cherry

i got the dog in me (snoopy)

[sunishake]

BLEED ON your guitar – pjs

vol 12 . ─── 𝐄𝐍 𖹭 박종성

a mute girl working at a bar hopelessly falls in love with Jay, the guitarist of a rising band, who drowns himself every night in liquor. In hope of knowing him better she writes lyrics, lyrics that rock her entire world, but would the words reach to Jay who is drowning in silence.

𖹭 strangers to lovers, angst, slow burn, drama, musical, yearning men

𖹭 thank you for 200 follows (ToT), this blog is growing so much faster than I expected, I love each and everyone of my readers so much :(( mwahhhh

note: not proofread !! I actually fell in love with Jay while writing. Goodbye.

ʚĭɞ if you liked this don't forget to check out my other works in library

01.

The bar was never truly quiet, situated in the heart of Gangnam there were rare moments when the noise softened, when the music shifted to something slow, something worth stop thinking about future or past and just live in the present, when the laughter dipped into low murmurs, when the clink of ice in glasses was the loudest sound in the room. Those were the moments you worked best in. Your job wasn’t anything glamorous. Sweeping the sticky floor after a spilled drink, scrubbing the counter until your fingers smelled like citrus cleaner, gathering empty bottles before they could be knocked over.

You moved through the bar like a shadow, quick, unnoticed, careful not to bump into the servers weaving between tables.

You didn’t speak to customers. Partly because the manager had told you not to, partly because the other staff had made it clear you’d just “slow things down.” They didn’t say it outright, but the message was there stay in your lane, do your job, don’t get in the way and partly because of your inability to hear and speak.

And you believed them. Why wouldn’t you? They smiled when they spoke to you. At least that's what your eyes traced, the way the corner of their mouth rose when they teased you sometimes, like friends would. If they took the better shifts, if you got fewer tips, it was just bad luck, wasn’t it? If you were called out for mistakes that weren’t yours, it was because you could’ve done better. That was fair.

You didn’t know and no one told you that there was a rule in the bar, whoever drew in more customers earned more. Attention meant money, and you were never meant to be the one drawing it.

But there was one man who drew yours without even trying.

He came in almost every night, always alone. Black shirt, black jeans, black jacket hanging off one shoulder like he had been wearing it all day and couldn’t be bothered to take it off properly. His hair fell just enough to shadow his eyes, but never enough to hide the sharp, clean cuts of his face. Handsome, yes, but not in the warm, approachable way some of the regulars were.

He looked distant. Like he was always somewhere else, even when he was sitting at the corner table with a drink in front of him. You never saw his lips moving, Jungwon always gave him his usual drink orders, he had just mentioned it once and that was it. No interaction anymore. Not once. From the first time you saw him, something in you had been quietly, hopelessly drawn to that stillness. While others filled the room with noise and movement, he seemed carved out of the shadows, an unshaken point in the chaos. He spoke your language despite of not knowing you.

You learned his patterns without meaning to. He came late never before ten, never after midnight, sat with his back to the wall, facing the room, like he needed to see everything but didn’t want to be seen himself. The others noticed him too. The servers tried, more than once, to engage him leaning closer than necessary when they took his order, smiling a little too brightly. He thanks them, voice low, eyes already back on his drink. Whatever they keep looking for in him, they don't get it.

And neither did you.

You weren’t allowed to. That was the rule, no interaction, no stepping past the invisible line between you and the people on the other side of the counter. But you watched. From the corner of your eye while polishing glasses, from across the room while stacking chairs. You noticed the way his fingers tapped an absent rhythm on the glass, the way his gaze sometimes lingered on nothing in particular for far too long.

There was a heaviness about him. Not loud, not messy, the quiet weight you only recognised because you carried a little of it yourself.

A group of servers passed by, laughing about something you didn’t catch. One of them, Chaewon, glanced your way with a smirk. “Careful,” you recognised the way her lips moved, she murmured as she brushed past, and then the next set of words rolled out of her tongue “don’t stare too hard.” You blinked at her, confused. She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. It was the kind of teasing that left you unsure if there was a joke you were supposed to get or if you’d just made a mistake.

You kept your head down.

The studio air was heavy. The walls, soundproof and padded, seemed to close in on themselves, swallowing the faint hum of the amplifiers. Sunghoon and Jake lingered near the door, restless and uneasy. “Out,” Yuki said sharply, not raising his voice but leaving no room for argument. They exchanged wary glances, but none dared to push back. Shoes scuffed against the polished floor as they slipped out. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room fell into a silence that felt almost accusatory.

Yuki’s hands were clenched at his sides. He stood there for a moment, his lips pressed thin, as if he were trying to choose his words carefully though the tension in his jaw suggested the opposite.

“Jay,” he began, and even saying the name sounded like effort. “I know you’re going through stuff. I do. But that doesn’t mean you get to sabotage your career.” Jay sat on a low stool near the centre of the room, guitar resting across his lap. His head was slightly bowed, hair falling into his eyes, his fingers moved without purpose, plucking, loosening, tightening the same chord until it sounded more like a sigh than a note. His manager took a step closer, his voice low but firm, each syllable weighted. “I hate to be that person, but this isn’t just about you. The boys didn’t work this hard for you to throw it away. We built something together—blood, sweat, years of it. If you keep going like this, you’re going to burn it all to the ground.”

Jay’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more of a tired twitch. He didn’t lift his head. “Well,” he muttered, “I can’t do shit right now.”

“That’s not—”

“I mean it,” Jay cut in, still focused on the strings. His voice was flat, the words sliding out without any sharp edges. “If you force me, I’ll just leave.” He paused, finally glancing up, his eyes dull but steady “give the boys their credit. They deserve it. I don’t want anything.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the quiet buzz of an amplifier somewhere in the corner.

Yuki’s mouth opened, but no words came. He looked like a man trying to pull someone back from the edge, only to realise they had already stepped off. Jay didn’t wait for him to find something to say. He set the guitar down carefully, like the instrument was the only fragile thing left in the room and stood. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if each one was dragging him through mud.

The hallway outside was cooler, but it didn’t feel like relief. Jake’s voice cut through the quiet almost instantly.

“Jay!”

It came from the far end, urgent and worried. Jay’s shoulders flinched, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see the expression that voice carried. He didn’t want to see concern, or frustration, or worse pity.

He kept walking.

“hyung wait—”

The footsteps quickened behind him, but Jay’s pace stayed the same. He lifted his hands to his ears, pressing them there like a stubborn child, as if sealing himself in would make the world stop trying to reach him. The sound of Jake’s voice was muffled now, but not gone. It still slipped through in faint, strained syllables, chasing him like a shadow. He wished it would stop. He wished all of it would stop the questions, the interviews, the lights, the relentless cycle of expectation. Even the music felt different now, hollow in his chest where it used to burn bright. His steps carried him out the back exit, into the dim evening light. The city noise was far off, softened by distance and the low hum of passing cars. The air smelled faintly of rain that hadn’t come yet.

He pressed his palms harder over his ears. A kind of exhaustion that seeped into the bones, making even the thought of answering feel impossible. He didn’t want to explain himself, because he didn’t have the words. He didn’t want to be convinced to stay, because part of him already knew he was halfway gone.

You didn’t notice how long you’d been sitting there until a gentle tap on your shoulder startled you. The pen froze in your hand, its tip hovering over the paper, and you turned sharply. With furrowed brows, you signed 'I told you not to approach me from behind!'

Jungwon giggled, He signed slowly, each movement deliberate so you could catch every word 'It’s late. Aren’t you going home?'

You pressed your lips into a thin line and glanced toward the small clock mounted above the bar’s entrance. The glowing hands confirmed it was well past closing time for you. That man hadn’t shown up tonight. Without him at his usual spot, black clothes, unreadable eyes, the invisible gravity he always carried, the night had felt strangely hollow. In his absence, you’d taken your time, letting yourself sink into the thing that made you feel most alive

writing lyrics.

You had loved writing since you were a child. Back then, it had been a way to put a shape to feelings you couldn’t voice. Now it was something more, a quiet rebellion against the silence the world had pushed onto you. Each line you wrote was proof that you could still say something worth hearing, even if no one’s ears ever caught the sound. Jungwon didn’t rush you. He simply stood there, a steady presence, until you finally closed your notebook. He helped you gather your things, the familiar rustle of paper and zip of your bag the only sounds between you. The night air embraced you the second you stepped outside. It was cool and damp, scented faintly with the ghost of earlier rain and the sharp tang of metal from the street. The neon lights from the bar cast long reflections across puddles, their colours blurring in ripples with every gust of wind.

Jungwon adjusted the strap of his bag and gave you a short wave. 'Get home safe', he signed before turning down a side street, his silhouette shrinking until it was swallowed by the dark.

You lingered a moment before setting off in your apartment's direction. The streets were nearly empty just the occasional hum of a passing car or the faint shuffle of someone heading home late. Your apartment wasn’t far, maybe fifteen minutes on foot, but it was enough distance to give you that small pocket of solitude you craved. You loved this part of the night. The way the city seemed to exhale once the crowds had gone. The way your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, unchallenged by anyone else’s. Here, no one was watching you, no one was expecting you to be anything more or less than you were. The night didn’t care who you were, it simply existed beside you, unjudging.

The silence spoke to you, though not in words. It spoke in the rustle of leaves against a chain link fence, in the distant rattle of a bicycle chain, in the sigh of wind curling around the streetlamps. It was a language you’d learned to understand over the years, one that never failed to wrap itself around you like a blanket.

And yet, even in this comfortable quiet, your thoughts drifted inevitably to him. The moment he brushed your mind, warmth bloomed across your cheeks. You hated how easily he could do this to you without even being here, without you not even knowing his name.

You wanted him. Not in some fleeting, passing way but with the slow, steady certainty of someone who had carried a feeling too long for it to be mistaken as temporary. Despite the distance between you the space you never dared to close he felt close in your mind. You could picture him as clearly as if he were walking beside you now head tilted slightly down, dark hair brushing against his forehead, fingers curling loosely in his pockets.

You wanted to cradle him in your arms and ask him why he always seemed so sad. Wanted to see the corners of his mouth lift in something real, something unburdened. You wanted to know what his laughter sounded like.

Oh, you almost forgot that you couldn't.

You wanted to love him and truth was, you already did.

Jay hadn’t come to the bar for almost two weeks. You found yourself scanning the door every shift anyway, half hoping, half expecting him to appear, even when you knew it was pointless. It wasn’t unusual for him, he had this pattern. He shows up almost every night for five days straight, then vanishes like smoke curling out of sight, only to reappear after a couple of weeks as though he never left. You never knew where he went, or what he did when he was gone. You liked to imagine, though.

Maybe he had a strict boss, who barked orders the way yours did and that’s why his shoulders always seemed weighed down. Maybe, he sat through long scoldings, staring at the floor, pretending not to care. Maybe, your lips twitched at the thought—he also called his boss a bald cauliflower in his head. The thought made you giggle, the sound lost in the clamour of clinking glasses and low music.

When he finally returned a few days later, you spotted him instantly, your eyes finding him in the haze of cigarette smoke and swaying bodies, the dim lights painting sharp edges on his face. He was dressed in black again, as always, the colour clinging to him like it belonged. You smiled before you could stop yourself. The night stretched long. He stayed until the bar thinned out, until the drunk and the desperate gave up their games, until someone’s girlfriend became someone’s ex, and someone’s ex managed to leave with someone new. By then, the place was more shadow than light, the air stale with alcohol and the scent of sweat. Your gaze kept drifting back to him, tracing the slope of his shoulders, the way his hand curled lazily around his glass. You were so caught in the quiet rhythm of watching him that it took you a moment to notice movement in your periphery.

Yunjin.

She was stepping out of the changing room, a stack of papers clutched in one hand. Her gaze was sweeping over the room, calling out for Chaewon maybe, you recognised the way her eyes lit up.

It took less than a heartbeat for recognition to strike.

Your lyrics.

The air seemed to tighten in your lungs.

No, no, no.

They weren’t supposed to be out here. You left them tucked under a tray of dirty glasses in the back room, thinking they would be safe until you finished your shift. They were private, your scraps of lyrics. They weren’t for anyone else to see, especially not in the middle of a crowded bar. You slipped between two men arguing over a spilled drink, muttering apologies that went unheard. The bass from the speakers pulsed through your chest, but it wasn’t enough to drown the pounding in your ears. Yunjin was already halfway across the room, heading toward the bar counter where Chaewon was currently doing her shift.

You reached her just as she opened her mouth, your hand closing over her wrist before the words could leave. Her brows shot up, eyes screaming the familiar 'what's your problem?' Glare. You shook your head sideways and pulled them from her grip. The edges were already bent, smudged with fingerprints. You tucked them behind your apron, pressing them flat against your stomach as though you could hide them from the world.

Yunjin tilted her head, studying you. Then a smirk formed across her face.

Before you could react, she yanked the bundle of paper from your hand. The sudden loss made your fingers curl around nothing. She called across the bar, “Chaewon!” Chaewon turned from wiping down the counter, brows lifting. In one careless sweep, Yunjin tossed the loose sheets in her direction. They didn’t make it far and scattered here and there, fluttering, spinning, falling over the sticky floor. Your eyes went wide. For one heartbeat, you couldn’t move. Then panic snapped you forward. You dropped to your knees, ignoring the faint stick of dried beer and the grit of broken glass under your palm. Your papers, your words lay crumpled and curling in puddles of spilled rum.

Behind you, Yunjin laughed as Chaewon frowned, watching you scramble. “What the fuck are these?” she asked, her tone annoyed and flat. “I don’t know… some kind of trash,” Yunjin answered, still grinning. “Must be important to Y/n.” Her eyes followed you as you darted between stools and bent to snatch another sheet.

When the last page was safe in your arms, you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. You stood, ready to disappear into the changing room, but Yunjin was suddenly in front of you. She spun you around by the arm, her grip light but unyielding. Her grin softened into something almost playful. She clicked her tongue, then signed with quick, practised hands 'You know we’re just joking, right?'

You forced a smile and signed back 'Oh no it's fine' Your mouth remembered how to do it even though your chest still felt tight. Of course, she was joking. Yunjin teased everyone maybe she just wanted to show Chaewon what she’d found. You shouldn’t have left the papers there. It was careless, stupid even. This was a bar, not a safe. People threw things away all the time here. Papers left in the wrong place would look like nothing more than trash.

Jay’s head throbbed as if someone had taken a hammer to his temples. The sharp sting of leftover alcohol mixed with the dull heaviness of fatigue sat deep in his skull. His vision swam when he opened his eyes, light from the flickering neon sign bleeding into strange shapes. With a low groan, he lifted a hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the skin between his brows, wishing the ache would stop even for a moment. When his sight finally steadied, he saw a small figure leaning into his view, Jungwon, the youngest of the bar staff. His voice came muffled at first, like it was reaching him from underwater.

“Sir… it’s closing time.”

Jay gave a slow nod. Jungwon straightened, waiting patiently, hands tucked into his apron pockets. With an effort, Jay pushed himself upright. The motion stirred the air around him, and something fluttered down from his lap to the sticky floor. A single sheet of paper, edges curled from being handled too often. Jay frowned. He bent to pick it up, the movement making the blood rush unpleasantly to his head. Turning the page over, he was met with cramped, flimsy handwriting, messy but oddly deliberate.

wanna make you smile whenever you’re sad, carry you around when your arthritis is bad

Maybe we can sleep in, I’ll make you banana pancakes, Pretend like it’s the weekend now.

You're the reason I'm riding 'round on recapped tires, And you're the reason I'm hanging our clothes outside on wires

But I would walk 500 miles

nothing after that, except a small note at bottom.

I can't think of the next line :-(

Jay blinked. His head was still foggy, but the absurdity of it landed all the same. His lips twitched before he could stop them. Then, without warning, a quiet, breathy laugh escaped half amused, half disbelieving.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to startle Jungwon. His eyes widened slightly. He had worked the late shift long enough to assume Jay probably had Botox-related issues since he didn't show any expression. Yet here he was, shoulders shaking just a little, gaze fixed on the ridiculous sentence as though it were the most precious thing he read all week. Jungwon’s gaze flicked from Jay to the paper and back again. He knew that handwriting. He had seen it on scattered napkins in the backroom, on half-crumpled receipts, on the little notes tucked behind the bar counter.

Y/n's lyrics?! How the hell this end up here???

Jay folded the paper with unusual care, smoothing the crease once, twice, and simply slid it into the pocket of his jeans. “Go on, lock up,” Jay murmured, his voice rough but softer than usual.

Jungwon came into the kitchen practically buzzing, ready to launch into a you won’t believe what happened speech only to stop mid stride. You were hunched over the counter, rifling through scattered sheets of paper, your hands trembling just slightly. Pens rolled across the marble as you flipped one page after another.

He signed, his brows furrowed. 'What happened?' You looked up, pout tugging at your lips, eyes glassy with frustration. 'I can’t find the last lyric I wrote, It was with the others and now it’s just… gone'

Jungwon blinked once, then twice. You could almost see the light bulb flicker above his head. Slowly, he facepalmed, dragging a hand down his face. He stepped forward and caught your restless hands in his, forcing you to stop. ' Your paper was just in that handsome guy’s hand I saw him reading it—with a biiiiiiiig smile—and then he took it home. ' he signed emphatically, exaggerating the 'big smile' (or maybe not) You froze, mouth parting. 'What do you mean he took it home?' The corners of Jungwon’s lips twitched in annoyance when you gave his arm a light slap.

'Don’t play with me! '

He rolled his eyes with the grace of someone used to being doubted. ' I’m serious ' , he signed again, sharper this time. The words hung between you like the pause before a confession. Then came the sudden warmth in your cheeks, the dizzy rush flooding your chest.

He took your paper.

Your lyric. The idea alone made something chemical crackle under your skin, like sparks threatening to catch fire. But before the giddiness could take root, your eyes went wide, panic replacing the blush. 'JUNGWON—YOU IDIOT, IT WAS UNFINISHED! ' Outside, the world remained blissfully unaware, but inside your kitchen, your heart was a storm of mortification, curiosity, and something you weren’t ready to name.

02.

Jay stirred awake, the heaviness in his limbs anchoring him to the bed. His shirt was nowhere in sight, the air brushing cool against his skin. He blinked slowly, gaze fixed on the ceiling until sensation returned to his fingertips—something crumpled and thin resting in his palm. Lifting it into the dim light, he recognized the uneven lines and messy scrawl. His lips twitched in faint realization, voice low and almost amused. “Oh… the lyrics.”

The next night, Jay came to the bar again. Same time, same black clothes. His routine never changed. Order, drink, sit in silence. But tonight, his eyes weren’t fixed on his phone or the amber swirl in his glass. They kept drifting, scanning the crowd like he was looking for something. Or someone. The music thumped, neon lights painted everyone in feverish shades, and bodies moved in the dim heat of the bar. But his gaze kept flickering toward the counter.

When the crowd thinned, he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, neatly folded piece of paper. He placed it under his glass with a kind of quiet precision, his eyes wandered one last time across the room before settling back on the counter, at unfamiliar faces shaking cocktails, wiping glasses, and leaning lazily against the counter.

He let out a long sigh.

You didn’t see him that night.

“Why do these rich assholes leave trash wherever they go?” Yunjin muttered the moment she spotted the table. She was already bent over, picking up vapes, used tissues, and crumpled napkins, tossing them into a black trash bag with sharp flicks of her wrist.

“Look at this wannabe different ahh mf, leaving his poetic trash on the table like I’m supposed to worship it.”

She clicked her tongue and snatched up the folded paper left under the glass where Jay sat. It made a faint crackle before she shoved it deep into the trash bag.

Jungwon, sweeping nearby, caught sight of you moving like a storm toward Jay’s table, your eyes scanning every inch, your hands darting under napkins and empty glasses.

' Maybe he forgot? ' he signed, leaning his broom against the table. You shook your head immediately, the corners of your mouth tugging downward. You signed with quick, decisive movements ' He doesn’t look like someone who would forget ' Jungwon sighed, running a hand over his face. “God save these lovesick idiots,” he muttered under his breath before crouching down to help you search. The two of you combed the area until there was nothing left to turn over.

Your chest felt tight, like all the air had been swapped out for smoke. You stepped outside, the cold air brushing over your cheeks. The sky above was black velvet, and the moon hung there, round, luminous, almost cruel in how serene it looked compared to you.

Maybe he really forgot, maybe he crumpled it up, maybe it was in some corner of his apartment, buried under bills.

Or maybe he fed it to his cat just to see it disappear.

Your lips pressed together as you groaned quietly, the frustration hot in your chest. You kicked the nearest trash can, the metallic clank echoing through the alley. The lid tipped and bags tumbled out, spilling trash onto the pavement. You stared at the mess and almost laughed at how perfectly it matched your day. With another sigh, you crouched down and began picking up the debris, your hands moving automatically.

You almost missed it.

There, half-hidden under a torn takeout box, was a familiar fold of paper. Your paper. Your handwriting peeked out through the crumpled edges. Your heart stuttered as you snatched it up, smoothing it open with trembling fingers. The words you wrote stared back at you, slightly smudged from its short time in the garbage

wanna make you smile whenever you’re sad, carry you around when your arthritis is bad

Maybe we can sleep in, I’ll make you banana pancakes, Pretend like it’s the weekend now

You're the reason I'm riding 'round on recapped tires, And you're the reason I'm hanging our clothes outside on wires

But I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more, Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles To fall down at your door.

Beneath your lines, there was more written in an elegant, neat cursive.

And I would wait a thousand nights, If it meant I’d hear your song again

don't make me wait anymore

Your breath caught.

And then, at the very bottom, a small signature, almost playful in contrast to the rich handwriting

— From Jay, to the unknown who couldn’t think of anything :)

Jay. His name is Jay?!!

It felt like someone had dropped a lit match into your chest. You pressed your thumb over the ink as if to confirm it was real, as if your touch could make it stay. He had not ignored you. He answered. All you could feel was the paper in your hands and the weight of his words in your head. You folded it carefully, tucking it into the pocket of your apron like it was something fragile. Something alive.

Jay’s foot tapped restlessly against the studio floor, the soft thud echoing in his own head more than in the room. Inside the booth, Jake’s voice floated through the glass. "You're doing great Jake” the producer’s voice crackled through the intercom. Usually, Jay would be the first to agree, to grin and add some teasing comment, but today, his mind was too crowded for celebration. He stared at the floor until Yuki leaned toward him with a clipboard “Jay, you’re next.” He let out a long breath. “Alright. Let’s do this.” By the time his part was over, the day’s recording had wrapped. Jake bounded out of the booth, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Hyung, you killed it. Oh em gee,” he said, holding up his palm for a high-five. Jay gave him the faintest smile, meeting the gesture without much energy.

Not long after, the three of them ended up in the small café tucked beside the HYBE building. The place smelled of roasted beans and fresh pastries, a familiar comfort from their trainee days. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Feels like it’s been decades since we’ve hung out like this.” Jay wrapped his hands around his cup but didn’t drink. His voice was low when he spoke. “I’m sorry, guys… You’ve had to deal with so much because of me. I’m not a good leader, and now I’ve failed as an older brother too.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “the hell are you even saying? You didn’t ruin anything. Everyone has ups and downs, Jay. That’s life.” Jake shifted closer, draping an arm around Jay’s shoulder. “We miss you, hyung. And it’s not your fault. What happened… happened. People online live for drama anyway.”

Jay swallowed, his throat tight. “She hates me now.” Sunghoon’s tone sharpened. “She never loved you to begin with.”

Jake shot him a warning look, brows furrowed in silent plea, but Sunghoon only shrugged. He knew where this conversation always ended. Jay’s fingers clenched against the coffee cup. “…But I did love her, right?”

Silence settled over the table, the café’s espresso machine suddenly too loud. Jake tried to bridge it. “I’m sure Sunghoon didn’t mean it like that. He just—” Jay cut him off with a faint chuckle. “It’s fine, Jake. He’s not wrong. It was my fault for giving myself away so easily.”

Sunghoon nudged his arm. “Bro, loosen up. I’ll set you up with a baddie if you—”

Jay interrupted, his voice oddly calm. “Would you walk five hundred miles for someone and collapse in front of their door if they were baddie enough?”

Jake and Sunghoon nearly choked on their drinks, both staring at him.

“What the fuck?” Jake sputtered.

“Say what now?” Sunghoon asked, blinking in disbelief. Jay only smiled faintly, eyes distant, as if the question wasn’t meant for them at all.

'You're gonna burn holes in his head' Jungwon signed with exaggerated brows, snapping his fingers to bring you back to earth. But you were too far gone, drifting somewhere between reality and the little daydream you’d built around Jay. Your eyes stayed locked on him, seated in his usual spot by the window. Today, he wore a maroon shirt that clung just right, his hair a little messy. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it. You stifled a giggle, pressing your lips together. It still felt unreal

Jay had read your lyrics. Not only that, he had added a line of his own.

And I would wait a thousand nights, if it meant I would hear your song again

The words echoed in your mind, stirring something deep inside you. Almost without thinking, your fingers brushed over your throat. You wished you could speak, wished you could sing the song he’d unknowingly written for you. But reality was cruel. You were mute. Your voice was a locked door with no key. And the truth settled heavy in your chest,

your love for him would never find its way out.

Jay found his way into the bar for 4 consecutive days, still not knowing why and what he was doing this for actually.

“Excuse me.” he stopped Seri, his waitress for the night while she was setting down his drink. She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh? Didn’t know you could talk, gorgeous.” He ignored her attempt at flirting “Do any of you.…kinda write lyrics?” Her brows knit. “What? Write what?”Jay pressed his lips into a thin line. No, this is not what I’m looking for. Seri lingered, fluttering her false lashes, fingertips grazing the back of his shoulder. But his gaze kept drifting past her, scanning the room. Eventually, she huffed, muttering, “Weirdo,” under her breath before stomping off.

In the bathroom, the air smelled faintly of perfume and setting spray. Yunjin and Chaewon were middle of their makeup touch-ups when Seri burst in, frowning as she twisted the faucet. “What’s got you all worked up?” Chaewon asked, catching her reflection in the mirror.“Why are people recruiting songwriters in our bar?” Seri grumbled. Yunjin giggled. “Ehhh? What?”

“That hot guy—probably an undercover gay—just asked me if someone here wrote lyrics. Like, be serious. I was literally touching his thigh.” Chaewon laughed, but Yunjin’s smile faltered.

“Someone… who wrote lyrics?” she repeated, her tone shifting, she knew who he was searching.

