with his father, after all the ways he’d learned to forget for survival’s sake, it was almost laughable to think his own name might’ve been lost in the shuffle but maybe it had.
His lips parted and he tilted his head back, allowing your waiting hand to drop the pomegranate seeds into his mouth. A few drops of red juice tricked down your finger and fell on his lips like blood droplets. He felt it trail down his chin but the thought of wiping it away didn’t surface in his mind when he watched how you watched him.
You watched him come away stained red by you, like watching the seeds take root.
"You even said it twice," you added, eyes back on the fruit. "The second time, you said it like you weren’t sure I’d heard it the first time."
The taste burst over his mouth — tart and sweet. He licked his chapped lips to wet them, licking the remnants of the red. He wiped his chin too. "That… doesn’t sound like me."
"No," you agreed, as if this, too, was a kindness. "But maybe that’s why it stuck with me."
He couldn’t tell if you were comforting him or disarming him. Silence unspooled between you. He studied your face, looking for any trace of a play. But you only looked thoughtful, almost fond. Finally, he exhaled, the fight leaving his shoulders. With a sheepish twitch of his mouth he said, "Then I guess I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
His eyes dropped to your stained hands before answering, then to the split open fruit on your lap. "For forgetting. I really… I really don’t remember saying it."
You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting, as if pleased that everything had fallen back into place. “There you go.” You didn’t avert your gaze. "That’s alright. It happens to you often, doesn’t it? Ah, well, I’m assuming it does."
To anyone else, your statement might have sounded like an offhand comment, but Beomgyu had already come to understand that your words were rarely just that. Though he still hadn’t figured out if you meant half the things you said or simply enjoyed the act of saying them. But it didn’t bother him. In fact, he found himself waiting for your voice to fill the air again simply because it’s different from what he knew.
He assumed you were just unusually good at stringing together patterns from the vaguest of things. From the small details he had shared, you pieced together pictures of him so complete it was fascinating, really. He had met many sharp minds, but none that made the process of deduction look like a pastime. You seemed to understand people on a level that made him feel like he was under a microscope, only he didn't mind it. Quite the opposite. He found himself drawn in by it.
You popped a few more pomegranate seeds into your mouth. One half of the fruit had already been picked clean, left hollow and glistening with residue, while the other half still brimmed with untouched seeds that caught the light with every small shift of the sky above.
"Hold this for a moment," you said, passing him the heavier half of the fruit before rising. "I’ll be right back. I just need to wash my hands."
With that, you made your way slowly toward the lake, then gained lightness as you reached the slope and jogged the rest of the way down. Beomgyu watched your figure dip near the bank, the shallow wind lifting your hem just slightly as you crouched near the water. He quietly followed until he approached you after a beat, watching the way your fingers moved through the water.
The red bled from your skin in long, graceful tendrils that curled like smoke before dispersing entirely. It reminded him of how his paintbrushes looked after a day spent in color — soaked and stained, then suddenly washed clean in one long motion. He waited in silence, the quiet around you was held there by the sound of water lapping against the rocks and the distant rustle of the wind through nearby reeds.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” he said suddenly. “I remember that much.”
Your hand paused mid-motion. You didn’t look up, eyes stayed trained on the ripples spreading out from your hand.
“I don’t have one,” you said.
If there was hesitation in your voice, it was impossible to name. However, there was certainly a tinge of detachment in the way you said, your tone lacking all your prior wittiness.
Beomgyu let out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at the fruit in his hands. “That’s impossible. Everyone has a name.”
You drew a line across the water with your finger, watching how the ripples distorted the reflection of the sky. “Do they?” you asked, finally turning to glance at him. “Or is that just something people need to believe to make sense of themselves?”
He smiled despite himself. Of course you’d say that. He did feel the urge to reply, to counter with logic, with reason, but your gaze subtly unsettled him — not in a bad way though. It was your eccentric personality that made every conversation feel like you were making a game out of it, or maybe trying to see if he could keep up. Maybe that’s what made this feel refreshing. He wasn’t used to being around people who made the world feel this unpredictable.
“A name is your most prized possession,” he said, holding up the fruit like it could serve as evidence. “You should treat it like treasure.”
You were watching him now, searching for something in his face. “That’s lovely,” you said, a faint curve to your lips. “But I think names are more interesting when they’re earned. Don’t you?”
He stilled because he suddenly wasn’t sure where this was going, and he didn’t want to miss a single turn. The breeze pushed past again, scattering a few leaves near his feet.
“You want me to…?” he began, trailing off.
"I want you to give me one," you said at last, standing slowly. Water slid down your fingers and dripped onto the grass below. The pomegranate seeds in his hand glistened like they were watching too.
Beomgyu studied you for a moment longer than perhaps he meant to, his gaze holding a curious stillness. You closed the distance between you with a small step, the grass bending faintly beneath your shoes, your fingers brushing against his as you plucked the half-pomegranate from his palm. The fruit sat in your hand like a stolen jewel but in his eyes it resembled a bleeding heart.
“If you’re offering treasure,” you began, eyeing up at him playfully, “I want to see what kind. But don’t toss it at me like a bone to a stray. Think carefully. Let it come to you like it was meant to.”
His brow rose a fraction, a spark of competitiveness in his tone. “And what do I get in return?”
You tapped the tip of your finger against the fruit’s rind, pretending to think. “Well, you’re not wrong. I do already have a name,” you said, lips curving in a way that didn’t quite match the offhand nature of your words. “And I am, admittedly, toying with you. But—” your voice stretched, eyes narrowing in a mock appraisal, “if you manage to come up with something I actually like, I’ll tell you my real name.”
He nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” you replied, smiling in a way that caught the dimming light like the sky catching fire before night took it. “I’d hate for you to forget again.”
Beomgyu never registered the last bit of your words properly as his mind got occupied by the faint hum of engines drifting from the direction of the manor. His attention completely shifted, and the line of his shoulders altered with the sound, a persistent veil of fatigue settling into his posture. He turned toward you, a shadow of apology in his movement, saying he had to leave, that his father had returned sooner than expected.
You waved it off with a smile that asked for no explanation. “I don’t mind. It was good spending time with you.”
That softened him, even if only briefly. “Thank you for sharing the pomegranate,” he mentioned, then added with a faint smile, “It was really sweet.”
“I want to see you again,” you said, and for a moment his breath caught on the fact that you actually meant it. It was the first time he thought he saw something genuine cross your face, just the plain want of the words themselves.
He nodded slowly, the smallest thread of surprise in his tone. “Sure. I’ll come back.”
And perhaps, one day, he would come to realise that what you offered him today was never only fruit. It was the planting of doubt where certainty had lived, the slow coaxing of temptation into bloom, and the careful crafting of a tie he would not easily cut, no matter how far from this moment he might try to walk.
One seed at a time.
Beomgyu grew somewhat closer to you, one day at a time.
Meeting by the lake had begun to settle into the shape of a routine. You never carried much, always just one thing, as if you lived by some strange rule that balance could only be kept if your hands were light. Some days you brought your kalimba to play as you sat under the tree, Beomgyu lying a few spaces beside you, listening with eyes closed absorbing the fragile, whimsical melody. Other days you carried fruits, breaking them open to share.
There was a strange comfort in this new presence. Compared to Hyeeun, who gave him maternal warmth, offering guidance and protection, you were the first person who met him at the level of a peer and who validated his thoughts. The difference lodged itself in him before he could even notice, a slow intoxication that seeped into his thoughts until he found himself looking forward to these encounters, craving them almost. Eccentric as your words often were, he welcomed them, so long as they meant he could breathe air not tainted by authority.
But today was not one of those days.
Before Beomgyu sat a plate, its centerpiece a steak seared with artistry, marbled with veins of fat glistening beneath the sheen of butter that pooled at its edges. The rich smell wafted toward him but it did not stir hunger in his stomach; instead, it twisted ans he could not bring himself to lift his fork, for appetite had deserted him the moment he took his seat. The perfection of its arrangement only reminded him of the imperfection of the family gathered around it, or rather, the absence of family at all.
Across from him, his father carved into his own portion, the scrape of steel against porcelain sharp enough to rattle through the silence. The sight of flesh tearing without resistance as he lifted the forkful to his mouth reminded Beomgyu of a predator taking the first kill, claiming the prize while he, the one seated opposite, was expected to watch, to wait. The power imbalance was too hard to ignore — the small hierarchy enforced at every meal.
“There will be a meeting you must attend next month with me,” his father said, finally breaking the silence. He didn’t lift his eyes from the plate, though Beomgyu felt them nonetheless. “There will be men whose approval I require. I trust you understand the importance of leaving no… blemishes in conversation. I cannot afford embarrassment, and I will not tolerate any deviation from propriety or protocol.”
Beomgyu shifted slightly in his chair, the leather creaking faintly under his movement. His lips parted, but no words came, only a shallow breath that he disguised with a swallow. His father did not wait for an answer.
He set down the knife for a moment to reach for his glass of wine, swirling it lazily before taking a sip. A subtle smile curved his lips as he added, almost as an afterthought, “After all, it is fortunate that I took you in, isn’t it? You must remember where you came from.” The fork clinked against porcelain as he lifted another piece to his mouth. “Do not mistake your place in this household, nor in this family. I took you in, raised you as if you were mine, though you and I both know better. Gratitude, Beomgyu, is the only language you should ever speak. If you forget this, if you step beyond where I allow, I can have you sent away. Far from this table. Far from this country. Do not think it beyond me.”
The implication made a chill run up his spine as the knife in Beomgyu’s hand stilled, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around the handle before he set it down altogether. His throat burned with words he could not voice, the lump lodged there making swallowing impossible. At the mention of being sent away, one might think, yes, Beomgyu should take this opportunity to grasp onto the freedom he so desperately wished for. One might think of this as a golden escape, but no, his father meant anything but granting him freedom. His father meant metaphorical death.
It struck him with a clarity that hollowed him further, that it was not merely his father’s words that landed harder on his soul, but the knowledge that his dreams of freedom might never be more than fleeting illusions.
Nothing is harder on the soul than the smell of dreams while they are evaporating.
“Where do you go when your house isn’t home?”
Later that afternoon, Beomgyu drifted back toward the lakeside, drawn less by choice than by desperation. When he stepped from the line of trees, he stopped short, struck by the sight of you still there. You were looking far off in the distance. For an instant he wondered if you had stayed because of him, because he couldn't show up on time today.
When he approached you and made his presence known, it occurred to Beomgyu how genuinely startled you look. It was as though all this time, the skin of another self you had been wearing, had been peeled away by mistake. But beomgyu soon threw that thought out of his mind when the other thoughts became too loud and drowned it.
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly at his distant expression. “What did you say?” The question left your lips faintly, touched with genuine confusion.
He bent, reached for a stone, and sent it skipping across the water. It danced briefly across the surface, once, twice, three times, then surrendered, sinking into the depths. He watched the circles widen and collapse — how his own life mirrored that descent, each near ascent followed by collapse, each hope sinking before it could take root.
“Sorry. Forget what I said,” Beomgyu replied, shaking his head. He let another stone fall from his hand, this one left to roll off his palm and clatter against the wood before tipping into the lake. His shoulders sagged with the breath he released. “Just got a lot on my mind.”
Lowering himself onto the dock beside you, he left a careful space in between. His eyes sought the horizon, where the sinking sun stretched across the water in streaks of molten color that looked almost violent in their beauty.
Shouldn’t witnessing something beautiful allow the mind to rest? Then why did his mind still refuse to rest?
He thought of the orphanage, of nights when he hunched over sketch paper until his fingers cramped, tracing dreams into lines and shapes, clinging to the frail conviction that one day he could leave and live by art alone. Back then, the thought of freedom had seemed as reachable as the moon overhead — distant, yet somehow belonging to him if only he could stretch far enough. But the man who had plucked him from those narrow halls had not offered liberation. Instead, he had chained him more tightly, cloaking it beneath the name of father, when in truth it was ownership. At least the orphanage had left him the small rebellion of imagination. Here, he had none. Here, he was a possession.
The pressure inside him built until it pressed against his ribs, until he almost gasped with the ache of it, and he might have spiraled deeper into it if not for the sudden warmth of your hand closing gently around his. He startled, the touch pulling him back into the present, and when he looked down, he found your face tilted toward his, your eyes softer than he had ever seen them. It shook him, that look, because it was entirely new.
“Beomgyu,” your lips wrapped around the shape of his name. The syllables made an odd shiver race down his spine, leaving him strangely unmoored by the tremor it left behind. “You’re crying.”
He blinked, taken aback, and lifted his hand to his face. His fingertips came away damp and embarrassment shot through him sharp enough to make his movements clumsy. Hastily, he tried to wipe away his tears but your hands caught his midway, rising to hold his face in their frame. His breath stalled, surprised by the intimacy. Your thumbs brushed against his skin, sweeping away the tears with an absent gentleness. The far-off cast in your gaze caught him off guard. It was another new look, one he had not seen on you before.
“Do you want to see where I go?” Your voice slipped softer, the water almost stealing it away. Fingers drifted through the strands of his hair, tucking them behind his ear with a touch that left a trembling chill in its wake setting every nerve in his body alight. You watched him intently, that felt close to holding him in place. “Maybe it would help,” you whispered, the ghost of a question wrapped inside it. “Maybe then you’d stop crying, hm?”
A prosaic afternoon of yet another hot summer day: that’s how Beomgyu had expected his day would roll by, as always per the monochromatic routine. But with his hazy state of mind as he watched the red sky shifting to sea of greens, the image of the manor getting smaller in view and the cacophonies of his thoughts vanishing in thin air replaced by the orchestra of birdsong, Beomgyu apprehended the reality and withdrew his earlier plan. His hand was in yours, and the certainty of your pull drew him onward into the heart of the green.
The forest you entered was oak-brown and primitive. The grasses you stepped on were crackly beneath your feet because of the recent dry spell. Beomgyu tilted his head back, his eyes drinking in the towering trees whose branches twisted into knotted arms, rising higher than his neck could crane. They loomed like old fortresses, their bark etched with the passage of ages, and he marveled that such a place had always existed so near and yet had remained hidden from him.
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” he asked, allowing himself a curl of mischief even as his pulse thrummed hard and fast with the thrill of being led into this unknown. He glanced about at the darkening canopy and added, “This place reeks of serial killers and ghosts.”
You snorted softly at that, not breaking stride. “Don’t worry, princess. If anything comes for us, I’ll protect you.”
When you turned just then, looking back at him with a grin that seemed carved out of sunlight, he felt warmth roll through him with the same ease as summer air after rain. Safe — that was the word that surfaced, startling in its simplicity. How odd that you, a stranger whose name had yet to pass his lips, made him feel safe.
You pressed on, tracing narrow paths that cut between moss-dark trunks and across stony ground where thin streams rattled over scattered rocks. The forest seemed endless, a kingdom unto itself, until suddenly the trees broke open and revealed a ruin crouched within the clearing. It was a collection of stones and rocks tossed around like children’s blocks, and a large rusty bell lying beneath what was once its tower.
It was as if two eyes weren’t nearly enough to hold it all, the ruin both desolate and wondrous, steeped in a history he could only guess at. “How did you know this place existed?” There were so many words to exist yet Beomgyu failed to capture the full breadth of what he felt.
You slipped your hand from his and bounded forward, twirling with your arms outstretched. “Welcome to my safe haven!” you announced, gesturing to the place with your hands. “Still reeks of serial killers and ghosts?”
Beomgyu found himself too caught up in the marvel of it all to respond straight away. An ancient house on its knees on a journey to shambles, a secluded part of an evergreen forest not too far away from the safety of human life, and a girl who leaves sunmarks with every step amidst this. The more he thought about it the more it began to seem like this place was made solely for you.
You beckoned him closer and chose a seat upon a broken pillar, brushing away the dust before settling. He followed your actions and made himself comfortable on another piece of large rubble.
“No one really knows about this place, after all it’s an abandoned building. It’s always been just me,” you said. Streaks of soft sunlight that playfully broke through the cage of leaves fell across your features, catching in your eyes when you tilted your head. The brown in your eyes came to life, as if they were pools of honey with specks of gold.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured at last. His gaze swept over the ruin again before returning to you. “I understand now why you choose to come here.”
You watched him in silence while he lowered his eyes to the ground, his foot tracing absently over the brittle grass at his feet. “Why don’t you paint anymore?”
His head jerked up at that, his lips parting in surprise. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “How could you tell?”
Your eyes drifted to his hands, resting idly upon his knees. “They’re clean,” you said simply. “Too clean.”
Beomgyu gave a soft, awkward laugh, scraping the back of his neck with one hand. “I guess I just don’t have much inspiration these days,” he said, making light of it, as if that explanation could cover the ache he carried.
“Does it have anything to do with what you said earlier? About your house not feeling like home?”
His throat worked but no words came. For a moment he only sat there, shoulders curved inward, and you seemed to notice the pause. “Forgive me,” you murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked. I went too far.”