“Beomgyu, have you seen Y/N?” Jungwon’s voice carried urgency as he stopped yet another person in the crowded hallway. Beomgyu blinked, shook his head, and shrugged helplessly. That made five people now, all giving him the same answer. No one knew where you were. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where the hell could you be? For a brief moment, he considered asking Chaewon or Yunjin, but he knew better. They’d either brush it off or turn it into a joke. By the time nearly an hour had passed, frustration and worry clawed at his throat. He finally climbed the stairs leading to the private lounge, hoping for a miracle. That was when he saw you.

You were crouched at the edge of the pool, body trembling, shoulders quaking as you wiped furiously at your tears. Water clung to your clothes, dripping into small ripples beneath you. His heart dropped at the sight. “Y/N!” Jungwon sprinted across the floor, his shoes squeaking against the tiles. He fell to his knees beside you and gripped your shoulder. Your head lifted, eyes swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tears. You were completely drenched, hair plastered against your face. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your shivering form. The fabric hung heavy over your soaked clothes, but at least it shielded you.

Your lips trembled. A sob tore free, your chest heaving, and with shaking fingers you signed the words with dread

'Jungwon, someone dumped my lyrics in the pool… I tried saving it, but I couldn’t '

The scraps of your lyrics floated limply at the pool’s edge, ink bleeding into illegible swirls, letters dissolving into black stains that mocked every sleepless night you had spent pouring yourself into them. Jungwon crouched beside you, his jaw tense as he lifted one of the soggy pieces between his fingers only to watch it tear apart instantly. His chest rose with frustration. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the fragment back into the water. You sat there motionless, shivering beneath the weight of his jacket, but the warmth couldn’t reach past your chest. The ache gnawed there relentlessly, hollow and heavy. Your fists clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms until Jungwon gently tugged your arm.

'Come on' he signed, softer this time. 'Let’s get you out of here' You nodded faintly, dragging yourself upright, but your knees buckled from exhaustion. Jungwon steadied you, wrapping his arm firmly around your shoulders, guiding you toward the stairs. But before either of you could move further, the faintest throat clearing echoed in the stillness.

“Ahem.”

Jungwon stiffened, spinning around instinctively. His eyes narrowed when they landed on Jay, standing several feet away with a slightly sheepish, confused look. Jay shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “I—uh… I forgot my lighter here.” His voice was quiet, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he should even be explaining himself. Your body tensed instantly, every nerve aware of him. His gaze flickered over Jungwon before it landed on you. His brows pulled together at the sight of your trembling form, hair dripping, eyes raw and swollen. The moment your eyes met his, you felt warmth bloom unbidden beneath your skin, heat rushing to your cheeks despite the chill that clung to you.

His lips moved—shaping words—but no sound reached you. The confusion must have been evident on your face because you glanced at Jungwon desperately, tugging on his sleeve.

Jungwon signed quickly, his expression impatient.

'He said he left his lighter here'

Jay must have realized then, his eyes widened when Jungwon's finger formed certain signs. His shoulders jerked slightly as he stumbled over his own words, voice rising a notch in panic. “It’s okay! You guys look… troubled. I’ll just look for it and go—” But his sentence trailed off as your hand moved instinctively to your pocket. Your fingers brushed over something smooth and familiar. When you pulled it out, the small red lighter gleamed beneath the low light. You picked it up earlier while cleaning, absentmindedly slipping it away.

His eyes widened faintly. You hesitated before holding it up. He stepped closer, slowly, as though careful not to scare you. His height lowered until he crouched in front of you, aligning his gaze with yours. The nearness made your breath stutter. “Thank—you,” he mouthed, deliberate and gentle. The corners of his mouth tilted upward into a small smile that carried nothing but sincerity. With trembling hands you placed the lighter in his palm. His fingers brushed against yours for a fleeting second, warm, grounding—such a stark contrast to your cold skin that it sent a shiver running down your spine. You froze, staring as he straightened, sliding the lighter into his pocket. Without another word, he turned away, his figure disappearing into the dim hallway until only silence remained.

The air hung heavy. You pressed Jungwon’s jacket tighter around yourself, struggling to steady your heart.

“Okay,” Jungwon groaned finally, dragging a hand down his face with exasperation. “What is even going on?”

03.

Your lighter in my pocket, A spark I shouldn’t steal, But tell me how a borrowed thing

Can make a heart feel real?

I gave it back, our fingers touched,

The air was warm, the world was hushed, I swear I fell a little more, Returning what was yours.

Jay sat frozen on the couch, his eyes glazed over the glowing television. The voice of the reporter droned on, tinny and irritating, but he didn’t change the channel. He didn’t even blink.

“Song writer Lee Dasom has finally confirmed her relationship with Actor Byun Jaehyun. Rumors suggest an engagement might be on the horizon—”

The remote clattered onto the table as he switched off the screen. The silence that followed felt heavier than the words he had just heard. The blank, black surface reflected his face back at him, tired eyes, messy hair, a hollow expression he barely recognized.He leaned back against the couch, exhaling through his nose. Dasom. Her name alone used to taste sweet on his tongue. Now it felt like glass. He should have been angry. Maybe even heartbroken. But as the minutes ticked by, all he felt was emptiness, like he had already mourned the loss long before this announcement.

It wasn’t even the fact that she had moved on. It was who she had moved on with. His own cousin. Jaehyun, with his perfect smile and effortless charm, the one his family always compared him to. It stung in a place Jay didn’t want to admit still existed.

By the time he realized where his thoughts were dragging him, he was already out the door. His car seemed to move on autopilot, carrying him across the familiar streets until neon lights flickered in the distance.

The bar. Of course.

The place everyone went to when the weight of the world was too heavy to carry. The place where people drowned heartbreak in cheap liquor and temporary company. But Jay knew, even as he stepped through the smoky doorway, that Dasom and Jaehyun weren’t the reason his feet had brought him back here. No, his chest told a different story. His pulse quickened not at the memory of his ex but at something else, or rather, someone else.

It was like the faint pluck of guitar strings, delicate but insistent. A call he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t make sense of it. All he knew was that the more he resisted, the stronger it pulled.

The bar was louder than usual that night. Laughter, arguments, the clinking of bottles, and the dull thrum of music all collided into a restless wave that never seemed to end. It was the weekend, which meant chaos too many people, too few hands. Most of the workers had taken leave, so the weight fell on you, Jungwon, and some other workers.

You were already on your third round of cleaning tables, your palms slick with soap and sweat, your apron clinging uncomfortably to your waist. Glasses clinked together as you carried them back behind the counter, your arms aching from repetition. Every time you stopped to catch your breath, your eyes betrayed you. They wandered.To him. Jay sat in his usual spot at the far corner of the bar, posture straight, his hands resting loosely around his glass. Tonight was different. He didn’t look troubled or distracted, didn’t look as though his mind was elsewhere. Instead he was focused, calm. Almost like he belonged there.

“Shit—watch yourself!” You jerked upright, startled, as your shoulder collided with someone’s chest.

A man loomed over you, the bitter stench of alcohol seeping from his shirt. His brows pinched in irritation, his lips curled with disdain. you backed away quickly, bowing your head in apology. His glare lingered for a beat too long before you scurried away, your cheeks burning with shame.

The night dragged on endlessly, but everything eventually had an end. The crowd thinned as the clock ticked closer to closing. The air settled into something quieter, though a few stragglers still clung to their drinks. Jungwon handled them with polite smiles, ushering them gently toward the door. Your gaze flickered instinctively back to Jay’s corner, but the chair was empty. A hollow pang bloomed in your chest. He must have left. Slowly, you approached his table anyway. The glass he’d been nursing sat there, faint traces of condensation still clinging to it. Your hand brushed the seat before you slipped a small folded note from your apron pocket.

A thank you letter.

You had written it hastily earlier, between customers, your handwriting uneven from rushing. You wanted to thank him for the reply, for the words that had comforted you. And you wanted to apologize for failing to protect them, for watching them dissolve in the pool water until all that was left were ruined scraps.

Your fingers trembled as you laid the note down. Then, suddenly a hand brushed your waist. You jolted violently, a sharp gasp escaping your throat. Your body whipped around, and you froze. It was him, the man bumped on earlier. His face was flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded with intoxication.“Hey,” he slurred, his breath sour with alcohol. “You still haven’t paid for my ruined shirt, you know…”

You stumbled back a step, confusion flashing through you. you whimpered helplessly, trying to push his hand off, but his grip lingered stubbornly against your waist. The man clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Really? I hate women who play hard to get now....you were basically giving me signs—”

Your chest tightened, panic rising. Your eyes darted wildly around the bar, searching desperately for help, your expression screaming what your lips couldn’t say 'help me'

But before his words could fully sink into your skin, a force slammed into him. A pair of strong hands ripped him away from you, dragging him by the collar. In the next instant, the man’s body was hurled across the floor, crashing against a stack of neatly arranged chairs. The crash echoed, loud and violent, scattering the silence that had begun to settle. You flinched, your breath stuttering.And then you saw him.

Jay?!

He stood there between you and the fallen drunk, his chest rising steadily, his jaw clenched. His eyes were sharp and unreadable and burned with a quiet rage that made the air feel heavier. His fists were still curled tightly, knuckles white, as though he hadn’t quite convinced himself to let go. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Jay turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over you. His expression softened just barely when his eyes found yours, just enough to steady your trembling legs.

The drunk groaned on the floor, too dazed to rise. Jungwon came rushing over, his usually calm face twisted with alarm “What the hell happened?!” he crouched beside you. You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. Jay, however, didn’t say anything. He simply kept his body between you and the man on the floor, his stance rigid, protective “Get him out,” Jay said finally, his tone low but commanding.

Taehyun appeared then, grabbing the drunk by the arm and dragging him toward the door. The man resisted weakly, muttering curses under his breath, but he was too intoxicated to put up a fight. And just like that, the bar was quiet again.

Your mind buzzed with too many thoughts, too many feelings. Gratitude, fear, relief, confusion. But above all,you felt the weight of Jay’s presence beside you. The way his eyes refused to leave yours, like he was silently making sure you were safe, here, with him.

You packed your bag with slightly trembling hand. The zipper snagged, your fingers fumbled, and all you could think about was the ghost of that man’s touch on your waist. You expected Jungwon to be waiting outside for you but what you did not expect was to see him standing beside Jay. Your eyes darted between the two of them and lingered on Jay’s face longer than you meant to. The soft glow of the streetlamp fell across his sharp features, the faint shadow of a bruise on his knuckles.

“Thanks, man… I really don’t know how to thank you,” Jungwon muttered, his voice quieter than usual, almost reverent. Jay shook his head, his mouth curving slightly though it never reached his eyes. “It wasn’t anything. If anything, I regret not punching him”

The two of them let out an airy chuckle, but you only stood there, wide-eyed and silent, watching them. You wanted to participate, to add something, to thank him yourself, but the words would never leave your lips no matter how desperately you wanted them to. Jungwon turned back to you. 'Let’s get you home' You frowned, your fingers immediately moving in protest 'You’ll be late and you have college tomorrow. Just go back, I’ll walk' He gave you a sharp look his hands snapping back, signing firmly 'are you serious? I’m not leaving you alone, idiot'

Your lips pressed into a stubborn line. Jay tilted his head slightly like someone witnessing a cat fight. “What’s going on?” he asked finally. Jungwon translated, his voice explaining everything. You caught the way Jay’s eyes lingered on you after.

And you didn’t miss the subtle spark as Jungwon listened to something Jay said. His lips curved into a smirk before he looked at you with a maddeningly giddy expression 'Good luck. He’s taking you home'

And that was how you ended up walking beside Jay, steps uneven and rushed at times, quickening to match his long strides. Every so often, he would glance down, notice, and slow his pace as if it were second nature. You never lifted your head as your eyes stayed locked on your shoes, terrified that the warmth blooming across your cheeks might be too obvious if you dared to meet his gaze. Still, just being beside him made your chest tighten in a way both comforting and overwhelming. His tall figure cast a shadow over you wrapping you in security. Every brush of his sleeve against yours, every quiet step you took together, felt like a secret you were holding too tightly inside your heart. You were so lovesick it almost hurt.

“Ah—” You gasped softly when your forehead bumped into his back, the sudden stop startling you. Your eyes flew upward, wide and startled, as Jay slowly turned around. He reached for your wrist, fingers curling gently, careful not to startle you, and he placed something into your palm. A piece of folded paper. His brow arched, wordlessly telling you to open it. Curious, you unfolded the paper,

You don’t have to say thank you or apologise for anything. I don’t know how to put this into words, but your lyrics saved me, and I can never be more grateful.

P.S. I read your note when you were busy packing your bag.

Your breath hitched, and your whole body warmed at once, the words blurred in your vision as if your own pulse was ringing in your ears. Yes, you had wanted him to read that note, but not like this, not with him standing right in front of you, admitting your words had saved him. When you finally dared to look up, he was smiling at you—his signature smile, dimples carving into one side of his cheek. And in that moment, your mind went completely blank.

He was even more beautiful up close than you had ever dared to imagine.

“Thank you,” he mouthed gently, his lips forming the words with sincerity. You shook your head quickly, unable to accept thanks for something you felt was so small.

The rest of the walk carried on in silence, but it wasn’t awkward, the silence settled softly, filled with warmth rather than emptiness , where every step beside him felt like the start of something fragile, something precious. You found yourself listening to the rhythm of his shoes against the pavement, the quiet cadence of his breathing, and each second tethered you closer to him.

When the familiar outline of your apartment gate appeared, you tugged lightly at his sleeve to stop him. Gathering your courage, you turned to face him and signed slowly, 'We’ve reached. Thank you' Jay tilted his head, his expression caught somewhere between adorable confusion and curiosity. Oh. He didn’t understand your signs. You couldn’t help but giggle softly at his puzzled look, the sound bubbling up like it was beyond your control. Fishing your phone from your pocket, you quickly typed your gratitude and held the screen out to him.

He read it, then looked back at you with a sheepish smile, waving his hand as if to say 'No, no, it’s nothing' For a moment, the two of you simply stared at one another, the world outside shrinking away. Then, like an automatic response, you raised your hand and signed a small wave for goodbye. Without hesitation, Jay copied you, the gesture almost childlike in its simplicity.

You were just about to turn away, ready to slip into the safety of your apartment and your foolish daydreams alone, when his hand caught your wrist again.

The touch was light but firm enough to stop you. Your heart skipped, leapt, then soared all in a single moment. You turned back, pulse racing, to find him gazing at you. His lips parted, shaping the word soundlessly

'Name?'

The world seemed to tilt. Heat rose in your chest, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for his palm. You traced your name onto his skin, each letter a silent confession, your fingertips gliding over the warmth of his hand. When you finished, you let your gaze linger on his face for just a second longer, lips tugging into a small, bashful smile.And then, before you lost your courage entirely, you stepped back and disappeared into the building.

“Y/n…”

04.

Growing up, Jay never lacked material things. Being born with a silver spoon seemed to solve every problem, or at least that’s what people liked to believe. What they didn’t believe were the shadows stitched into his life, the constant comparisons to his cousins who excelled at academics, the suffocating pressure of being his father’s heir, the endless questions about cram schools, test scores, and futures that never felt like his own. He had fought hard for his dream, to sing, to stand on stage, to form a band that carried his heartbeat in every chord.

Winning that battle with his parents should have brought freedom, but instead came another cage.

The unyielding expectation to maintain a spotless image, to smile when he wanted to scream, to carry the burden of perfection while his soul ached for something real. The noise, the demands, the endless cycle of “not enough” clawed at him until he sometimes wished he could disappear.

Yet, Jay never broke. There was a gentleness in him, a compassion that refused to harden. He loved recklessly, gave selflessly, and never asked for anything in return. Even when it hurt, he held on,

because loving, for Jay, was the only way to survive.

So when, Dasom pulled him close only to push him away, broke him apart only to stitch him back together, he never found the strength to say no. To him, she was everything, the pulse behind his melodies, the reason his lyrics bled with sincerity. When she finally slipped out of his reach, her hand tangled with Jaehyun’s, Jay could only watch. The world was quick to decide his part in the story.

Absent-minded boyfriend. Too obsessed with guitars and meaningless songs. So selfish! so selfish!

The words clung to him like a curse. He didn’t fight back, instead he drowned in silence. Days in the studio became torture. His pen scratched out lines that collapsed into nothing and his guitar strings refused to sing for him. Every note came hollow, every melody empty. He swept papers from his desk, overturned a chair, let the storm inside spill outward until all that was left was him curled on the cold floor, knees pressed to his chest, sobs wracking through him. The sound was raw, like his heart tearing with each breath. And then—

Four lines scribbled on a sheet of paper, dropped almost carelessly into his lap. Like a blessing.

Words so tender they felt like a hand brushing over his wounds. Jay’s chest tightened.

Could it be real? Could someone else love like this? love with the same reckless devotion he carried in his chest?

He imagined someone at his side, not taking from him but giving—singing with him, tuning his guitar when his hands shook, whispering good job from outside the glass walls of his studio.

Then what was he even doing here?

Standing frozen in front of the small, dimly lit bookshelf, eyes scanning the uneven piles of paperbacks and manuals. His fingers stopped at one slim volume wedged between two heavier tomes.

'HAND SIGNS GUIDE—Communicate With Your Loved Ones More Efficiently'

Almost without thinking, he pulled it free. He stared at it as if it might hold an answer he hadn’t dared to form into words. Why was he doing this? For you? For the fragile token of gratitude you had offered him when he least deserved it? Perhaps it was guilt, an attempt to pay you back for the note that had pulled him from the edge of an endless void. Or maybe it was pity, a reflex born from seeing your trembling figure that night, drenched and shaking, your eyes swollen with tears.

Jay was not a simple man. For all his outward confidence, he was painfully needy in the quiet moments. He craved love, he wanted to be wanted, to be seen, to be heard. Applause from faceless crowds meant nothing compared to a single word of affirmation whispered from someone who mattered. He craved attention like it was the very rhythm that kept his blood moving. And above all, he craved music. You were not a gentle melody, not a song he could hum and set aside. You were a complex tune, wild, unpredictable, impossible to replicate and he wanted to memorize every note, every shift, every trembling cadence. That was why his hand tightened around the book. Because somewhere in the mess of pity, gratitude, and aching desire, Jay realized he didn’t just want to play you once and let go. He wanted to keep you, your rhythm, your voice, your essence.....strung into his guitar forever.

You are the clouds of dusk, I gaze and lose myself. You drift across another sky, Never glancing where I stand. It wasn’t your words alone that bound me, It was the silence in between. You never meant to call me near, Yet I heard you anyway

You couldn’t tell if Jay was being serious, or if your hopeless crush was playing tricks on your eyes again. He had always been unreadable. But when, during your break, he slid a folded piece of paper across the counter, you unfolded it only to find four words written in his tidy hand 'I want you to write for me.' Your breath hitched. Surprise swelled in your chest, followed closely by something much more dangerous—hope. Too much hope. So much that you choked spectacularly on your half-bitten Subway sandwich, coughing and wheezing as Jungwon nearly dropped an entire tray of glasses trying not to laugh. You flailed your hands in a panic, trying to form signs something between 'no' and 'are you serious', though to anyone else it probably looked like frantic semaphore. Your heart was a snare drum in your ears, loud and unrelenting.

Then Jay moved. Calm, unhurried, none of your chaos startled him. He reached across the counter and gently took your hand, and then he signed 'I mean it' For a moment, your brain went completely blank, static roaring louder than the jukebox in the corner. You stared at his fingers, at the deliberate motion, at the undeniable sincerity. Jay Park, of all people, was using your language. He hesitated, his brow tightening. Then his fingers moved again, slower this time, each motion careful.

'Sorry if… hard to understand. Started watching YouTube… last week only.'

He looked almost self-conscious, waiting for your reaction, like a man afraid of playing the wrong chord. You shook your head furiously, your hands trembling as you signed back, 'They are perfect!' Your chest felt too small for everything inside it. Breathless. Stupidly, hopelessly breathless for this man who looked at you like you weren’t invisible. And in that moment, with sandwich crumbs still on your lap and Jungwon giggling in the background, you realized you were already his.

It began like a flood, words spilling faster than you could catch them. Thoughts tumbled into ink as if your pen had been waiting all along. During slow hours, when the bar filled with the low hum of voices and clinking glasses, you scribbled verses. Crumpled papers piled up, scratched-out lines testifying to your impatience with imperfection. Yet nothing ever felt wasted because Jay was there. He lingered beside you when you wrote, leaning on the counter, eyes following the movement of your pen as though every word carried weight. When you folded a sheet neatly and slipped it across, he’d accept it with both hands, smoothing the crease before tucking it carefully into his pocket like it was something fragile. On days when he wasn’t there, you carried your chaos to the rooftop. The city stretched beneath you, indifferent, and your heart thrashed against your ribs as if it could break free.

You wrote then too

I’ll bleed on your guitar, With every word I hide away.

The red will hum beneath your hands,

While I’m the song you’ll never play.

lyrics you swore you would never give him, confessions too raw to bear the risk of being read. And somehow, without realizing when it started, you found yourself slipping into Jay’s world outside the bar. His apartment became familiar ground. His studio smelled faintly of cedar and worn out strings, the walls lined with the silent witnesses of his craft. Guitars leaned in corners and against stands, their varnish catching the lamplight like polished stone. You knew their names by now, the way he said them like they were old friends.

One evening, your fingers brushed the strings of one left on the couch. The sound was tentative, a soft vibration that lingered in the quiet room. You froze, uncertain if you’d overstepped, and looked up.Jay was watching you, a softness tugging at the edges of his otherwise steady expression. His hands moved slowly, deliberately. 'Do you wanna play?' The question hit harder than you expected. Not just an invitation to touch wood and wire, but to step further into the space he rarely opened to anyone. Your chest tightened, your hands shook. You didn’t answer right away afraid your voice, or your signs, would betray just how much you wanted to say yes.

You had settled cross-legged on the rug, the soft weave scratching pleasantly against your skin as you adjusted yourself. His guitar rested clumsily on your lap, the weight foreign, the strings unfamiliar beneath your hesitant fingers. Jay knelt just behind you, his presence steady, grounding, yet the closeness made your heartbeat scatter out of rhythm. He leaned slightly forward, his hand hovering above yours, guiding you to position the guitar properly. You tried to follow, mimicking his gestures, but it felt impossible. Too many strings, too many rules. Your fingers stumbled, your shoulders stiffened. Frustration bubbled in your chest. You puffed your cheeks and signed with a pout, too hard. Then, after a pause, you scribbled another set of shaky signs

'what’s the point? I can’t even hear it. What’s the point, really?'

The confession hung heavy in the space between you. A minute passed in silence.

Your gaze drifted toward the open window, where the rain fell in gentle sheets. The sound of it was beyond your reach, but you could see it, water streaming down the glass, droplets racing each other, trees swaying under the weight of it. The world outside was a blur, a secret orchestra you weren’t invited into.

But then you felt it. Jay shifted closer, so subtly at first you thought you imagined it. His warmth pressed against your back until your spine met the solid surface of his chest. Your breath faltered, catching on nothing. His arms reached forward, sliding carefully along yours until his hands rested lightly on the guitar—over your fingers, around your palms. His chest rose and fell behind you, and with each breath, warmth fanned against the bare skin of your neck. Your throat dried instantly. He didn’t move carelessly. His lips parted slightly before he raised his hand, fingers brushing against your wrist to catch your attention. He signed slowly, hesitantly, let me know if you’re uncomfortable. You only managed a shaky nod. Your fingers felt too weak to reply, jelly in your lap. Jay exhaled quietly, then lowered his hand back onto yours. His palm was warm, rough with calluses from years of playing, while yours were soft, smaller, trembling in his grasp. He positioned your hand over the strings and guided you, one note at a time, pulling the sounds you couldn’t hear but could feel. The vibrations thrummed faintly against your skin.

Then, with his fingertip, he traced patterns on your palm. One by one, he drew the letters of the chords A, D, G, patient, deliberate. You doubted you remembered anything correctly. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the closeness, the shiver climbing up your spine at every brush of his touch. You had never experienced something so intimate. So wordless. So heavy with meaning. Jay suddenly paused. His gaze dropped to your hands, then lifted slowly to your face. His brow furrowed. He signed carefully, 'are you cold?' But upon receiving no answer he looked up at your face.

Your eyes were shut tight, your body trembling, but not from the chill. Heat spread like wildfire beneath your skin. Still, your lips quivered when you exhaled, betraying you. Jay’s gaze softened. His chest tightened with a warmth he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t realized until now just how close you two had become until he could see the fine tremor of your lashes, the blush painting your cheeks, the way your lips parted like you had forgotten how to breathe. Slowly, you opened your eyes. The world spun for a moment before your gaze met his. Another pair of dark, searching eyes, so close it startled you. His finger brushed against your forearm, tracing letters delicately, 'Y/n..… are you cold?' Your throat was too tight to answer out loud, instead, you reached for his palm. Carefully, you traced the letters back, each stroke trembling '…Yes'

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It swelled. It pulsed. It echoed with something unnamed. And then, gently, you felt it—the softest touch brushing behind your ear, a trail of warmth searing into your skin. Jay’s fingers wove through yours, intertwining, holding them tightly as though to steady your shaking, his lips found the space just beneath your ear. Your body froze. The kiss was feather-light at first, a lingering question against your skin. But when you didn’t move away, he pressed again, lower this time, his mouth grazing the curve of your neck. The sensation burned, leaving sparks across your body.You gasped silently, your chest heaving as he pulled you further into him. His arms tightened around your waist, lifting you slightly until you were perched on his lap. His legs braced yours, caging you in the warmth of him. The guitar slipped from your lap, landing on the rug with a dull thud. Neither of you looked down. Jay’s lips trailed lower, brushing across the slope of your throat, tasting the shiver in your skin. He whispered something against you, words you couldn’t catch, couldn’t hear, but felt all the same, warm syllables melting against your flesh. His mouth traveled upward, along your jaw, grazing the corner of your lips before sliding to the small mole on your cheek. Your body trembled violently now, a storm of nerves and want. You had never known that skin could burn like this. Finally, Jay stilled. His lips left your skin, only for his face to lower into the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, nuzzling into you as if memorizing the shape of your presence, the scent of you, the way your body melted despite the tremors. His arms tightened again, clutching you with something dangerously close to, you felt it, the unspoken words, the rhythm of his breath, the confession buried in the way he held you like he had found something he didn’t want to lose. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the world narrowed to the warmth of his embrace and the faint vibration of his heart against your palm.

The guitar lay forgotten on the rug.

05.

Jay sat hunched on the edge of his bed, fingers tugging nervously at the hem of his shirt. The phone pressed to his ear felt heavier than usual. His throat closed up the way it always did whenever his father’s voice came through the line.

“How’s your little band thing going?” Mr. Park’s tone was clipped, distant, yet sharp enough to slice through him.

Jay swallowed. “Good… we’re preparing for a comeback,” he whispered, voice breaking as though the words weren’t meant to exist outside his chest. A silence lingered, long enough to make his palms sweat. Then came his father’s voice again, cool and calculated “Come home this weekend. Your mom misses you.”

Jay drew in a breath. “Ok—”

“I want you to meet someone.”

His stomach dropped. Not this again. He bit the inside of his cheek until the metallic taste of blood surfaced.

“I don’t want to.”

A low chuckle rumbled from the other line, “Son, I know you don’t want to. But to me, my legacy matters more. You’ve done enough damage to yourself and to us… please don’t add more.”

And just like that, the line clicked dead.

“Leave? Suddenly? Wow, our Y/N finally going on trips with her secret boyfriend, huh?” Your manager’s laugh grated like nails on glass. You blinked at him, unsure what exactly he was insinuating. Jungwon, beside you, waa two shibals and one scream away from flipping the table. His hands signed quickly under the desk 'He’s bullshitting'

You weren’t used to being in the office, leaves weren’t something you ever asked for unless absolutely necessary, and even then, never for more than a day. But visiting Jay’s house? That was no twenty-four-hour thing. This was dinner with his parents. You remembered last week when Jay’s head resting against your stomach, his lips leaving featherlight pecks across your face. He had signed hesitantly about his mother calling, and he wanted you to accompany him. His eyes had sparkled with a childlike hope you couldn’t say no to. Which was why you were here now, facing your obnoxious manager.

“Say, Jungwon, are you tagging along too? Translating?” The man’s laugh was uglier the second time. Jungwon closed his eyes, fists clenched. You slipped your hand over his knuckles under the table, grounding him.

“I don’t mind if my pay gets deducted,” Jungwon said evenly, translating your signed words. “She just needs this leave.”

Your manager leaned back with a scoff. “Fine. Yunjin can cover. You’re deadweight anyway.” The door slammed shut so hard the walls rattled, Jungwon muttering under his breath about poisoning the man’s drink one day.

But at least, your leave was approved.

The ride to Jay’s home was quiet, though not in the suffocating kind of way. His hand rested firmly over yours, thumb brushing slow, calming arcs across your skin. Every time your thoughts slipped into dark corners, the possibility that you might not belong there Jay’s grip reminded you otherwise. That simple, steady warmth said what he didn’t voice.

Generational wealth wasn’t a phrase anymore, it was a living reality. The driveway alone stretched wider than streets you’d grown up on, lined with polished cars and manicured gardens. The house, or rather the estate, rose in front of you like something out of a history book, white columns, sprawling wings, balconies that could each fit an apartment.

Inside, the sight only intensified. Servants rushed the moment Jay stepped through the doors, bowing, collecting his coat.

Security lingered at the edges, stiff and unyielding. Others glanced, whispered, moved in a rhythm. Their expressions were carved in stone polite but cold, untouched by warmth. Just watching them made your stomach twist, nausea rising with each unfamiliar detail.

Jay’s childhood room felt like stepping into a memory that never belonged to him. It was pristine, too polished, untouched by the chaos of teenage years. Not a single poster on the wall, no forgotten trinkets just neatly aligned furniture and shelves that carried the weight of emptiness. It was larger than his apartment back in the city, yet it lacked the warmth that made his place feel alive. Standing there, you found it hard to believe that someone like Jay so radiant, so full of laughter and music had grown up in a place that seemed so cold. Jay noticed the way your eyes roamed, the furrow in your brow, and a quiet chuckle slipped from him. He lifted his hands to sign, 'My parents never supported my dream of becoming a singer. That’s why I don’t have any of my belongings here'

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat. There were so many questions bubbling up, about his childhood, the battles he fought in silence, the kind of boy he used to be before the world knew his voice. But the stillness in his expression told you enough. This room was not a place for questions. It was a reminder, and perhaps, a wound. Before you could dwell too much, warmth wrapped around you from behind. You let out a startled yelp, instinctively smacking the hands that had snaked around your waist. you yelped, voice light but heart still racing.

Jay’s laugh vibrated against your shoulder as he buried his face near your ear, pressing a kiss against its shell. The tenderness of the gesture sent a shiver down your spine. He pulled back slightly, his lips shaping the words you could catch even without sound—“I missed you.”

When he finally turned you around to face him, his eyes locked with yours. The intensity there made it hard to breathe, like he could see straight through every layer you wore to protect yourself. The world outside—his parents, their expectations, the weight of wealth and silence faded until it was just him, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to warmth. And in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to disappear into his arms.

"I believe you’ve disappointed me enough, Jay," his father said, voice low and cutting, "First, throwing away everything I built for you. Years of hard work. Now—" his eyes flicked toward you, and for a fleeting moment you wished you could shrink into invisibility. "Bringing a muted girl as your company? God bless Reira’s father is still my business partner. If it were anyone else, your foolishness would have been beyond repair."

The table went still. Even the servants hovering at the edge of the room froze mid-step.

"Uh—uhhh," Mrs. Park stammered, nudging her husband’s arm lightly, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. "It’s okay, Jay. Don’t mind your father. You know he loves Reira. He was just… a little disap—"

"I’m sorry," Jay cut in, his voice breaking just enough to betray the weight he carried. You saw the way his mother shifted awkwardly, her smile faltering, her hands tightening around the napkin in her lap. You couldn’t hear every word spoken at the table, but you didn’t need to. Years of reading lips, of memorizing expressions, had taught you well. The pain etched in Jay’s face was clear as day. The dinner table wasn’t a family meal, it was a courtroom, and Jay was the defendant.

Afterward, Mrs. Park caught him in the hallway. Her voice was softer now, gentler than it had been at the table, though still weighed with uncertainty. "Jay…" she said, touching his arm. "You know I support you no matter what. I admit I was reckless in the past. I failed to see how much music meant to you, and I’ll always regret that. But this…" Her gaze flicked toward you, lingering, hesitant. "Are you sure?"Jay’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped low. "Sure about what, Mom?"

"About her. About Y/n..." The softness drained from her tone. "She can’t speak. She can’t hear. She’s mute, my dear. She’ll never be able to understand your love—your music, your songs, your soul. She’s just a muse. Nothing more."

The words hit him like stones, but his reply came firm, unwavering. "She's not just a muse...she's..."

She frowned, waiting. "What is she then?"

He drew in a sharp breath, steadying himself. But his tongue couldn’t battle the silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Jay felt it press against his skull until the ringing in his ears returned, the familiar tinnitus that always came in moments like this. The voice in his head whispered the same old words 'Run. Cover your ears. Escape' But he didn’t move. His mother’s expression hardened, delivering the final blow. "Are you going to keep hurting us like this? Do you want to break our family apart?"

Jay’s lips parted, his voice shaking with the truth he had buried for years.

"I don’t think I can break something that was never together in the first place."

Jay hadn’t stepped foot into the bar for almost a week. Your lyrics were now piled in the corner of changing room, gathering dust like abandoned dreams. Each time you tried reaching out, your phone lit up with short, clipped replies.

Busy with comeback prep. Busy with rehearsals. Busy. The words were flat, impersonal, as though he were pressing send with half a mind elsewhere. You wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself it was only work, but the ache in your chest whispered otherwise.

You missed him. That night, the memory of the ride back from his parents’ house replayed in your mind. The car had been quiet, suffocating almost, despite the city lights flashing past the window. Jay’s hands had rested tensely on the wheel, knuckles pale beneath the glow of passing streetlamps. He didn’t look at you once, didn’t reach for your hand like he always did when silence stretched too long.

You had wanted to ask. The questions had burned on your tongue

Are you okay? Do you regret bringing me there? But the fear of breaking whatever fragile thread connected the two of you kept you silent.

So you stared at your reflection in the window, lips pressed tight, while the warmth you once felt from him drained away, leaving the air between you cold. Now, a week later, that same coldness lingered in everything. In the unread messages, in the untouched lyrics, in the way your chest tightened whenever his name appeared on your screen, on the tv, on headlines where news of his band preparing for a comback was corculating.

Jay was slipping back into the version of himself you had met months ago at the bar, distant, guarded, weighed down by invisible. You believed the warmth he shared with you had been permanent. But as you sat there staring at the dust on your pages, you couldn’t shake the thought 'what were you to him really?'

And this time, you weren’t sure if you had the strength to break your heart.

You straightened your back, trying to calm the anxious rhythm of your heartbeat, but the nervous tapping of your foot against the floor betrayed you. You were standing in front of Jay’s apartment door, staring at the polished wood. Hesitation gnawed at you, wrapping itself around your chest.

Why couldn’t you just wait? He told you he was busy, didn’t he?

But lovesick people were fools. Before you could second-guess yourself again, you lifted your hand and pressed the doorbell. A sharp chime echoed from the other side, then faded into silence.

No footsteps, no response. The door remained firmly shut. You bit your lip, waited a few more seconds, then pressed again. Still nothing.

The hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of the elevator down the hall. You felt ridiculous, standing there with your hope clinging to a door that would not open. Half an hour bled away slowly, painfully, with each passing minute stabbing at your resolve. Your phone buzzed three times, Jungwon’s name flashing on the screen, but you ignored it. Finally, your shoulders sagged in defeat. You slid your bag off and pulled out the thick bundle of papers you had been working on, the lyrics you wanted to show him. Your heart tightened as you placed them carefully on the mat in front of his door.

06.

Jay sat in his studio, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling as his fingers toyed with the guitar strings.

Dasom had come by the night before,

To give him the lyrics of song she was working on when they were still together. This was her last work with him dressed as a petty goodbye.

“Heard you’re with a mute bar worker now?” she said with a little chuckle, her tone sharp.

“None of your business,” he muttered, voice flat. But she only smiled wider, stepping closer. “That’s a very impressive choice of muse, Jay. I just hope you’re not repeating the same mistake—confusing your love for art with feelings for a person.”

The words had cut him open, ripping through wounds that had only just begun to scar.

“What… did you mean?” His voice had wavered despite himself. She didn’t answer directly, just left the words lingering like poison in the air. And now, sitting alone, Jay felt the weight of them pressing harder against his skull. He knew what she meant. He knew the ugly pattern she was hinting at. His chest tightened as he thought of you, your smile, the way your silence still spoke volumes, the way you had become his anchor without even trying.But the question burned relentlessly

What were you to him? did he love you, truly love you? Or had he, once again, let music blur into something it wasn’t? And worse—did you love him back?

His grip on the guitar tightened. The string snapped with a sharp twang, slicing the corner of his thumb. A bead of blood welled up, bright and raw against his skin. He stared at it, watching the red bloom.

Tonight was his first live show.

The announcement had been spreading like wildfire days ago, Jungwon came running into the bar with flushed cheeks, a crumpled flyer in his hand, stolen from a bulletin board outside HYBE’s building. He slapped it down on the counter with boyish triumph, and there he was—Jay. Dressed in black, eyes sharp, presence commanding even on printed paper. He was shining. Your heart had soared. Had he finally done it? Had he finally read your lyrics? The bar was busier than usual as the weekend crowd pushed through the doors, the low hum of chatter swelling into a restless sea. Glasses clinked, laughter erupted from the back tables, and the big screen on the wall flickered with the live broadcast.

Every head in the room turned toward the glow.And then you saw him. Jay’s face filled the screen, sharper and more magnetic than the paper flyer could ever capture.

The lights from the stage caught the slope of his jaw, the gleam of his dark hair, the way he held himself as though he carried the weight of a thousand eyes effortlessly. You felt something flutter in your chest, warmth, pride, giddiness, all tangled together.

Beside you, Jungwon snickered and nudged your arm. You tried to suppress your smile, but your cheeks betrayed you.

The MC leaned forward, mic in hand, asking the usual questions, about the band’s comeback, their preparation, the message behind the new music. Jake spoke first, then Sunghoon.

Finally, the microphone passed into Jay’s hands. You leaned closer to the screen, your whole body tense. His lips moved. The sound of his voice filled the bar, deep and steady. You tugged urgently at Jungwon’s sleeve. He understood instantly and bent toward you as he translated.

'This comeback, marks a very important part of my career. And I don’t know how to thank people enough, my members, my manager, my parents…'

Your chest tightened, breath catching. This was it. You could almost see the words forming already, the acknowledgment of your quiet devotion, your pages of lyrics stacked in the corner of his room. You waited, hands trembling against your apron.But then Jungwon’s voice faltered. His fingers froze mid-translation, eyes flickering nervously toward you.

'...and to Lee Dasom' Jungwon's fingers halted. "Who the hell is Dasom...?" He muttered under his breathe, probably throwing the question at you but you were far away to process anything.

What?

all of it sounded horror, distant, like you were in underwater.

Jungwon looked at you with wide, worried eyes. His mouth formed the words, what’s happening?

But you had no answer. You shook your head slowly, as if that might clear the fog clouding your mind. Who was he talking about? Lee Dasom? Whose absence carved him hollow enough to bleed into his music?

The show moved on. The stage lights dimmed, and the first chords rang out. The screen filled with lyrics, subtitles rolling beneath Jay’s voice. You scanned them desperately, your eyes searching for familiarity, for fragments of your lines, your words, your soul. They weren’t there. The lyrics were strangers, phrases you had never strung together, metaphors that didn’t belong to you. They carried someone else’s fingerprints, someone else’s memories. Not yours.

Your throat tightened as you stood frozen in the crowd. You didn’t need to hear the melody to understand the truth pressing down on you. Your place in his life, the one you had so carefully nurtured in the silence of your unspoken love, did not exist.

You had been waiting, writing, giving pieces of yourself you couldn’t voice aloud. You had believed, no, hoped that Jay had been reaching for you too, even if from a distance. But now, staring at him through the bright filter of stage lights, you realized with brutal clarity.

You were never the name he whispered into song. Your heart cracked open with a quietness that no one else in the crowded bar noticed. To everyone else, Jay was electrifying,

but to you—he was something else. Something unattainable.

You turned your gaze away, and your legs moved on its own. Because it hurt too much to keep looking.

You didn’t know why your eyes burned when you hadn’t been promised anything. All you knew was that in this moment, as Jay’s voice echoed through the speakers and strangers screamed his name, you had never felt smaller.

And you knew, with an ache that hollowed you out, you didn’t have a place in Jay’s life. You never did.

Something was wrong.

Jay’s mind screamed it, but the source eluded him. His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat as the aftertaste of something bitter spread across his tongue. He sat there in the dressing room, shoulders tense, trying to steady his breath. Jake threw an arm around Sunghoon’s shoulder with a grin. “Great work”

Sunghoon didn’t return the smile. Instead, he shot Jay a sharp glance. “Yeah—except for the part Jay had to mention Dasom, we could’ve performed a different song”

Yuki peeked in, brisk and professional. “Boys, our next show starts in fifteen minutes. Get ready.” Jake clapped his hands together, “Let’s do this, boys!” The room moved. Noise. Chatter. Equipment checked. But Jay sat frozen in the middle of it all. His fingers trembled when he reached for his guitar. He clenched them into fists, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe through the ache clawing at his chest. When the lights finally dimmed, he stepped onto the stage. The crowd roared, but Jay barely heard them. His heartbeat was the only drum in his ears. He leaned into the microphone, his voice softer than usual, raw.

“This song… it’s very special to me.” He paused, his throat catching. “I don’t know if it’ll ever reach her, but I hope my melody stays as a feeling… rather than a memory.”

The silence that followed was palpable, heavy. Then he whispered the words that broke open the room.

“…This is to my music.

My Y/n”

Back at the bar, chaos erupted. Jungwon’s eyes widened as he muttered

“Holy shit—?”

Whispers sparked like fire across the staff. Chaewon leaned close to Yunjin, her voice sharp. “Y/n? As in the Y/n who works here?” Yunjin rolled her eyes with disdain. “I knew she was seducing that weirdo. But damn—guess she scored herself a big one.”

Jungwon didn’t care for their words. His gaze darted around the bar, desperate. “Where’s Y/N?” His voice shook, but no one answered. He scanned the room again, heart pounding, but your small figure was nowhere in sight. Panic flared in his chest. He didn’t even think. He just ran.The night air was thick, humid, buzzing with people spilling onto the streets of Gangnam. Neon lights reflected against puddles, laughter and music tangled in the air but you weren’t there.

Jungwon pushed through the crowd, his breath ragged. He searched alleyways, asked strangers, his lungs burning with each step. Still nothing. His throat felt like sandpaper as dread coiled in his stomach. “…This is not good,” he muttered, panic splintering his composure. After what felt like hours compressed into minutes, he crouched on the pavement, hands braced on his knees, gasping for air.

“Boy, move!” The sharp voice jolted him upright. A group of civic volunteers rushed past him, all sprinting in one direction. His eyes followed instinctively and then he saw it. A crowd had gathered at the end of the street. People murmured, clustered, some with their hands over their mouths. The atmosphere was heavy, electric with unease.

Dark thoughts filled Jungwon’s mind.

No.

This can’t be.

His legs moved before his brain did, sprinting toward the commotion. He grabbed the arm of a passerby moving away from the scene. “What happened? What’s going on?”

The man’s face was pale, his voice hushed. “A girl… a mute girl was trying to cross the road, and—”The words fractured into static. Jungwon’s heart stopped. His vision tunneled. Without waiting for the rest, he tore forward, feet pounding the asphalt, lungs burning with desperation. His mind screamed your name over and over, each repetition sharper than the last. Because if it was you, if it was you lying there then Jay’s words on stage had already turned into something unbearable. And Jungwon wasn’t sure if he could live with that.

Jay’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since the performance. Every second it lit up, texts from friends, industry colleagues, fans flooding his inbox, all of them congratulating him, all of them screaming about the mysterious “Y/n” he had confessed about on stage. Messages blurred together until they lost meaning. But hidden beneath them, buried deep in the notification log, were missed calls from Jungwon. Calls Jay hadn’t even noticed.

“So,” Sunghoon drawled from across the practice room, trying to cut through the tense air. He tossed his water bottle into the corner and smirked. “When are we finally meeting this Y/n? You’ve been hiding her like some sort of national treasure.”

Jake laughed too loudly, elbowing Jay’s shoulder. “Yeah, hyung, bring her out already. Don’t keep us guessing.” Jay flinched at their teasing. His legs bounced restlessly, body leaning toward the door as if pulled by some invisible thread. Every muscle in him screamed to see you, to run back to the bar where your absence still lingered like smoke. But another voice chained him down, the one whispering that maybe you hated him now, that after the way he had pushed you aside, ignored your messages, protected his own fragile heart instead of yours…. maybe you never wanted to see him again.

The thought alone made his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe.

Then the television in the corner blared louder as a reporter’s voice cut into the room.

“BREAKING NEWS: At 9:15 this evening, Gangnam police arrested a truck driver involved in a hit-and-run case. The alleged victim, a mute girl, has been admitted to Seonshige Hospital in critical condition—”

The words froze in Jay’s ears. His breath caught, body turning cold.

Mute girl. Hospital.

Your face slammed into his mind so sharply it was like being struck. His hands shook as he fumbled for his phone. And then he saw them, thirty-five missed calls. Jungwon’s name over and over again.

His vision tunneled. The phone almost slipped from his grip. No. No, no, no.

“Jay?” Sunghoon’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears. “What’s wrong?”Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His body moved before his mind did, legs sprinting for the door, phone clutched tight in his sweaty palm. His bandmates’ voices echoed behind him, confused, alarmed.

“What the fuck—?” Jake’s shout was cut off as Jay shoved through the hallway and into the night. The world blurred around him. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, the reporter’s words looping like a curse.

Mute girl. Hospital.You.

07.

The stack of pages lay just inside the doorway, scattered across the floor as if dropped in a hurry. They fluttered slightly when her heel brushed against them.

“What the hell is this…”

Dasom muttered, crouching down. She picked them up one by one. Inked words, scrawled melodies, fragments of lyrics drenched with raw feeling. Every line bled through like torn skin, love carved into metaphors, longing pressed into verses, grief strung across notes.

Lyrics meant for him.

Pages soaked with your heart.

Her face twisted as she read, bitterness curling at the corners of her mouth. Something ugly and sour coiled in her stomach the longer her eyes trailed down the ink. On mind. On body. On a song’s melody. On a singer’s guitar.

Every word screamed of devotion. Her jaw tightened until it ached. She crumpled the pages in her hands one after another, fingers trembling not with sadness but with fury.

He doesn’t deserve this, Jay doesn’t deserve such pretty words. Her nails dug into the paper until it tore.“The only thing he deserves,” she hissed under her breath, tossing the ruined lyrics into the trash bin outside his door, “is to bleed.” With one last glance at the closed apartment, her eyes narrowed coldly. She pressed her lips together, straightened her posture, and walked away, leaving your words buried in the garbage, silenced before Jay could ever see them again.

But Jay didn’t know that. Not yet. All he knew was the suffocating weight in his chest as he ran, the frantic pounding of his footsteps against the pavement, the way his heart kept chanting the same desperate plea.

Please, please, let it not be you.

The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic hit your nose before your eyes even fluttered open. It was familiar, painfully so. Hospitals had been a recurring setting in your childhood, the place where your mother clung to fragile hope that your silence was temporary, that one day a doctor would deliver a miracle and return your voice.

But now, that old memory was tangled with fresh agony. Every nerve in your body screamed, the pain sharp and uneven, darting across your wrists, your ribs, your legs. It was as if your body had betrayed you, each pulse of pain a reminder that you were alive, but broken. You blinked slowly, your vision hazy, fragmented pieces of reality seeping through. Figures in white coats moved around you, voices low and rushed, like muffled echoes inside a dream. You couldn’t follow the words. Couldn’t focus. Your head spun, and your heart tried to race ahead of your fragile body.

'...Jay' The name was instinct, desperate and barely formed on your lips. You reached for him in the dark, but blackness claimed you again before you could grasp anything solid.

Outside your room, the tension was thick enough to crush lungs.

“Her vitals are holding stable for now,” the doctor said, his tone both cautious and heavy, “but she’s in severe trauma. We have to monitor her closely for the next twenty-four hours.” Jay nodded absently, but his face gave nothing away. His body was there, rooted in the corridor’s cold light, yet his mind seemed to drift somewhere unreachable. His jaw clenched, then loosened, then clenched again. Beside him, Jungwon wasn’t so restrained. His hands shook, his voice cracked. “W-what about her injuries?” he managed, his throat thick, his body trembling as if the answer alone could shatter him.

The doctor sighed, shifting uncomfortably before glancing at the file in his hands. “The wounds on both her wrists are… severe. Deep enough that I can’t guarantee full recovery even with extensive physical therapy. We’ll try, of course, but it’s uncertain if she’ll regain full use of her hands.”

The words landed like a blade. Jungwon staggered back, collapsing into the hard plastic chair against the wall. His face buried in his palms, a choked sob tore out of him. “I’m sorry, Y/N… I’m so, so sorry…” The sound echoed in the sterile hall, raw and devastating.

Jay stood silent. He didn’t move to comfort Jungwon. Didn’t speak to the doctor. He didn’t cry either. His chest felt hollow, scraped clean of anything human. He had imagined countless times how this might unfold what it would mean to lose you, or worse, to break you himself with his negligence. But this reality? This aching, bloody truth? It was unbearable in a way his mind refused to process. Every memory he held of you, the laughter you had when you scribbled lyrics to him on notes, the spark in your eyes when you wrote them, the warmth that softened his guarded heart flashed in brutal fragments. And with each one came the reminder that he had pushed you away.

He had left you waiting. He had ignored the way you reached for him when he was too afraid to feel. All the songs you wrote him, the ones that became his lifeline on the darkest days, suddenly felt like ghosts. Empty, cruel reminders of what he had taken and given nothing for. And now he wondered if they would be the last pieces of you he’d ever hold. How was he supposed to face you again? How could he stand at your bedside, knowing you had bled words onto paper for him while he kept his heart locked? How was he supposed to meet your eyes if you even opened them again and explain why he abandoned you when all you had done was give?

Jay swallowed, his throat raw though he hadn’t spoken. The antiseptic air stung his lungs, and still he stayed frozen, hands curled into fists at his sides. Jungwon’s sobs filled the corridor, cracking the silence. “

She trusted us,” he whispered through broken breaths. “And look what happened… I couldn’t protect her.”

Jay’s gaze flickered to the door that separated him from you. He wanted to move, to rush inside, to hold your hand no matter how weak or bandaged it was. But his body refused. He feared that if he crossed that threshold, you’d see him for what he truly was selfish, cowardly, a man who took your love and left you alone.

He didn’t deserve your words, your words, or even your forgiveness. All he could do was stand there in the sterile hospital light, watching the closed door, praying you’d open your eyes again, though he wasn’t sure if you’d want to see him when you did.

Jay hesitated. His hand hovered over the door, fingers trembling as though the simple act of entering would condemn him. His legs felt like they had been nailed to the floor, heavy with guilt, but the pull inside his chest was stronger. Voices in his head screamed at him to turn away that he was forbidden, unworthy, that you would never want to see him again. But against every ounce of reason, his body moved.

He stepped in. The sharp sting of antiseptic filled the air, clinging to every surface. The steady beep of the monitor beside your bed felt like a cruel reminder that you were still here, suspended between fragility and survival. Almost a week had passed since the accident. Almost a week of Jay waiting, pacing, drowning in silence and fear. And now, for the first time, your lashes fluttered against your cheek, and consciousness slowly seeped back into you.You shifted slightly, trying to sit up. The effort looked monumental, your face tightening with each movement. Thick bandages wrapped around your wrists, swathes of white gauze that looked more like shackles than healing. Your stomach dropped at the sight. You wanted to scream, to claw them off, to erase the truth written across your skin. But the pain was sharp, immediate, like blades pressing against your throat. What the fuck.

Jay’s breath caught. His chest heaved as he rushed forward, instinct overriding hesitation. He was at your side before he knew it, his face crumpling when he saw you wince, struggling against your own frail body. His eyes glossed, and the tears he had been holding back for days finally spilled over.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head as if to erase your pain. His hands hovered near your shoulders before gently guiding you back down onto the pillows.

You tried. God, you tried to lift your hand, to bridge the aching gap between you and him, to touch him in reassurance that you were still here, that he was still real. But the moment you moved, pain shot up your arms, tearing through muscle and bone, and a gasp escaped your lips. The sound was soft,broken, breathless. But to Jay, it was the loudest thing in the world. It shattered him.

You saw it in his face, in the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders curled forward, like he could fold himself small enough to disappear. The universe had already taken your voice, and now it seemed determined to strip you of everything else.

Why were you even alive? The thought crashed in your chest, cold and merciless.

Your body shook as sobs tore through you. And then his warmth.