He shook his head at once, almost sharply. “No,” he said, his voice more certain than he felt. “You didn’t. You showed me your sanctuary so it’s only fair you know this much.” He drew a long breath, tried to dress the truth in lightness though it frayed as it left him. “My father… well, he doesn’t like it when I paint. He’s not even my real father. I was adopted when I was young. He only did it because he’s an assemblyman and he needed the sympathy points to win people over.”
You sat in silence for a long while. Then almost with an indecipherable look you recounted, “The bruises… when I first met you.”
Beomgyu’s head lifted at once, his eyes narrowing in surprise. “You remember?”
You hesitated, then further asked, “Were they…?” You left the sentence unfinished, letting the implication hang.
Beomgyu remained still, letting the forest around him absorb his pause. So did you. His gaze flitted to yours repeatedly, trying to decipher the thoughts behind the neutrality in your face, trying to know whether the knowledge of his past had shifted your perception of him in any way, but there was nothing.
“That’s why I go to the lakeside whenever I can,” he admitted, still continuing despite your silence. “It makes me feel less like a prisoner when I’m away from the manor.”
“If he lets you outside the house,” you said, tilting your head as though measuring the thought, “why not run away?”
Beomgyu gave a short, humorless laugh. “It’s not that simple,” he replied, the smile that touched his lips hollow. “When you’ve been caged long enough, even if the door is open you don’t know how to fly. My father—” he stopped, corrected himself with a bitter edge, “the man who calls himself my father clipped my wings a long time ago.”
He turned the conversation back toward you as if trying to shift the heaviness elsewhere. “What about you? Why do you come here? And the lakeside?”
Your eyes went to the sky, tracing the patterns of light caught in the branches above. “My parents are dead,” you said curtly.
“I’m sorry.” Beomgyu’s chest ached at the bluntness of it. He looked at you with softened eyes, though no words of sympathy seemed large enough to comfort the truth you had offered. So the two of you sat without speaking, until you broke it at last.
“You… shouldn’t give up on your dreams because someone is trying their everything to steal it from you,” you started slow, shaping your words carefully as you delivered. “When someone tries this hard to crush them, it only means they know what you’re capable of. He knows that you are capable of breaking through his wall of control, Beomgyu. It means he is afraid of you, of what you might become if you keep going.”
Beomgyu gaped at you, letting your words soak into every crevice of his brain. He was afraid of his father and always has been, and you are saying that his father might be afraid of him?
You shifted, drawing one knee up, your gaze fixed not on him but on the ruin around you. “Don’t let him pin the blame for his own failures onto you. If blame has to be claimed, let him take it. Or—” you paused, almost musing, “learn to take it yourself. There’s a strange luxury in self-reproach. When we decide it’s our fault, no one else has the right to condemn us. It gives us… control, power, even when everything else is stripped away.”
The cadence of your speech, the way your thoughts curved toward shadows, left Beomgyu torn. Part of him felt a tremor run through his chest, stirred by the conviction in your voice, while another part wondered whether you were speaking about him or laying bare fragments of your own story.
In that moment you reminded him of the ocean. There was so much of you he could not see and left to discover, but the little he was given made him feel oddly at home.
The sea… yes, you were just like that. He still had to figure out your name, didn't he?
You rose and crossed the space between you. Standing over him, you let your gaze cast down, yet within the shade they seemed to glow brighter, carrying a light of their own. “If your house doesn’t feel like home,” you said, “come here instead. I’ll be here.”
Beomgyu felt his throat dry, swallowing thickly. If you were the ocean, then you were quite the gentle one, beckoning him to fall into you promising him a safe place.
In the end, will he sink or swim?
It hadn’t gone unnoticed, the way Beomgyu seemed lighter on his feet these days and it began ever since you started bringing him art supplies to the shared sanctuary. There was a certain brightness to him, a spark that had been dulled for so long it startled even Hyeeun when she caught sight of it. She asked what had changed, her brows lifting as she studied him curiously because she had nearly forgotten what joy looked like on his face.
“I look happy?” he had replied, almost in disbelief. When she nodded, telling him that he looked radiant — more alive than he had in months — he had felt a warmth bloom inside him and his thoughts wandered straight to you. It was fuzzy, soft, like the recollection of a dream he didn’t want to wake from.
He wasn’t the only one who had changed. There was something about you that began to take on a new shape as well though he couldn’t quite put words to it. It wasn’t that you had grown gentler, nor that you had lost that edge of distance you carried with you like a shadow, but rather that you seemed more real to him now. After he had spoken about his father, what you offered him wasn’t pity, the kind of hollow sympathy he despised, but respect of some sort. It did not unsettle him, oddly enough; rather, he found it strangely endearing.
One afternoon, when the two of you were inside the stone house or rather, the fractured shell of what once was a house — you broke the soft rustle of silence by remarking, “You’re taking an awfully long time to come up with a name for me.”
The walls cracked in parts, and ivy had claimed half the places, but Beomgyu had suggested cleaning it up. He spoke of giving it a use, of making it livable, even if only for stolen afternoons. Beomgyu could tell you had been reluctant at first, preferring the wilderness outside, leaning against trees or crouching by the lakeside, always just beyond the reach of walls. But he had motivated you in his own insisting way, proving his resolve by rolling up his sleeves and sweeping debris into piles, clearing out corners with surprising skill despite the cobwebs clinging stubbornly to the high corners and the dust rising in clouds that stung the throat.
He had laughed at your surprise as you were clearly not expecting him to know his way around such tasks and explained, with an almost sheepish pride, that he was no stranger to chores. “At the manor, Hyeeun couldn’t always manage everything herself. I learned to take care of myself when I had to.” He remembered how your gaze had lowered at that, something clouding your expression, though you said nothing as you picked up the leaves and helped him finish.
Now, in the dim hush of the stone house, he sat with a small canvas propped on his knees. You sat across from him, absently plucking at your kalimba when you threw the sentence at him. Your words made him smile, lifting his chin in a wordless beckon. You hesitated, pausing mid-note, but then set the instrument aside and crossed the floor to where he was seated.
When you settled near him, he turned the canvas so you could see. The painting was unfinished but clear enough to recognize, revealing strokes of deep blue and pale foam, the suggestion of an endless horizon where sea met sky. “I’ve been thinking,” He kept his eyes on you as he spoke, almost nervously, though he masked it with a half-smile. “Really hard, about what to call you. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve said since the day we met—it all keeps leading me back to this.”
You stared at the canvas, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw your composure falter. You studied the painting, then looked back at him. “You’re not about to name me ‘sea’ or ‘ocean,’ are you?” you asked him dryly.
It had him laughing heartily, the sound rich and vibrant as it bounced off the walls. You looked at him, confused at what was so funny, and he couldn’t stop the warmth from spilling. But his laugh was so infectious that (to beomgyu’s surprise) it managed to pull a small smile out of you. He tilted his head, still chuckling, and shook it. “No, of course not—why would I settle for something so plain? Sea, ocean… those are far too generic. If I’ve started with ‘ocean’ as my lead, then I’ll definitely come up with something suitable.” though a shadow adorned his face as his laughter died, “but…”
A scuffle outside the ruin caught both of your attention — first a faint rustle, then a hollow thump as if something had toppled. Both of you stilled. Through the cracked frame of the broken window came a chorus of shrill, frantic chirps that made Beomgyu’s pulse jolt. He was already on his feet, canvas slipping from his lap to the ground as he hurried outside.
Just beyond the wall, a small nest had tumbled from the ledge, broken into a tangle of twigs and grass, and amidst the debris a baby sparrow writhed helplessly, tiny chest heaving with fragile breaths. Beomgyu’s heart plunged, crouching low as his hands closed gently around the trembling creature, his thumb brushing its downy head as he checked for breaks or twisted wings. Relief crossed his face as he exhaled, speaking as you caught up behind him. “It’s lucky—this little one isn’t too hurt. Shaken, but it’ll be alright.”
Your gaze darted upward at the parent sparrows circling, their wings beating frantically as they cried down at the scene below. “The nest…”
Beomgyu followed your eyes to the broken mass on the ground, his expression softening into something determined. “I’ll mend it. They can’t be left like this.”
Without another thought, he shifted the bird into your hands, the sudden gesture pulling a startled breath from you. You stiffened, cradling it as though it might shatter at the lightest touch. He caught the hesitation in your posture and offered a small smile that held both reassurance and a hint of mischief.
“Don’t worry. Just stroke its back—like this.” He traced the motion with his own finger in the air. “It’ll calm down. You’ll see.”
Left with no choice, you let the tiny bird rest against your palm, your fingers brushing its soft feathers in hesitant strokes. Meanwhile, Beomgyu knelt down, gathering the scattered pieces of the nest. He worked with surprising care, weaving the twigs back together, layering them with dried grass he pulled from the ground, reshaping the fragile cradle until it resembled a small bowl once more. When he judged it sturdy enough, he tested the edges with his fingers, then climbed carefully over the rubble, finding footholds where stone still held. Balancing himself against the jagged wall, he placed the nest back on the ledge, tucking it into a crevice where it would not fall so easily again.
Looking down at you, he called softly, “Bring it here—gently.”
When you reached him, he leaned low, hands brushing yours as he lifted the sparrow from your palms and set it into the nest. His shoulders loosened with relief as he climbed back down, landing with a grunt, dust clinging to his clothes. Together, the two of you stood back, watching as the parent sparrows swooped down, their cries shifting into softer notes as they settled into the rebuilt nest, wings curving protectively around their child.
“Thank God… this little one will keep living with them, in its home.” The relief in his voice was tempered by a heavy lilt. His gaze clung to the family of sparrows, a softness shadowed by a somber edge, as he had glimpsed what could have been him in their fragile reunion. How pitiful was it to wish yourself in the place of some birds?
“That nest isn’t safe.” You were still staring up. “The forest is full of hawks and crows and they will find them sooner or later. All of this—” you gestured at the ledge, at the desperate little family clinging to one another, “—will end the same way.”
His head turned sharply at your words, confusion flashing across his face, then falling away as he looked back at the sparrows, your point sinking deeper than he wished to admit. So that was it — the cycle. No matter what shelter was built, no matter what fragile peace existed, it could be shattered in an instant by a stronger hand or a sharper claw. His throat tightened as he murmured, almost as if he were trying to convince himself, “Then… at least they’ll be together in the end.”
You exhaled, harsher this time, before your hand gripped his arm that startled him. “No. If you want to be their salvation, then do it properly. Don’t just rebuild what was broken only to leave them exposed again. Move them somewhere safer—where claws and beaks can’t reach. They have a chance at something better, Beomgyu. And you’d deny them that?”
He blinked at you, utterly struck by the sharpness in your tone because he had never seen you like this. His throat worked soundlessly, because he had never once thought about salvation like that, not for himself and certainly not for anyone else. And yet, under the press of your stare, he found himself nodding slowly.
Wordless, he cupped the nest once more and carried it inside, searching until he found a wide crack in the wall where the light streamed in. The gap was narrow but passable, a doorway for wings to slip through, and he eased the nest into place. The sparrows fluttered around him as though testing their new home.
His arms ached faintly from climbing, his palms scraped, but when he stepped back, he felt a strange flicker in his chest. He became their salvation. The birds, at least, had a chance.
You let the silence stretch before breaking it with a question that stopped him cold. “If I gave you a way out of the manor forever, would you take it, Beomgyu?”
His heartbeat stumbled, then raced, and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “That’s not possible.” he blurted out, staring at you like you had just spoken madness. Did you think his life was like some birds out in the open?
“Hypothetically,” you pressed, a shadow of defiance in your tone.
His hands curled into fists at his sides before he could stop them because your words sparked something raw in him, causing his composure to crack and his voice to come out louder than he ever meant. “Don’t joke about things like that. I’m not like those sparrows—you don’t understand. My father—” He stopped, shaking his head. “It isn’t that easy. He’s dangerous. I can’t just walk away, no matter how much I want to. I’ll never be free of him.”
The admission echoed too loudly in the hollowed room, and as the last word fell he realized he had all but shouted at you. His face blanched, horror flickering through his features. “I—I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
But you shook your head before he could finish, eyes falling away from his. “No. I’m sorry too.” A pause stretched, you crossed your arms loosely before eyeing the canvas he dropped on the floor earlier. “You have a good heart, Beomgyu. You’re… kind, even when the world hasn’t given you much reason to be. And you’re braver than you think, though you’re still a little too scared to take the first step. I can feel it. Even when life claws at you, you keep that part of yourself intact. I…” you drew in a breath, voice catching faintly, “I envy that.”
Beomgyu tried so hard to decipher the meaning behind your monologue but he found no roads that lead him to a plausible answer. He didn’t even get the chance to ask you what you were saying because you continued to speak.
“The baby sparrow would’ve died if you hadn’t moved the nest, that its wings were still too frail to hold it aloft, too dependent to fend for itself. But now, because you had chosen differently, because you had carried it to safety, it might live.” Then you turned those same words back on him — asking, no, insisting, “didn’t you too want a chance at life, a chance beyond the shadowed halls of the manor that had held you captive for as long as you can remember?”
Beomgyu began to feel dizzy from all the noises in his head. His thoughts splintered in a dozen directions all at once, scattering like shards of broken glass he couldn’t gather fast enough. He felt fear first, tightening around his ribs at the thought of his father finding out, of his father’s hand coming down not on him this time but on you. Doubt slithered in quickly soon, whispering that this could be another test, that maybe you didn’t mean it, maybe you were just prodding at his wounds to see how he would bleed. Yet beneath those voices was hope. Small and fragile, like the sparrow in his hands only moments ago. He tried to shove it down, but it clung, refusing to be silenced.
How could you help him? Could you really help him? Could you somehow do what he had never managed himself? He thought of nights where he had imagined escape only to remind himself of the price — his father’s reach was long, his cruelty deeper still. What if you underestimated him? What if he caught you both? The idea of you being hurt because of him was unbearable, and the thought left a sour taste in his mouth, made his palms sweat as though he were already clutching at chains.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, drawing in a breath so deep it almost stung. When he opened them again, his gaze landed on the canvas. The sea… you were a gentle tide brushing against the edges of his life with patience. You weren’t trying to drown him. He felt the faintest sense of calm settle in his chest.
“I’ll… think about it,” he said at last, the admission trembling in the air. It was neither promise nor refusal, but the closest he could come to hope without breaking apart.
Ever since that day, Beomgyu’s mind had been a restless field of contradictions.
The meeting was the following week, and it seemed like his father was taking hefty preparations considering he had even gone so far as to select the suit Beomgyu would wear, sending the maids to deliver it to his room as if to remind him that even his appearance was not his own to decide. The garment was crisp, its fabric immaculate, and Beomgyu stared at it for a brief moment before turning away, pushing it aside, not willing to try it on until the event day.
Things took an even anguishing turn for his mind when one night, while Hyeeun stood near the window folding the laundry and he was preparing to go to bed, she spoke words that felt too good to be true.
“An art show will be held soon in the town.”
As if struck by lightning, Beomgyu’s mind came to a static stop. Before he could ask, she added, “They’ll choose an apprentice for the great artist Kim Kwangsun. He will take whoever wins under his wing and train them.”
The name alone made Beomgyu’s pulse roar in his ears. Kwangsun — the great painter whose works he had only ever seen in books, whose brush seemed to capture fragments of eternity itself. To be under his tutelage would not only mean escape, it would mean recognition, a life defined by what Beomgyu’s own hands could create rather than what his father could destroy.
But at that moment, each of her words seemed hard for him to understand, as if he was a child who was beginning to learn new words. When the cloud of bewilderment finally left his mind, he licked his dry lips. “Why… why are you telling me this?” he stammered.
“Beomgyu, I want you to participate. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but this… this might be the door you’ve been waiting for. If things are in our favour, you could have the chance to begin again,” her words sharpened with lividness with each one.
This felt way too coincidental, both terrifying and intoxicating. It felt impossible that the thought you had planted — if he would take a way out if offered — had now found an echo in Hyeeun’s words. The seed of hope was raging to go wild, no longer content to rest in silence. It screamed for him to seize it, to run toward the possibility of freedom and let his life finally belong to him.
This could be his salvation.
But rationality took over quicker. His mind recoiled, conjuring the shadow of his father’s hand before it even fell. “Father will kill me if he finds out,” he stated pressingly, shaking his head. “You know what he’s capable of—I can only imagine the things he’d do. And you—” his eyes darted to her, “he’d turn on you too. You’d pay the price right alongside me.”
Hyeeun was adamant. She stepped closer, setting the folded shirt aside, her voice softening yet carrying more strength for it. “All your life, he has chained you. And now, for the first time, you’ve been given a chance to break free. If you can’t trust yourself yet, then at least trust me. I won’t stand by and watch you waste away under his roof, not when I know you have a gift meant for more than these walls.”
Beomgyu decided to not act rashly on his overwhelming emotions and take time to decide. How long could he think, though? How long before hesitation became surrender? You were right when you said he was afraid to take the first leap. Perhaps if he spoke with you again it will help him come to a decision. Yes. He needed to see you — before the chance slipped through his fingers like paint running from a brush.