Jay pulled you into his arms, gently, his embrace was trembling but steady, his cheek pressed against the crown of your head, breath hot and ragged as it tangled in your hair. His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles along your back, even though his own body quivered.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. The words fractured, breaking into pieces that barely left his mouth. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You tilted your head, desperate to look at him, desperate to cling to the sound of his voice. Your lips parted. You shaped his name on your tongue, you tried to scream it, tried to let the syllables fly into the air the way you used to in your head. But nothing came. Not a whisper, not even a breath that resembled language. Silence.

God wasn’t on your side. Jay’s heart shattered as he watched you struggle, as your throat worked and your lips trembled but the world remained deaf to you. He cupped your cheeks with shaking hands, forcing your gaze to lock with his. His thumbs brushed away your tears, chasing the salty trails even as more spilled, endless and cruel.

“Look at me,” he begged, voice breaking. “Please, just look at me.” Your lips quivered under the weight of his desperation. The taste of salt lingered on your skin as he leaned forward, pressing soft kisses against the tears that streaked your face. His lips were tender, frantic, as though by kissing them away he could erase your suffering.You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe the world hadn’t turned this cruel. But all you could feel was the heavy unfairness pressing down on your chest. Your voice was gone, your wrists bound in pain, and yet the universe had left you alive. Alive to feel the emptiness, alive to watch him break beside you.You shut your eyes, trembling under his touch.

Why was the world so unbearably unfair?

Jay stayed by your side.

The white walls of the hospital room became his prison, the monotonous beeping of the monitor his cruel metronome. He was there when you stirred occasionally, when your lashes fluttered open and confusion replaced the stillness of unconsciousness. He was there when your bandaged wrists trembled as you tried to move, when the shadow of realization crossed your face. He never left, not at first.

Jungwon came occasionally, quiet and careful, his youth etched with concern no one his age should carry. But when the door closed and it was just you and Jay, silence pressed heavily between you. Silence filled with the unsaid, the unbearable.He blamed himself. For everything. The night he saw you clawing at your own bandages nearly broke him. You, desperate and frantic, as if tearing away those layers of gauze would free you from the torment caging you. Your nails dug in, shaking, reaching for something, reaching for him. He caught your wrists, his hands trembling, his voice breaking as he begged you to stop.

“Please,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “Please don’t do this.”

But your eyes empty, hollow, screaming for release were burned into his mind. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear you in pain, couldn’t bear that it was his fault you were in this bed at all.

And so, one night, he left.

The chair where he used to sit was empty in the morning, only a folded letter resting there in his place. His voice lived in those words, etched with all the fractures he couldn’t say aloud

I have always hated myself the most. And I’ve been convinced for as long as I can remember that there isn’t a soul in this world more miserable than I am. When your lyrics first reached me, I thought it was a trick of the universe. A blessing I didn’t deserve. Were those pages for me? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. Because if they were, if every page was your heart stitched into words for my sake, then it only reminded me of the truth I’ve been running from. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve the fragile, stubborn love you carry like a flame cupped in your palms. A flame you’ve tried to share with someone like me, someone who can’t even hold it without burning you. But in this moment, with my world unraveling and my chest cracking open, I need you. I know I’ve caused you pain. I always do. To everyone. My parents, my bandmates, my manager. I’ve been nothing but distress to them. And now to you. I feel suffocated. Even music, the only thing that ever defined me can’t pull me back anymore. After Dasom left, I was barren. Empty. I kept asking myself why I was sad. Was it her I mourned? Or was it the melodies that only flowed when she was near? But you… what I feel for you goes beyond my love for music. You help me breathe. Your lyrics give life back to my silence. You are not just a muse, you are my music y/n. Without you, I can’t function. But I am selfish. God, I am so selfish. I want you all for myself, even when I know I only bring you pain. And in that selfishness, I forgot to ask, did you even want this? Did you ever want me? I love you. I want you. And I am sorry if all I have ever given you is pain.

His handwriting ran across the page, ink smudged in places where it looked like the pen had wavered or his hand had trembled. The words, they read like a surrender. Every sentence was a scar.

And you sat there, trembling as you held the letter in your bandaged hands. The edges of the paper pressed into your palms, sharp enough to sting, but you didn’t let go. The room was empty without him. His absence was louder than his presence had ever been. The air tasted colder, the silence deafening. You wanted to scream his name, wanted to drag him back, to shake him until he understood that his misery wasn’t a burden to you,

it was a part of him you had been willing to carry. But your voice, already stolen by the universe, betrayed you. You pressed the letter against your chest, eyes stinging, body trembling.

EPILOGUE.

You shook your head for the third time, the fabric pooling at your feet as Sunoo huffed dramatically. His lips pursed, his arms crossed like a disgruntled stylist in the middle of a fashion show gone wrong.

'This is the eleventh dress you’ve rejected' he whined, his voice pitched high with frustration. “At this rate, I fear we’re going to run out of designs before you even make it out of this room.” He sighed loudly, collapsing onto the couch as though he were the one forced into gowns.

You rolled your eyes and drifted past him, fingers brushing over hangers as you studied the array of colors and textures. Sequins, lace, satin, none of them felt right. Then, tucked at the far end, something soft caught your eye. A peach-colored dress, delicate in its simplicity, almost glowing in the low light. You reached for it, letting the fabric slip between your fingers, and turned to Sunoo.

How about this? you signed, holding the skirt out slightly. Sunoo’s eyes widened in theatrical disbelief. “How—how did I never notice this one?” He rushed forward, pulling it free and holding it up against you with both hands. The peach warmed your skin, catching on your glow in a way that made even you pause. His jaw dropped.

“I’m afraid you’re going to outshine the bride.”

The wedding venue was a dream in motion, buzzing with laughter, footsteps, and gentle music that wrapped around the heart. Chandeliers threw golden light across white tablecloths, while flowers bloomed in arrangements tall enough to brush your shoulder as you passed. You clutched Jungwon’s arm a little tighter, nerves fluttering at the pit of your stomach, when you spotted Mr. and Mrs. Park making their way toward you.

Mrs. Park greeted you first, her warmth undeniable. “So glad you made it today.” She didn’t hesitate, her arms wrapped you into a mother’s embrace, soft and reassuring. No translation. A mother’s love had always been bigger than language.

Mr. Park was more reserved. He gave a small nod, his eyes searching yours with something between caution and understanding. You nodded back, letting him take his time. You weren’t surprised, some walls took longer to crumble, and you respected that.

Your gaze wandered then, scanning the room. There were faces you recognized, people who lifted their glasses in acknowledgment, others who waved. You returned each smile, each gesture, your heart swelling with quiet appreciation.

And then you saw him.

Park Jay.

He was across the room, dressed in a sharp black suit that fit him like it had been made only for him, hair styled neatly, though not without that effortless charm you had always loved, and his face, handsome, unforgettable angled slightly as though he, too, had been searching for you.

And he had found you.

Beside him stood Reira, radiant in her white gown, her beauty soft and undeniable. Yet when Jay’s gaze locked with yours, the rest of the world melted away. For a heartbeat, maybe two, time itself stilled.

Jay moved first, steps deliberate, steady. Reira trailed behind him gracefully. When he stopped before you, his eyes softened in a way that belonged to no one else but you.

'Hi… you look beautiful' he signed.

Heat rose to your cheeks. 'Thanks', you signed back, your movements shy but steady.

There was silence then, not awkward, but comforting. A stillness that carried the weight of your history. You couldn’t even recall the last time you had looked at each other like this, perhaps the day he had first walked into that bar, when you hadn’t known yet that your world was about to change forever. You had never expected this day to come, yet here it was, real and undeniable.

“Will you two stop acting like you weren’t eating each other’s faces outside my apartment last night?” Sunoo groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick.

Jungwon choked on his drink. Mr. Park coughed into his hand. You nearly died of embarrassment.

Jay, on the other hand, only smirked, unbothered. “I haven’t seen my wife for more than twenty-four hours since you kidnapped her for styling. God forbid a hopeless romantic loves his woman.”

Sunoo gagged dramatically. “I was expecting a compliment..... Spare me”

You laughed, your shoulders shaking, their never-ending banter. Some things, no matter how much life changed, remained constant.

'What’s up, handsome? Still miss your wife?' you teased with your hands, lips curling at the corner.

Jay shot back immediately, his signs quick and eager. 'I can’t wait to go home—'

“If you think you’re gonna sex talk in sign language and none of us will get it, fuck off!” Jungwon yelled from the side and Jay flipped him off.

Your cheeks burned, but the warmth of the moment, of being surrounded by people who knew you so well, made it impossible not to smile.

The evening blurred into light and celebration. Cheers erupted when Sunghoon and Reira stood together, their hands intertwined as they announced their engagement. Glasses clinked, music swelled, and happiness echoed in every corner of the room.

Everyone celebrated, but you and Jay existed somewhere else entirely. Different stars, the two of you, bound in a universe only you understood. You missed him, even now, even when he was right there, close enough to reach. It was ridiculous, but that was love, wasn’t it? To miss someone even when they were only inches away.

Time had taken many things from you. You had eventually lost your ability to write, your once endless notebooks now abandoned, your words stubbornly trapped inside your chest. But Jay was there. Always. He became your voice. He learned every sign, every gesture, until his hands moved with the same fluency as his guitar strings. He would sit with you late into the night, watching your fingers dance, and then he would translate, turning your silence into lyrics, your emotions into melodies.

The songs were imperfect. Sometimes messy. Sometimes broken. But they felt like home.

And when Jay strummed his guitar, you realized it had never sounded sweeter. Because at last, his music had found its destination.

It had found you.

On the other shore of my song You preside, The notes of my song kiss Your feet, but I cannot reach You. The breeze is in the air, do not keep the boat tied—Cross over and reach my heart. The play with You is a play of songs and a play from afar. You play the flute of pain all the while. When will You take my flute and play it as You wish, In the joyful dense darkness of the silent night?

— rabindranath thakur

THE END

sunishake signing off — ©sunishake

lyrics used in this work —

1. “You’re the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly” – Loretta Lynn & Conway Twitty

2. “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” – The Proclaimers

3. “Grow Old With You” – Adam Sandler (from The Wedding Singer)

4. “Banana Pancakes” – Jack Johnson

5. “Tumi sandhyar meghmala” – Rabindranath Thakur

6. “Daariye acho tumi amar gaaner opare” – Rabindranath Thakur

[sunishake]

FORGET me not – lhs

" it's completely normal to like your wife you know? "

vol 8. — after the distressing breakup of your five years long relationship you finally decided to settle down and marry the infamous disciplined family friend and the heir of Lee Corporation. What you did not expect was a shy tall guy who stammered three times while saying one sentence and looked at you with stars in his eyes.

[ SEQUEL: REMEMBER ME NOT ]

𖧧 ָ࣪ 𖧵ֹֺֽ໋໋݊ arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, angst, fluff

note: don't let the synopsis fool you

ʚĭɞ if you liked this don't forget to check out my other works in library

Your friends expected it. Your parents braced for it. But when your long-term boyfriend of nearly five years packed his bags, left your shared apartment, and walked out of your life with nothing but a muttered apology and a shadow of regret in his voice, you didn’t shed a single tear.

Instead, you stood by the door, fingers curled around your sleeves, heart thudding like a dull drum inside your ribs as you watched him go. The soft click of the latch felt louder than thunder. And yet, the silence that followed was even louder.

That was the worst part.

Not the betrayal. Not the abandonment. Not even the mess of memories he left behind, the cracked photo frame he bought you in second year, the shared playlist you couldn’t bring yourself to delete, the faint scent of his cologne in your closet.

No. The worst part was how quiet you became afterward.

You, who once painted the world with laughter, you, who danced barefoot in the rain and burned cupcakes on purpose just to see how far disaster could stretch, you, who used to fill empty rooms with your presence before even speaking.

You disappeared slowly. Like fog rolling into the ocean.

It took months before you left your childhood room again. You’d returned home after graduation, saying it was temporary. That you needed to "rethink things.” Your parents didn’t push. Not when they saw the dark circles under your eyes or the way you flinched when the phone rang. You still hadn’t told them the full story. You couldn’t. How do you explain to your mother that the man you were ready to marry simply changed his mind? That he said you were “too much” one day and “not enough” the next?

That he left without a proper reason. Just a goodbye.

You had just curled up with a blanket and an old journal when your mother knocked on your door.

“Y/n-ah,” she called softly. “Come downstairs.”

You didn’t move. “Why?”

“There’s someone we want you to meet.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “Not today.”

“It’s important.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tracing the corner of your blanket. “Who is it?”

“Lee Heeseung.”

Your breath caught.

The name felt familiar in a distant, foggy kind of way, like a song you once heard in the background of someone else’s life.

Heeseung. The boy with perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect life. The son of your father’s business friend. You remembered vague stories about him growing up, the golden heir. Always abroad. Always busy.

Why would he be here now?

Before you could ask, your mother added, “Just for a few minutes.” And for some reason, you listened.

You expected a stiff man in a starched shirt, radiating cold ambition and forced smiles. What you didn’t expect was a man standing awkwardly in your living room, holding a mug of tea like it was a fragile artifact, and looking more nervous than you felt.

He turned when you walked in and paused. You saw the subtle shift in his breathing pattern.

His eyes met yours, and for a brief second, time bent around the space between you. You noticed the way his gaze softened, then darted away quickly, almost embarrassed. The tips of his ears flushed faintly pink.

You blinked. Interesting.

He bowed slightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

You gave a polite nod, sitting across from him. “You too.”

You didn’t speak much after that. Your parents carried the conversation, polite chatter about the market, mutual friends, old memories. Heeseung answered like a proper gentleman, straight laced and careful with his words. You watched him more than you listened. There was something oddly... stiff about him. Like he hadn’t been in a room with a stranger in years.

He caught you watching once and looked away quickly, clearing his throat leaving a warmth pooling in your stomach as you directed your eyes at your palms resting on your stomach.

They dropped the bomb after dinner. An Arranged marriage. With Lee Heeseung, the heir and future CEO of Lee Corporation.

“Just think about it,” your father had said, his tone soft, his eyes more so. There was hope in them, but it was cautious, almost tentative, like he wasn’t quite sure whether it deserved to be there. Next to him, your mother looked everywhere but at you. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger as if it were a question she couldn’t answer.

And across from you, Heeseung sat.

Tall. Composed. The collar of his button-down crisp, the sleeves of his dark blazer pushed back just enough to show a silver watch that gleamed under the dining room light.

He didn’t look surprised.

He didn’t look anything.

Only when he spoke did something shift “You don’t have to decide now,” he said gently, voice as even as his expression. “We can meet a few more times. Talk. See if it’s something you’re open to.”

You stared at him.

Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it like he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already accepted whatever answer you might give, even if it was a no. He didn’t plead. He didn’t push. He wasn’t playing the role of the desperate suitor or the charming stranger trying to win your favor.

If anything, he seemed… resigned.

And you?

You were so damn tired.

Tired of grieving a love that had left you in pieces. Tired of pretending you were still the same girl who once believed in fairytales. Tired of hearing your friends get engaged, move abroad, fall in love again while your life stood still, wrapped in a fog you couldn't shake off.

So you nodded. Not because it made sense. Not because it felt right. But because, in that moment, anything was better than standing still.

The wedding was simple.

Elegant in the way a gentle breeze was elegant, soft, intentional, and fleeting. There were no loud colors, no over-the-top displays of affection, no extravagant celebrations. Just muted tones of white and beige draping every corner of the small private hall. Golden hour light filtered in through sheer curtains, making everything seem like a daydream. A few strings of fairy lights hung above your heads like stars that had descended for just this moment. The music was soft, almost distant, like a memory trying not to disturb anyone.

Only family and a few close friends were invited. That was the way you both preferred it — quiet, contained. No crowd to force a smile in front of. No strangers to pretend for.

You stood at the entrance, your hand gently clutching the silk of your ivory dress. It clung to your frame delicately, elegant in its simplicity. Your hair was pulled back, and gold earrings brushed against your neck every time you moved. They had once belonged to your mother.

And across the aisle, waiting....was him.

Heeseung.

He wore a slate grey suit that fit him too well, paired with a navy tie that brought out the deeper shades in his usually unreadable eyes. His posture was rigid, but not from arrogance. From nerves. His fingers twitched at his sides. His lips parted slightly when he saw you.

And he didn’t stop staring.

You walked toward him slowly, trying to ignore the way your heart thudded against your chest like it didn’t remember this wasn’t a love marriage. This wasn’t the fairytale. It was an arrangement. Something practical.

But then why did he look at you like that?

As though something about you had caught him off guard.

His gaze didn’t lower or flicker away, even when you stood right before him. Even when the officiant cleared his throat and began the short ceremonial script. Even when you reached out your hand. His hand met yours with a tremble.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But you felt it. Both of you felt it actually.

When the rings were exchanged and the final blessing was offered, the photographer gestured gently, asking for a hug for the photos. A staged embrace, a brief moment of closeness for the sake of memory.

You hesitated, and so did he. But you stepped forward anyway, lifting your arms with quiet grace and sliding them around his waist. His body stiffened instantly under your touch, like he hadn’t prepared himself to be held. Like he didn’t think you would do it.

But then slowly you felt him breathe. His shoulders softened.

His arms came up, unsure, before settling loosely around your back. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t passionate. But it wasn’t cold either. It felt… human. And when you pulled away, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, you saw it.

The faintest blush spreading softly across his cheekbones, like the sun peeking over the edge of dawn.

You bit your lip, amused. A giggle slipped out before you could stop it. It was light, airy, and very real. The kind of laugh you hadn’t heard from yourself in a long time. Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting it. But then, something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile but something close. His lips twitched at the corners, and he looked down, embarrassed.

You didn’t know why, but your chest warmed.

The first night in your shared apartment was quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. A silence that allowed space to exist between two people without demanding they fill it. You both stood in the living room for a moment, bags still at your feet, before silently choosing opposite doors. You unpacked in your rooms. No drama. No awkward hovering.

Well you didn’t expect to be comfortable anytime soon.

But it wasn’t as strange as you thought it would be.

Heeseung knocked softly after a while, standing at your doorway like he didn’t want to intrude. “Are you hungry?” he asked, voice tentative.

“I was thinking of making something,” you replied, brushing off your hands from folding clothes. “Do you want to help?”

He seemed surprised. “I—I mean, I can. If you don’t mind.”

You didn’t.

So you both ended up in the kitchen.

It wasn’t big, but it was clean. Minimalist, like the rest of the apartment. The kind of space that hadn’t yet been lived in. You gave him the task of slicing the vegetables while you heated the oil. It was an ordinary moment. Too ordinary. But he tried his best to keep up. He worked in silence, furrowed brow, bottom lip tugged between his teeth.

And then

“Ow.”

You turned immediately. “What happened?” He lifted his thumb sheepishly, where a thin line of red had appeared. “It’s not bad.”

A spurge of panick rose as you stammered to find anything you can, fortunately heeseung had his emergency bix ready for moments like this. You grabbed a tissue and dabbed it with alcohol immediately, clicking your tongue. “You’re hopeless,” you muttered, gently pressing it to the cut.

He winced.

“You ever held a knife before?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked genuinely guilty. “Not often.”

That made you laugh almost. The corners of your mouth twitched, but you suppressed it. Barely.

Dinner turned out decent. Slightly over-salted, but edible. You both sat at the table across from each other, clinking spoons occasionally. Heeseung ate slowly, carefully, complimenting the food like he was afraid of insulting you otherwise. When the dishes were cleared and the clock ticked past ten, you curled up on the living room couch with a light blanket, journal in your lap. Random dates, random events, random thoughts. Writing helped. It always had. It made you feel like your thoughts were being listened to.

Heeseung settled into the chair across from you, laptop open, fingers dancing over the keyboard. A pair of glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, making him look softer, more academic than corporate. His brows furrowed again as he read something on the screen. You watched him for a moment. The way he adjusted his posture every few minutes. The way he chewed the inside of his cheek when something didn’t make sense. The way he pushed his glasses up with his knuckle.

He was handsome, yes. Way too much handsome from what you've seen till now.

But he was also strange.

Like a puzzle you didn’t know you were supposed to solve. You tore your gaze away and focused back on your journal until the question slipped out of your mouth.

“You always this serious?”

Heeseung paused mid keystroke. His eyes slowly flicked toward you, clearly startled. “Huh?” You leaned back, head tilting playfully. “Or are you just pretending to impress your very pretty wife?”

A beat of silence.

Then he blinked.

And blinked again.

His face flushed. Not pink. Red. An unmistakable crimson that painted his ears, cheeks, even the base of his neck.

You watched it spread with fascination.

He looked away quickly, clearly flustered. “I, uh—I’m not pretending.”

You grinned, unable to help it. Gotcha

And then you laughed. Finally

Not the soft, polite kind. But a laugh that shook your shoulders. A laugh that sounded far too much like your old self. One that tasted like freedom. Like lightness.

Heeseung stared at you wide eyed, confused, but not unhappy. And in that moment, something inside you cracked open.

Not completely.

But enough to let a little light in.

Enough to remember that this whatever this was didn’t have to be cold or lonely. Maybe it could be… different.

Maybe. Just maybe.

After dinner you followed him, heart awkward in your chest. “We’re married,” you said quietly.

He looked at you. Eyes crinkling a bit “We are.”

You bit your lip. “How does it feel?”

“Like I’m going to pass out.”

You laughed. So did he. And just like that, the room warmed.

You both fell asleep that night, not in each other’s arms, but in the same room. Two souls still cautious. But not strangers anymore. Somewhere between the silk sheets and the soft rustling of fabric, you felt his fingers brush yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away.

The days that followed weren’t perfect but they were real. You cooked breakfast. He cleaned the dishes. You danced alone in the living room. He watched, pretending not to smile.

You fought over the last slice of toast but he shared it anyway.

One evening, he returned early and found you on the balcony, feet up, journal in hand.

He stood there, watching you, quiet.

You glanced over. “You know, for someone who likes his space, you hover a lot.” He gave a small smile. “You’re easy to hover around.” Your heart thumped against chest your walls as you closed the journal.

Heeseung walked closer, placing a cup of tea beside you.

You turned to him, a silly expression playing on your lips “You know...I do notice how much you blush every time I touch you.”

He froze. “No I don’t.” You raised a brow. “You just did.”

His ears flamed. “I’m—That’s not—You’re very—” pretty. He stopped. “Never mind.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you malfunction.” He groaned into his hands. “I’m regretting this marriage already.”

You reached over, gently flicking his forehead. “Liar.”

You were quiet. Not shy. Not submissive. Just... still. And Heeseung had thought, Perfect. No dramatics. No chaos. No endless talking that led nowhere. You seemed like someone who wouldn’t get in the way of his routine. Obedient. Low-maintenance. Easy to manage.

But stillness, he would later learn, was not the same as simplicity.

You weren’t “easy” in the way he first assumed. You were surviving. He just didn’t see it yet.

The first time you touched him, it was nothing. Really, it was nothing. Just a brief adjustment to the collar of his shirt before a family photo. The fabric was crooked, and you, dutiful, distant, fixed it with all the care of someone folding a stranger’s laundry.

But his throat closed.

And later that night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he found himself staring at the spot your fingers had grazed. Like it had left a burn.

Heeseung loved that. He loved that he was starting to notice things.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The way your voice softened when talking to plants, like they were old friends. The way your eyes darted around the room when you were overwhelmed but trying not to show it. He hated how easily his heartbeat betrayed him.

Once, you fell asleep on the couch wearing his hoodie. He had walked into the room to ask if you wanted tea. Stopped. Stared.

And nearly had a cardiac arrest.

You looked smaller somehow, curled into the armrest, face turned into the fabric that used to smell like him. The hoodie dwarfed you, sleeves swallowed your hands, and you breathed so softly he thought you might disappear if he blinked.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t dare. Just stood there and watched you sleep like an idiot, pretending it meant nothing that you’d chosen his hoodie over the dozens in your wardrobe. He told himself it was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Because one evening, you hummed while watering the plants near the window, barefoot in your pajamas, and something twisted painfully in his chest.

You looked… light.

Like whatever darkness you were dragging around had loosened for a second.

And he thought, She still has it. That light. It’s just buried.

But then someone flirted with you at a company party. Some friend of a friend with too many teeth and not enough respect. The guy leaned in too close when he spoke to you, smiling like he knew you, fingers brushing your elbow as he laughed.

And Heeseung saw red.

He was across the room, drink untouched, shoulders tense. The man’s hand hovered near your lower back, and Heeseung didn’t even remember moving, just that he was suddenly there, standing beside you, one hand on your waist, his tone calm but sharp enough to bleed.

“She’s taken.”

The man backed off. Quickly. You glanced up at him, startled. “I was handling it.” But inside you were going absolute nuts. THAT WAS SO FUCKING HOT WTF.

“I know,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t like watching.”

You fell in love with Lee Heeseung. You weren’t sure if it was real, if your brain was just weaving comfort into romance. But the way he looked at you made you feel real. Grounded. Heeseung didn’t flirt. He didn’t chase. But he remembered. He remembered the one time you said you hated sleeping with the door closed. He remembered your favourite scent was lavender, not rose like everyone assumed.

He remembered the time you offhandedly said you always wanted to stargaze, but no one ever took you.

And he remembered you. Even on the days when you couldn’t remember you.

You sat at the breakfast table, spooning cereal into your mouth, pretending not to notice how Heeseung kept glancing at you over the rim of his coffee mug. You were wearing his hoodie, not for sentiment, but because it was soft and smelled like cedarwood and something vaguely comforting.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

You blinked at him. “Yes?”

He tensed. “What? Nothing.”

“You’ve been staring for five minutes.”

“I wasn’t—” He cut himself off. “You just have milk on your lip.”

You wiped your mouth while giggling “That’s your excuse today?”

He went red. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m imagining you blushing every time I breathe?"

He said nothing. Just took a long, slow sip of his coffee and looked away. You leaned your chin on your hand. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“Liking your wife.”

He choked on his coffee. You handed him a napkin, laughing, and Heeseung groaned into his palm. “Why are you like this?”

You smiled. “Because you like it," and god.... poor Heeseung swore if his gorgeous wife doesn't stop terrorising him anytime soon.

The day began like any other. Soft sunlight filtered through the lace curtains as you flipped the page of your journal, pen poised above the paper. A list of dates stared back at you. Appointments, grocery items, a friend’s birthday next week. There were tiny corrections in the margins, crossed out reminders, swapped days and scribbles you didn’t remember making.

You blinked at them, brow furrowed.

You always kept your journal close. It wasn’t just a habit anymore, it was a lifeline. Your memory had been slipping, barely noticeable at first. A word forgotten. A date misremembered. But lately, the fog had thickened.

You tapped the pen against your palm, trying to recall what you’d written five minutes ago.

“Y/n?” Heeseung’s voice came from the hallway, sleepy and warm. He peeked into the room, his hair tousled from bed. His tie hung loose around his neck. “Did you see my cufflinks?”

You pointed to the dresser. Heeseung stepped in, brushing a kiss over your temple without a second thought. You smiled, heart tugging. His affection had changed. He’d become gentler, softer. He didn’t look at you like he was tolerating a contract anymore, he looked like he was slowly learning how to love.

And you… you were starting to believe in it.

“I’ll make us coffee,” you said, standing a little too fast.

The world tilted sharply and you didn’t even register the fall.

You woke up to beeping machines and Heeseung’s panicked voice floating somewhere near your ear. His hand gripped yours like a lifeline, tight and trembling.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Doctors ran tests. Your blood pressure, blood sugar was normal. Heart rate was stable. CT scan was clear. They told you it might’ve been a stress induced fainting spell. Nothing serious.

But it felt serious. You could see it in Heeseung’s eyes. The quiet way he watched you that night, tucking you into bed, fingers ghosting against your forehead. You felt it in your bones too. Something had shifted inside you. And it wasn’t just fatigue.

That night, as you lay beside him in bed, your voice broke the silence “I used to think love was something safe.” He turned his head to you, still half-awake, droopy eyes slowly meeting yours. “But it’s not,” you whispered. “Not always. Sometimes… it just leaves you.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything. But his fingers found yours beneath the covers and squeezed, tender.

“It left me once. Completely. And I’m scared if I ever feel it again, it’ll do the same.”

Your throat closed, you didn’t tell him you were in love with him. But your eyes did. They searched his, trembled with quiet confession, and Heeseung… oh, he was unraveling from the inside. He said nothing. He only gathered you into his arms and held you so tightly, so fiercely, that your breath caught.

And then he kissed your forehead like a promise.

Like he’d never leave.

The warmth didn’t last forever. A shadow crept in slowly, just as your memories began to slip through your fingers like grains of sand.

You fainted again three days later.

This time, it wasn’t dramatic or alarming in the way most people imagined fainting would be. There was no dizziness or shortness of breath. Just silence. Just a quiet, mundane moment, laundry on your lap, socks in your hand, sunlight spilling through the windows like everything was perfectly normal, and then…

Black.

A blink later, you were waking up to the sound of footsteps thundering down the hallway. Heeseung’s voice, frantic and cracking at the edges, shouted something unintelligible into his phone. There was desperation in his tone, something close to begging, and when you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was his silhouette pacing like a man unraveling thread by thread.

You groaned faintly, and the sound jolted him. “Y/n!” The phone clattered to the floor as he dropped beside you, his knees hitting the hardwood. His hands hovered over your shoulders, afraid to shake you too hard, afraid to touch you too softly.

You tried to speak, but only a croaky sound came out.

“Jesus, don’t do that again,” he breathed, brushing a stray hair away from your face with trembling fingers. “You scared the hell out of me.” You blinked at him, mind still foggy, body weak. And then perhaps to deflect the weight in his gaze, perhaps to avoid your own rising dread, you smiled faintly and said,

“Maybe I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like they didn’t belong there. Heeseung stilled.

“Preg—what?!”

You blinked again, suddenly aware of what you’d just said. “I was joking—obviously—I mean, we haven’t even—oh my god—”

His entire face flushed crimson. He scrambled upright, running a hand through his hair like the heat on his cheeks could be shaken off. “Why would you even say that?!”

“I don’t know!” you blurted, still breathless. “I was just—I don’t know—it slipped out!”

“I—okay, well—” He turned away for a second, then turned back just as fast, blurting out, “Would you… want to?”

Silence.

You blinked again, a faint blush creeping on your cheeks this time “What?” you asked softly. He cleared his throat, swallowed, tried again. “I mean not now—not like this, I just–if we ever did...you know like if we were ready—would you want to have a kid with me?”

You just stared at him. Eyes round, heart skipping, stare that peeled you open from the inside and left every thought exposed.

He panicked. “Shit–I didn’t mean it like that. I just–God, I sound like a lunatic. I’m sorry—”

“No,” you interrupted, and your voice, though small, was steady now. “You don’t.”

Heeseung’s breath caught.

You reached forward, hand brushing over his where it hung awkwardly by his side. Slowly, you entwined your fingers, tugging gently until he let himself sit beside you on the couch. He didn’t speak, neither did you.

The silence felt soft this time, tender, warm in its own way.

“I see a future,” you murmured. “And you’re in it.”

He inhaled sharply, chest rising like he’d just been given permission to breathe again. His hand tightened around yours instinctively, and then without another word he pulled you into him. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his around your waist. He held you like you were something fragile and precious. His chin dropped to your shoulder, and you felt his lips press into the crook of your neck, featherlight. Then the top of your head. Then again and again.

The crown of your skull. Your temple. Your hair. Tiny kisses, barely there, like he couldn’t help himself.

His hands moved up and down your back, long strokes, slow and careful like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. Like he wanted to trace your shape into his memory forever. You leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, listening to the way his heart thudded so loud it echoed through his chest.

“Heeseung,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to be scared.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re the only thing I’m scared of losing.” That’s when you knew...he meant it. Every trembling, terrifying word. It wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t just comfort. He loved you. Quietly, desperately, in the way only someone who’s afraid of not being enough ever could.

But you couldn’t say it back.

Because something in your chest twisted whenever the words reached your throat. You wanted to. God, you did. But how could you, when a part of you knew you might forget the weight of those words one day?

So instead, you just pulled him closer.

Let his warmth anchor you. Let your silence be love. And he accepted it like it was all he needed.

For now.

You weren’t supposed to forget things like this.

It started with little slips. You misplaced your favorite pen, the one you always kept clipped to your journal. You put milk in the pantry instead of the fridge. Called Heeseung’s PA by the wrong name, twice.

You told yourself it was stress.

But you started writing everything down. Grocery lists. Things to do. Things you’ve done. Just in case. You didn’t tell Heeseung. Not yet. He’d been watching you more carefully lately, even after the hospital said you were fine. Normal vitals. Normal bloodwork. Just a little fainting from low blood sugar, they said.

You smiled at Heeseung when he brought you tea in the mornings. Laughed when he’d forget his tie and you’d fix it for him before he left for the day. Kissed his knuckles goodbye.

And then, at night, when he was asleep next to you, you wrote.

Remember: His coffee is black with half a sugar. He hums when brushing his teeth. He hates losing control. He loves order. But he loves you, even when you’re chaos.

Your handwriting trembled some days.

You couldn’t afford to forget him.

Until something happened which shook your whole world. You were out for a small grocery run, just around the corner of your cozy apartment.That afternoon, the sky had been unusually dull for mid spring, kind of gray that made everything feel quieter. You were reaching for a carton of oat milk when someone said your name.

A voice you hadn’t heard in years, soft, hesitant. Drenched in familiarity

“Y/n?”

You froze mid-motion. Hand halfway to the shelf. The fluorescent lights above flickered like they always did in that dingy corner aisle. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Jongseong.

There he stood. Your ex. Five years of history packed into one lean frame and a stupidly familiar jawline, he hadn’t changed much, still wore that same brand of denim, still had his hair pushed back like he hadn’t really tried but somehow looked effortlessly put together. Still had that look in his eyes, like he was constantly on the verge of saying something meaningful. You wished you could’ve walked away, wished your feet moved. But your body betrayed you. You stood rooted, staring at the man who had left you broken on the bathroom floor that night so many years ago.

“Hi,” he said, cautiously, as if testing the waters.

You let out a shaky breathe, recovering. “What the hell are you doing here? ”

His lips curved into that apologetic smile, the one that once made you forgive things you never should have. “Shopping. Just moved back last month.”

Of course he did. A painful silence settled between you, thick like humidity before a storm. You hated how your heart still reacted, a strange, erratic beat that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with trauma. You glanced down at your cart. Laundry detergent, a bag of oranges, ice cream you knew Heeseung would pretend not to like but eat anyway.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice low. “You look…”

“Don’t.”

That shut him up. He nodded, eyes darting around. “I heard you got married.”

You responded by muttering a quiet 'hm' and stepping back. “I—I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said finally, breath hitching. “For how I left. For all of it. I was a coward. I know that now.” You closed your eyes for a second. Let the words wash over you like cold water. They didn’t heal anything. Didn’t change the nights you’d spent alone wondering what you did wrong.

“I don’t need your apology,” you said, quiet but firm.

He took a step forward, then another. You didn’t move. You should have, but it was too late. He pulled you into a hug before you could protest. His arms wrapped around you like old muscle memory. You felt nothing.

No heat. No pain. Just a dull ache — like pressing on a bruise that had already begun to fade.

You let it happen.

Maybe out of shock. Maybe because you needed to feel nothing for a moment. Then you pushed him back.

“Don’t do that,” you said, voice sharp.“I just—” He looked desperate now. “I miss you, Y/N.”

“I don’t.”

He recoiled like you’d struck him. And maybe you had.

Your hands were still trembling when you stepped out of the grocery store. The air outside was thick with city noise, buses hissing past, horns blaring somewhere in the distance but everything around you felt strangely muted. As if the world had taken a step back, blurred its edges, dulled its colors.

He had touched you.

He had hugged you.

And you had frozen. Stiff, shocked, disgusted. You didn’t even know what scared you more, the fact that he dared to wrap his arms around you, or the fact that, for a split second, you didn’t pull away fast enough. You could still feel the ghost of that hug clinging to your skin like grease. You wiped your arms with your sleeves again and again as you walked, as if scrubbing the moment off could make it disappear.

It didn't.

Halfway back to your apartment, your vision started to blur. The world tilted to one side. Your legs stumbled, heart racing in your chest, a noise ringing faintly in your ears.

And then nothing.

You woke up under hospital lights, too white, too sharp, sterile brightness. A cold breeze hummed from the AC. Your wrist had a hospital band. Your head throbbed.

“Miss?” the voice of a young nurse stirred beside you. You nodded.

It was third time in one month. And the last two times you’d brushed it off, too little sleep, maybe low blood sugar, maybe stress. But this time felt different. Your limbs still felt heavy. Your memory hazy. You sat up slowly as the doctor entered, young, calm, and professional, with a clipboard in his hand and a thoughtful expression behind his glasses.

“We ran some tests while you were unconscious. Vitals look stable, but I want to ask a few questions.”

You nodded absently, already reaching for your journal. The leather cover had softened from overuse. You opened it and began jotting something down under the last entry, the date, the name of the hospital, a reminder to track symptoms.

The doctor noticed.

“You carry that with you often?” he asked.

“Always,” you replied, not looking up. “It helps me keep track of things. Sometimes… I forget details. Or what day it is.”

He tilted his head. “How long have you been doing that?”

“For months....more than half a year to be exact...”

“And before that?”

“I....don't remember ” you said simply.

The next ten minutes passed in quiet tension as he asked you a series of questions. Your age, your name, your address.

Easy enough.

Then what day it was, the current year, who the president was.

You fumbled. You knew it. You did. But in that moment, it slipped away like mist through your fingers. You blinked hard, tried again. But your mouth stayed still.

The doctor’s voice was gentle. “Y/N… I’m going to be honest with you. Some of the signs you’re displaying memory lapses, spatial confusion, fainting episodes they’re consistent with early onset Alzheimer’s disease.”

You stared at him. What?

The words didn't make sense. Not at first.

That was something older people got. Grandparents. Not someone in her twenties. Not someone like you.

“That's not possible,” you murmured. “That’s not—people my age don’t get that.”

“It’s rare,” he agreed, “but not impossible. Especially when there’s a genetic predisposition or trauma involved. We’ll need to run more scans, cognitive assessments, but... I’d advise preparing for the possibility.”

The room closed in.

You were still holding your pen. You hadn’t even finished your sentence in the journal “What happens now?” you asked, your voice brittle.

“You be careful,” he said quietly. “You start documenting everything. You let someone close to you know. And… you prepare. Because things might start getting messy from now on.”

You nodded.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. There was a storm going inside you. What happens now? Instead, you turned to your journal and wrote everything down.

Because if your brain was going to fail you…you needed your words to remember.

Heeseung noticed the emotional shift before anything else. You became quieter, guarded again. It reminded him of how you were when he first met you, polite, careful, full of silences that hurt more than shouting.

He didn’t understand why.

You weren’t pulling away physically. You still reached for his hand, still leaned into his chest on the couch. Still smiled at his stupid jokes. But something behind your eyes had dimmed.

Heeseung didn’t press. At first. Then, one afternoon, he caught you staring blankly at the laundry machine. You’d loaded it three times and hadn’t turned it on.

You didn’t even notice him standing behind you until he touched your arm.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just... zoned out.” He didn’t believe you but he nodded anyway. That night, you sat on the balcony with your journal in your lap. The stars were faint, the city always swallowed most of them. Still, you looked up and whispered to yourself

“I hope I remember what the sky looks like.”

Heeseung’s promotion came two weeks later.

CEO.

The letters barely held any weight in your mind, but they meant everything to the company and to him. It was the culmination of years of dedication, late nights, near flawless discipline. He had been groomed for this position since the day he stepped into his father’s office, and now he finally stood at the top. There was a celebration, of course. Lavish, gleaming, all sharp suits and champagne glasses. You were expected to be there, not just as his wife, but as his partner, the quiet, polished figure beside the man of the hour. A photograph for the headlines. A name in the caption.

And so, you helped him get ready.

He stood in front of the mirror while you adjusted the lapels of his charcoal suit, the one you had picked for this night months ago, long before the diagnosis, long before your world started folding in on itself. It had a clean cut, regal structure, and a dark sheen under warm lighting. He looked like a leader. Like someone people would follow.

Like someone who deserved everything good in this life.

You moved closer, fingers brushing over his shoulders as you smoothed down the fabric. Then the tie — a deep navy silk one that complimented his skin. You looped it slowly, methodically, the way you’d done a hundred times before, but today your hands were a little shakier. When you finished tightening the knot, you adjusted the collar, folding it just right.

And then… you met his gaze.

He was looking at you the way he always did when he was proud of something. Eyes full of stars. That small boyish smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. The kind of smile that made your heart ache because he still saw you not the version that was slowly slipping through cracks, but the version that had once walked into his life like a spark.

“You’re really good at this,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I be worried? You might have a secret career as a stylist.”

You chuckled weakly “Only for you.”

Heeseung grinned, a hint of pink on his ears as he lowered his head shyly. He had always been like this, confident in the boardroom, decisive in crisis, but hopelessly soft around you. “When are you getting ready?” he asked “I mean, not that I want to rush you, but… should I help you with your dress too?” It was teasing, yes. But the sincerity in his tone turned it fragile. Tender. As if he wanted nothing more than to make you feel cared for.

You couldn't meet his eyes anymore.

Your smile felt forced, stretched across your face like something stitched on. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips quick, light, almost mechanical then pulled back and murmured, “I’ll go change now.”

You walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind you.

Locked it.

The moment you turned around, the first sob escaped before you could stop it. Your back slid against the door, and you dropped to the floor, your knees folding beneath you.

You cried.

Not the loud, guttural cries of heartbreak. These were quieter. More dangerous. Cry that hollowed you out from the inside. The kind that didn’t shake the walls but carved themselves into your ribcage like scratches from within. Because how could you stand beside him tonight? How could you wear a smile and pose for photographs next to someone so perfect, so capable, so destined while you were falling apart in silence?

You didn’t deserve to be in those frames. You didn’t deserve the warmth in his voice or the light in his eyes. Heeseung wasn’t just beautiful, he was good. A man who’d carry the weight of the world and still ask how you were doing. He deserved someone strong. Someone helpful. Someone who would hold his hand and not forget the reason why she loved him.

Not someone who would make his life harder. You pulled your knees to your chest, pressing your forehead against them, biting back the next wave of sobs. Tears soaked through the fabric of your dress before you even realized.

And then came a knock. Gentle, hesitant.

“Y/N?” His voice. Muffled through the door, but heavy with concern. “Are you okay?” You panicked for a moment. Could he hear you crying? Could he feel it through the wood? You scrambled to your feet, wiping your face with trembling hands. “I’m fine,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… changing. I’ll be out in a minute.”

A beat of silence.

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. You heard his footsteps retreat, but slowly. Like he was still half-listening. You turned to the mirror.

Your eyes were red. Your lips were trembling. Your heart was still fractured in your chest.

But you smiled. You forced it. You fixed your face, did your makeup, washed your cheeks with cold water. You put on your dress, the one he loved and stepped into the role you needed to play tonight.

His wife, His person. And maybe a ticking clock he hadn’t heard yet.

Everyone at the office practically worshipped him that day. Heeseung stood on the stage like he was born for it, tall, composed, every line of his suit sharp, every word he spoke deliberate. The perfect heir, finally crowned. You watched him from the back of the room, fingers loosely threaded in front of your dress, the heels you wore pressing too hard against your ankles. He scanned the crowd with those piercing eyes of his, unreadable as ever, until they landed on yours. His gaze softened. Just a flicker a small, private moment no one else caught.

You smiled. Clapped along with everyone else. Even mouthed a “congratulations” later, when he walked off stage and found you again.

But it ached.

The pride did. The smile. The applause. The knowledge that this moment belonged to him, but not fully to you.

Because you’d seen it all evening.

That woman Heejin, his PA hovering just a little too close. Laughing at his jokes like she’d memorized the rhythm of his humor. Knowing the stats, the reports, the number of interviews scheduled, the name of the board member’s wife who just had a baby. She touched his arm like she had every right. Whispered in his ear and was so dangerously close to adjust his tie like it was second nature.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

Heeseung was with you throughout the whole event. When he wasn’t being pulled away to speak with department heads or board directors, he returned to your side. He introduced you formally. Called you his wife. Smiled that same smile that always softened at the edges when it was just the two of you. Still, it felt like a storm was swelling beneath the chandeliers.

The whispers began slowly, it curled around your ankles and trailed up your spine like a chill. Faces half turned. Brows raised. Smirks too subtle to name. For a moment you thought you were imagining it.

Until Heejin, heels clicking, ponytail high made her way to Heeseung and whispered something in his ear while holding her phone to his face. His jaw tensed. The sharp intake of his breath wasn’t loud, but you felt it like a slap.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed the phone back, eyes suddenly blank. You took a step forward, concern prickling in your chest, but before you could reach him

Your own phone buzzed.

One notification. Then another. Then another.

You froze as the screen lit up with a forwarded image and a text chain that had clearly been passed from one employee to another.

A picture.

Of you and Jongseong.

Your arms around each other in the middle of a grocery store aisle. His head tilted, mouth close to your ear. The caption was cruel —

"The new CEO’s wife already bored? Guess Heeseung’s cold heart wasn’t enough to keep her warm."

The room spun for a second. You gripped your clutch tighter, your breath lodged in your throat. You remembered that day. Every nauseating second of it. How you’d walked out of the store in shock and disgust that you’d let your ex touch you. How the encounter made your stomach churn. How you’d fainted halfway to your apartment the third time in a month. How you woke up in the hospital, and how that day changed everything for you.

But none of that was in the photo.

Just a snapshot. A second. A cruelly timed frame that looked like you were holding someone you still loved.

You barely made it through the rest of the event.

when you returned home, Heeseung was quiet.

Too quiet.

He removed his tie slowly, hands shaking in the low light of your shared bedroom. You stood by the dresser, unsure whether to speak first. The silence between you throbbed, thick and pulsing like a bruise.

“I didn’t know about the picture,” you breathed out, finally. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

He didn’t look at you. Just nodded. “Okay.” But that okay was hollow. A placeholder. You stepped closer. “I didn’t know someone took it. It wasn’t a… moment. It was nothing. I told him to stay away.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, still not meeting your eyes. “Did you?”

You blinked. “Yes.”

He licked his lips, exhaled. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Do you still love him?”

The question hit you like a punch.

“No,” you said too quickly. His eyes finally lifted to yours. Red rimmed. Vulnerable in a way he rarely showed. “Then why did you look like you did?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t. That photo—”

“No,” he interrupted gently, almost apologetically. “I’m not blaming you. I just… I don’t know how to ask this without sounding like I’m accusing you, but… was I not enough? Am I… not enough for you?” It broke your heart to hear him ask that. To hear that insecurity come from someone who had always seemed so sure of himself so composed, so precise. “You’re more than enough,” you said. “God, Heeseung, you’re everything. That day… I was in shock. I didn’t want him to touch me. I felt disgusted the second he did. And after that— I—" you stopped, more like the words abruptly run out of your brain. What exactly happened after that? You wanted to reach out to your journal but at this moment it felt like a foreign subject in that room.

He stared, breath caught in his throat “after that what?”

You opened your mouth. But nothing came out.

So instead, you reached for him. Sat beside him. Took his hand in yours “I felt like I didn’t deserve you,” you said honestly. “You’re… perfect. And I’m not. I’m going to ruin your life.”

He shook his head, eyes stinging. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you whispered.“No.” He squeezed your hand. “I’ve ruined every relationship I’ve been in because I’m quiet. Closed off. I tried to do better with you. I tried to laugh more, talk more, open up. I don’t know if that scared you. Maybe I overwhelmed you—”

You didn’t let him finish. You pressed your mouth to his.

Soft at first. Like reassurance. Like apology.

But it didn’t stay soft. Your lips opened. His hands found your waist. Yours slid to the nape of his neck. He pulled you into his lap, clutching you like he didn’t want you to vanish. It was desperate. Heated. His mouth moved against yours with all the frustration and confusion he couldn’t put into words. His tongue tasted of hurt, of longing, of too much and not enough all at once. Your hands explored his jaw, his chest, the familiar planes of his body.

You gasped into his mouth when he gripped your thigh, and he caught the sound with his own lips, like he couldn’t stand to be away from you for even a second.

Clothes shifted. Hands wandered. You both chased each other’s warmth, each other’s breath, each other’s forgiveness. Your bodies tangled, your mouths pressed again and again, as if trying to remember what this meant what you meant.

When it was over, you lay against his chest, both of you breathless.

He held you like you were something breakable. You clutched the fabric of his shirt in your fist like he was your anchor.

Neither of you spoke.

Because sometimes, silence wasn’t emptines.....sometimes it was healing.

You stayed like that until sleep found you, nestled in the wreckage of that night, hearts still beating wildly but at least for now still together.

The next morning, he woke up alone.

Your pillow was cold.

Your phone was gone.

So were you.

Heeseung tore the apartment apart. Every room, every drawer, every closet. He called everyone. Checked hospitals. Airports. Police stations.

Nothing.

It was like you’d never existed.

Except for one thing

Your journal.

You’d hidden it behind the books on the shelf. It fell when he yanked the entire stack down in a frenzy. He opened it with shaking hands. Inside, he found pages pf him. Notes, memories, doodles of his face, stupid jokes, coffee orders, days he looked happiest, days he looked tired, the way he kissed your temple after work, the time he asked if you wanted kids and you couldn’t stop laughing.

But nothing about you.

No fears. No timeline. No diagnosis.

Until the last page.

Your last entry....probably

If you’re reading this, I probably forgot to tell you...I didn’t mean to leave like this. But I was so scared, Heeseung. I’m still scared. Alzheimer’s, That’s what they said. I’ll forget my name. My home. Maybe one day… even you. But I wrote you down so I wouldn’t. Because how could I forget the only place I ever felt safe?

He found the prescriptions next, right in between the pages, crumbled hard truth. His hands were shaking and he dropped the journal.

You weren’t in any of the places that made sense. Not your mother’s. Not your childhood home, the hospital where they gave you that impossible diagnosis, not even that quiet little beachside cafe you loved as a teenager, the one you once told Heeseung you’d run away to if life ever got too loud.

Heeseung checked them all. He didn’t stop looking. His PA begged him to rest and his board of directors hinted at taking a leave. Tabloids started speculating that you had disappeared because of him but that was not enough to make him stop looking for you. He ignored it all.

You were gone.

And all he had left was a journal where you remembered everything about him… but not a single word about yourself.

It destroyed him.

Every scribbled sentence felt like a goodbye in slow motion.

You wrote down his allergies, his favorite tie, the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. You even wrote down the first time he ever said your name like it meant something. But nothing — nothing — about when you first forgot your keys. Or when you got your test results. Or when you decided that loving him meant leaving.

Heeseung knew you did it to protect him.

But he didn’t want protection.

He wanted you.

At nights, Heeseung found himself on the beach. The sky quiet, no stars and too much cloud. Just the sound of waves, soft and endless. He remembered what you said once about wanting to see stars

“I feel like I belong to the sea. It forgets everything and still keeps going.”

He stared at the ocean for a long time. Then whispered, “I won’t forget you. Even if you forget me.”

Back in Seoul, your disappearance became public. Someone leaked the hospital records. Someone else found the journal. It was only a matter of time. Suddenly, the narrative changed. You weren’t the runaway wife anymore.

You were tragically sick. Young. Beautiful. Doomed.

The world grieved you like a ghost while you were still breathing somewhere. Heeseung hated it.

He hated that they mourned your memory while he still clung to your toothbrush. Hated that your name became a headline when it used to be a whisper only he was allowed to say that gently. And through all of it, the noise, the press, the pity he kept looking.

Weeks passed.

The world moved on.

He didn’t.

It was almost six months later when the knock came. A strange, hesitant rhythm, three soft raps, then silence. It wasn’t the knock you get from someone delivering mail or asking for a favor. It was the kind that came burdened with weight. With grief. With something you weren’t ready to hear. Heeseung opened the door, expecting a stranger. And he was though somehow, not entirely.

The man looked about his age. Disheveled, eyes filled with exhaustion and rimless glasses around them, lips trembling like he’d rehearsed this moment too many times only to still not be ready.

“Are you… Heeseung?” he asked, voice rough, tight. Heeseung blinked. “Yes. Can I help you?”

The man swallowed, then took a deep breath like it hurt to say her name. “I’m Jake. I—

I’ve been taking care of Y/N.”

Heeseung didn’t register it at first. But then the words unfurled inside his chest like shrapnel.

“I found her,” Jake continued, “about six months ago. On the street. She had fainted. Hit her head pretty bad.”

Everything around Heeseung went still. His fingers gripped the door tighter.

“You what?”

Jake nodded, frantic now. “I tried to help her. I brought her to the hospital. I wanted to call you—believe me, I did. But she… she begged me not to. Said you’d worry. Said she just needed a moment away.”

Heeseung felt his world turn inside out. “So she’s with you?” Jake’s expression shattered. “Yes...but I can't do this anymore. ” He stepped forward, desperate now. “Please, can I come in?”