You were as always, waiting for him. When did you become such a turning point in his life? You occupied a place so difficult to define because he shared a closeness with you of someone he had known forever, and yet the mystery of someone who still remained foreign, your true name withheld from him like a secret. And still, his body betrayed him in its certainty, in the way it recognized you as safe before his mind could put words to the feeling.
He thought of how easily his pulse slowed then picked up when you were near. Around you, he laughed with less restraint, spoke without rehearsing the words in his head, and forgot about time until the sun dipped lower. The soft pull in his chest whenever you glanced at him, and the sudden gentleness that rose in him when he caught the curve of your mouth or the tone in your voice. The body knows, he thought, and his body told him what his mind still struggled to accept: that you had become precious to him.
He thought perhaps you were sent to him by some mercy he did not believe he deserved. How else could he explain your sudden arrival, speaking of escape and daring to imagine a life different from his current one? You wanted him to believe he could leave, you wanted him to believe he could choose, and it shook him more deeply than his own doubts ever had.
A raw desire surged inside him then — an urge to draw you close, to bury himself in the warmth of your presence. Your voice reached him, but the words scattered like dust in the wind. All he could do was move, stepping into the gravity of his longing, arms wrapping around you before he could stop himself.
You stiffened against him, and for a moment he cursed his boldness, but then he felt the hesitation drain from your body, the softening of your breath, and it emboldened him to press his face against the slope of your neck. You smelled faintly sweet, like jasmine, a comfort so achingly tender that his throat closed on itself. He let his arms draw you tighter, and when he felt your arms come around him in return, relief coursed through him so strongly it nearly buckled his knees.
“Can I… stay like this for a while?” He spoke against your skin.
To his surprise, you let out a small laugh. The simple circles you traced along his back soothed his heart. “Are you alright?” you asked softly.
He shook his head against your shoulder, a faint sound escaping him that told you enough. You coaxed him gently, tilting your head so your words reached his ear. “Still caught up in what you’re supposed to decide?”
He lifted his head then, but kept his arms locked around you. His eyes avoided yours, instead tracing the slope of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the delicate dip where your neck met your collarbone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he confessed, the words raw. “I’ve never dared to think past the dream of freedom. It always felt like… like some fantasy that would crumble if I reached for it. But when I’m with you—” His voice faltered, yet he forced it out. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be brave enough to try. I feel as though I could face anything, if you’re beside me.”
Heat surged into his face at the admission; he had practically confessed without meaning to. When at last he gathered the courage to meet your eyes, he found them widened in surprise, though the corners of your lips curved up slyly. Tilting your head, you asked, “And you’re feeling brave now too?”
He felt the corners of his own mouth lift, helpless against the warmth that spread through him. “Yeah,” he breathed. “A lot.”
You did not release him from the snare you had woven; you arched a brow, amusement flickering at the edge of your smile. “What’s that bravery making you want to do?”
He paused, his pulse roaring against his ribs as though urging him forward. At last, with a breath he confessed, “I want to kiss you.”
Beomgyu caught the smallest flicker of hesitation in your gaze, and it was enough to send his stomach sinking. Panic surged through him; he released you at once, stepping back a pace as if distance could undo what he feared he had broken. His hands hovered awkwardly in front of him before he lifted one, palm open in a desperate attempt to show he meant no harm. The words tumbled from him with a breathless urgency, his voice strained with remorse. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed myself on you like that. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want to make you feel trapped.”
But instead of retreating further, you lowered your gaze, lashes veiling your eyes as you reached for him. Your fingers found his, and then both of his hands were gathered into yours. You studied them with a kind of nervous care before threading your fingers through his. The tug you gave was light, almost questioning, but enough to draw him closer again.
You almost whispered the words yet it carried straight to his chest. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Emboldened by the reassurance in your gesture, Beomgyu felt courage swell anew within him, and he pulled you back toward him, never letting go of your hands, squeezing them once in a silent affirmation. “Are you sure?” he asked, looking for any sign of second thought.
This time, you looked up. A single nod, steady despite the faint tremor in your breath, sealed your answer. “Show me,” you murmured, and though it was barely a whisper, to Beomgyu it rang louder than any command his father had ever thundered.
For a long moment Beomgyu could only stare at you, the pulse in his throat beating far too fast. He was close enough now to see the faint flush spreading along the tips of your ears, to hear the unevenness in your breathing that matched his own, and he thought fleetingly that this was a sight reserved for dreams. His hand slipped back to your waist, and then further, pressing at the small of your back where he let his thumb move in faint circles. Was it to steady you or was it to reassure himself to the reality of your presence — the reason became lost when he came into terms that this was no fleeting dream but something palpably real.
You tilted your face up, your eyes finding his and holding them. He gave you one last chance to pull away, but you only shook your head, and the motion nearly undid him. He bent toward you, heart hammering as his lips brushed yours once, fleeting, just enough to send a jolt coursing through his body. Then, unable to resist the pull any longer, he pressed into you fully. The softness of your lips was everything he had ever imagined and more, and when you kissed him back, it felt as if his chest might break open with the sheer force of it. His hand rose instinctively to your face, fingers cradling your cheek with a tenderness he hadn’t known he was capable of. You gripped the fabric at his waist, clutching at him as though he were something worth holding on to, and the contact sent a warmth through him so fierce he almost staggered.
When he finally drew back, unwilling and breathless, he found you still with your eyes closed. You let out a soft sigh before catching your bottom lip gently between your teeth. Beomgyu felt the heat rush to his face, a blush blooming so vivid he thought for certain you would hear the blood rushing in his ears.
“Was that alright?” Beomgyu asked. His thumb brushed across your cheek in a faint tap, not so much to demand an answer as to feel reassured that you were still right there before him, real and close and not some cruel vision his weary mind had conjured.
You opened your eyes, the lashes lifting slowly and a tender smile curved on your lips. There was a glimmer in your gaze, a shimmer that left him wondering why you looked as though you might cry.
“It was more than alright,” you whispered, the words so quiet that he leaned forward instinctively to catch them, and when you added with a small tilt of your head, “Do you feel rebellious now?” there was a spark of teasing in your tone that made him laugh in earnest.
“Yeah,” he admitted between breaths, still chuckling as he met your gaze again. “All thanks to you.”
The two of you stayed beneath the ivy-curled arch of the ruined walls, the dappled light shifting across your faces as the afternoon stretched long. Beomgyu found himself talking more than he had planned, the words spilling in an unbroken current as he confessed things he thought he’d had to bury in himself forever. He spoke of the art competition Hyeeun had told him of, the way his heart raced at the thought of it, the meeting with his father that loomed like a stormcloud on the horizon, and the sleepless nights he spent tangled in his own dread. You listened without interruption, carried all the emotions he laid out. He had never felt so heard.
When you finally asked if he had already decided on a painting for the competition, he nodded without hesitation. “I have one in mind,” he said, but almost at once his confidence faltered, the doubt sneaking in through the cracks of his composure. “But… I don’t know if it’s enough. What if it’s not worthy of winning?”
Your answer made it sound like truth rather than consolation. You told him that his art had already saved him once, that it had already breathed life into the parts of him his father tried to crush, and that if it could do that, then surely it was strong enough to win him a place in the world beyond these suffocating walls. He clung to those words, let them root themselves in him.
That night, when he lay in his bed, Beomgyu realized that he wasn’t trembling with the usual unrest. His body, for once, allowed him the mercy of stillness, his mind quiet enough to let him drift. He carried into sleep not with the sound of his father’s voice or the sting of his doubts, but your laughter, your encouragement, the press of your lips on his. He dreamt of you through the night, and in those dreams your voice reached him like the consolation of the ocean, vast and endless, a tide that could carry him anywhere.
And after all, once the ocean enters the mind, it never leaves.
Hyeeun brought him the flyer a few days later, slipping it into his hands when she returned from the town with a basket of goods. To know that Hyeeun, too, was willing to risk her position and nudge him toward freedom left him both overwhelmed and quietly trembling inside. Between her faith in him and your constant encouragement, he felt more determined than ever before to win the art competition.
The candidates had to register in person, and there was no clear excuse that would allow him to slip into town without someone trailing him. For now, he had to tuck that possibility deep in his chest and force himself to focus on what came first — the meeting. Hopefully, if he did good, his father will let him off the hook without much questions.
The night before the event, sleep barely touched him. By morning, his body felt hollow, yet he had no choice but to rise when the staff bustled into his room. They dressed him in the crisp suit his father had selected, tugging collars straight and brushing invisible specks from his sleeves until he stood polished into an image that was barely him. All the while, his father kept a hawk eye on every of his motions as if he was waiting for Beomgyu to cause a mishap for him to unleash his wrath.
On the car ride, whispers under his breath that carried more venom than volume, his father recited the rules like scripture — when to bow, when to smile, what to say, what not to even think and threaded threats between them like barbed wire. Beomgyu gave nothing back except a stiff nod here, a blank stare there, swallowing everything into the pit of his stomach where it burned like swallowed fire.
It was sickening how his father’s entire demeanor melted into warmth the moment the doors opened and they stepped into glittering light. The man bowed, shook hands, traded laughter and compliments as though he had never once raised a hand against his son. Beomgyu, standing just behind him, followed suit with the expected grace, bowing to officials, exchanging pleasantries with strangers who wore silk smiles. Their words dripped with honey, but their eyes betrayed them. Some held pity so raw he wanted to shrink under it, others carried evil so bone-shattering that he wanted to run away as soon as possible. He was simply counting down the minutes for this to be over.
After what felt like forever, the return journey began though Beomgyu found himself more alert than ever, because he noticed the peculiarity in his father’s behaviour. The man who had been a shadow of menace for days now looked unusually jolly. Beomgyu suspected that the night’s event had yielded him deals he considered golden. He spoke to no one in particular at first, chuckling under his breath, then a call came through, and the hollow walls of the car filled with his booming laughter. The man spoke of opportunities and names he never bothered to share with his son, before ending the conversation with another peel of laughter that rattled against the windows.
Beomgyu sat still, hands folded in his lap, stiffening only when his father’s hand clapped down on his shoulder with a jarring weight. The praise that followed was foreign; words of approval that Beomgyu could hardly believe were directed at him. He had behaved well, his father said, and for that he was worthy of a pat and a chuckle. To anyone else, it would seem like a tender moment between father and son, but Beomgyu’s bones knew better.
Beomgyu inclined his head slightly, not daring to break the fragile surface of good humor. The man, already turning away, launched into another fit of chatter with the driver, spinning half-jokes and boasts about new alliances. Beomgyu, calculating beneath his calm exterior, nodded along as though in admiration before offering his own words at the perfect moment—
“Congratulations, father. It sounds as though you’ve secured what you’ve been working toward.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue. He paused, let his tone soften just enough to sound harmless, before adding, “I’ll need to go into town tomorrow—”
Perhaps on another night, suspicion would have lined his father’s gaze, would have chained Beomgyu’s request to interrogation and threats. But tonight, drunk on his own success, the man barely spared him more than a careless wave of the hand. “Go, go,” he said, still chuckling. “Do what you want, just don’t cause trouble.”
That was Beomgyu's green light and he sat back comfortably against the car seat, not participating in the conversation further. The rest of the car ride, beomgyu had a smile.
The gallery was crowded. Students with sketchbooks tucked beneath their arms, older painters with hands still stained in pigments, children darting between parents who urged them to stand still, and men and women dressed in their best coats. Beomgyu looked around taking in the smiling and vibrant faces of talent surrounding him. So many artists came to sign up for the competition and he thought to himself if it was even possible to compete with them. They carried with them families who clapped shoulders and whispered encouragement but most importantly they looked happy. It was a picture of belonging, and for a moment, Beomgyu wondered what he was doing among them.
He shook himself as though forcing away a cloud. No, no — he could not let his thoughts collapse inward now. He was not entirely alone; Hyeeun had been with him since day one and you had told him more than once that you believed in him. That faith mattered. Just as he was about to scan the crowd for the registration desk, a voice broke through the noise.
“Looking a bit lost there. Are you here to sign up?”
Beomgyu turned to find a young man approaching. He had a charming, friendly smile etched on his lips that enunciated the sparkle of his big eyes. The stranger looked about his age, perhaps even younger, and there was something almost familiar in the openness of his expression.
“I am,” Beomgyu answered, inclining his head politely. “I was just trying to find where to go.”
“Well, you’re in luck then,” the young man said, holding out a hand as though the two had already met. “Kang Taehyun. Come with me, I’ll show you.”
Beomgyu accepted the handshake, the other’s grip firm but not overbearing, and allowed himself to be led through the crowd until Taehyun stopped before a counter stacked with papers, inkpads, and a long line of hopefuls. Beomgyu joined the queue and let his gaze wander again — he found it easier to observe than to think.
Across the room, not far from a display easel propped up with last year’s winning piece, Taehyun stood directing another group of artists toward the line. As though sensing Beomgyu’s eyes, he glanced up, and their gazes met. Beomgyu was probably losing his social skills because how else could he explain the unrecognizable chill running through him upon their eye contact?
Taehyun gave him a small nod and a smile, Beomgyu, uncertain of how to mirror such natural ease, offered a stiff nod in return, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in an awkward curve. Then Taehyun turned away again, already guiding another nervous painter toward the counter.
Registering his name felt like signing the deal for his new life, Beomgyu’s heart catapulting in his chest as he looked at the approved stamp beside his name. He pressed the form back toward the registrar and stepped aside, chest rising and falling as if he had run. This was his only chance and whatever it took, he could not afford to fail.
From his peripheral vision, he noticed the same young man approaching him again. That bright smile was back on his face when he stopped in front of Beomgyu, hands loosely tucked into his pockets. “All done?” he asked.
“Yes,” Beomgyu replied, dipping his head slightly. “Thank you, for earlier.”
“You look nervous,” Taehyun remarked lightly, tilting his head as he studied him.
Beomgyu’s lips quirked upward faintly. “I think that’s the common feeling packed into this place.” His words were dry, a little self-deprecating, but not entirely untrue. He could almost hear the dozens of hearts pounding around him, his own included.
That earned him a soft laugh, and Taehyun nodded as though Beomgyu had said something particularly clever. “Fair point. Still, it helps to walk around a bit, take your mind off it. Want to look around?”
Beomgyu blinked at him, uncertain. “Ah… but aren’t you a volunteer? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“My shift just ended,” Taehyun answered without missing a beat, lifting one shoulder in a shrug that was almost too casual. Then his eyes sharpened, bright with expectation as he leaned forward slightly. “Mister…?”
Caught off guard, Beomgyu realized with a start how rarely he introduced himself first. “Choi Beomgyu,” he said after a pause, the syllables of his own name tasting strange on his tongue in such a public space.
“Beomgyu,” Taehyun repeated, nodding as if sealing it into memory before gesturing for him to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
The gallery was like a maze, hall after hall of color and silence broken only by the shuffle of shoes and the faint murmur of voices that rose and died away again. Beomgyu followed Taehyun through it, exchanging half-thoughts and fragmented words about the paintings and about nothing in particular. The conversations were not meant to be memorable; they existed only to fill the space between them, like scaffolding that kept Beomgyu from collapsing inward under the awkward pressure of being guided by someone he had just met. And yet Taehyun’s presence was gracious without being overbearing which kept Beomgyu from wishing himself elsewhere.
It was in front of a large canvas, colors sun-scorched and sea-drowned, that Beomgyu stopped. A boy in mid-fall, arms outstretched, feathers scattering around him like dying sparks, the sea below dark and wide, the sky above merciless.
“Ah, the infamous Icarus,” Taehyun remarked. He felt Taehyun move closer. “I don’t know much about him, only that people say his tale still echoes as tragedy, even now.”
Eyes never once wavering from the scene, Beomgyu’s tone dipped an octave lower when he spoke. “His father, Daedalus, built wings out of feathers and wax so that they could escape the island of Crete. He warned his son not to fly too high, because the sun would melt the wax, and not too low, because the sea would soak the feathers. But Icarus…” He hesitated, then exhaled. “He was overcome by the wonder of flight. He soared upward, forgetting everything but the sky, and the heat tore his wings apart. He fell into the sea and drowned.”
Judging from Taehyun’s expression, it seemed like he was letting the explanation soak into his mind as though trying to see the boy through both lenses at once. Eventually, he said, “So in the end he died because he went against his father’s words. All that brilliance, all that promise, undone because he couldn’t obey. That’s what makes it tragic, isn’t it? Pointless.”
For a long moment Beomgyu said nothing, his jaw tight as he studied the painted boy’s broken flight. Then, he shook his head. “I don’t see it that way.” His gaze was distant, the words coming from him felt like they belonged to someone else. “Icarus fell, yes. But I like to believe he wasn’t afraid. Even when the sea claimed him, what mattered wasn’t the fall. It was that, for one moment, he flew.”
Taehyun turned toward him. “You think there’s fulfillment in that? To burn out like that, for just a taste of freedom?”