They sat in silence for a moment on opposite ends of the couch. Jake’s fingers trembled around the cup of water Heeseung handed him. “I’m sorry,” Jake murmured, voice cracking. “I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know if there’s a right way to explain any of this.”

Heeseung nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to speak. Jake looked down. “She didn’t remember much that day. Just bits and pieces. She kept asking for directions to a bakery that closed years ago. She was mumbling about… socks, a couch, stars. It didn’t make sense at first.” He paused to take a breathe “But there was something about her. Something… delicate. She didn’t want to be seen as fragile, but she was. She had this quiet kind of sadness. Like she was running from her own mind.”

Heeseung’s throat felt like sandpaper.

“I brought her to my place,” Jake continued, wiping his eyes. “It was closer than the hospital. She stayed for a few days. Then… weeks. And I just… let her.”

There was guilt in every syllable.

“I should’ve called you. I know that. But I—she asked me not to. She said she wasn’t ready to go back. That she needed time. And after everything she told me—or tried to tell me—I didn’t want to force her.”

Heeseung finally found his voice, low and raw. “Told you?”

Jake let out a weak laugh. “Pieces. Fragments. She kept scribbling on papers. I read one by accident one night when she forgot where she hid it.” That hit Heeseung in the chest. “She still wrote?”

“Obsessively,” Jake whispered. “Dates. Events. What you wore. The first time you laughed during breakfast. The time you hugged her when she thought no one would.” He looked up at Heeseung with a hollow sort of respect. “She didn’t write about herself. Just you.”

The silence that followed was cruel.

Then Jake broke it, voice cracking open. “I didn’t plan on falling for her. But it happened.”

Heeseung’s fingers curled into fists.

“I think… I think I fell in love the moment she offered to fold my laundry. She said she couldn’t sleep unless the room was organized, so she started arranging things, my books, labeled my kitchen spices.” He gave a humorless laugh. “She even asked me one night what tie I’d be wearing the next day. I told her I was a kindergarten teacher—I don’t wear ties. I don’t even own one.”

Heeseung looked at him, and something inside him twisted.

Jake’s next words came with a crack.

“She said she loved me once. Looked me straight in the eye and said it. But I knew—God, I knew—she didn’t mean me.”

Heeseung's chest ached.

“She looked at me like she loved someone. But there was no warmth in it. No spark. Just muscle memory.” Jake’s hands trembled harder. “Every day, she did things I knew weren’t meant for me. She’d ask me if I remembered the constellation we saw last December. I’ve never gone stargazing with her. She made tea the way you liked it. She even called me 'Seung' once.”

Heeseung felt the blood drain from his face.“I tried to be enough,” Jake whispered. “I told myself if I loved her hard enough, it wouldn’t matter that she was forgetting. That I wasn’t the one she loved. But I’m not strong enough. I can’t keep lying to myself. I’m going crazy.”

His voice finally broke. “She’s still in love with you.”

Heeseung sat frozen, pain slicing through every nerve. Jake covered his face. “I didn’t come here to fight. Or to beg. I came because I can’t hold this anymore. She’s slipping, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to keep her grounded.”

He looked up, red-eyed. “But maybe you do.”

Heeseung didn’t sleep that night. Jake left after an hour. Not because he wanted to, but because he said staying longer would feel like he was asking for permission.

Heeseung wandered back into the old room you used together. It still smelled like you. The scent hadn’t left, even though you had. He sat at your desk and opened one of the drawers.

And there it was.

Your journal. The one with the frayed corner and ink blot on the back. His hands shook as he turned the pages.

February 3rd – Heeseung laughed today. Actually laughed. I think it was because I burnt the toast and blamed the toaster, but I want to believe it’s because he’s starting to feel safe around me.

March 19th – He looked at me like I was someone worth choosing.

May 1st – I told a joke. He didn’t laugh. I think I messed up. I think I’m slipping again. Heeseung, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I wanted to remember. I wanted to stay.

Heeseung pressed the pages to his chest and let himself cry.

Because you didn’t run away. You simply… forgot your way back. And now he had to find you before the memory of him disappeared too.

The storm had passed, but the ruin it left behind still trembled beneath Heeseung’s ribs. The next morning, sunlight spilled pale and cold over his apartment floor, but there was no warmth in it. Just silence. Thick. Suffocating. Jake had left the address on a wrinkled piece of paper, scrawled in shaky handwriting like his hands were trying to outrun guilt. Heeseung held it tight as he stood in front of the door now, frozen not from fear, but something worse.

What if you look at him and see nothing? He didn’t knock. He just stood there for a second. Then another. Then the door opened from the inside. You stood barefoot, hair pulled back loosely, wearing a familiar oversized cardigan. His cardigan.

But the eyes that met his weren’t familiar at all.

You frowned.

“Who are you…” your head tilted, voice uncertain. “Why do you look so sad?”

It wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t teasing. Your voice was too sincere, too puzzled. Heeseung’s heart dropped into a bottomless void.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. So he stepped forward and hugged you. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. He just pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it nearly broke both of you.

“I missed you,” he whispered, voice trembling against your ear. “I missed you so goddamn much.”

For a beat, you didn’t move. Then your fingers clutched his shirt. And you began to cry.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” you said, voice cracking. “But you… you feel familiar.” He nodded into your shoulder, gripping you like an anchor in a storm.“You’re warm... but so familiar ” you mumbled, cheek pressed against his collarbone now. "Heeseung...why are you sad?”

His tears spilled freely now.

Behind them, Jake watched from the hallway, shoulders stiff, arms crossed, mouth quivering.

When you turned slightly and met Jake's eyes

You blinked. Shifting suddenly,Then asked, “Who are you?”

Silence.

Jake’s lips parted. But no sound came.

A second passed. Then another. He blinked once, twice, swallowed the storm threatening to choke him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

Heeseung didn’t speak. Didn’t turn.

Jake’s eyes glistened. But he smiled anyway, as if giving you up was the easiest thing he’d ever done. He turned away and went into the other room. A silent retreat.

That night, Heeseung stayed. He didn’t sleep. Neither did you. You curled against him on the couch, wrapped in past like a quilt. He tucked you into his side like he had never lost you. Your hand rested on his chest, fingers twitching every so often like you were trying to remember something with touch alone.

In the silence, you whispered, “I want to go.”

He turned to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Where?”

You shook your head, confused. “I don’t know. Just… away.”

“Away from what?”

“I don’t know that either,” you said. “But I want to go. With you.” Heeseung kissed your forehead, gently. “Okay.”

Jake woke up to an empty house. No voices. No breathing. No you. He called out once. Twice. Silence answered.

His heart seized.

Then he saw it, on the dining table. A phone. No, not a phone. A voice recorder. The kind Heeseung used sometimes when working through business proposals aloud.

He pressed play. And heard Heeseung’s voice. Soft. Tired. But steady.

“Jake…I know you probably hate me right now. Maybe you should. But I need to say this before I go.

Thank you.

Thank you for finding her when I lost her. For caring for her when I didn’t know how. For loving her in the quiet ways that kept her alive.

I read the journal.

I know now that she didn’t leave because she wanted to forget me. She left because she was scared I’d forget her. Or worse, that I’d watch her forget me. But Jake… she remembers something. Somewhere deep down, in the part of her soul untouched by time or illness or fear...she remembers love.

And I’m going to remind her. Every day. Until the stars go out. I’m taking her away. Just the two of us.

She wanted to go. So I’m taking her where the sky’s clear and quiet. Where the world slows down.

I’m going to show her the stars.”

The recording stopped. Jake stood there for a long, long time. He didn’t cry right away. Instead, he sat down at the kitchen table. Fingers trembling, he reached for the cross that hung from his necklace.

Clutched it. Pressed it to his lips. And closed his eyes.

“Take care of them,” he whispered. “Please.”

And then he cried. For you. For Heeseung. For himself. For the cruel poetry of loving someone who never truly belonged to you.

THE END

©sunishake

[bywons]

ME AND MY HUSBAND | PJS

SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.

OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer

GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish

PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )

WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use

WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words

AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3

FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED

PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU. 

Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you. 

And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you. 

Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.

To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable. 

Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room. 

But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.

His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.

It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.

“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.

“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers. 

“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it. 

“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.

Ouch. Does he not want you touching him? 

You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void. 

You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown. 

Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this. 

You wish he would just kiss you. 

Just once. 

Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.  

“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.  

Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.  

“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”  

The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty. 

Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.  

Because deep down, you know.  

Jongseong is lying.

You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.

“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—” 

“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision. 

In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice. 

And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks. 

An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face. 

“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence. 

“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.” 

Your breath hitches.  

The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.  

Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.  

You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.  

Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.  

And neither was his.  

For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.  

You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.  

“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.  

“Jongseong—”  

He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.  

You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.  

There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.  

Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.  

Park Jongseong had never kissed you.  

And at this rate, you aren't  sure if he ever will.

THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.

You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.

Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.

Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”

The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.

You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.

“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”

The words taste sour in your mouth. 

You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.

He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.

“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.

There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.

Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”

Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.

You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.

You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.

The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.

As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.

Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.

You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.

You walk side by side in silence towards the car.

You can't hold it in any longer.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.

Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.

“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.

“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”

He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”

You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”

He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”

You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”

His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”

You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.

“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”

The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.

For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.

But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.

When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.

You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.

But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.

So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.

And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.

Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.

PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.

But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.

And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.

No. He does nothing.

Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.

He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.

9:30 am, he reaches his office building.

The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.

The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.

“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.

He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.

The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.

A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.

Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.

“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”

“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”

A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.

When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”

But Jongseong shakes his head.

“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”

He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.

Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.

Birthday.

The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.

He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.

A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.

But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.

“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.

A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.

Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.

Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.

His breath falters, you remember.

His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.

And the scent hits him instantly.

Curry.

Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.

Something coils in his chest.

Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.

JAY

Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.

It indeed spells, JAY.

He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.

Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.

And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.

By you.

“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.

Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.

“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”

“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”

“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”

“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”

Jongseong glares at him.

“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”

Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.

“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”

“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”

Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.

Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.

“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”

Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again. 

Finally, blessed peace.

He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.

A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.

But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.

YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.

Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.

He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.

“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”

He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.

“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.

He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.

But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.

Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.

But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.

Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.

Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.

Is that you?

Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.

“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”

You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.

But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”

“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”

“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?

“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”

You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”

He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”

Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.

But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.

“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.

He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”

The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.

“I won’t go—”

“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”

Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.

“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.

“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.

He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”

The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.

And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.

His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.

“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”

You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.

“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.

“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”

Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.

You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.

You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”

Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.

“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”

He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.

When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.

“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”

“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.

“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”

“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.

You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.

“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.

“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”

“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”

There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.

It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?

“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.

He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”

Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.

Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.

“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.

You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.

RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.

Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.

It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.

You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.

The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.

He doesn’t see you at first.

Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.

You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.

You hope none of that was your imagination.

Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.

That’s when someone steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.

You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”

“You look tired.”

“You have no idea.”

He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t notice the shift in the room.

But Jongseong does.

He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.

The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.

He downs his drink.

“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”

He doesn’t hear it.

Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.

The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.

Why are you smiling like that?

He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.

And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.

He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.

You feel it before you see him.

The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.

He’s coming toward you.

Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.

Your heart stutters.

You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”

Jongseong stops beside you.

Too close.

Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.

“Jaeyun,” Jongseong says calmly, nodding once. Polite. Cold.

“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.

Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”

He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.

Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.

“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”

Your breath catches.

Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.

Not entirely touching you.

Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.

“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”

When he leaves, the space collapses.

You’re alone with Jongseong.

Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.

“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.

“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.

He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.

“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.

You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.

“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”

For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.

“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”

His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.

But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.

“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”

“Why?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.

“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”

He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

But he isn’t.

You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.

“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.

“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”

The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.

At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.

“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”

You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.

When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.

His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”

He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.

“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”

You freeze.

His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.

You don’t move.

Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.

And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.

It makes him tell the truth.

YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.

Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.

You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.

Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.

If anything, he does the opposite.

He lingers.

At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.

After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.

You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.

But rules blur when he learns your steps.

He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.

It’s never announced. Never even whispered.

It just happens.

And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.

Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.

That’s when it starts to bleed through.

In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.

At night, he sleeps closer.

Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.

You start waking before him just to watch.

The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.

You don’t ask, even when you know you should.

Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.

The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.

You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.

Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.

“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.

“So are you,” you reply.

He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.

Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.

He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

That alone feels like a confession.

The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.

“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”

You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.

Breakfast is quiet after that.

He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.

It’s barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.

“You already have one,” you say.

“I know.”

He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”

He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”

You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.

“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”

You look up at him, still braced.

“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.

Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.

He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.

“I can share,” he says.

You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.

But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.

It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.

Jongseong comes home late.

You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.

You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.

He doesn’t greet.

His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.

“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.

“I know,” he replies, cold.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.

Something prickles.

“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.

His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.

“I was busy.”

The way he says it feels deliberate.

You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”

Silence.

You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”

His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”

“I am okay,” he snaps.

The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He sees it.

Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”

The words land badly.

“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”

That does it.

He crosses the space between you in three strides.

Too fast. Too close.

You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.

The sound it makes is soft.

The effect is not.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.

“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.

“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”

Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”

You don’t move.

You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”

His eyes darken.

Because he wants to kiss you.

Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.

You think this is it.

Then he pulls back.

Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.

He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”

He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.

And how far he ran.

PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.

He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.

Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.

Just for a fraction of a second.

He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.

The bedroom door opens softly behind him.

“Jongseong?”

Your voice.

He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.

You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.

“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”

The question hangs between you.

Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.

His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.

Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.

“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.

“You look—”

“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”

The moment collapses.

Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”

The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words

----

The family house is already alive when you arrive.

Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.

“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”

Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.

“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.

“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”

He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”

That’s not an answer.

You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.

You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”

His jaw ticks. “All of it.”

“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.

He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”

“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”

Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.

Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.

Conversation starts harmless.

Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.

But then the atmosphere shifts.

“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”

Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.

Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”

She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”

Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”

You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”

“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”

The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.

You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.

“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”

Fortunate.

The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.

You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”

You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.

Jongseong’s fork stops moving.

It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.

He looks at you. Really looks this time.

The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.

“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.

His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”

“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”

His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”

The silence thickens.

His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.

His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”

Jongseong turns to him slowly.

For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.

“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”

He stops. Breathes shakily.

“—my wife.”

The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.

“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”

A pause.

“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”

You move before anyone can stop you.

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.

No one stops you. No one knows how.

You walk out before the tears can fall.

The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.

You don’t hear him at first.

“Y/n—!”

Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.

You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.

You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.

Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.

“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”

Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“No,” he says, “You’re not.”

He doesn’t ask for permission.

Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”

He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.

Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.

The house disappears behind you.

THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.

Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”

“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”

He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”

He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.

The silence stretches.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”

He doesn’t look up. “I did.”

“I could defend myself—”

“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”

Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”

“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”

Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.

“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”

His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”

“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”

That makes him stop again.

“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”

His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.

“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I should’ve been there faster.”

You look at him then. “You caught me.”

“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.

His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.

Then Jongseong straightens.

The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.

You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”

His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.

“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”

You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”

His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.

“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.

His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.

“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”

“Contained from what?”

“From wanting more,” he admits,  voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”

“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.

When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.

Almost reverent.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.

He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.

He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.

“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.

“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.

Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.

You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.

He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”

His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.

He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.

“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”

He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.

“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”

“Jay,” you answer.

He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.

Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive

He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.

“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.

“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.

MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.

The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

You wake first.

For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.

Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.

You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.

Jongseong looks different in sleep.

Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.

Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.

“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”

He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.

“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.

You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes his eyes open again.

Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”

“A little,” you admit. “You?”

He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”

There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.

“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.

“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”

Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.

Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.

Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.

He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”

You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”

He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.

You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.

As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.

And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.

You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.

That’s when you notice the folder.

Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.

Your stomach twists.

You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.

But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.

You stand.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.

You pull the paper free.

Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.

The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.

You scan the first page. And then the words blur.

Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.

Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.

Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.

You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.

Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.

But it doesn’t.

Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?

A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.

Footsteps sound behind you.

“Coffee will be ready in—”

The sentence dies in his throat.

You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.

“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.

When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.

The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.

Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.

“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.

“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”

He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.

“A while,” he admits.

The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.

“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”

His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.

“Years.”

The word drops into the room like a blade.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.

“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.

Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.

“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.

“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.

“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”

Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.

“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”

His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.

“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”

“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”

“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”

He stops himself.

Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”

“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.

The words don’t land right away.

They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.

“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”

He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.

“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”

You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”

He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”

“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”

You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”

“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.

“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”

“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”

He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”

The words gut you.

“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”

His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.

“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.

And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.

Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.

Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.

Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.

Love, most of all.

You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.

Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.

“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”

“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”

That hits him harder than shouting ever could.

Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”

The word hangs in the air between you.

Dying.

It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.

Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.

“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”

Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”

The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.

“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”

The words knock the breath out of you.

“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”

His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”

You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”

“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”

That does it.

Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.

Then he leans in.

The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.

“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.

“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.

“Sorry” you reply quietly.

He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.

He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You are my future,” you say without thinking.

The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”

He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”

You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.

“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”

His breath stutters.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”

Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”

He winces like you’ve struck him.

“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”

Silence falls again, thick and heavy.

You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.

“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”

“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.

His face tightens, but he nods once.

Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.

“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I will marry you, Y/n.”

The certainty in his voice steals your breath.

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.

“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”

Something inside you shatters completely at that.

You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.

Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.

“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.

His breath catches.

“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”

You still, listening.

“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”

He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”

Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.

“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.

“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”

A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.

“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”

You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”

He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.

He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.

And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.

Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.

EPILOGUE

The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.

There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.

Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.

So here you are.

The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.

Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.

Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.

The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.

You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.

Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.

This is real.

When you open them, you see him.

Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.

And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.

His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.

You start walking.

Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.

With every step, memories rise up uninvited.

The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.

And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.

You stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.

When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.

But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.

When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.

“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”

His voice steadies, just a little.

“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”

Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.

When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.

And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.

The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.

Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.

His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.

“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.

He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.

The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.

You and Jongseong take a step forward together.

The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.

“Jongseong?” you murmur.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”

You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.

“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”

“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”

So you walk slowly.

Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.

His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.

And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.

Your own thoughts are no less tangled.

Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.

You reach the middle of the aisle.

There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.

Jongseong exhales, long and slow.

“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”

You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”

His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.

“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”

You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.

It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.

“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.

The room seems to tilt.

For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.

“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.

Then his knees buckle.

The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.

Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.

“Jongseong—!”

The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.

His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.

“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.

Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.

AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛

edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3

©BYWONS, 2026 DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE OR REPOST

[wonmuse]

‘SUNOO━━ WHERE THE SNOW BLEEDS

𓍼 i think im gonna die in this house…in every room i hear silence.

— ( ᛝ ) your mother had always warned you to stay clear of the red snow, not to follow the crimson trail that bled into the white ice. but never did she warn you that dismissing her words would bring about whispers and creaks in the night. that even if you tried to leave them behind eventually they’d find you again. because cumberland was the one place where remnants of the dead lie planted in the soil like spoiled seeds. she also didn’t warn you that you could meet and fall in love with a stranger— a stranger that held so many secrets at his discretion. a stranger that would leave your life intertwined with the fate of three ghosts. in this tale there is no happy ending, nothing but a story of love, murder, and revenge written in the crimson snow.

kim sunoo x f!reader w.c 35k nais library

(dddne) angst, suggestive, gothic romance. mentions of blood, graphic deaths, murder, suicide, paranormal activity, profanity, sex, spit play, fingering, body worship, cunnilingus, raw sex, biting, scratching, dacryphilia, oral fixation, cherry popping. the portrayal of sunoo is in no way shape or form a reflection of his true self it’s strictly for the purpose of the fic. songs to listen to while reading (only if you want) strangers, house, golden brown, Inbred, sour switchblade , ptolemaea , in ur head , revenge

nais calling ᭪ this fic took so long to write and it feels like I’m giving a part of me away with this omg. I’m so nervous to finally drop this with so many people waiting to read and this being my first Sunoo fic. That aside the movie crimsons peak inspired this one and it’s such a beautiful movie with an amazing concept that i needed to write something inspired by it for Sunoo. its the first time I’ve crept into dark territory in this way and to those that enjoy the more dark or lore heavy works I hope you enjoy this one.

Any normal kids' parents would have usually warned them to steer clear of yellow snow— “Don’t eat the yellow snow” “Stay away from the yellow snow.” But your mother? No she had far worse things to worry about other than a little bit of piss and ice. “Don’t eat the crimson snow that's where the snow bleeds,” she would tell you. You never truly understood, even now at the ripe age of twenty one you don't entirely get it. But you could always recall that one winter you found yourself correcting her, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion as you told her, “The other kids said it's yellow snow. That there's no such thing as red snow Mama, because snow can't bleed.”

The next morning against your mother's advice, you followed a trail of the crimson droplets seeping into the snow beneath your feet, only to find your dog dead at the end of it. You cried yourself to sleep for days, until your lips tasted of only tear drops and snot. It took you a week of grieving to finally muster up the energy to bury him. Of course back then you knew no better. You didn't heed the warning she had given you and in the end you were met with trauma and your family dog buried beneath the soil.

Not even three months later you'd make the same mistake, only this time the blood seeped deeper and puddled at your feet as you trudged through the snow. At the end of it there was no animal to be found, not this time— it was your mother. You couldn't remember anything beyond finding her. But your father remembered it all. His own daughter only ten, clothes stained with blood as she held his wife's lifeless body in her arms. Like her mother had been a doll gifted to her on Christmas day. He cried for days, not only for the grief of his wife, but you his only child— only daughter. You barely spoke since that day, no matter how many psychiatrists or therapists he had introduced you to, you remained silent. Like you were void of any thoughts or emotions,it seemed as if you were stuck in a permanent a state of shock.

He thought that maybe it was just the shock of finding your mother dead. Maybe you were afraid, grieving— but what he hadn't known was that while he was the one grieving, your mother had visited you every night.

Almost each night since her death among his cries you could hear the creaking of floorboards as feet dragged against the hardwood. For a moment it would stop and you could hear the twist of a knob and the crackle of wood as your door cracked open. Then the footsteps returned again and they only stopped when the foot of your bed creaked and dipped with the presence of another person. You would shiver under the covers, eyes screwed shut as you whispered silent prayers for whatever it was to go away. And eventually it would, only after whispering that same warning that she had bestowed you with every oncoming winter "stay away from the crimson snow.''

Eventually, you had become so scared of your own home that you started begging your father to let you stay in his sleeping quarters. And for a while it worked. When the snow seeped into the green of the grass and winter turned to spring, she didn't show up again. But then winter would roll back around and you would hear that familiar creak once more. Your father's only solution was to move the two of you as far away from England as possible, and eventually you both found new endeavors in New York City. You thought that once you moved you would be free of it all, free from the nightmares and nightly visits. But of course, you couldn’t have known the secrets your mother held. Nor could you figure why she had kept them from you up until the day you buried her. But god were you wrong about being free, so so wrong.

You were now twenty one, well past the age where you were frightened awake by nightmares or things going bump in the night. Old enough to swallow pills and guzzle down meds that kept away the thoughts you didn't want from creeping in. But that didn't mean you couldn't be startled awake whenever your father sent one of the house caregivers to come knocking on your door.

You spring up in bed, hair pointing every direction it possibly could, drool dried in the corners of your lips— evidence of good sleep.

"Give me a minute Elisse,'' you grumble, eyes half lidded as you only slip back into the covers.

But Elisse knew better—if she gave you one minute it would turn into another hour, and she couldn't have that, not today.

"Madame, your father needs you up now. You do remember what today is?''

Your words freeze on the tip of your tongue, every complaint you were prepared to spew had melted in your mouth and left a foul taste. November eighteenth the day of first frost, and also the official mark of eight days before your mothers death anniversary.

Your father had this big idea to go back home now that you were old enough. To visit your mother at her grave and throw a party in her honor— a celebration of the life she'd once lived. You yourself weren't sure why he felt the need, and you wondered if anyone would even attend— but it turns out when you have money, you could get anyone to attend even the most solemn of celebrations.

Finally, you throw the covers off of you, now fully awake and fully aware of the sunlight creeping in through your curtains. Worry flashes on Elisse's face as she watches you peel open your eyes and slip out of bed without a word.

Elisse was the type to always worry, like a second mother that had found you and your father when you both needed it most. She was a tall Romani woman in her late thirties, golden skin, long black curls that she always kept tidy. Elisse was the kind of woman that knew what was wrong with you before you even spoke it, the kind of woman that knew how to fix everything with a warm cup of tea or hot meal. And when that didn't work she had other ways, Other ways you never understood but they always seemed to work. Sometimes you caught her walking around jangling amulets or more so often she'd nail horseshoes over the doorways that would creak when no one had entered them.

There were often times where you and your father found her stepping over brooms or whispering to herself at odd times of the night. Your father didn't think much of it, he never questioned things like that, but sometimes you got curious. You had ample opportunity to ask her about it but somehow deep down you were afraid of the answers she would give. You were too scared that you already knew why. That if she voiced the words, it would make every fear and traumatic event you had kept buried within your thoughts come flooding back.

Eventually, you did pull yourself out of bed to shower and freshen up for your long journey back to Cumberland, and Elisse slipped from the room to make tea— no breakfast though, you had no time for that.

The sleeves of your dress drape past the stair railings as your fingers trace the freshly clean wood. The smell of newly grown lavender and lemon tickling your nose with each stride— Elisse always made sure there were hints of lavender, lemon and sometimes cinnamon in every room you entered.

You enter the kitchen where she stood on the other side of an island, already slipping over a cup of her infamous tea— the china she served it in so crisp you could see the reflection of the room behind you.

"How do you always know what I need before I even know?'' You ask her, bringing the cup to your nose and inhaling the scent before taking a sip.

She simply laughs, sliding over a half full cup of black coffee and one singular doughnut; not to you, but the empty seat beside you.

"Morning Elisse would you mind-" your father enters the kitchen straightening his vest, his sentence trails off as he finds that she's already made his coffee and his usual doughnut on the side.

"Ah thank you. You always know what I need.'' He flashes her a smile as he takes the mug and the doughnut into his hands, he doesn't even look at you as he turns and heads towards the doorway.

"Three minutes to finish tea, then we have a ship to board.'' He doesn't say it to any specific person but you already know it's meant for you. It was always meant for you.

You didn't know what had become of him lately. These days he spoke less, yet expected more. He always expected you to be on your P's and Q's but barely spared a moment of his time, and he didn't say it but you knew why. You reminded him too much of her—intelligent, independent, curious an extremely self sufficient, and worst of all, you had her face.

He couldn't look at you without seeing a woman that was no longer his to hold, a woman he no longer mourned but somehow her memory still haunted him.