Beomgyu’s eyes softened and a faint, almost sorrowful smile tugged at his lips. After a pause, he gave the smallest nod. “Yes. Freedom asks for a price. He paid it. But in return—he knew what it was to soar.”
When Beomgyu returned home that evening, the house felt cavernous in its silence. He didn’t search for his father as such disappearances were commonplace. Beomgyu instead slipped past the polished halls and made his way toward the staff quarters. In the kitchen, he found exactly who he sought.
“Hyeeun,” he called gently, stepping inside. The older woman startled, pressing a hand to her chest before fixing him with a mock glare.
“Good heavens, child, do you mean to take years off my life? You can’t go sneaking up on me like that. I’m old, remember?” she scolded, though the affection in her voice softened every word.
Beomgyu grinned, crossing the space to wrap her in a brief hug before dropping into the chair beside her. “You’ve been saying you’re old for as long as I’ve known you, and yet you still outwork everyone here. What are you looking at?”
On the table lay a worn photo album, its edges frayed, the pages softened by touch and time. Hyeeun closed a hand over it, almost protectively. “Just these. I thought I’d keep them company for a while.”
Together they turned the pages, revisiting pieces of his past. The photos were a mix: some from the orphanage, others taken after adoption, stitched together into a patchwork of memory. The warmth of her presence and the scent of cooking still clinging to her apron wrapped around him as they reminisced, voices occasionally dissolving into laughter at some captured expression of his childhood self.
One photo in particular drew his eye. He tapped the corner with a finger, brow furrowing. “Ah, this one… this was when the nannies took us on that park trip. I remember chasing after a kite until my shoes were ruined.”
The image showed him with a handful of children, their faces flushed with play. Yet, behind them, almost out of frame, a small family stood frozen in time: a father, a mother, and a girl about his age, their smiles angled toward another camera. The longer he stared, the more the detail nagged at him, a tug at the edges of his memory that refused to resolve into clarity. He tried to summon the day, to piece together fragments, but all that surfaced was an unsettled pull in his chest that he was forgetting something vital from this particular day.
Before he could dwell longer, Hyeeun turned the page with a little hum, drawing his attention to newer photographs, and the moment slipped away like water through fingers. Beomgyu exhaled and let it go.
“Actually,” he said after a beat, glancing at her with a small smile, “I came to tell you something. I registered for the competition today.”
Her eyes widened, and then her whole face lit up, relief and pride tumbling into her expression at once. “Did you now? Oh, Beomgyu, that’s wonderful! You’ll win, I know it.”
He chuckled softly, looking down at her hands and placed his own over hers. “I don’t want to set my hopes too high, but I swore to myself I’d give everything I have this time. Not just for me, but for you too. If I win… I’ll take you with me like I said. We’ll leave this place behind.”
She squeezed his hand gently. “You always speak as though you owe me something, when all I ever wanted was to see you find your happiness.”
Happiness… the word triggered a memory of something, or rather, of someone. Beomgyu hesitated, a sheepish look crossing his face before he spoke again. “There’s… someone I’d like you to meet, one day.”
Hyeeun’s brows rose, her expression shifting from surprise to dawning curiosity. “Someone? Beomgyu, are you telling me you’ve met a person worth introducing to an old woman like me?”
He nodded, lips quirking into a shy smile. Her disbelieving laugh rang out, bright and affectionate, as she shook her head. “You’ve kept this from me? Well, you’d better not think you’re escaping without details. Who is this person?”
“Not yet,” he said gently, sincerity ran beneath his words. “But when the time is right, I promise I’ll bring her to meet you.”
He couldn’t fall asleep that night; he didn’t know whether it was from the rush of adrenaline that ignited in his veins or the stress caused by the thought that he had to work — and quickly — on a new piece which was presentable and qualified enough for the art show. Beomgyu had to be cautious with his art tools. Things would get ugly if he gets caught by his father again. He had to do it all in one month.
He got down to work as soon as he knew he was safe to do so. Days and nights were spent behind the piece he worked on. He was diligent and careful — alert not to make any mistakes. There were moments when Hyeeun had to drag him away from the canvas to eat, or to send him for a bath. On days when the manor’s atmosphere grew too watchful, too unsafe for him to risk even a brushstroke, he carried his tools in secret and escaped to the ruins, where your presence became his shelter.
One afternoon, you arrived and settled beside him to watch. Beomgyu did not need to look up to feel your gaze fixed on the canvas, though when he finally did, he caught the expression on your face and smiled faintly. Your eyes were wide, awestruck.
“It’s beautiful already,” you said. The colors caught in the fading light, and your breath seemed to hitch as you took in how far the piece had come. You reached for his hands. Beomgyu let you take them, watching as your fingers traced across his palms, turning them this way and that, as though searching for some hidden proof of pain.
He gave a small laugh, soft and almost boyish in the dim afternoon light. “Are you checking for wounds?”
Your thumb brushed against a callus, but your gaze had already returned to the canvas. Beomgyu tilted his head and cupped your face in one paint-stained hand.
“I’m being careful,” he assured. “That’s why he hasn’t noticed. That’s why I haven’t had to take any blows lately. I know what’s at stake.”
You turned into his touch, eyes shadowed with worry he had seen before, though never quite so open. “Knowing what your father is capable of,” you said, punctuating the half finished sentence with a sigh, you added, “I can’t help but worry for you.” Your hand tightened faintly over his. “But I also know what you’re capable of, Beomgyu. And when I think of that, I’m certain his hold over you won’t last forever. It’s only a matter of time before one day, everything he’s built will turn to ashes."
Beomgyu let out a quiet laugh. “It’s endearing,” he murmured, “how much you trust me.”
Your eyes curved faintly, though not with unguarded joy; there was a rueful tilt to your lips. “You’ve shown me many reasons to trust you,” you said softly. “I told you before, didn’t I? That you are a kind person.”
He stilled for a moment, the brush pausing mid‑air, before he set it down. He leaned closer, brushing a kiss against your linked hands. “I trust you too, just so you know.”
That was when you went quiet for a moment, eyes flicking over his face as though searching for something, before you asked him why. “Why do you trust me? You don’t even know my name, never once asked me where I came from, who my family was or what I could’ve wanted out of this strange companionship that bound the two of us together. Aren’t you afraid?” you pressed, “that I might be here with some other purpose? What if I hurt you?”
Beomgyu sat back, listening, and the canvas waited but he didn’t care, because the question deserved more than an absentminded answer. His gaze dropped briefly to his hands in yours, then lifted to your eyes. He smiled with an open sincerity.
“Maybe it is strange,” he admitted, “trusting someone when I don’t even know the simplest things about them. But you’ve been nothing but a joy in my life since you appeared. If you wanted to hurt me, I think you would’ve done it long ago. You wouldn’t be here, sitting next to me, watching me chase after something I’d given up on a long time ago. You wouldn’t be the one reminding me that my dreams are worth the risk. Unless…” He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Unless it’s part of your trick, in which case—I’ll say this much. Instead of harm, you’ve made me work harder, and believe that maybe I have a place beyond these walls. If that’s your scheme, then it’s the kindest one I’ve ever seen.”
The ruins were still, save for the faint rustle of wind passing through broken arches. He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret with you. “You told me once you envy me for holding onto compassion even when life didn’t give me reasons to. But… I think you’re just as compassionate, maybe more. Otherwise, why do you look at me like you’re about to cry every time?”
Beomgyu’s heart beat wildly as he said those words, watching your face and how for a long while words seemed to desert you. He wondered if your heart was beating fast too? But you sat there hollow-mouthed, perhaps felt caught between wanting to confess everything and refusing to let a single syllable slip. Beomgyu did not appear unsettled by your silence.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward the broken arches and the scattered stones of the ruin, the evening light slanting across his features as though it wished to frame him in gold. With a small, reflective smile, he said, “Do you know what I’ve realized? You’ve given me more reasons to smile in these past weeks than I’ve had in years. You’ve given me reasons to step out of that house and to look forward to what comes when the sun rises. A cruel heart could never grant that.”
“Do you really think I could be… kind?” you quietly asked.
Beomgyu’s chuckle slipped out, light as if he had caught a breeze between his teeth. He leaned back a little, fingers brushing against the edge of his canvas. “I think I’ve been watching you try to change,” he said warmly but for reasons unknown to him, his words made your eyes dart toward him in alarm. He let that slide. “You don’t need to, you know. You’ve already shown me the heart you carry, but you shift and grow too, and that’s what makes you… harder to pin down. Which is why honestly,” he added with a wry smile, “I’ve hesitated to give you a name.”
Even after having a word for it, there were nights he thought if his definition of you was all that you were. That would be too cruel and unjust for you. He didn’t want to limit you.
Your brows furrowed, curiosity outweighing the panic that had risen in you moments before. “Define me, you mean?”
“Giving you a name,” he corrected gently, tilting his head as he met your eyes again. “A definition fixes a person into one place, doesn’t it? It leaves no room for change. You—” he broke off briefly, lips tugging into a faint smile, “—you evolve. If you’d still like to know what’s been crossing my mind for you, though, I’d be more than glad to tell you.”
A tremor left you in the form of a shuddering breath, but you replaced it with brightness, shaping it into a smile so true and dazzling that it made his chest ache. “I’d still love to know,” you said, eyes catching the light until they shone with a gloss that made you look as though you stood on the edge of tears. There it was again, looking at him as if you’re about to break.
Something in his own expression softened at that. You turned your face away then, toward the half-finished painting between you. “Hyeeun will love this,” you murmured.
“I hope she does,” he answered. Then, after a small pause, he added with an earnestness that he prayed to reach your heart, “I want you to meet her one day. She’s very dear to me.”
You let your eyes rest on him again, watching the openness with which he spoke of her, the fondness etched into his face as though the thought of her could smooth away every scar he had known. “I can tell she is,” you said, “She brought you up, didn’t she? I can see the proof in you. You’ve grown into a lovely person, Beomgyu.”
Time slipped away faster than he could hold it, until suddenly there was only a week left before the submission.
The day had dawned a dreary overcast. Beomgyu’s gaze wandered for a moment to the window, droplets threading their way downward, before returning to the canvas in front of him. His chest swelled with a quiet pride.
A bouquet of vibrant yellow roses framed by a pair of gentle hands. He had managed to capture the image exactly as it had lived in his memory, as if time had folded to give him back that fleeting sight. Looking at it now, he felt vindicated. The scene was striking, full of warmth, just as he had always believed it would be.
A knock came against the door, breaking his reverie. His heart leapt, the corners of his lips tugging upward the moment he saw Hyeeun standing there. He beckoned her in, his eagerness almost spilling out.
“So you’ve finally decided to show me what you’ve been working on,” she said with a playful tilt of her brow.
“I can promise you it’s worth the wait,” he answered with a laugh.
Hyeeun raised her brows in anticipation when Beomgyu jogged up behind her and gently covered her eyes with his hands, guiding her toward the canvas. A laugh tumbled out of her as she allowed him to lead. When he pulled his hands away, Beomgyu stepped back, searching her face as the veil of surprise lifted. For a heartbeat, she looked baffled, and then it began to dawn on her. Her eyes flicked from the painting to her own hands, and there, gleaming on her ring finger, was the silver band reflected on the painted one.
“Are those…?” Her voice cracked, words catching before they could form.
Beomgyu only nodded, the satisfaction in his chest deepening. Her reaction alone was enough to tell him that he had succeeded. Crossing his arms, he looked at the canvas not as an artist, but as a son. “I’ve named it A Mother’s Love.”
Hyeeun pressed her lips together, her eyes glistening despite the small scoff she gave as she wiped at them. “You really know how to move me, don’t you?”
“You once told me I don’t owe you anything,” he paused, looking down. “But I don’t think that’s true. I owe you everything, and I’ll spend the rest of my life finding ways to repay all the years you spent caring for me, standing by me, and loving me as only you could… mother.”
Her arms went around him in a tearful embrace, and he closed his eyes against her shoulder. For all his words, for all the paint he had poured into canvas after canvas, nothing could quite hold the depth of what she had been to him. So he prayed, silently, fervently, that he might one day be worthy of it all.
And just when you think you’re finally at the peak of having the sun in your grasp, you get reminded why Icarus fell for flying so close to it.
The night had been like any other but Beomgyu had paused as he passed the door of his father’s office. He should have walked on. His feet should have carried him back to his room, but instead they rooted to the floor as though the very grain of the wood was determined to betray him into eavesdropping.
“The tide is turning in our favor,” he father said, pacing as he spoke, the scrape of his shoes brushing against the carpet. “The numbers are already showing it. They’ll crown me before the final vote is even cast, you’ll see. But all of it means nothing if ghosts are allowed to claw their way out of their graves.”
Beomgyu’s blood ran cold. Across the room, he heard the secretary’s voice. “It’s been more than ten years, sir. Ten years, and not a whisper has surfaced that can truly harm you. The records are buried deep, the editors are in our pocket, and those who might’ve spoken have either been bought or silenced.”
His father let out a short laugh. “And that is why you’ll make sure they still find nothing to tug at. The family’s death was written off as an unfortunate accident, nothing more. A fire, a tragedy, and then the ashes swept clean. Keep it that way. I don’t care how many papers you have to burn or how many mouths you need to shut. My victory depends on silence.”
The secretary’s chair creaked as he leaned back, the faint metallic tap of his pen following. “It will be done. We’ve kept the story buried this long; another season won’t change that. But—people are digging harder now, rival camps are hungrier. If even one old article resurfaces about the murder—”
“Then destroy it,” his father cut in, dismissive. “Destroy it before the ink has time to dry in their minds. We’ve already killed them once; don’t let their memory rise to kill me.”
It was the way his father said it, offhand as if it were no heavier than instructing the staff to clear the dining table, that made Beomgyu’s breath falter. The word murder hung there, stripped of any disguise, spoken so plainly it scalded him. A murder case, reduced to a nuisance of paperwork and bribes. His father’s voice did not even lower when he referred to the life that had been taken — it was the unshaken belief that power was strong enough to wash blood clean, that made Beomgyu’s insides twist.
He didn’t know whose lives had been extinguished, only that the secretary’s agreement confirmed it had been done and that it was not the first time. All his life, he had exaggerated the fact that his father was capable of ‘killing’ only by taking away someone’s dreams but now Beomgyu truly understood — his father was capable of more than cruelty, more than fists and cutting words; he was capable of ending a person entirely. The realization rooted in Beomgyu’s chest like ice. He staggered back from the door as though struck, each step of retreat a battle to keep his breathing quiet, his hands trembling against the banister as he forced himself back to his room.
Once inside, his strength gave out, fumbling the latch shut. He collapsed to the floorboards, chest convulsing with shallow gasps that refused to fill his lungs. The room blurred and spun, palms pressed against his temples as though he could keep the words from seeping deeper into him. His father was capable of killing. He had done it before, and he had hidden it so well that the world lauded him still.
What seized him more violently was not the thought of his own end should the truth of his defiance ever reach his father — it was Hyeeun.
If his father discovered the plan, if his father so much as suspected her role, what would stop him from erasing her just as he had erased those innocent lives? Hyeeun — sweet Hyeeun, who had given up her years to raise him with tenderness his father never knew — what would he do if she was dragged into the fire? Beomgyu’s nails dug into the floor as his breathing quickened, panic thrashing inside him without direction.
He did not, for one moment, fear what could happen to himself; but the thought of harm falling upon her left him shaking, gasping on the floor. If his father dared to touch Hyeeun, Beomgyu did not know what he might do, only that the boy he was tonight would cease to exist.
He was falling. He was falling and all he wanted was the embrace of the ocean to engulf him so that the terror coursing through his chest would dissolve into something vaster than himself.
Yet he had not moved all day; the bed had kept him prisoner by dread so thick he could not even bring himself to step outside. Though he thought of the lakeside, though he thought of the ruins, though he thought of you, he could not will his limbs to rise. He remained drowning in his own depression, sick with the wish that you would come find him instead, to appear at his door as if summoned by the desperation he could no longer mask, to drown him instead in the breadth of your presence, to hold him and promise that the truth he learned was nothing more than his hallucination.
He could not bear it any longer. Past midnight, when the stars were scattered pale across the sky, he fled toward the ruins. He did not know if you would be there. He did not even expect it, for you had only ever met him in the span between afternoon and evening, your paths parting with the descent of the sun. And yet, he went, driven by the need to breathe somewhere far from walls built by a murderer.
The ruins at night were a husk of themselves. Steeped in shadow, the stones veined with silver where the moon spilled across them making the place look unreal in its beauty. Reality was already growing porous for Beomgyu from the burden of his emotions.
In truth, he did not expect anyone. He had prepared himself for emptiness, perhaps even needed it. So when he caught sight of you there seated in that desolate cradle of stone — for a brief second he thought he had conjured you out of longing, a hallucination born of fear.
His knees struck the earth hard. Raw and jagged sobs broke from him shaking him until he bent forward with his face in his hands, incapable of speech, incapable of anything but breaking apart. He dimly registered your startled voice, the sound of you rushing to him, your hands clumsy on his shoulders and his face, trying to discover where he was hurt, what had struck him down.
“Beomgyu—Beomgyu, what happened? Are you hurt? Tell me where—” Your words stumbled over each other in alarm, your palms framing his jaw.
But no words would come. The air tore in and out of his lungs but brought no calm, only more shudders. His hands caught at you desperately, clutching your arms, your shoulder, wherever he could find purchase to feel you weren’t an image he conjured up.
“Breathe,” you whispered, pulling his face against your shoulder. “Just breathe, it’s alright. You’re here, I’ve got you. You’re safe, Beomgyu.” The cadence of your words was uneven, rushed at times, but that only made them feel more alive.
It took long minutes before anything coherent slipped through his teeth. “I—I can’t—” He broke off, pressing his face harder into your shoulder because the words themselves burned. “The house—it’s—” His chest hitched again, another sob scraping his throat raw. “I don’t know what to do. Hyeeun—I’m so scared.”
You stroked the back of his neck, shushing him in soft fragments but Beomgyu could hear your heart beating in confusion. “Then don’t think about the house right now. You’re here. Just stay here with me. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
He shook his head, unable to form more. He couldn't place it into words — couldn’t say my father is capable of killing, couldn’t bear to let it take shape.
You let him be for a little while longer, waiting until the worst of his trembling had passed before gently suggesting that the night air would make him catch a cold if he stayed out any longer. He didn’t resist when you touched his sleeve and urged him to his feet, though his movements were sluggish. His gaze trailed after you when you stooped to collect the lamp you had with you, its pale flame quivering with each step you took toward the ruined structure.
The ruin looked much as you both had left it the last time — almost domestic in its stillness, thanks to his earlier persistence in sweeping and arranging. The corners were free of the usual drifts of leaves, and the mat you had unrolled together rested against the far wall. You brought him there with a small guiding press, and he sank down onto it. When you passed him your water pouch, he gratefully accepted it. The liquid wet his lips, ran down the corner of his mouth, and only then did he realize how parched he was.
You stayed low before him, crouched so that your eyes caught his without obstruction. The flame from the lamp painted copper onto the brown of your gaze, lending it an otherworldly sheen that held him captive despite himself. He thought, wildly, that if he had enough strength left he would keep staring until the night collapsed into morning, that maybe your eyes could hold him upright where his own body could not. His heart, which only moments ago had raced from panic, now beat with a different restlessness.
“What were you doing here?” he asked at last, his voice roughened not only by thirst. He glanced at the darkness beyond the broken threshold, then back at you. “At this hour, I mean. It’s far too late for you to be wandering.”
Beomgyu once again caught the familiar flicker of hesitation in your gaze as you thought for an answer. He was no fool, he knew you had secrets, but you weren’t an enemy. That much, he was sure of, and if one asked him why then they’d be disappointed knowing he too had no idea why. He just knew.
“I couldn't sleep.” You brushed a stray lock of hair back as you spoke, your gaze drifting briefly toward the lamp. “When my house doesn’t feel like a home, I come here, remember?”
A rueful smile touched his mouth, though it faltered almost as soon as it appeared. “Then I should apologize for invading your space. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t even know if you’d be here. It’s only that—” he swallowed, thumb tightening on the water pouch before setting it aside, “I hoped for you to be here. You’ve become… I don’t even know the word. Important, I suppose. Too important, perhaps. It’s strange—funny, even.”
The wind slipped in through the gaps in the stone, stirring a faint draft that made the flame inside the lamp gutter dangerously, shadows reeling across the walls. The two of you instinctively glanced toward it, watching as it bent and righted itself. The pause in conversation stretched there, tension threading the air in the wake of his words.
“Are you still sure you want to do this?”
“Do what?”
You looked away, toward the lamp that threatened to die and then flared again, and you shook your head like you were denying both him and yourself. A faint, tired curve of your lips betraying nothing of the turmoil beneath. “You shouldn’t trust me this much.” The words were a weak last attempt at a warning.
Beomgyu chuckled dryly. “You’ve said that before,” he murmured, rubbing at his face with both hands as if he could wake himself from this strange, aching dream. “And I told you—I don’t care. If you were going to hurt me, you would’ve done it already.” His hands dropped back to his lap, his eyes finding yours in the half-light. Softer, almost broken, he added, “You still had the chance to do it tonight… but instead you held me.”
His head tilted, hair falling across his brow as he studied you. “Why do you keep doing it?”
The lamp flickered violently, its glow throwing wild shapes across the walls and cutting harsh lines over his face. He leaned back against the stone, letting his legs stretch before him. The night wind had worked his hair into a tangle, and without thinking, you shifted closer, reaching out to smooth them away. His gaze never broke from yours, even as your fingers threaded lightly through his hair he kept waiting for your answer.
When your silence stretched, he exhaled a breath that trembled at its edges. “It’s too late to take it back now,” he said softly. “I’d rather trust you and be wrong than keep drowning alone.”
It was true. Never once had he felt danger in your presence. Unease, yes, at the beginning, when you had first unsettled him with your strange quietude but never once did he feel the need to truly run away from you. Even if he was destined to burn like Icarus, chasing the warmth of a freedom too close to touch, and even if you were the ocean that would swallow him whole, he could not bring himself to care. Let the story be a tragedy rewritten. He still wanted you.
You said his name — just his name — and the sound of it loosened a sigh from him. His hand rose almost instinctively, closing around yours where it still rested in his hair. That simple gesture drew your eyes to him at last, made you meet him fully beneath the thinning light. The wind surged through the broken windows, and the flame in the lamp gave its last quiver before snuffing out, leaving the two of you in the silvery hush of moonlight.
He saw the way your lips parted with the faint tremor of restraint there, and how your gaze dipped, traced the line of his mouth before returning to his eyes. Beomgyu didn’t move at all, offering the decision into your hands.
You were torn, that much he could see, and guilt pricked him for laying this heaviness on your shoulders. He softened instinctively, ruffling your hair with his palm before patting the top of your head with a small chuckle which was no less warm.
“Thank you,” he said. “For always catching me when I fall, even when you don’t realize it.” He started to push himself upright, brushing dust from his palms. “I’m okay now. I can go back.”
But your hand caught his collar before he could straighten fully, the tug sharp enough to unbalance him, dragging him back down into a sitting position where your mouth caught his. Beomgyu had no time to even melt into the kiss because you were pulling away already. He stared at you when did, still so close that your breaths touched. His pulse pounded so harshly in his ears it drowned out the rustle of the trees outside. Your grip on his collar only tightened, holding him close enough that he could see the way your chest heaved with uneven breaths.
“Please,” you begged, “ask me what you are to me.”
His chest ached at the rawness of it, a smile breaking loose even as he lifted his hand to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your skin tenderly. “What am I to you?” he whispered.
You cursed under your breath, eyes squeezing shut as though forcing the truth out cost more than you wanted to give, before you opened them again and pinned him in place.
“I want to save you, Choi Beomgyu.”
“I’m all yours.”
Mouth claiming mouth, returning to each other with a rush and much less hesitation this time. His hand slid up to the back of your head, holding you against him. The taste of you filled him, overwhelming and it wasn't enough, never enough, so he angled his mouth to press harder against yours — lips parting, pulling you closer until your knees knocked his thighs. Beomgyu’s back thumped lightly against the wall as you pressed forward, the jolt sending a shiver up his spine. He didn’t even care about the rough stone digging into his shoulders; all he cared about was the feel of you crawling into his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips, your body pressing down until he could hardly breathe for the rush of sensation.
A groan broke from him when you settled more fully against him, the friction near unbearable through the layers of cloth still separating you. Your dress had ridden up over your thighs, exposing warm skin beneath his palms as his hands slid along them, and the shiver that trembled through you only pushed him further into the haze of need. The movement forced another roll of your hips against his that made his vision blur for a moment. He broke from your mouth only to gasp for air, forehead falling against your shoulder, his breath hot where it hit your skin.
“Is this—” he rasped, voice raw with need, “—is this really okay?” His fingers flexed against your waist, betraying his fear of pushing you too far, of losing what he already had.
“Yes,” you breathed against his ear, the word catching on your throat, more exhale than voice. “If you want this too.”
He tilted his head back enough to catch your mouth again, kissing you like that was the only answer possible. “God, I do,” he muttered against your lips, barely coherent as he drew you down harder against him, his hips shifting upward to meet the roll of yours. The friction burned, sharp and maddening, and he couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped when you rolled down again, slow enough to make his entire body quake.
“You’re trembling,” you whispered against his cheek, your hands threading through his hair, tugging lightly.
“I—” he choked out a breath as his hands slid from your hips up along your back, “—I don’t think I can stop even if I tried.”
“You don’t have to,” you said simply, continuing your blissful torture on him, dragging across the strain between you both. Beomgyu’s jaw dropped around another groan, his eyes squeezing shut at the flood of sensation. His mind shrank to nothing but the heat of your body rocking against his, the sound of your breath mixing with his own, and the wet press of your mouths colliding again and again, each kiss hungrier than the last.
He had thought he’d drown in loneliness before, but this was drowning too — in fire and salt and sweetness, a burn he would gladly take if it meant more of you, closer still, until there was no space left between. He didn’t care if it consumed him entirely; he wanted more, and more, and more.
You pressed another kiss to his lips, and he was hungrier than ever. His voice broke into a low moan against your mouth, his body jolting when the hard line of his arousal slid against your center through the thin barrier of fabric. His face burned crimson as he wrenched back just far enough to groan. You take the break to graze your lips against his neck, and he shudders beneath you, his fluffy black hair beginning to stick to his forehead from sweat.
He’s already unbearably hard and his mind was reeling from this in a way no danger, no sleepless night, ever had. He felt you shift back a little, your hand slipping lower, trailing over the bare stretch of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up, before resting with the softest pressure against his crotch. The look of asking for permission you gave him nearly broke him apart. He could only nod, his body begging for you, but more than that, his heart begging to be trusted with this.
It wasn’t just the fire of arousal that consumed him, it was the way you touched him as if he was worth handling with devotion. He had never known gentleness like this, never known safety within desire, but right now you were giving him those so easily — your lips pecking his so softly, your body guiding him instead of overwhelming him. He wanted nothing more than to return that gift, to be your harbor the way you were becoming his. His hands, though trembling, moved to help you out of the thin barrier of fabric that still stood between you, his gaze never leaving yours as if to swear again and again that your comfort was his priority. Every shift, every small intake of your breath, he caught and memorized.
Beomgyu had always held the seed of desire under his tongue and let the wild birds hawk the sky. He had dreamt of being wanted; truly wanted, not as a tool or a passing shadow — something heady and sweet and worthy to be held down. And now, when your heat finally took him in, he understood what it meant to be wanted that way.
The sudden stretch tore a moan out of you before you could stop it, and he clutched at you instinctively as you gasped, the tightness around him enough to strip him of all thought. Your face twisted with pain and pleasure, and his heart wrenched — he kissed you through it, every apology falling between your breaths, every praise spilling across your skin in a desperate attempt to soothe. His lips moving over your jaw, your temple, your mouth, anything he could reach as his hands stroked your sides. He massaged gently, trying to calm you down in the same way you had anchored him, murmuring promises into your hair that he would wait, that you could take all the time you needed.
The moonlight fell over you both, silvering the sheen of sweat on your skin, and when he saw the way your mouth parted, the way your lashes fluttered as you began to move along him, it nearly pushed him over the edge. Every slow rise and fall was a gift, every sound that slipped from you felt like a gospel in his ears that caused waves of pleasure to crash into him.
You kissed him through the waves, left him gasping, and he thought — how could one ever stop loving the ocean, even if it leaves you breathless on its shore?
“Sær.”
Somewhere in that heady haze, the name burned in the back of his mind begging to be given a shape, so Beomgyu let it fall from his lips softly and hushed between breaths. It’s the name he thought of for you. Perhaps in another moment, one that was not this, he might have chosen to tell you your given name. But here in this blissful heat of intimacy, it felt right to give you the name he had forged in the furnace of his chest. Now, when he was bare in every sense, was the only time it could have been spoken.
And the instant it passed, he felt you pausing your movements mid-press, your eyes carrying… was it shock? Disbelief? Caught in the frenzy of stumbling heartbeats he could not tell apart why his heart was pumping so loudly. Did you perhaps not like it? Were you disappointed?
“Wh–what?” your voice cracked, the sound so broken in the night air. He clenched his jaw, forced his hips to stay still when every muscle screamed to thrust upward into you. Instead he lifted a trembling hand to cup your cheek, brushing the warmth of your skin with his thumb.
“That’s the name I’ve chosen for you,” he whispered, voice rough with want, rougher with tenderness. “It means–”
“The ocean.”
Countless synonyms of the ocean to exist yet this particular one echoed in his head insistently, stubbornly, and he didn't know why but only that it fit, only that its existence belonged to you. Sær. Ocean. That was what you were to him. Endless, vast, merciless, and yet the only place he could imagine belonging. His final resting place.
Beomgyu’s eyes searched yours like a man praying for absolution when you finished the sentence for him. However, worry started to seize him when you remained quiet with eyes downcast. He pushed himself up, ignoring the way the change in angle made your walls clench tighter around him, ignoring the way his own body begged for movement, and focused only on your face. “You don’t like it?”
When he tilted your face up with his fingers on your chin, Beomgyu’s heart dropped in his stomach as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks. Panic clawed through him. He grasped your shoulders as if trying to hold you together, his voice rushing out fast and uneven. “Are you hurt? Am I hurting you? Do you want me to stop? Tell me and I’ll stop, please—”
But you shook your head so fiercely that his words cut off, and in that frantic movement he caught the shimmer of your tears spilling freely. His chest seized, but then you were smiling through it, trembling and tearful yet radiant in a way that shone brighter than any words could have. “No—no,” you whispered, “I’ve never been happier.”
The confession sent a rush through him that loosened the taut coil of tension in his chest, replacing it with a wild, fervent heat that left him gasping against your mouth when your lips found him again, a hungry pull that drew him back into motion, your hips rolling as you seated yourself fully and began to move. Beomgyu swore something had changed right then — intoxicating him more than before.
Every drag of your slick heat around him made his lungs fight for breath, and when you rocked deeper, sinking down until he was pressed to the hilt, he nearly lost himself right there. Your gasps spilled over his mouth, your moans falling into the crook of his throat, and he thought he might die from the sheer sound of you. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into the curves, and he met each thrust with a broken groan, matching your rhythm until it was impossible to tell who was guiding whom, only that you were both drowning together in the same tide.
All of a sudden you smiled at him again, and leaned close until your lips brushed his ear. You whispered your name to him.
The syllables curled inside him like fire, and he swore his vision blurred, his head snapping back against the wall as his eyes rolled and his mouth fell open around a breathy moan. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes, smiling and whispering your name back to you again and again.
Your name on his tongue made you clench around him as your essence washed over him with soft moans, and he knew he wasn’t going to last. The way your body gripped him, hot and merciless, had him groaning into your shoulder, warning through ragged breaths, “I—I’m close, I can’t—” And you nodded against his skin, letting him go, letting him pull free from your heat just as he broke. The sound that tore from him was high, keening, his throat catching on a pitch he hadn’t known he could reach, while his release painted across his abdomen and chest in hot spurts. His body trembled from the force, every muscle giving out as his head dropped back, hair sticking to his sweat-slick forehead, his whole face and neck and ears flushed a furious red.
Beomgyu watched you lean down, dragging your tongue slowly across his abdomen, licking up the taste of him mixed with salt and heat, your eyes flicking up as you paused against his stomach. That sight was so utterly erotic and filthy that he thought he might spill again right then and there.
His fingers found their way into your hair, stroking along the strands before resting on the back of your head. “Kiss me. Need to know what I taste like on your lips.”
He saw the way your face warmed but then you leaned down again, licking up more of his release before swishing it around your lips. When you pressed your mouth to his, the feeling of it had him groaning deep into you, and he clutched at your nape.
He swallowed the taste of himself mixed with you — the electricity of your touch had him drowning and soaring at once. His whole body shuddered at the intimacy of it, at the mess and the sweetness, and he thought he would gladly starve forever if only to be fed this again.
When you finally parted, leaving him panting against your mouth, he found himself smiling afterward. “You have a beautiful name.” He hoped he conveyed his earnest feelings in his words.
Beomgyu watched, mesmerized, when you laughed. You have such a beautiful smile. You had always been beautiful to him, though before you had hidden behind a disguise. But now in front of him you were stripped bare of all tricks and pretense. You were showing him your true colours and that, Beomgyu thought, made you look more breathtaking than ever.
He prayed desperately that he would not come to regret whatever had unraveled between you tonight. He prayed that your damnation might somehow free him, instead of chaining him to some future filled with remorse. But right now, with you in his arms as the two of you laid under the moonlight, it felt just right. He wished to stay like that.
On the day of the art submission, Beomgyu had to be diligent to leave the manor. Seven days until the results, they had announced, and those words had not left his head since.