"Everything is packed and at the staircase Madame— extra tea, your medication. All there if you need it. You write to me when the two of you arrive sweetheart.'' She holds your face and you flash her a reassuring smile.

—

Seven days. Seven agonizing days of sea sickness, vertigo and nausea. A boat ride from New York and back to the home you once knew that felt almost torturous. If you hadn't been a proper lady, you'd have kissed the ground beneath you the moment your feet landed on English Soil.

The place was just as you had left it ten years ago, like it had frozen itself in time the moment you had gone. The only differing factor was how lifeless it seemed now that you had been older. The trees lost their leaves, sky stained a dull gray rather than a vibrant blue. When you're younger you see everything in color— the world was at your disposal. But now, at a more mature age in life, those moments felt light years away. You no longer saw the color or warmth in the world as you did then.

"It feels weird being back here.'' you tell your father as you stared out the window of the carriage. He doesn't respond at first, just a simple hum before he finally decides you're worth using his words on.

"You'll get used to it again, I'm sure preparations will keep you busy,'' he reassures— more like advises— you. He says nothing more, just eyes the pocket watch at his waist before returning his attention to the newspaper that sat in his lap.

A sigh spills from your lips but you don't try to talk any further. You don't know why you had expected actual conversation from him, you were slowly starting to get disappointed in yourself for wanting more out of him. It felt like he was keeping you at a distance and you absolutely hated it. Sure, you had Elisse as well, but it didn't make things any less lonesome.

When you were younger it was quite easy to talk to him, you could go to him for anything and he would scare away every monster, kiss away every tear— but since losing your mother, he had only been an empty shell of the man you once knew. There was no love, no tenderness behind his eyes, just an aching for the woman he was once able to hold close and hold like nothing else in the world mattered.

The entire ride back to the manor was silent from then on out, other than the soft swish of pages turning and the clopping of hooves on asphalt. The only entertainment you had was watching the snow fall and melt onto the dewy grass beneath it— just an endless stretch of white that almost looked like a sea of clouds if you squinted hard enough. From the town to the manor it was a two hour travel journey, by the time the two of you had arrived, midday had come.

Along with the snow, mist fell over the entire manor like a dark cloud, making what was meant to be a sunny day appear more gloomy and grayer than anything. The old place was just as you and your father had left it, not a tile or brick out of place. It was almost like it had been sitting there, breathing, living, waiting for you to return one day. Back then, it would have stricken fear into you. Ten-year-old-you would have gathered all of your blankets and slept out in the field if it meant not having to be here. You would have sworn the house itself was alive, watching you, haunting you. But now, as you stepped from the carriage and took it in for the first time in years, it was just a house.

You'd thought that after all this time when you returned you'd find the place tattered and crumbling at every step, but it looked as if it remained frozen in time. A beautiful gothic estate, perpetually cold and ominous, but your mother once said that that was it's charm. The inside matched the exterior quite well, a mix of colors— green walls lined with old family photos, brown marble flooring, a fireplace on the far wall just beneath staircase. The staircase stretched from the entryway to the wall and swirled above the fireplace, and right above it sat a balcony. A balcony that gave you a perfect view of the third level, and a glimpse into the hallway leading to the attic.

Your arrival seemed to give the place an entire new life, floorboards creaking and padded steps echoing in the foyer the moment you enter. The mansion wasn't just settling; it was memorizing your footsteps, timing your breaths, observing the way your eyes scanned each corner of the room to see if you remembered the feelings it invoked. Like a living breathing entity.

What exactly did you feel? Grief, fear, inquisitiveness? You weren't entirely sure what this place made you feel now. Maybe it was because for so long you had forced yourself to suppress the memories, to tell yourself that it all was nothing more than a bad dream. And for a long time, it worked— you'd imagine locking every traumatic part of your life away in an empty box and forget there ever was a key.

Your father stood before you, taking in the place like it were more then just a spirit of the 'past', like it still haunted him now. You reach out to give his shoulder a reassuring pat, but he moves on like he sensed your movement— sensed your sentiment.

"I'll let you get settled, I need to look for the caretaker.'' He tells you, the foyer amplifies his voice before swallowing the sound. You have no time to answer before he is already heading further into the house.

Pulling your hand back you clear your throat and dust off your dress before slipping into the kitchen. The kitchen was a very expansive area, white tiled walls and cold marble floors, almost asylum like. Most of the space being taken up by an old wooden dining table in the middle of the floor. A table meant to seat ten, which you never understood because back then there were only three of you. Pots and pans aligned the wall nearest the window, all tattered and dented—stained by time. Everything had been put away nicely, and the place had been oddly clean. Work of the caretaker you presumed, whoever that was.

Eventually you stroll out of the kitchen, your feet moving you to various places in the house, the great hall, the library, a conglomerate of rooms all at your disposal. Many rooms remained locked and or empty but you glide in and out of every one like they were your right passage, and when boredom crept in, you slipped from the study and back down the empty hallway.

When you were younger these hallways felt like they stretched on for miles. Tight half lit corridors, with matte wood frames and old butterfly wallpaper that was slightly peeling on the walls. They used to feel so menacing at night, like they would close in and swallow you whole at any moment, but they were the only thing that connected your room to your fathers. A smile curls onto your lips at the memory of all those nights you'd run through them as if your life depended on it— all so you could run and cry to your father about 'monsters' under your bed.

You pass through the foyer again, a lighthearted laugh spilling from your lips at your own naivety. Into the old lift you go. It creaks with the wake of disturbed rust as you pull it open and slam it shut. It hums to life and trembles as it takes you up— like bones rattling and joints cracking as you stretch out your limbs for the first time.

It stops at the second floor with a loud clank and you shove the door open again, this time stepping out. The floorboards groan beneath your feet and there's something oddly erotic about it— like it was claiming you all over again but this time in ways you wouldn't forget. The second floor was unlike the first, it felt eerier. It was no longer the kind of quiet that gave you serenity. This felt melancholic, bitter, charged with an energy you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Nonetheless, you move forward, the fabric of your dress flowing behind you as your steps became more hurried. You pause as you reach a tall double door-ed room, letting out a big exhale as you shove the doors open.

Your eyes conveyed so many different emotions in that moment, none of which you could explain with words alone. This room once held so many memories, most of them good but many you wanted to ignore as well. It was a spacious room, way too much room for a child your age back then. Mostly empty now other than a few chairs and the large bed that sat in the middle. It was beautifully exquisite. So why was it that the moment you stepped inside you felt like the walls would all close in on you? But it didn't. The walls held their breath and waited.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?,'' A voice lite and sweet, calls out from behind you, startling you and making you knock over an empty vase.

"For heavens sake!'' you scream, covering your mouth after your own outburst.

"Shit, my apologies,'' he apologizes, quickly rushing over to your side to assist you in collecting the shards, But of course he had reacted only a few seconds late and you were alarmingly clumsy. You immediately jerk back with a hiss, dropping all the shards you had collected when you cut your finger.

"I'll take care out it, you should run some cold water on that in the bathroom,'' he suggests, leaning down to take the shards into a handkerchief he pulls from his vest. You don't move immediately, you're too busy adorning him. The way his blonde locks fell in front of his face, how his eyebrows furrowed as he searched the floor to make sure he got every piece.

He spots you staring but he just assumes that it was because you hadn't known where the bathroom was. "It's right through there.'' He points to the open doorway behind you and you finally realize you hadn't yet moved.

"I know, this was my room,'' you tell him, finally turning towards the bathroom and heading straight for the sink.

There was a moment of recognition in his gaze before he flashes you a smile, it was mesmerizing.

You had never been the type to fawn over a man— in fact you were the type that would rather die lonely than ever rely solely on men— but he was absolutely breathtaking. He gave you the kind of smile that made butterflies swarm the pits of your stomach and make it home.

"You must be be with Mr. Sharpe, you're here for Mrs. Sharpe celebratory ball?'' He places the shards onto a small reading table, making sure to wrap them nicely to avoid losing any pieces.

"My mother's.'' you correct him.

For a moment his expression changes as if it had only clicked to him then that you were the daughter of the Sharpe's and owner of this house.

"Yn..right?'' Your name fell from his lips like silk, like he had said it a thousand times before but only now had been the first."Mr. Sharpe's daughter, I'm sorry he didn't tell me that you would be joining. If I had known then I would have tended to your room more diligently.''

"It is alright, I'm not sure what more you could have done to the place. It's already neat and perfectly refined so...'' Your voice trails off, the only sound that fills the room is the soft swish of water running on the fresh cut. Neither of you said a word, you were more focused on cleaning your wound while he stared at you as if you were a spectacle for the eyes to behold.

"I'm sorry I haven't yet introduced myself.'' He finally seems to come to his senses, flashing you a sweet smile."Kim Sunoo, the caretaker of Sharpe manor."

"Caretaker? You stay in this place alone?'' He watches the way your eyes widen in disbelief, like you couldn't fathom anyone wanting to stay in this place alone with the quiet.

He chuckles as he takes the fabric clasped shards into his hand. "It's not bad you know, the house itself is huge to live in for just one person but manageable.''

Of course that wasn't what you meant, you knew very well that the house could be managed alone— you'd watched your father do it for two years before you moved away. You couldn't grasp the idea of living here alone with the creaks in the night, soft whispers that slip into your ears like ghosts haunting your very thoughts. Maybe your father and psychiatrist had been right? maybe it had been all in your head and there truly was nothing wrong with this place. Maybe every ghostly visit that you had back then was just the affect of losing your mother.

"If it isn't too impolite, might I ask when did you start working here for my father?''

He chuckles nodding towards the door as if he was asking you to join him for a walk. For a moment you were hesitant but curiosity always trumped caution.

"I moved here nine years ago, during late winter three months after you and your father left.''

"Three- correct me if I'm wrong but by then that would have made you thirteen or twelve, you don't look any older than twenty three.''

"I was thirteen.'' He confirms, and for a second you could have sworn you saw his gaze flicker to a memory painful and long gone but it was only a mere second of change. A look that could have been imagined just from a blink.

"I moved here with my parents, but they died a few years ago leaving me to look after the place alone. It was hard at first, but after I got past the initial grief it became easier to take care of the place.'' He continues on, even as the two of you step into the elevator and start your descent to the ground floor.

"I'm sorry for your loss,'' you apologize, a heavy feeling making your chest tighten and swell with something unspoken. A silent understanding of what it was like to lose a parent.

He didn't say a word, not even a nod in your direction as the two of you planted yourselves in the kitchen. The room itself felt heavy with unspoken words and heavy presences that didn't even feel like your own. The sound of broken glass sliding down a garbage shoot interrupts the cumbersome silence. Like enticing words from the walls themselves that watched quietly and held their breath.

"We should look at that cut.'' He finally speaks, interrupting the quiet as he grabs a bag from an overhead cabinet and entices you to sit at the dining table. A cut you had long forgotten about with the oncoming silence.

"Oh-" You finally look down at your palm as if remembering the searing pain that had pierced your skin only moments ago."I'm sure that it's fine-''

"I insist," he cuts you off, giving no chance to finish.His gaze holds yours as if he were pleading to take care of you with his eyes alone. You open your mouth to tell him that you're fine but the words won't come out- like his gaze held you captive forcing you to swallow them and agree.

The two of you don't exchange any words as you sit at the table and he tends to the cut. Soft dabs to make sure it's fully clean before he lines it with wet tea leaves. You weren't sure what the tea leaves did, but you didn't bother asking. You didn't want this moment t slip away from you. You watched him as he took care of you— the way his eyelashes fluttered as he focused, the soft breaths he exhaled, the way he pursed his lips or poked them out when he got too focused.

You open your mouth to say something but the moment is stolen away as your father enters the kitchen.

"Ah, there you are.'' You immediately jump from your seat at the sound of his voice, Sunoo on the other hand remains seated. He didn't flash a smile to your father like he had done with you. he just pushes up from the seat with a sound that was unmistakably a sigh.

"I feel like I searched the entire place looking for you.'' You were prepared to tell him that you had been in your room for most of the time, only he wasn't talking to you.

"I see you've met my daughter.'' He adds, making your mouth fall closed, your face heating up in slight embarrassment for thinking that he had been talking to you— of course he wasn't.

To your surprise, your father comes around to your side of the table and places a protective— more like possessive— arm around your shoulder. There's evident shock written on your face as you look up at him. He didn't spare you a glance nor did he even acknowledge you. It was like he was putting on a show— perfect father, perfect daughter.

Sunoo gives a slow nod, a smile slowly but surely curling onto his lips. "Right, it's nice to finally meet you in person Mr. Sharpe, you and your daughter. The letters do no justice to how breathtaking she is in person.''

Your head immediately snaps in his direction, his smile doesn't falter even as your father's smile twitches slightly.

"I'll leave you both to get settled, I know you must both be tired from your journey and you have a lot to do tomorrow.'' Sunoo gives a polite nod, his gaze lingering on you for a second before he excuses himself from the kitchen.

Your father's arm immediately slips from around your shoulder. "Get unpacked before tonight, there are seamstress on their way to get you fitted for tomorrows celebration. Your mother would want you to look your best.'' The words linger as you're left alone in the kitchen.

'Your mother would want you to look your best.' The words were almost comical to you. Your mother had never cared about public appearances or perfection, she cared only if her child was happy and smiling. Of course she had many moments of rambling, things even you couldn't understand, but she had never cared for images. Your father on the other hand, had always been obsessed with public opinion— perfect wife, perfect daughter, perfect home, perfect family. You thought that it had ended with the death of your mother, that he would change and realize his family was more valuable. But even now, even this gathering, had all been for the public.

You look down at your palm, the cut already having closed and starting to scar. You couldn't understand why a man you had met only now tended to you with more care than your father had, but you found yourself feeling comfort at the though of him being around.

You brush your thumb over the scar, the edges of your lips curling upward into a slight smile before you finally exit the kitchen.

The walk back to your room was silent but full of this swelling in your chest that you couldn't entirely pinpoint but you knew the feeling led back to him.

Time seemed to past by with an effortless quickness, and before you knew it you stood in front of a mirror— hands groping and probing your body with a polite professionalism. Usually you would enjoy something like this, a new dress to add to your collection, but for so many reasons this felt suffocating.

Corset pulled so tight you were sure it had cut off your air supply until you felt yourself breathing. Everything had been moving so fast since you arrived it felt like you had no chance to ground yourself.

"Madame, please suck in," the seamstress instructs.

"Ingrid, I'm sure if I suck in any more I just might pop.'' She laughs, and it sounds so contagious that you finally let your guard down enough to laugh with her.

Your laugh is cut short as you catch a glimpse of someone in the mirror behind you. Sunoo stood there drinking you in like you were fine wine meant to be savored, but the moment you turn around he no longer stands there. He had come and go just like the ghost of someone that you had wanted to be standing there. For a moment your eyes scan the doorway as if you had been expecting him to walk in any second, but he never did. Finally you turn back towards the mirror.

"Are you alright Miss?" Ingrid inquires, a look of worry flashes on her face.

"I'm alright. I thought I saw my father pass by.'' You lie, so quickly that even you were shocked with how swiftly you had told a fib. Why did you lie? It wasn't like they would stone you for looking at an unmarried man, especially when you yourself were unmarried. You shake it off, returning your attention back to the task at hand, but every now and then your gaze still lingered on the reflection behind you.

Later, that night when it was all done you sank into the bath tub- the warmth of the water completely engulfs you and you felt every stress and trouble slip away. The night was completely silent, other than the sloshing of water and leaves rustling with the wind outside of the window. It felt peaceful, still, like the house was fast asleep—no creaking or padded steps when no one was walking, just you and the silence.

After what felt like an hour of calm silence, you step from the tub and into your nightgown to turn in for the night. You were fully ready to slip into bed and get cozy, but the moment your eyes closed you heard the soft hum of music

You tried to ignore it and tell yourself that maybe you had imagined it, you hadn't even seen a piano here. But minutes slipped past with the sound of music and it became hard to ignore. With finality you slip out of bed, picking up the candelabra at your bed side and using it to light your way as you exit the room.

You quietly followed the sound, the floorboards shriek beneath your feet as you tried your best to tiptoe through the hallway. The sound heightened as you grew closer to the foyer and your eyes immediately fall upon the balcony above you— it was coming from the attic.

You enter the lift, it creaks and screeches as you close it shut, trying your best to be silent and time your movements with the sound of music. It takes you up, crackling with each turn of a gear, until finally you make it to the third floor. As you make your way down the hall the only light that shines is the candlelight from your candelabra. The piano crescendos the closer you inch towards the attic door and eventually, as you peek through the crack of the open door, it ceases.

You're looking at the back of a figure, sat slumped over with his head in his hands. He looks at the sheet sat in front of him before slamming his hands on the keys. He played with an unresolved anger and another emotion you couldn't quite put your finger on but it made everything about it mesmerizing. You held your breath as you watched him , like watching a prodigy at work. He plays until every note reaches it's peak and then the sound falls as he comes to a stop once again.

But this time, it isn't out of frustration. "I can feel you peeking, Miss,'' his song is hauntingly quiet as he speaks. You feel your heart leap out of your chest as he calls you out, because who else could he have possibly been talking to other than you. He doesn't say anything else but he does shift over on the bench, like he was leaving space for you to join him without asking.

The door creaks as you push it open and step inside, putting your candle light on a table full of other trinkets and old music sheets. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop...''

"It's alright.'' He chuckles as his fingers dance across the keys, playing a softer melody than he had before he realized you were standing there. "Did I wake you Miss?''

"I was only just slipping into bed when I heard the music,'' you respond, scanning the room and taking in all the clutter— things that felt more like placeholders and ancient artifacts than things once held dear by a loving family. "And you don't have to call me Miss. You can use my name Sunoo.''

For a moment he stopped playing, his fingers pausing on the keys as his name spilled past your lips like lyrics to a song, like a harmony to the melody he played on every key.

"Your father doesn't seem to see that appropriate,'' he responds, and your brows crease in confusion.

"My father? What does he have to do with anything?'' Silence, your question is met with his quiet, "did he say something to you?''

He doesn't answer, but his silence is an answer all on its own.

"Sunoo, my father himself doesn't even speak to me, I can't have you not speak to me too, it feels lonely enough.'' the words spilled from your mouth before you could even realize they had.

He stops playing, finally turning to look at you for the first time, but still he says nothing. he just looks at you as if he were searching for something— searching for answers. "What's your favorite song?'' He asks, your eyebrows crease in confusion but you answer nonetheless.

"A bird in a gilded cage, Steve-''

"Steve Porter,'' he finishes your sentence ahead of you before nodding to the space beside him. "Sit.''

You stare at him for a moment before finally joining him on the bench. No more words are spoken after that he simply plays like the keys alone were meant to say everything he didn't. You stayed up for hours just watching him play, until the moon slipped past the horizon and sunlight peaked through the attic curtains. When the two of you noticed it had gotten so late you eventually slipped out of the attic and took the lift back down to your floor. Despite knowing you would be tired for the oncoming events, you couldn't get yourself to regret staying up with him. For the first time in years you felt seen.

That was the first time in a long time that you had slept sound, without the help of tea or medication to ease your mind.

The next morning you woke to the manor bustling with busy people,chefs, caterers, event planners, and stylists— all to make sure that the manor was in top shape for tonight's ball. All you wanted was a normal morning and a cup of tea, but today was not like most mornings when you would wake and find Elisse already having it made for you.

With a sigh you slip under a long table being moved to god knows where by a group of movers, past a group of women looking at the color details of the foyer, and into the kitchen.

Now the kitchen was just chaotic, bodies moving frantically, scattered dinner plans all over the table— but unlike the foyer, this chaos was more organized. You quickly make your tea, ducking and dodging all of the movement in the kitchen and eventually slipping out all together.

With a relieved sigh, you find your peace as you finally step outside. The cold immediately tickles your nose and makes your breath visible, but it's better than being trapped in a home that felt suffocating.

You pay no mind as you hear the door open and click shut behind you—until you felt warmth envelope you as you're engulfed by someones coat. Moments after, you hear them speak.

"I saw you step out without one, I figured you would need it if you're going to be out here in this.'' He says, eyeing your nightgown with an amused grin on his lips.

You wanted to scoff, to say something back but you were far too engulfed in the smell of his coat. The smell of fresh powder with hints of citrus and iris— a combination you would find odd together but he somehow made it work. It wafts beneath your nose, drawing you in like a smell of freshly warmed cotton.

"Are you meant to be my knight in shining armor?'' You joke, a smile on your lips as you bring your mug to your lips.

"Not a knight, but if you're in need of one I see no trouble in playing such a role," he responds, as if it's the most natural thing. You weren't sure if it was his natural way of speaking or if it was some form of flirtation, but nonetheless it made your heart skip.

"Will you come to my aid when I'm in need of someone then, Sunoo?'' You ask him, there was a shimmer of something unsure in his gaze, like something troubled him, but he only flashes a smile.

"If that's your wish, Miss.'' You look at him, your eyes searching his own as he looked at you. The moment felt frozen with the cold, still with an unspoken yearning. You weren't sure if he felt it too, but to you it was unmistakable there.

"Ah, there you are.'' The sound of the door swinging open interrupts the moment. Your father's smile drops for a second as he looks between you and Sunoo, but seconds later he composes himself.

"I've been looking for you. Ingrid and the other ladies are waiting to get you into your dress. Come along, the guest will be arriving soon. And you need to be ready.'' You sigh, thanking Sunoo for the momentary escape. You strip yourself of his coat and put it in his hand. You're walking past your father and into the house in seconds, missing the exchanged glances between the two of them.

The moment the door closes something in Sunoo's demeanor shifts, his eyes turn cold as he looks down at the jacket in hand, still warm from the heat of your body.

"Why were you out there in your night gown? And alone with the caretaker?'' Your father questions, following you up the staircase.

"His name is Sunoo Father, and he was only keeping me company while I stepped out. This place just feels suffocating.'' You didn't know why you were explaining yourself, after all you were a grown woman. But you felt the need to correct your father's attitude towards him.

"Sunoo? You call him by name like the two of you have made friends?'' He responds, a hint of anger laced in his tone.

"Well he is my age, I see no reason why he and I cannot communicate— we're both adults and it isn't like anyone else is here to keep me company.''

"Do not get too close with that boy, he's not like us and I won't allow it to go any further. Do you understand Yn?''

You force yourself to choke back your words, the previous light from moments ago having died in your eyes as you give him a curt nod. "If that is what you want.'' You don't say another word after that, just slip into your bedroom where Ingrid and the others waited to get you stripped and changed into your dress.

After that you didn't see Sunoo, even as guests flooded in and each of them greeted you with a smile. You tried your best to smile and thank them each for coming but every now and then your eyes just drifted to the entryway of the ballroom, like you were waiting to see him.

"Yn you've been busy tonight, if I didn't know any better i would infer you were avoiding me.'' Your father approaches you where you stand, talking to a group of women who couldn't care less about your dead mother. They were here because they knew your father was wealthy and that if they got you to like them it would make it far easier to get him in their clutches.

Of course he doesn't approach you alone this time, at his side is a tall and slender man. His hair falls perfectly on his face, framing it just right in a way that left just enough mystery to draw you in. There was no ignoring the simple fact that he himself was absolutely breathtaking. The kind of man you would read about in old gothic romance novels, or dream about falling in love with.

"I'd like you to meet Mr. Nishimura. He and his family flew in from Japan this morning, they're new partners of the law firm." Riki gives you a curt nod, you see his eyes search yours for a moment, but the way his gaze lingers doesn't feel the same as a certain someones.

"Yn, it's nice to meet you.''

"Riki, just call me Riki.'' He finally speaks, his voice takes you by surprise and you'd admit that if you didn't have your eyes set on someone else it'd have made your heart flutter.

"I'll leave you two alone to get to know one another.'' You knew what he was doing, it was what he had always done when someone he wanted to partner up with had a son or even a daughter. He was using you as his trump card, his pawn.

"I'm sorry if he interrupted your evening and pulled you over here.'' You apologize, giving him a polite bow that makes a smile curl onto his lips.

"I take it he's done this before, that I'm not the only one?'' His tone is half jokingly, like it was meant to put you at ease and help you feel more comfortable around him.

"What gave it away?" You tilt your head, flashing him a smile that made him take in every feature on your face with a new resolve.

"When you grow up in a family like mine, it becomes easier to pick up on who only desire to use you. Unlike the other women my family has tried to make arrangements with, you don't seem too interested in me."

"I see, were you expecting me to swoon for you then, Mr. Nishimura?'' You respond, a hint of amusement in your tone. He chuckles and you can't help but laugh along with him

"It's refreshing," He nods, his gaze moving over to your father who had been eyeing the two of you from across the room with the biggest smile.

"Should we put on a show?'' You ask him, both your gazes still on your father who had slowly been making his way over to who you assumed to be Riki's parents. He turns to you brows curved out of interest and pure amusement for whatever plan it was that had the gears in your head turning.

"Bow.'' you whisper, just loud enough for knot him to hear.

"So you like princess treatment?'' He jokes, and you flash him a look that makes him smile at you. Seconds later he bows and you return his bow with one of your own.

"Now hold out your arm," you whisper as you come back up, and he immediately falls into the act, seeming to have picked up on the premise of the idea.

He holds out his arm and you place yours on top, you pass the chattering bodies and make your way to the dance floor where others had already been dancing.

"Try not to step on my toes,'' he teases.

"How about you try and keep up with me," you fire back, and he can't help but laugh.

The music starts as quickly as the last song ends and you're moving around the dance floor with quick and precise movements. You only catch a quick glimpse of him but you can see your father's proud smile as you and Riki make your rounds on around the marble floor. Every step is swift and efficient like he had done it time and time again. Like he knew every step before you made it.

Your dance lasted for what felt like hours— all to put on a show for your parents who couldn't care less if there was chemistry between the two of you or not. Nonetheless, this little performance of yours got a couple heads turning and both your parents seemed to be satisfied.

When the music stopped and you both pull away there was no shared glances or feelings there. Just an emptiness of two people alike wanting to do what they were so used to doing for the sake of their parents.

"Do you mind if I cut in?'' You weren't sure when he had entered, maybe you were too distracted with your little showcase to realize, but now he stood in front of you both, his hand held out like he wasn't just asking for your hand— he was demanding it.

"Sunoo?''

"Sorry to cut it short if the two of you were having a moment," he apologizes this time, his hand still held out like he was leaving no room for refusal.

Riki glances between the two of you as if he were sensing some sort of unspoken feelings there, then he leans in close to your ear."Good luck with your father.'' He pulls back with a smile and places your hand into Sunoos. "She's all yours.''

You catch a glimpse of your father's face as Sunoo takes your hand, silently disapproving . Sunoo seems to pay him no mind, just slips one hand around your waist and pulls you close to him, leaving no space between your heart and his.