He told himself over and over that if a public figure like Kwangsun took notice of him, his father would have no choice but to let him go, to let him pursue what he wanted, if only for the sake of preserving his family’s image. But the thought did not bring comfort for long and his fear knew no bounds since after all his father is quite literally a murderer.
When the sixth night bled into its end and he prepared to sink beneath the covers, a soft tap against the glass alerted him. His head shot up staring into the darkness, convinced for a moment that he had imagined it. Then it came again, twice this time. He pushed himself up, bare feet cold against the floor, and went to the window, his hand trembling slightly as he unlatched it—
“Hi.”
—too see you there.
You stood framed in the night, the silver wash of the moon outlining you, but it was not the you he knew. You weren’t draped in the light summer dresses or the casual clothes he had grown accustomed to seeing, no, tonight you wore dark garments cut close to your figure — a uniform. The sight shook him because it hinted at a life he had not yet been allowed to glimpse but that detail was not the top of his worry.
“How—how did you even manage to get in?” He was already panicking, mind racing with the thought of his father’s eyes everywhere. He stepped back just enough to let you climb in. “What if someone saw you—”
But before he could finish, you cradled his face, and your lips crashed against his with such urgency that it drove every frantic thought from his head. Lungs having the air knocked out from them, he staggered back under the force of it, his own hand shooting out to grasp your arm to steady his footing.
There was something desperate about the way you kissed him like it was the last time, as if the world would tear the two of you apart come morning, and that terrified him. A discomfort so prominent began to claw its way up in his chest that he could not push it down no matter how much he tried.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, when you finally broke away. “Why does it feel like—like you’re about to leave me?”
You only shook your head, your forehead coming to rest against his. “Nothing’s wrong,” you whispered, though your eyes betrayed a depth that unsettled him further. Then, tilting your head back you smirked faintly, words curling off your tongue in that way of yours that always left him defenseless. “Why does it still come as a surprise to you that closeness can’t be achieved from a safe distance, hm?”
Heat shot through his face, and Beomgyu cursed himself for how easily you could melt him. Your teasing expression, paired with the uniform you wore — you looked so different but no less breathtaking that it left him stammering. He knew he looked ridiculous, stuttering for air when all you did was look at him.
You gave a gentle shake of your head again, chuckling before a tiny smile surfaced. “Everything will be okay. That’s why I came—to tell you not to be afraid, no matter what happens.” Your thumb brushed across his cheek, and your gaze never left his, steady even as his heart pounded. “The results are tomorrow, aren’t they? Believe in yourself, Beomgyu. Remember what I promised—” you paused briefly, letting your smile widen, “I will save you, and I will catch you, no matter how you fall.”
The reassurance should have calmed him, but it only heightened his unease. Inside, his chest thrashed with dread, though he kept his expression still, voice as steady as he could manage. “You’re scaring me,” he said, and it came out smaller than he wanted.
But you only laughed softly like you were helping him calm down. “I’m being practical,” you said, nudging his nose with yours. “It’s better to be prepared for anything, don’t you think?”
He hated that you were right. There was no promise that tomorrow would bring triumph. No promise that fate would land in his favor. And yet, even in that terrifying ambiguity, you spoke as if his future was not chained to chance. As if you had already written it differently for him.
So he trusted you, because even when your words hinted at farewells and hidden battles, you had never once turned away from him. What else could he do when your hand was warm against his cheek and your eyes burned with certainty?
His gaze drifted down to the uniform again, questions weighing on his tongue. “Your uh… outfit. Is it for work?” he asked.
You hummed as if the question amused you and stepped back a pace, giving a twirl as though to show yourself off. Then you shoved your hands into your pockets, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Do I look good?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, cheeks warming again. “You do,” he admitted. He let it stop there, did not press further, though a hundred questions burned in him. He only stared softly at the enigma of you and though you offered him crumbs of your secrets, though you showed him pieces like this, he could not bring himself to despise you or fear you for withholding the rest.
You stepped into him once more, wrapping your arms around him. He returned the embrace, burying his face against your shoulder, and that was when you whispered against his ear, “Please wait for me.”
The words throbbed in his skull. His lips parted, the question trembling on the edge of his tongue — what do you mean by that? — but he could not force it out and by the time he gathered his courage, you were already drawing away. So he only held onto the warmth of you as you climbed back through the window. Your smile was soft, and with one last look, you slipped out into the night, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of your kiss and the echo of your promise.
Dawn felt too bright, the pale gold seeping across the horizon feeling almost cruel when his body still trembled with exhaustion.
Beomgyu had not closed his eyes once, and now the morning found him pacing the length of his room. He sat at his desk and tried to sketch, his pencil scratching lines that twisted into nonsense before his frustration tore the paper apart; he reached for a book, but the letters swam before his eyes, meaningless as waves breaking against stone. He pressed his forehead against the windowpane, hoping the cool glass might still his racing thoughts, but all he could see in his reflection was a boy stretched thin between terror and hope.
Hyeeun came to him more than once, gentle in the way she hovered by the doorframe before stepping inside. She reminded him, “You’ve done your part — now it’s the world’s turn to see it.”
She guided him back into his chair when his legs refused to stop moving, brushed his hair out of his face and held his hands when they trembled too violently to keep them still. Yet her reassurances, as tender as they were, could not banish the echo of the words you had left him with at the window. They repeated endlessly, a vow that should have been comforting but instead carved at his chest with each recollection, because the tone in which you had spoken them had left behind the ache of your absence.
Every creak of the hallway, every rattle of wind against the shutters, every stray sound made his heart lurch, convinced that it was not a messenger at the door but his father, that somehow the man had already discovered everything, that the fragile shield of secrecy would shatter and crush him before he ever had the chance to dream of freedom. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, until the sound he dreaded most came — a knock at the door.
His body jerked upright, cold sweat prickling his neck, and his eyes darted to Hyeeun, who straightened slowly, her mouth pressed into a line as though she too feared what lay beyond that door. But then the voice of a servant filtered through, announcing the arrival of a letter addressed to him, and Beomgyu’s stomach twisted so violently it felt like a blade had cut through him.
The envelope, when it was placed in his shaking hands, almost dropped as his fingers faltered, and Hyeeun’s hands came to rest lightly over his own, urging him to steady himself, urging him to breathe, urging him to open it before his panic consumed him entirely. “Beomgyu,” she said in a way that did not allow disobedience, “you cannot keep fearing what is already written. You owe it to yourself to see it.”
But Beomgyu stood frozen, the envelope heavy as iron. His throat worked uselessly. “What if—” he choked, unable to finish.
What if it told him he was nothing? That every stolen hour by candlelight, every drop of blood hidden in the strokes of his brushes, every secret dream was nothing more than childish delusion?
“You’ll never know if you keep staring at it,” Hyeeun whispered, touching his wrist. Her hand was warm.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a drum of dread, until the silence became unbearable and he tore at the seal with uncoordinated hands.
At first, the words danced, and he had to blink until tears threatened to spill just to make out the letters. He read the ranking once, disbelieving. Twice, his lips trembling over the syllables. A third time, until his vision swam and the letters dissolved into black ink stains.
“It says… it says—” He laughed, a cracked sound that turned into a sob, then another, until tears blurred everything. “First,” he whispered hoarsely, “I ranked first.”
Hyeeun caught him before he collapsed entirely, guiding him down to sit. She was crying too, laughing through her own tears as she wrapped her arms around him. “You did it,” she whispered fiercely into his hair. “You really did it, Beomgyu.”
Pressing his face into her shoulder, his words spilling between broken breaths. “I’m free… I’m free, I’m really—” The rest dissolved into another wave of sobs, his body shaking so violently that the letter slipped from his fingers, fluttering onto the floor. Relief was not graceful; it was messy, all hiccups and laughtert.
The euphoria surged in him like lightning, so overwhelming it forced him to move, to act, to run. He broke from Hyeeun’s embrace with breathless apologies, grabbing his shoes without tying them, bolting through the door, through the grounds, his chest heaving with both joy and desperation. There was only one thought in his mind, one face that rose before him with unbearable longing: yours.
But the lakeside was silent. The ruins were empty. His joy collided with the void of your absence.
His throat tightened as he spun in place, searching the trees, the shadows, the horizon, certain that you would emerge, that you would keep your promise. You did not come.
But still he waited, standing at the edge of the lake with the paper of his triumph folded in his fist, the breeze catching the tears still drying on his cheeks. He whispered into the emptiness, words meant only for you, a vow as fragile as it was unyielding.
“ I’ll wait, just like before. You promised… you promised you’d come for me.”
And though the world around him stayed silent, he remained, eyes fixed on the distance, clinging to the hope that you would return.
Beomgyu welcomed each day half-convinced it had all been a fever dream, that the seal and the words naming him first place had been forged by his starving imagination. He would reach for the folded paper hidden beneath his mattress, hands shaking as he unfolded it, only to collapse into a flood of relief when the words remained the same.
Freedom was almost his, and yet the first step of victory strangely felt incomplete. He carried his sketchbook to the lakeside, to the ruins, waiting for you as he had in those early days. Sometimes he spoke aloud, as if the reeds or the broken stones might carry his words to you: “You’d laugh at how nervous I was,” he muttered one afternoon, biting back a grin that dissolved into a sigh. “I wish you could’ve seen me open it.”
Hyeeun, perceptive as always, saw the faraway look in his eyes. She once voiced her words in the passing, “She gave you courage, didn’t she? Whoever she was.” Beomgyu didn’t answer, but his blush was answer enough.
In the letter it was written that Kwangsun would be meeting the winner. Beomgyu did not know why, but his father had left for another trip on the very day you came to his window, and had been abroad ever since. He overheard the manor staff gossiping about how some “complications” arose that urgently demanded his father’s attention. Beomgyu’s subconscious clawed at him with suspicion — what if it had to do with the cases his father tried so hard to bury? Yet whatever the truth, the absence was a reprieve, buying him enough time to deal with the one thing that mattered.
The atelier was nothing like Beomgyu had imagined.
He had pictured grandeur where the sole elements would be gilded frames, marble flors, and assistants bustling in every nook and cranny. Instead, the space was alive in its chaos, full of mismatched life. There were canvases leaned against walls in crooked stacks and half-finished sketches cluttered tables. At first your senses would be a little tipsy given how strongly the air smelt of turpentine and oil. Dusty light from the tall windows struck the room unevenly casting portraits into half-shadow.
Beomgyu stood in the doorway, palms clammy, his sketch folio clutched so tightly the corners had bent. His heart stuttered with disbelief. This was real. This was him standing here, not the Assemblyman’s son caged in darkness, but Beomgyu the artist, summoned into the workshop of the very man whose name hung in every gallery.
A voice carried across the cluttered room. “So you’re the one.” Kwangsun emerged from behind a canvas, wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze swept over Beomgyu.
Beomgyu bowed low, words caught in his throat. He managed to spell out a meek greeting which the older man acknowledged with a warm nod. Kwangsun gestured toward a canvas propped on an easel — the very one that had won the competition. “I’ve looked at this for hours,” he said, stroking his beard. “It speaks with a voice I recognize. But words on canvas are one thing—hands must answer for them. Do you mind showing me if yours really do?”
Beomgyu blinked. “Show you?”
Did he not believe Beomgyu drew it? Or maybe it was a test to determine the authenticity of the choice they made. It was fair if they wanted to check.
Kwangsun nodded, his smile hidden beneath this mustache. He gestured to a nearby stool where a clay vase sat, chipped at the rim. “Draw this,” he said simply. “Let me see what you can do when the subject is plain, when beauty isn’t handed to you but must be found.”
The room seemed to shrink. Beomgyu lowered himself onto the stool, knees weak, every painting’s eyes pricking at his skin. His fingers trembled as he pulled paper from his folio, charcoal smudging his palm. For a brief, terrifying moment, he thought the pressure alone might consume him before he had even begun until the first line touched the page.
The noises dissolved, as it always did. The air, the people, even Kwangsun’s presence thinned to nothing. Only the vase existed, and his hand became a conduit between sight and truth. He followed the crack first, tracing the fracture as though it were a vein carrying grief, then the softened curve where shadow wrapped itself in reluctant embrace. Each stroke carried him deeper into the fragile imperfection that only he could see.
When he set the charcoal down, he snapped out of his trance. His throat was parched, his palms damp, his body spent as though the act had drawn something vital from him. The murmur of the atelier returned, louder now, the sound of brushes and low conversation filling the silence he had carved for himself. Beomgyu forced his gaze to stay fixed on his paper when the man leaned over the drawing, his eyes moving slowly across the page.
He said nothing for so long that Beomgyu’s pulse began to roar. Finally, the artist laughed warmly. “There is fever in these lines,” he said, voice rich, almost approving. He tapped the edge of the sketch with his finger. “A man who sees the crack first, before the whole.”
Beomgyu solemnly swore he could not figure out whether heard praise or warning. He was so nervous he felt like any moment he could be retching his guts out. Beomgyu dared to look up, searching for judgment. But there was pride in his smile.
“You’ll do well,” Kwangsun said at last. “But you must listen carefully, Beomgyu, because what I tell you now will matter more than the praise.”
He stepped back, his eyes fixed not on Beomgyu but somewhere distant, as if speaking half to the ghosts of countless apprentices before him. “Talent can survive poverty. I have seen men paint masterpieces with nothing but a stub of charcoal and a scrap of paper. It can survive ridicule. I have seen crowds laugh, only for the same work to be treasured years later. But talent cannot—will not—survive the hand that seeks to own it.”
Beomgyu frowned. “Own it?”
“Yes.” He moved closer, laying a large, warm hand on Beomgyu’s shoulder, “Protect it—protect yourself—or it will be lost before you’ve even begun.”
The adrenaline roared in his veins to the point it began to eat away his stomach. No one had ever spoken of his art as something alive or worth guarding except for two people. His throat ached, and he had to look away lest his eyes betray him.
“I will teach you what I know,” Kwangsun continued, softer now. “But it will not be an easy road. You’ll work until your bones protest, and some days you’ll hate the sight of a brush. Still—if you endure, you’ll carve a place no one can take from you.” He paused, studying Beomgyu’s face. “Do you understand?”
Beomgyu nodded, though his voice cracked when he said, “Yes, sir.”
Kwangsun laughed again, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “No ‘sir.’ You’re not a soldier, and I’m not your jailer. Call me teacher if you must, but I’d prefer Kwangsun. We’ll walk this path together—not above and below, but side by side. You’ll stumble, I’ll correct you, and one day, you’ll correct me too. That’s how this works.”
Such warm words were given out so selflessly, beomgyu could not believe his ears. The tremor in his chest eased. This man, with his blunt truths and warm regard, was nothing like his father. He almost laughed at the thought, almost wept too. Standing here, Beomgyu realized he was being offered more than apprenticeship.
He wondered what sacrifice was made for this kind of luck on his side, but he was grateful, and he wanted to guard this luck.
Beomgyu has been flying for a while now, and has flown quite high.
Whispers in the manor reminded him reality was not suspended forever. Servants spoke of news and rumors from abroad, of the Assemblyman’s swift dealings and the likelihood of his return. Beomgyu pretended not to listen, though his stomach coiled with each word. He buried that fear beneath canvases and sketches, pretending the hours in Kwangsun’s workshop were enough to keep the outside world at bay.
But dread has a way of seeping back in, no matter how many colors one paints over it.
One evening, Hyeeun entered his room with folded hands, watching him pack away another sketch. She spoke softly, as though unwilling to startle the fragile bubble he lived in. “Has Master Kwangsun mentioned… any plans about you moving out of this house?”
Beomgyu paused. “Soon,” he replied, there was a glint of relief beneath his words. “Preparations has started. He already knows about you. I told him I wouldn’t leave without you.” Though beomgyu wished the procedure was fastened, he was grateful it even started.
Her eyes warmed, though a crease of worry remained between her brows. “It comforts me to hear it, but…” She hesitated, pressing her thumb against her palm. “How do you plan on breaking this to your father?”
“When he sees how deep I’ve stepped into this path—how much I’ve already built—and when he realizes Kwangsun stands behind me, he won’t be able to stop it. He values his reputation more than anything. To deny Kwangsun’s offer would be to smear his own image. He won’t risk it.” The firmness in his voice felt foreign to him but it felt good speaking. That man would not tarnish his reputation by refusing the offer of a well known artist when the entire world would be watching.
Hyeeun looked toward the window, where the sky burned with the faint traces of dusk. Her voice lowered, more to herself than to him. “They say he might take longer to return. There are… complications, it seems. Great ones. Perhaps something has already happened.” Her tone thinned into a whisper, heavy with foreboding. “Or is coming.”
Beomgyu caught her words, but he let them pass, unwilling to let shadows spoil what little brightness he had managed to claim.
He waits by the lakeside for you, strolling the ruins daily, looking forward to seeing you again to fill up the hollow space in him that couldn't be filled up by his art’s success. Perhaps he should've asked you about yourself instead of making you carry his sorrow. Perhaps he should’ve been more open about his feelings. Perhaps then you’d taken him with you, wherever you went.
The sun wasn’t out that afternoon. It was buried beneath a sky of heavy clouds that sagged low, threatening to burst open yet holding its rain hostage. Beomgyu rubbed his hands together and blew into them, the cold clinging to his skin like needles. He watched the sky darken further, a faint rumble chasing across the heavens.
He had returned earlier than usual from waiting by the lakeside.
As he stepped into the premises of the manor, something twisted in his gut. A thunderclap tore across the distance, startling him into loosening the collar at his throat, pulling at it to release the suffocating press of air against his lungs. There was no reason to feel so unsettled, no reason for his pulse to climb like a trapped animal’s… he must be tired that's why he felt so restless.
Still, when he pushed the heavy door of the manor open, his gaze immediately caught on the figure standing just inside the entrance hall. A maid, one of Hyeeun’s most trusted, stood frozen near the wall, her hands trembling at her sides, eyes locked on him with such stark terror that his feet stopped of their own accord. The blood in his veins seemed to turn cold under that stare.
The moment his eyes met hers, she stumbled forward almost tripping over the hem of her skirt in her desperation to reach him. She lowered her head, but not in the usual, respectful manner. It was more like she was trying to conceal the panic twisting her features. When she drew close enough her words spilled out in a broken rush with a quiet tone as if she was afraid to let them fall into the wrong ears.
“M-my lord—” her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, eyes darting to the side before darting back to him. “The sire… the sire has returned.”
Beomgyu felt his vision sway. Returned? His father was not supposed to be here so soon. He was not supposed to return until a few more weeks.
“He—he came back alone,” the maid stammered on, her breath hitching as her fingers twisted together, knuckles white with strain. “No men at his side, not even the secretary. I saw him… I saw him myself, walking through the doors with n-no word of his coming. He—” Her voice wavered, then broke entirely, her body trembling so violently it seemed she might collapse at his feet.
Beomgyu reached out instinctively, gripping her shoulders to steady her. He tried to force calm into his voice. “Breathe,” he said, though his own breaths came short. “Tell me slowly. What happened? What did he do?”
She shook her head, strands of hair slipping loose as she lifted her face to look him dead in the eyes. The fear carved there was so raw it hollowed his stomach.
“He knows.”
Beomgyu’s blood ran cold. His grip on her shoulder tightened unconsciously as the words echoed in his mind over and over again. Terror seized him to the point he could do nothing but stare at her blankly.
She continued, desperately trying to keep her voice low. “He—he looked furious, more than I’ve ever seen. He ransacked your things and—and—he is waiting in the living room.”
A heavy pounding started behind Beomgyu’s temples, his heartbeat crashing in his ears. He simply managed to ask, “Where is Hyeeun?”
Her eyes widened, her lips parted in a soundless gasp before she shook her head, almost frantically. “I—I don’t know. She was in the kitchen this morning. No one has seen her since.” Her voice broke into a sob, quickly swallowed down as she pressed a hand against her mouth.
Everything around him seemed to fall silent. Every sound swallowed into a thin shrill ringing that pressed against his skull. Beomgyu forced himself to breathe. He could not let his mind run toward the darkest possibilities yet. If his father wanted to face him, then let it be faced. There was no escaping it now.
He steadied his voice enough to tell the maid to leave at once, to gather her fellow servant and not return no matter what they heard. She hesitated, but his insistence gave her the courage to bow and hurry away down the corridor. Once she disappeared, the silence returned, deeper than before. Beomgyu turned toward the corridor that led to the living room, and his legs carried him forward though each step felt as though it sank him into the floor.
He stared at the doorknob like it might sear his skin the moment he touched it. A tightness rose in his chest, breaths coming too shallow, too fast — he closed his eyes, dragged air down his throat until it burned. Was everything he had fought for already collapsing? What if he walked inside and then his future collapsed? Should he turn, find Hyeeun, vanish into the world outside these walls before the trap shut completely? The thoughts clawed at him, frantic, but at last his trembling hand reached out and turned the knob.
The curtains were drawn closed, making the room dark; the only source of light was the fireplace. In the center of the carpet lay a mound so out of place it wrenched the blood from his face — brushes snapped in half, sketchbooks and canvases torn, jars of pigment overturned, their colors bleeding together into an ugly stain. His whole world, piled like refuse waiting for the torch.
His gaze drifted, following the line of the hearth to the sofas. The Assemblyman, his father, sat slouched in the single chair, broad shoulders bent, one hand hanging loose over the armrest, the other resting against his temple. His back was facing beomgyu.
“You finally showed up.”
He had braced himself for that voice to cleave him open, to summon the familiar dread that had ruled his boyhood. Yet, curiously, nothing broke inside him. Instead all he felt was a strange calm. Perhaps he’s been dreading this moment for far too long, and years of fear now finally died out in this moment. Or maybe, this was emotional numbness masquerading as resolve.
Beomgyu stepped forward until only a few paces separated him from the chair, his eyes fixed on the back of that bent head.
“Father.”
The man gave a weak, rasping snort, a sound so careless that it raised a faint tension in Beomgyu’s shoulders. His fingers twitched at his side as he followed the movement of his father’s hand as it dipped into his coat and pulled out an envelope. Beomgyu’s pulse surged when his eyes recognized the seal. So his father had managed to find it when he ransacked his room. It made all sense now — he looked at the pile again — why all his tools were dragged here.
“I was waiting,” Beomgyu said, each word calm though his mind was already racing ahead, laying stones for the path he needed his father to walk. “Waiting for you to come home so I could tell you myself. This isn’t something I meant to hide forever.”
The lie slid from his tongue smoothly. His mind, trained to cower, found itself instead sharpening, wielding deceit like a blade. Manipulation — yes. It was the only weapon he could use against this man, powerful enough to turn his father’s hunger for reputation back upon him. If the Assemblyman wanted to polish his name, Beomgyu would trap him with that very hunger.
His father slowly stood up with an unsteady groan. His legs betrayed him with a slight sway, and Beomgyu’s frown deepened as he took in the disheveled shirt, the collar sagging, the faint smell of sour drink that reached him across the room. Something was wrong — more wrong than usual — but he kept his shoulders squared.
The man’s lip curled into a crooked half-smile as he stumbled a step closer. “What’s this I hear, huh? You actually caught Kwangsun’s eye?” His voice rasped, slurred in the edges. “Ha… guess you’re not as useless as I thought.” He lurched forward another step, the scuff of his boots dragging across the floor, his gaze slipping in and out of focus as if Beomgyu were both present and far away.
Beomgyu did not move back, though the smell of him pressed close. “Yes,” he said, forcing calm into his tone, “it’s better this way, isn’t it? You won’t have to bear the sight of me here. No more disappointments. No more wasted years. This apprenticeship means I’ll be out of this house, away from your sight. You won’t have to feed me, you won’t have to think of me, not once.” His words tumbled with a quiet desperation disguised in reason, laid out like terms of peace, though his hands curled into fists where his father could not see.
The older man let out a low grunt, blinking slowly, his eyes glassy with distraction. His head tilted as if the words reached him through thick fog. He gave a nod that was more of a wobble, muttering sounds that were neither agreement nor refusal. Beomgyu felt the tension coil in his stomach as he searched his father’s hands, his coat pockets, scanning for any glint of metal or object of hidden threat. Finding none, he subtly sighed in relief.
“Beomgyu,” the man gruffed. “Didn’t I tell you… never to touch a paintbrush?”
Beomgyu almost scoffed at his words. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to look at the man, to meet the half-glazed eyes that barely seemed to register his presence. “Father, do you think this will be in your best interest? Turning down the decision of someone like Kwangsun when words have reached the ears of the public that he chose me as his apprentice? Will you stand in front of them all and spit on his name? Will you risk that?”
His blood roared in his veins, heated by anger he had swallowed for too long, a fury that had fermented in the dark years of his youth and now clawed its way out with teeth and fire. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, he forgot that the man before him had killed, had destroyed lives without remorse, and had carved scars into Beomgyu’s own flesh and spirit. All he felt now was the raw burn of defiance.
He drew in a breath, forced it out slowly, as though pacing himself against the urge to strike. These words, so deceptively calm on his tongue, cost him more strength than it looked, and at that moment, he did not know where he got this courage but only one thing played in his mind.
“You’re braver than you think, though you’re still a little too scared to take the first step.” — they echoed inside him as if you were standing there with him, unseen but nearer than the floor beneath his feet.
This was him taking the first step. This was him setting his bravery free. He almost smiled, how even in your absence, even facing the man who haunted his every nightmare, you had given him the push to stand.
His father remained where he was, his gaze cast to the ground, his face shadowed in the glow of the fire. He did not speak, did not even seem to breathe. For his freedom, Beomgyu would do what it took to survive, even if it meant gambling everything on this single confrontation. When the silence stretched unbearably long, Beomgyu shifted forward, lips parting to speak again, but the scrape of his father’s voice broke the air before he could.
“All my life,” his father rasped, “I built myself from reputation. That was my empire, my throne, my kingdom. I bled for it, tore down others for it, did whatever it took to keep my name above theirs.” He began to shuffle closer with his eyes still lowered. “Power in my hands meant no door was closed to me. And I used it. All of it. Until there was nothing left I could not touch.”
Each heavy step he took toward Beomgyu only reverberated louder in his ears. “To taint that prestige… to soil it now, after all I’ve done… that would be unbearable, wouldn’t it? Hah… to deny Kwangsun’s decision, to call the son I have adopted unworthy when the world has already heard otherwise…”
Beomgyu’s throat tightened as his father’s shadow fell across him. He placed a hand on his shoulder and Beomgyu stiffened under it. The odd gentleness in that specific touch did not make sense at all, but what threw him off even more was when his father embraced him, arms folding around Beomgyu in a manner so alien that it froze him in place.
The contact was loose yet suffocating all the same. It made Beomgyu’s skin crawl.
“Beomgyu… you are right. The public must already know of the apprenticeship.”
Those words were so strangely reasonable, almost resigned, that made him wonder if he succeeded in manipulating his father. Was this concession real, or another mask?
The man’s mouth was close enough to his ear for the whisper to feel like a draft of winter down his spine, “But who cares what the public says? Or Kwangsun? What good are their words when my reputation is already rotting?”
Beomgyu’s chest tightened, not from the words but from the sudden fist that crashed into his diaphragm with a force that emptied his lungs in a single violent rush. The air burst out of him in a strangled gasp, pain ricocheting through his ribs, bending his body forward before his mind caught up that he had been struck. The floor caught him hard, and he collapsed in a fit of coughing, his throat convulsing as he tried to drag breath back into his body.
Through the blur of tears stinging his eyes, he lifted his head, only to see his father looming above mirroring a creature possessed by something far more feral. The familiar predatory glint had returned, burning in his eyes as though no human thought remained behind them. His chest heaved with erratic breaths, shoulders twitching as his hands rose to his own scalp, raking through his hair until tufts stood uneven. He dragged his fingers against his temples, muttering hoarsely, words spilling in broken fragments to himself.
“Ruined… I’m ruined now… it’s all gone, all of it… what I built, gone, gone—” He wheezed with unfocused eyes as though chasing invisible threats. “I made sure of it, I made sure the fire took them. The journalists… that man, his wife—I made sure they burned. I made fucking sure of it.” His voice cracked into a rasp as spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, his breaths breaking into short, ragged pulls. “But her… their daughter—she should have died with them, she should have died—” He broke off, shaking his head violently, hands clamping tighter on his skull. “No… no, she’s still here, she’s still breathing, she’s behind all this, I can feel it, she’s pulling at the strings, mocking me—mocking—”
Beomgyu, sprawled on the ground and clutching his stomach, could only stare, horror stitching his features as his father raved. The madness in his father’s voice was worse than the strike had been. He tried to rise but his body didn’t cooperate and he had to crawl backward away from his father.
A finger, trembling yet vicious, stabbed the air in Beomgyu’s direction. “I gave you a roof over your fucking head, and this is how you repay me?” the man howled, his voice splitting under its own strain. “I dragged you out of that rotting orphanage, gave you a name, and you think you can spit on me? You think you can run, leave me to rot while you go prancing off into the world, chasing dreams that don’t belong to you? No—no, no, no—I won’t let you go, you hear me? You’ll choke here with me, like you should’ve from the start.”
A violent tug on his hair ripped Beomgyu upward, his body jerking with the movement, his cry strangled into silence by the iron grip at his scalp. His father’s face loomed too close, the spit flying from his mouth catching the light of the hearth, his eyes fever-bright with fury. Beomgyu was hurled back down. His shoulder cracked against the floor, and before he could even roll away, the man kicked his ribs knocking what little air remained in his lungs free in a guttural cough. His vision clouded, sparks dancing at the edges as he groaned in pain trying to get up.
“Disobedient trash,” his father spat, towering above him, chest heaving like a bellows. “That’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be. Nothing but filth dressed up in a borrowed name.”
Beomgyu could only half-focus through the haze when his father stormed from the room then returned almost immediately with a metal container. His hand shook so violently that drops sloshed against the rim and splattered dark stains onto the floorboards.
The acrid stench hit Beomgyu’s nose before the sight did, and horror clawed at his chest as the realization unfurled. “No—please, don’t—” he begged, dragging himself forward on his elbows, desperate to stop what his words never could.
His father knocked his hand aside with a vicious swat as though batting a fly. He poured without pause, the liquid hissing as it soaked into the pile. The container clattered against the ground as it was flung away, replaced by the glint of a lighter flicking alive in his palm. The tiny flame wavered, yet in that moment it was more monstrous than any weapon.
Beomgyu’s heart thrashed against his ribs as he dragged himself forward, his voice cracking into a scream that felt ripped from the marrow of his bones. “Stop—please, please!”
But the plea was devoured by the roar that came when flame met fuel. In a breath, the pile was consumed, the fire leaping with a hunger that mocked the boy’s desperation, devouring canvases, brushes, dreams, until only ash would remain. The scene became hazy and Beomgyu didn't know whether it was the tears or the smoke that caused it.
His father held up the envelope, the final proof of Beomgyu’s triumph, the seal of his apprenticeship, dangling it like a trophy between two fingers. “This too,” he sneered, his voice cracking into gravelly laughter, “let it burn with the rest.” He tossed it into the flames, and in seconds, it was gone, curling into nothing but blackened fragments that rose into the choking air.
His freedom had been within reach, so close he could almost taste it on his tongue, and now it was nothing more than ash and flame before his eyes, dissolving into smoke that choked his lungs and blurred the world into a shifting haze. He couldn't bear to watch it anymore as he dropped his head. How did things end up like this? Everything had been turning in his favor then how — How, how, how, how—
His father crouched down beside him, slapping him hard before tugging on his hair and forced his face up to watch. The acrid heat of the fire licked against his skin, and though the man’s words hit his ears, Beomgyu didn't make a single sound this time. He hardly felt any pain anymore.
“Consider yourself lucky that you’re not the one burning, boy,” he spat. “Let me warn you,” he went on, pausing long enough to grind his grip tighter into Beomgyu’s scalp, jerking his head like a doll, “if I find you plotting behind my back again—then I’ll send you to where I’ve sent that woman.”
What…?
There was a static buzz filling his mind. Everything around him seemed to slow down and the world began resting on his eyelids, the backdrop a white noise to his ears. But the ground moved — breaking apart and in the haziness, Beomgyu caught sight of a broken piece of an easel leg, one end burning.
Beomgyu wrapped his fingers around the charred wood, his palm seared by its heat, and he flung it forward with all the power left in his frame. The wood cracked across his father’s face, a flash of burning flesh and the guttural shriek that followed cutting through the roar in Beomgyu’s ears. The man fell back shrieking in excruciating pain.
Beomgyu breathed through his mouth as he staggered upright, the ringing in his voice getting louder with each passing second. He threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut to get his vision cleared, but once he opened them and looked at his father — all he saw was red.
His father writhed at his feet, squirming like some wounded beast, curses breaking and slurring together into a maddened chant that made Beomgyu feel sick.
“You killed her?” Beomgyu asked, voice hoarse. He stumbled towards his father, bending down to grab him by the collar with shaking hands. “Did you kill her?” His fist drew back and then slammed down, the room was filled with a deafening sound of his fist colliding with his father’s nose. “Answer me, you bastard! Did you kill her?” Beomgyu wailed, his throat burning.
His father choked on blood, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he went in and out of consciousness. His limbs spasmed with weak, pitiful jerks, yet Beomgyu only scoffed through tears that burned his cheeks, the salt stinging his split lip. A crooked smile tore across his face, blood staining his teeth as he spat, “You fucking asshole.”
His gaze wandered the ruined room, hunting for focus through the haze, until it latched onto the shattered vase near his father’s head. The porcelain shards glimmered faintly, the roses strewn in disarray across the floorboards, their petals bruised and torn. It was the vase he had painted.
Memory is a punishment. Memory is a gun you load yourself. You pray it jams, it never does.
His throat convulsed as a sob broke loose. He recognized the roses — not the previously withered ones he had painted weeks ago, but a fresh bouquet Hyeeun must have placed there. The thought of Hyeeun only made sobs after sobs fall from his lips. Amidst his breakdown, Beomgyu felt his father move beneath him, desperate to crawl away. His father’s eyes flicked open for a fraction, wild and terrified, and in that fractured instant something just snapped inside Beomgyu.
Time seemed to pass in slow motion again. The static in his mind grew and so did the ringing. His hand clutched around a broken piece of the vase as he held his hand up straight above his head. The deafening sound in his ears got louder and the next moments were all a blur.
There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.
All Beomgyu remembered was screaming — so much — that he couldn't even hear his own screams after a while. He dimly registered the fire behind him swelling, the crackle of flames devouring fabric and wood and smoke that behan to suffocate him. His father’s body sagged into stillness at some unknown point, the blood spreading like a dark tide beneath him.
Slowly, the world began to focus again, but he couldn’t stop trembling.
He stared in utter horror at his hands — drenched in red; the piece of broken vase fell from his grasp as shock paralyzed him. He fell back on the ground, his breathing was erratic as it left him dizzy.
“What have I done?”
A rewritten tragedy.
His thirst for freedom, for the promise of a new beginning, had carried him to this very brink. Beomgyu thought he heard a voice, faint and muffled as though spoken from underwater, calling his name through the crackle of burning wood. The sound brushed against his ears, but his mind could not hold on to it. He heard footsteps — they were getting closer. His vision frantically searched around for that voice. But his mind was too far gone to process anything properly.
Everything came to a halt when his eyes fell on the yellow roses. They were smeared in blood this time. How unfortunate. Beomgyu always knew red and yellow were unfitting.
Looking deeper, yellow was the colour of creativity. When red splattered on the flower — it was almost as if it mocked Beomgyu by showing how his father had disapproved of the artistic creative path undertaken by him; how his hopes, a chance of a new beginning, were snatched away.
The fire stretched across every surface, breathing, eating, multiplying without restraint, until there was no part of the room that had not been swallowed by it. He sat in the middle of it, dazed, thinking what life might have been had he chosen differently, had he been allowed to choose at all. He let his gaze move slowly from one ruin to the next.
There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the center of the flames.
Maybe he was always meant to fall, like Icarus, wings scorched and torn, his brief taste of freedom punished by fire. Maybe freedom wasn't meant for him at all. And yet, he found himself bargaining, whispering prayers to gods that had never once answered, asking to be remade — if not in this life, then in another. Let him rise again, if only from ashes, even if he had to crawl back into light with burnt skin and hollow lungs. Let him begin again, somewhere far from this room, far from this blood.
As toxic fumes crowded his lungs and visions, he only thought where you could be. Would you come as you once promised, would you catch him before the fall? He felt himself slip, falling, falling, his wings reduced to tattered ash, unable to hold him aloft. He thought of Icarus again, how the boy must have felt in that last moment — not regret, but the sick recognition that the sun had never been meant to touch him.
All of this must be a cruel dream, otherwise why would he feel arms embracing him?
No… solid, real, too real for a dream.
The embrace cut through smoke, cutting through flame, and a scent he knew so well filled his senses until the fire itself felt distant. He let his eyes close, too heavy to keep open, his body folding into the embrace as his mind slipped into silence.His last thought, before darkness took him whole, was of you.
The field stretched wide, the grass tall enough to brush against your knees as you wandered deeper into the thicket where the laughter of the other children faded into the distance. You hadn’t meant to stray so far, only to chase the sound of cicadas or perhaps the flutter of wings overhead, but soon the shade of the trees swallowed the sunlight whole and the paths all blurred into the same directionless green. The more you tried to remember which way your parents had gone, the more the ache in your chest grew until your small hands trembled around the kalimba clutched to your chest.
You sat on a root, cheeks damp, and began pressing the metal tines. The tune was crooked and uneven, but it was the only one you knew — the lullaby your parents sang at night when shadows frightened you. Tears slid over your round cheeks as you played, each chime carrying your wish that they would hear and come find you.
It wasn’t your parents who came. It was a boy, no older than you, stepping out from between the trees with a look of wonder fixed on you. His hair was untidy, his palms smudged with dirt as though he had been running and climbing long before he found you. His eyes drew first to the kalimba in your lap, then to the tears across your face.
“What are you playing?” he asked, tilting his head with a grin. He was missing two teeth. “It sounds really nice.”
You sniffled, shrinking into yourself before whispering that it was the song your parents always sang to you. He nodded as though that explained everything, then crouched down in the dirt so you didn’t have to look up.
“I’m Beomgyu,” he said, the words tumbling out enthusiastically, and then, when you didn’t reply, he said it again, louder and slower, as if maybe you hadn’t heard him the first time. “Beomgyu! That’s me, an artist! What’s your name?”
You shook your head, lips pressed shut, because your parents had always told you not to give your name to strangers. The boy tapped his chin, clearly thinking. “That’s okay. We’ll pretend we’re adventurers, yeah? And right now our quest is to find your family!” His grin widened at his own idea, and he sprang up, brushing off his knees and already setting off. Then he paused, turning back toward you with sudden seriousness. “But you need a name too. Every adventurer needs one. Imagine you earned it because you just became an adventurer. It’s more interesting this way, isn’t it?”
You stared at him warily, wiping your cheeks with your sleeves. His eyes were so bright with excitement that it made refusal difficult. “I read a book once,” he went on, his hands waving as though to capture the memory. “It was really hard, full of words I didn’t understand because it was for grown-ups, but there was one word that stuck with me. It was so pretty I couldn’t forget it.” He bent down again, close enough that his hair nearly brushed yours, and whispered like it was a secret meant for you alone.
“Sær. That’ll be your name.”
When your eyes opened, there was no field, no sunlight, no boy kneeling in front of you. Only the cliff’s jagged edge beneath your legs and the distant roar of fire consuming the manor. Flames licked through windows, black smoke spilling upward in heavy coils that smothered the sky. It had just started swallowing the manor. From this distance, the destruction was strangely muted, like watching a stage set collapse from the back row. Somewhere behind you, thunder muttered over the mountain. You lowered your gaze and closed your eyes once more before opening again to fix on the manor.
Boots crunched on gravel behind you. Without looking, you knew who it was.
“Congratulations. The assemblyman has died. Your mission is a success.”
You did not turn. The fire reflected faintly in your gaze, and you kept it there, unblinking. You wanted to see how far they could reach. “Have you done what I asked you, Taehyun?”
A low hum came first, then the scuff of shoes on stone as Taehyun shifted his weight. You could hear the faint metallic click of keys in his pocket as he glanced back toward the car parked a little down the slope. “See for yourself,” he said finally, a grin audible in the lilt of his tone.
Your head turned, just slightly, enough to catch the sight of the vehicle. Through the window, an unconscious woman lay under a blanket. This was not the meeting you’d wanted with her, but it was also inevitable and your chest tightened once before settling again. “Have you been gentle with her?” you asked, the question leaving you coldly.
Taehyun gave a short laugh, scratching at the back of his neck as he strolled toward the car. “Of course. I’m a gentleman, aren’t I? There’s no way I’d handle an elderly woman without respect.” He tugged the blanket higher over her shoulders as he spoke, glancing back at you with a lopsided grin. “She was frightened at first, naturally, but it went smoothly otherwise. No harm done to her… as for the other men… hehe.”
Taehyun’s face cleaned off the grin as he came up behind you. A seriousness clad his tone which wasn’t there moments ago. “What are you planning to do with the boy?”
“It is none of your concern what I do with my pawns,” you answered coolly.
Taehyun’s laugh that follows is not bright.“Pawn?” he repeats, beyond amused. “Don’t insult my memory. I’ve seen your pawns over the years, how you move them, how you dress them up when they are useful and how fast you set them aside once they have done what you wanted. I haven’t seen one like him before. Don’t bother to dress this in lies for me.”
Silence grows in the space between the two of you, but it is not empty; it tastes of ash and the metallic aftertastes of old plans. Your eyes narrowed slightly as sparks shot out of the broken windows.
Taehyun perhaps sensed your unwillingness to further entertain his remarks. One good thing about him is he knows when to step back. Hence when he spoke again, he gently reminded you of the reality of your world.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, a patient warning that is practical rather than moral. “We are puppeteers. That’s all we’ve ever been. We pull strings, make pawns dance, send them into the fire so we don’t have to. That’s our purpose—to cut down the filth that the so-called justice system is too rotten to touch. But our world is not his. And if you think of bringing him closer, then you’re dragging him into this hell with us.”
You looked down at your hands, at the faint scar along your palm that felt old and thin as paper under the light, then lifted your eyes to the house. The fire roared louder and you could almost hear it overlapping with the sound of wood snapping from long ago. You swallowed, the taste of ash still clinging to your tongue after all these years.
“All my life I wanted only one thing,” you say, and the sentence is small against the breadth of the scene. “To destroy the man who burned my entire world to ash in a single night. My parents died all because they tried to expose his corruption; they lit a match to the truth and he doused the evidence just like that. I don’t even know how I survived that night.” You paused, breathing in slightly as the memory still haunted you.
Even though Taehyun knew your story, he remained silent and let you speak. You mentally thanked him for it.
“He bribed everyone, paid to make it seem like a tragic accident, buried all the leads and soon the case was closed.” You smiled sadly. “His only mistake was never making sure if I died too.”
Watching the flames swallow his house felt like examining a completed equation — a cause and a consequence matched with a blunt, terrible neatness — how fitting, that he should burn in the very way he once burned down your home. He was meant to die this way, by hands he thought he could order and by a vengeance he had never expected to meet.
Taehyun once again asked — “What about Choi Beomgyu?” — this time, uttering his name. It caused your heart to ache more than you had expected.
When you were given the file, you thought at last the axis of your life would tilt back into place; for years your hunger had been a compass that never wavered, and the dossier looked like the map you had waited for: names, dates, receipts of bribes, a record of how your parents’ killer’s influence had suffocated every attempt at truth.
Seeing Beomgyu’s name on the paper did something at once absurd and obscene — you remembered the child at the park who was once your savior and the terrible neatness of history when it folds itself so that the wrong people receive mercy and the right ones are crushed. You could only laugh bitterly to yourself back then because the boy from your past had been placed under the care of the very man you had sworn to kill, and the irony tasted like betrayal; in that first hour you made a decision that was blinded by revenge: use what you had been given, treat him like a tool, turn the son into an instrument to remove the father.
You had told yourself you would use Beomgyu, that he would be no more than the main piece set upon the board, an expendable pawn in your long game of retribution. For a time, it even seemed possible. He fit into the parts you expected; he believed the lies you fed him like the pomegranate seeds. And then the plan started to fray at its edges because he kept being, in ways that were not convenient, human. Bruises that mended but did not disappear, flinches at certain words, an almost-childish eagerness at small mercies, a patience that was not the same as weakness.
There were nights you watched him without revealing yourself and found yourself cataloguing his kindnesses like contraband. The more you observed, the more the old certainties you had dressed yourself in — the rhetoric of necessary cruelty, the comfort of being a shadow that arranges people into ends — began to fall apart into a different shape; instead of the cold efficiency you had promised yourself, you felt relief that he was not a mirror of the man you wanted to destroy, and that relief drew an entirely different feeling — care.
It was dangerous, ridiculous, and intoxicating in the worst way — to care for the one whose life could be the tool for your justice — but it was also, for the first time since the night that took everything from you, the truest thing you had felt as a puppeteer. A sharp, selfish, startling desire to save him rather than to use him. Attachment settled not as a concession but as an insistence; the tactics you had deployed so many times without question now tasted like betrayal of your own principles, because to hand him over to violence would be to commit the very injustice you had spent a life trying to rectify. You rehearsed every argument inside your head until the reasons to spare him stacked like stones and each stone became another refusal to let the mission reduce him to a means. You wanted to save him from the cage built around him. You wanted to be his salvation.
“We only kill those who truly deserve it. We always make sure of that, don’t we, Taehyun?” you asked softly.
From where he stood behind you, Taehyun exhaled, the faintest sound of acknowledgment reaching you. “That’s right.”
You then say the thing that rearranges the plan in one small sentence. “Choi Beomgyu doesn’t deserve that.”
You had wanted to harm him because of who his father was, because the ledger of pain called for balancing, but that would be a subtraction of justice by a different name. To hurt him would be to become the rot you had sworn to excise. The doctrine you once cultivated — that the ends sanctify the means — now tasted like ash when the means was Beomgyu. You will not lie to Taehyun about the line you are crossing, because the truth is the only currency left that matters.
“I talked to Choi Beomgyu that day,” he said, as though recalling a casual meeting, though there was a trace of thoughtfulness woven into it. “He did seem like a decent guy. After speaking with him, I caught myself thinking that maybe, under different circumstances, or in another life entirely, I’d have wanted to be his friend.” He gave a short laugh at his own admission, almost surprised by it, then carried on without missing a beat. “I see why you like him. To think you went so far for him. You pulled so many strings behind the scene—perfectly planning the leaflet handover so that old woman would be the one to give him the news of the art competition, making sure Kwangsun noticed his piece. And these were just the surface elements. You really are… the most vicious puppeteer of our generation.”
His voice carried a note of admiration, though the words themselves cut. He clicked his tongue, as if sealing his judgment. “He had waited all his life for freedom, and it killed him the moment it found him.”
You turned your head just enough to catch his profile from the corner of your eye, and the look you gave him stopped him cold. It was not rage, not even anger — it was colder than that, and for a second he seemed to forget the air in his lungs. “Watch what you say, Kang Taehyun,” you said calmly, which contradicted the underlying threat in your words.
He lifted both hands as if to ward off the weight of your gaze, his lips curling into a nervous chuckle that betrayed his retreat. “Alright, alright,” he murmured, his hands lowering just as easily again. “I’ll keep my mouth in check.”
You remained quiet for a brief moment before finding yout voice again. “He only wanted freedom. That’s all. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was ever his fault.” Your eyes returned to the flames. “I thought if I helped him find it, if I saved him from that man… then I could atone for my sins. Maybe then my parents could rest in peace.” A shallow breath caught in your chest, though your expression did not break. “That man is dead, but my parents are not coming back. Still… at least Beomgyu is free. I thought that maybe, if I saved him, I’d finally feel like I had accomplished something.”
Taehyun hummed, considering your words. “Normal life is gone for him now. To the world, he died tonight in that fire alongside his father. His only choice now is to vanish, build a new name, disappear into another country. Unless…” His eyes slid toward you, narrowing faintly. “Unless you’d rather he joins us. Becomes one of us.”
You shook your head solemnly. “I won’t be dumping such a decision on him to make alone. I’ll be there with him, sorting through every bit of it. He won’t carry this alone, not if I can help it.”
For a moment Taehyun stood over you, his silhouette bent against the restless light of the fire, then he crouched beside you with a sigh. One hand landing on your shoulder with more care than he was known for. “Do you think he’ll forgive you?” he asked, eyes softening as though the question itself pained him. “For what you’ve done? The lies, the secrets, all the deceptions, what if all of that leaves him scorning the sight of you?”
Perhaps you would live the rest of your days under the shadow of Beomgyu’s resentment, and you knew you deserved as much. He had every right to despise you, to spit your name like venom, for while he had shown you warmth in a life that had offered him little else, you had responded with deception, weaving strings around him until he had been caught in a net of your puppet-play. He had been given to you as though by fate, and perhaps fate had meant it as punishment.
“If he hates me then that’s what I’ll carry. I’ll let him see me for who I am. I’ll stand in front of him as myself,” you said at last, not forcing steadiness into your tone, only allowing the truth to rise unadorned. “He has a heart… kinder than the world allowed him, softer than I deserved. I can only hope that one day he will use that heart to forgive me.”
Taehyun rose with a long breath and cast his gaze toward the manor which had become little more than a glowing carcass collapsing into itself. Soon the journalists and fire engines would flood the scene, and by morning the newspapers would write of the assemblyman’s death, his estate reduced to ash, and his son gone with him. The lie would be cemented in ink before the sun rose.
He checked his phone, its glow lighting his face for an instant before he slid it back into his pocket. “My men delivered what you asked for,” he told you, tone clipped by the urgency of time running thin. “A body’s been taken from the morgue, charred beyond recognition. It’s in his place already. We should move quickly before the press takes over.”
You made a sound in acknowledgment and pushed yourself to your feet, brushing ash and dust from the hem of your uniform. Taehyun had already turned toward the car waiting down the dirt path but when he noticed you veering toward the scorched path that led back to the manor, he stopped in his tracks. “Where are you going?” he called out, the urgency in his tone did not sway you.
“I made a promise,” you said with a small smile, every step carrying you closer to the blaze. You did not look back. “And I intend to fulfill it.”
The flames spat and roared, painting your outline against the night, and as you walked toward the burning ruin, you thought of the boy who had yearned for a gentler life but had never been granted it. Freedom burned him instead of warming him.
His sun was never gentle to him, so let his ocean be.
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