"Sunoo, what are you doing?"

He interrupts your question with a soft whisper in your ear, his breath lingering on your neck like the ghost of a kiss. "You looked breathtaking dancing with him, but how about putting on a show with me?''

In that moment your breathe catches in your throat and you can't bring yourself to form any words.

"Just one nod sweetheart, you don't even have to use words. Say you'll waltz with me?''

And you oblige, driven only by the feeling of your chest against his, two heartbeats aligned— in sync, like they were one.

To your confusion he drops your hand, the moment feeling distant as he walks away and returns with a singular candle.

"A candle?" Your gaze lingers on the candle for a moment before they find his eyes that were already on you.

"Don't question it, just dance with me. If the fire dies then I'll take it as a promise that you'll waltz with me again." Again his closes the space between the two of you, one hand clasped around yours that now held the candle while the other rested on the small of your back. It was a touch that felt naturally intimate, left goosebumps in it's wake.

All eyes seemed to fall upon the two of you, the candle pulling all eyes in the direction of you and him. The music started but slowly began to fade in your ears as the two of you danced. Different to Riki this felt more personal, more natural. It felt like flying among the clouds— movements so swift that you felt weightless in his arms.

His gaze never broke away from yours, even with all the times the candle flickered as if it had died and sparked back to life. From an outside view you both looked mesmerizing. Moving around the dance floor as if you owned it without a care for anyone that stood there watching. Your father was the only one that stood there unimpressed.

Slowly the music died down and along with it the light of the candle as he spun you to a stop. For a moment neither of you shared any words, but that was that shared heaviness of everything that this dance symbolized.

"Looks like you owe me another dance, Miss Sharpe.'' For a brief second his gaze falls to your lips, but instead of molding them with his own he takes a step back and gives a polite bow— one that signified the end of this moment with him.

Even as he walked away and other couples began to flood the dance floor once more, your eyes followed him. The air around you held it's breath, only exhaling when a hand pressed against your shoulder. You were snapped back to reality when Riki finally spoke, and for a moment your gaze lingers on the doors that he had just left before falling on Riki.

The rest of the night seemed to pass by like a blur of memories all mushed together. Laughing and smiling with Riki for the most part, slow sips of wine and drinks that made the entire night feel like a dream. Even the speech that your father gave in honor of your mother had fallen on deaf ears at some point.

After that, he didn't talk to you. Even as everyone had gone and the house silenced and stilled, he didn't speak. like he had no words for his disobedient daughter that had gone against his word.

That night, you found it hard to sleep, you weren't sure if it was the moment shared with Sunoo or the alcohol that made the concept of sleep so hard to grasp, but it was agonizing. You told yourself to close your eyes and imagine leaves flowing down a river— a method your mother taught you when you were younger. You let out a deep breath as you lie down, flat on your back and tried your best to envision it.

For a short moment you were falling, your breathing slowed and you were lulling off until you heard the creak of a floorboard. You told yourself that it was probably your father or Sunoo going to the kitchen for a drink or something, but it slowly started to sound too close for comfort.

Your eyes immediately open at the sound of a knob jiggling, your body now on high alert as you saw it twist then cease the moment you set eyes on it. That old feeling was starting to creep in, that feeling of not being alone— of a presence that wasn't entire living nor dead.

The jiggling of the knob eventually stopped and the room was quiet. You felt your breath catch in your throat. It was like you were waiting for something you weren't even sure was entirely real. The jiggling started again, eventually ending with a click of the lock and a creak as it was pushed open.

You couldn't look, couldn't face whatever it was because then that made it all too real, that meant facing that the ghosts you saw weren't just manifestations of your grief.

You slip beneath the covers, engulfing yourself in the safety of the sheets, whispering silent prayers as you felt the bed dip and creak with the presence of someone— or something, else.

Then you heard it, the rasp of a voice, like someone speaking with something caught or lodged into their throat. The words first came out like a violent hiss. "the red sssnow, red sssnow.''

Your hands immediately shoot to your ears, you didn't care what was there, you didn't want to see it or hear it. Why tonight of all nights? On a day that was already painful enough to remember without ghosts of your pasts following you. No matter how hard you tried to drown it out, the voice just sounded louder and louder in your ears.

"Leave me alone...'' The words fell from your lips like a whisper, like you weren't even confident they would work. You repeated them over and over until you had convinced yourself that you were brave enough to face whatever it was.

"I said leave me alone!'' You yell, yanking the covers off of your head, but when you finally open your eyes there was nothing there.

Maybe you were just drunk— maybe even crazy or schizophrenic, you didn't know— but anything was better than admitting that the things you saw were truly real.

After that night, you started finding it harder to fall asleep. Two nights passed of staring at the door knob waiting for it to twist and open with the arrival of something else, but it never did.

Tonight had been no different, unable to sleep or convince yourself that what you saw was just a drunken hallucination, you find yourself wandering the halls until you make it to the Athenaeum.

You slip in with a sigh, your robe trailing across the floor behind you as it hangs loosely on your arms. You flip a switch and the room flickers to life with the light of the overhead lanterns. You look to the first row of books you find, eyes scanning each one, fingers dancing across each dusted spine until you pull one free.

The book is thick and dated, obviously stained by time with every rip or tear. Your fingers caress the cover 'Frankenstein'. A book about creation, abandonment and longing for companionship, revenge.

"Couldn't sleep?'' Sunoo's voice carries through the silence, startling you and making you drop the book at your feet.

"Jesus, you scared me half to death.'' You hold your chest, reaching down to pick up the book and he slips into the room, movements of a phantom as he's standing next to you, reaching for your hand.

"Why are you awake so late?'' He asks, taking the book into his own hand and placing it on the reading table.

"I can't sleep, not since…Not since the night of the party.'' You also had not seen him since that night, it was like he was a ghost in these halls. Like he had left you with the memory of the dance and only that.

"Something troubling you?'' He asks, his eyes focused solely on you, like you held answers to every question he needed answered.

"Just having a hard time sleeping t's all,'' you respond— not the entire truth, but not a lie either.

"You read when you can't sleep?'' He chuckles, stepping closer, leaving only a foot of space between the two of you.

"Where did you go? After that night? It's been two days Sunoo, and I haven't seen you since. My father hasn't spoken a word to me since that night and you- you make me feel like there could be something here, then you just-you leave.'' He doesn't say anything, just takes your hand into his own and places a kiss on it. Despite being angry with him it still makes your heart leap.

"I'm sorry. I was visiting my parents,'' he apologizes, yet his eyes don't meet yours.

"Your parents..? I don't understand. Sunoo, I thought…'' You pause, as if coming to the realization of something that felt painful even to you. "Your parents… Your parents died on the same day my mother did?''

"It's not for you to worry about. It was your mother's day.'' He brushes it off, slipping behind you he makes his way over to the bookshelf, fingers grazing over the old spines of each hardcover.

"Oddly enough, it was the first time in years that I've felt any peace going to their graves. After the dance we shared, it felt less lonesome.'' You suck in a breath, unsure of what to say in response to his confession. It felt comforting knowing that you weren't the only one thinking of the dance you shared with him. But it was also scary— scary how close he was starting to get to you in a matter of two days.

You could brush it off as simple attraction, eyes meeting for the first time and seeing something there even if your time was short. But what you couldn't brush off was how badly he made you want more time with him when he was around— inhaled breaths, accelerated heartbeats whenever you were in the same room. You had been close to many men before, but none had ever made you feel so drawn to them. Not until him.

"That day, why did you come? Why did you dance with me knowing that my father— Knowing he doesn't approve of the two of us getting to know one another in the slightest?"

"Because I can't keep myself away from you. it's only been a day but I feel like during your time here you will make things a lot less somber. And I do apologize if this is overstepping, but I would like to spend more time with you. I know it is against your father's wishes but I think that it would make both of us a hell of a lot less lonesome.''

You could feel his gaze on you from behind, sharp and unwavering. You'd already gone against your father's wishes by dancing with him, he couldn't possibly be upset with you forever could he?

Slowly but surely you turn to face him, your gaze finding his under the dim light of the lanterns. "I'd like that.''

He smiles, a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes entirely, but somehow it was enough to have you whipped.

The next few days seemed to fly by like a blur, a montage of memories spent only with him in secrecy. Late nights sat at his side, listening to him play sweet melodies that seemed more and more like a soundtrack of your heart, each day. Sometimes the two of you would even sneak in walks when your father wasn't present, or have early morning reading sessions in the Athenaeum. A weeks worth of time, but it felt like absolute bliss.

It was an early morning, you sat at your bedroom window, a cup of tea in one hand and a pen in the other. A letter to Elisse had been long overdue, so you now sat quietly writing your every thought to her of the things you felt over the course of that one week.

My Dear Elisse,

Things are starting to feel less lonely here as I write to you. Father is still stuck in his old ways of course, the only time he truly talks to me is to discuss upcoming events, lunches or dinners. Other than that it is like I'm nothing more than the ghost of a child that he used to love. It is very solemn, no longer feeling close to the man that I should feel protected and loved by above all, but what can I do? I know that when he looks at me he sees her, my mother, but what I do not understand is why he suddenly feels the need to impose on my life and those I tether myself to. I met a man, a wonderful man that stimulates every part of my brain and body with his intelligence, kindness, creativity and compassion for others. Upon first meeting him I thought nothing of it, I thought that my month spent here would be lonesome and miserable even with the addition of a new face, but he makes things feel less cumbersome. He reads like no man I've known, plays the sweetest melodies on piano, cooks, cleans, he keeps this place so full of life, even at times when it feels so dull. I find myself stealing glances when he does simple things, rolling up his sleeves to complete a task, the way he purses his lips when he's deep in thought, even his anger as he trashes yet another written song that feels empty to him. Why do you suppose I feel this way? I cannot call it love, this I know, but is it plausible and perhaps appropriate to say that I do find myself falling for him? This is all I can write to you now, but there are more letters to come.

Sincerely,

your darling fluturaș (little butterfly)

You let out a content sigh, pulling your glasses from your face and setting them aside along with the letter. Slipping from the comfort of your seat, you step out of your room with soft padded steps, heading off to the one place you knew you could always find Sunoo when you needed him. The ride up the lift felt slow as it took you to the third floor like it did time and time again. You found him this time standing behind a desk— a desk full of random clutter, old records and phonograph cylinders you assumed to be just music.

"I knew I could find you here.'' You slip into the room, your hands clasped behind your back as you approach the desk with a confident playfulness.

"I'm always here, sweetheart, you've spent enough time up her with me to know that.'' He chuckles, resting his hands against the desk. Your eyes immediately fall onto his arms, the way he gripped the table, the prominent veins coming into view with his sleeves rolled up.

Part of you felt perverted for all the things that seem to invade your thoughts at that moment,but the thoughts leave as quick as they come.

"You seem to be a little distracted, Miss," he points out, the corner of his lip curved slightly— not in a way that was cocky or overly confident, but amused. Intrigued maybe?

You clear your throat, turning away from him and forcing your attention to the random trinkets scattered on a nearby carving table. The smile that curls onto his lips goes amiss by you. "I was wondering if you would accompany me into the main town? I have letters to send out and I'd love to get a change of scenery. And I thought I told you to call me Yn. Miss is too formal. Too distant.''

"I was a little busy working on something sweetheart. And your father, well your father can be home at any moment?''

"Please Sunoo.''

At that his resolve immediately crumbles. He let's out a sigh, looking back out the window before giving you a nod. "Only for a few hours, then we come back.''

His words bring an instant smile to your face, and you rush out of the attic before he had any chances to change his mind.

The ride into town seemed to fly by, much different to all those times you had gone back and forth with your father. Sunoo made it easy to feel less bored. Each time he would hear you sigh or spot a frown on your face as you stare out the window, he found new topics to stimulate your brain all over again. It was refreshing, having someone pay attention and care about you enough to notice such small details.

When you finally arrive into town the carriage seems to stop directly in the heart of it. The town square is bustling with energy, men selling newspapers children playing, half full shops, carriages fill the road making it all come to life. Sunoo holds out his hand, helping you down with an attentiveness that made you feel like a princess.

"Thank you.'' He gives a nod, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand before finally letting it go, leaving your hand cold and empty.

"So, this letter? Meant for someone back home? Someone you've got your eye on?'' He asks so naturally that you weren't sure if he were asking out of pure interest or jealousy.

A laugh spills from your lips nonetheless, and you shake your head as the two of you went on your way.

"It is to Elisse, my caretaker back home."

"The two of you are close?''

"She knows everything about me— she's taken care of me since I was thirteen. My father pays neither of us much mind unless he needs anything, but she's still always been kind and attentive. She got me through a lot when father and I moved to America," you explain as the two of you enter the small post office. Your conversation is cut short as you exchange words with the postman behind the counter, handing off your letter and a penny with a smile.

"Sorry, where were we?'' You turn back towards him and he's already got the door open for you to step out.

"You were telling me about Elisse.''

"Right, Elisse was like the only thing close to a mother figure that I had after we moved there. She made sure I was fed, bathed, well informed, and always in good health. Even took great care of my father when he'd go all scatter brained sometimes.''

"I see," he nods, soaking up all the information as if it were just as important to him as it was you.

"Your mother... What was she like?''

You hadn't expected such a question to be asked. Truth be told no one had ever asked about her other than Elisse but even then your father had forbid you from talking about her.

"She was kind, loving, spontaneous. A lot more free than my father was.'' You smile as the memories from your childhood flash through your mind like a strip of film.

"She was the type to track mud in the house and play in the rain with me whenever I got scolded for doing so by my father. She didn't like extravagant parties, she didn't even much like people— all she really needed was me and my father to be happy. My father had been so focused on putting a show for the masses as I got older, believe it or not, he wasn't always that way. But somewhere along the line, things changed when he took over my grandfathers company. When my mother died he only got worse.'' Your voice slowly drifted off, painful and distant.

That entire time Sunoo hadn't said much. After the mention of your father, it seemed to throw him deep into thought.

"Your parents, what were they like?'' You ask, and he visibly stiffens at the mention of his own parents.

"There's somewhere I want to take you while we're here.'' He's quick to change the subject, placing your arm on top of his he leads you further into town.

"Sunoo, wait, where are we going?'' He didn't answer, just pulled you along as he sped through street vendors and marketers." Sunoo?''

Eventually you came to a quick stop, and you nearly bump into his side as he halts. "Sunoo, what is going on? Where are we?''

You follow his gaze, the two of you stood in front of an old run down music hall. Eight withered letters in bold engraved into the brick "The Grand".

"Wait- I know...I know this place… My father would take me here to watch the ballet. Sunoo, why are we here?''

"It was my parents'.'' That was all he said, he didn't try to explain nor tell you the significance of it all, just left you wondering from that moment forward to the entire ride back to the manor.

The ride back was silent, cold almost— like the revelation of his parents legacy long gone had closed him off to you completely. Even as he helped you from the carriage and guided you inside, he said nothing. You wanted to ask if you had done something wrong, if maybe you had overstepped and it was the reason for the sudden switch, but you couldn't bring ourself to bother him.

A day that was meant to be enjoyed by the two of you had now gone sour, and you spent the rest of it alone in your room until nightfall.

You sat in the tub, your mind on everything but bathing in that moment. All you could think about was how Sunoo had frozen in place when you asked about his mother. How he had suddenly gone cold and hadn't said a word to you the entire ride back. With A sigh, you take your wash cloth from the side of the tub and lather it in soap, the sloshing of water fills through the stillness of the room like a disturbance.

Then you hear it, a sound you hadn't heard in many nights, the creak of a door opening and shutting. Your head snaps towards the open entryway of your bathroom.

"Hello? Who's there? Sunoo…?'' Nothing.

"Father..?'' Again, you're met with a humming silence. You step from the tub, wrapping yourself in your robe before taking slow steps forward.

The floorboards groan beneath your feet with each step you take towards your bedroom. You held your breath, as if you were waiting to take in what was on the other side of the threshold with full confidence. You step into the room with a shiver as you exhale, finally feeling some sort of relief as you enter the room and see nothing.

"Just the house settling,'' you tell yourself, turning back to face the bathroom and resume your bath. But you freeze dead in your tracks.

Goosebumps creep up on your skin the moment your eyes fall upon it, pulling itself up from the floor— what looked like a heavy mist was a woman in black with a noose around her neck. Her bones crackled and popped under the pressure of her body as she rose up to her feet. You stood frozen in place, your body unable to move in that exact moment. She inched closer to you, but she spoke no words like the rope itself had stripped her of her vocal chords.

She had been only a grasp away when you finally convinced your body to move. You turned and ran, not even looking behind you as you sped down the corridor only stopping when you collided with something hard. Sunoo's chest. It would have sent you tumbling to the floor if he hadn't caught your hand. Your breathing was frantic and your eyes dart around the hallway as if you were looking for something that wasn't there.

"Hey, hey , calm down, I'm here. I got you.'' He rests his hands on both sides of your face, forcing you to look into his eyes, like he knew it was the only thing that could ground you.

"Tell me what's wrong? What happened?''

You don't say anything. The words get choked up in your throat— like barbed wire coiling and contracting around your throat preventing any words from coming out.

He doesn't force you, just strokes your hair as you shove your face into his chest and cry.

For the first time since you had arrived there, you're sat in his bedroom. It was much like your own in size but different in interior. A dark swirl of crimson reds, maple browns and matte blacks. His bed sat in the middle of the room, A desk at the window lined with old music sheets and trinkets, unlike the attic nothing was worn by cobwebs or sprinkled with dust. An old dresser sat against the wall opposite of the bed, along with a vanity that looked as if it hadn't been used in years.

You sat quietly, leg shaking as you took in the essence of his room, waiting for him to return with the tea he promised you. The click of the door had you on high alert, but you calmed the moment you saw him enter with a tray of fruit and two cups of freshly brewed tea. He sits it down on top of an old trunk that sits in front of the bed before kneeling in front of you. He doesn't ask any questions— not yet at least. Just brings the back of his hand to your forehead to check for a fever.

"I'm not sick.''

"I'm only making sure, just to be safe.''

"Sunoo, I'm not sick. I know what I saw. it's not a fever and it wasn't my brain playing tricks. I saw it tonight and I heard it that night after we danced!'' His expression remains neutral even as he goes to take one of the mugs and places it into your hand.

"Sunoo you have to believe me, what I saw was real, what I saw was—"

"A manifestation of your grief,'' he cuts you off before you can even finish your sentence."Look, you've been through a lot since coming here— your father is constantly showing you no attention, you've just dealt with the anniversary of your mother's death and you're back in the place where it all happened. It's natural that your grief and your trauma would manifest those kinds of visions.''

"But I— I know what I saw, it felt so- So real. I don't understand.''

He brings his hands up to your face, his thumbs caressing your cheeks brushing away dried tears."You're here, you're safe. It wasn't real sweetheart. If there were anything here in this house, I would know. I've been here for half my life. I need you to trust that you're safe.''

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes piercing through his own to find some sort of reassurance. The feeling of his fingers on your skin slowly bring you to a calm. "Okay...You're right. Maybe- Maybe I just need some sleep.''

"You can sleep here tonight, I'll take the floor and you can have the bed.''

"No!" Your voice is loud, nearly bouncing off the walls of the quiet room."I mean, no, please... Please don't sleep on the floor.''

A slight grin curls onto his lips, despite the obvious fear in your eyes and shake in your voice, he can't help but tease you.

"You'll have to be more specific on where exactly you want me to sleep, sweetheart.''

Your face immediately goes flush and you feel heat rush to your ears. "Sleep. With me..please.'' He chuckles, brushing the hair from your face to get a better view of your expression— flustered, embarrassed almost.n"I got you. I'll keep you safe.''

That night was the closest the two of you had ever been since meeting one another. Your sleeping frame wrapped in his arms finally seeming to sleep peacefully, while he lie awake staring out the window. His gaze flickers from your sleeping face to his bedroom door as he heard a creak outside. He doesn't need to open it to know what's on the other side— it was the same something that had always been there for the past nine years, or more like the same someone.

Night bled into dawn and he had eventually fallen asleep. Unable to resist his exhaustion anymore, he finally let it take over him. Each of your breathing synced as you slept in his arms, and although you couldn't feel it in that moment, so did the beat of both your hearts.

When morning rose and the sun peaked through the curtains, you woke to find the bed empty beside you. While part of you had been disappointed to find his half of the bed empty, the other part of you felt relieved after your embarrassing freak out last night. Rubbing the last of sleep from your eyes, you slip out of bed, your body feeling as light as ever after all of the crying you had done the night before.

As you make your way down the hall and take the lift downstairs, the smell of freshly toasted bread, bacon, and a scent that hadn't graced your senses in years. You had fully expected to enter the kitchen and find Sunoo there like always, but instead you found your father. His back had been turned to you, he stood at the stove cracking eggs into a skillet, topping them off with mushrooms, tomato and scallions, just how your mother had always made them when you were younger.

Something about the familiarity of it felt odd, your father had never been this cheerful and he hadn't cooked you breakfast since you were thirteen. You watch as he salts them lightly, plates them and turns to bring the plate to the table. As he turns he finds you standing there and he gives you a cheerful smile, As if the last few weeks he hadn't drowned himself in his work— All to avoid talking to you.

"You're finally awake, I was on my way to gather you for breakfast.'' He gestures towards a seat at the table, and you hesitate before going to take a seat.

"Good morning ,Father. Is there a special occasion of some sort?'' Your eyebrows crease in confusion as you look at the full spread on the table."Is Sunoo not here?''

For a moment, the smile on your father's face falters, but he's quick to fix it as he places a fresh cup of tea in front of you."Sunoo has gone into town, he will be out today," he answers coldly, before changing the subject.

"That aside, the deal with the Nishimura's has finally been closed. We will have dinner with them tomorrow to celebrate.''

"Father, that's amazing!'' Although you didn't usually concern yourself with your father's work, you knew that this was a deal he had been trying to close for quite some time.

"What is it that you're working on anyways?''

"Well, after tomorrow, we will be the proud owners of a new theater. That old music hall from all those years ago is now ours.''

Your fork immediately falls from between your fingers at his words. Surely not 'That' music hall, right? "Music hall?''

"The Nishimura's were partial owners of that old theatrics center from long ago. Surely you remember all the times we've gone there?''

"The Grand? But I thought… I thought that place belonged to-" He immediately cuts you off.

"It does not matter who it once belonged to, we are now it's owners, and we will be celebrating tomorrow. Please do not make a show of this dinner as you did with your mother's ball.'' He responds with finality, like there was nothing more to be discussed.

The rest of breakfast was quiet, the previous giddiness from your father had slipped away and turned to something more cold and distant. Like this was territory you weren't meant to be dipping your nose in.

After breakfast, your father left you alone in the kitchen. You ate in silence before putting away leftovers and washing the leftover dishes. You couldn't help but think about Sunoo. He had just trusted you enough to tell you about his parents and your father now had ownership of the one place that still tied him and them together. Do you tell him? Or was this something you kept to yourself?

The rest of the day you found ways to busy yourself— making the bed and tidying his room, rearranging the nick-knacks in the attic and dusting them all, tidying his music sheets and throwing out the ones you knew he hated.

When there was nothing left to clean, you escape into the Athenaeum for your usual nightly read. You'd just be reading alone for the night since Sunoo hadn't yet returned.

You sat near the fireplace for hours, your legs tangled in your dress as you lie there, deeply enthralled by the book in your hands. Frankenstein was a very complex book within itself, fully thwarting yourself into a world of yearning for companionship, grasping not being fully connected with humanity— about the relationships of something man-made and his creator along with him. It fully intrigued you— something so cruel and teetering on the mark of absurdity.

"You seem to be deep in thought.'' Your breath catches in your throat at the sound of his voice from the doorway, you move to put your book aside but he holds out a hand to stop you.

"I'm not here to interrupt your reading, just here to sit in silence for a while." He stood there for a moment, hair tousled, sleeves rolled up, his eyes red and worn as if he had been crying or on the verge of it.

"Where were you today?'' You ask him as he enters the room with slow strides.

"I had things to take care of.''

"Things like what?'' You ask him, finally setting the book aside having lost interest.

He does a quick sweep of you, from the way your legs lie exposed beneath the sheer of your nightgown, how the neckline of your dress falls just above your breasts, then his eyes find yours. Something in him softens for a moment as he senses the worry in your gaze.

"You have nothing to worry about sweetheart. I just went in to town for something I needed, that's all,'' he reassures you. His eyes look so sure and comforting that you force ourself to let it go. It wasn't like you needed to know where he was at all times.

He slips your dress to the side, his fingers trace gentle lines up your leg before pausing at your hip and hovering there. "You're so worried about me when there's much I have yet to tell you. You're too pure to be his.'' He spoke softly, like he was simply voicing his inner thoughts— not for anyone to hear, just because they needed to be said.

You just sat there, unable to move under his gaze and the heat of his fingertips. His words were like ghosts to your ears, spoken and dying in the air like you hadn't even heard them to begin with. You didn't question what they meant, you didn't so much care what they meant. All that mattered was this moment— his touch that was so soft and delicate on you as if you'd break when he pulled away.

"Sunoo… I have something to tell you..." You spoke softly, trying not to interrupt the intimacy of the moment that would soon slip away with the words you spoke. He gives a simple hum in response, his eyes finally funding yours, making you suck in a breath.

"My- My father… Your parents' show house…He owns the rights to it." After your confession silence hang in the air. The subtle crackling of the fire made things feel less heavy. You watched his face, waited for any sign of anger, pain, anything— He showed neither.

Just brought your hand to his lips and placed a kiss on your knuckles like none of it mattered.

"Sunoo?"

"I know." He finally speaks, his thumbs traced circles on your knuckles as if it were unimportant.

"You know? Sunoo we can't... I can't let him do this. That place is all you have left of them."

"It's alright sweetheart, it was taken from me long ago when I couldn't keep up with payments, someone was bound to own it eventually. There's nothing more I can do."

"But I can't-"

"It's okay," he says again, his words more definitive this time, and it made you fall silent immediately.

"Just read to me, I don't want tonight to be any different than any other." He kisses your wrists, light and delicate, before taking the book and placing it back into your hands. "Be my distraction."

You look at him, unable to fully shake the worry you felt for him, but his gaze was so confident— so sure. With a sigh, you open the book again, making room for him on the loveseat before picking up on the book where you'd left off.

You couldn't help but feel distracted as you read, feeling the way his fingers traces your skin, how he'd see your hair fall in front of your face and brush it back so it wasn't in your way. The fact that you were completely undeniably falling for him was starting to become unavoidable. He was getting close in all the ways you'd never allowed another man to do.

The scariest thing about this was not knowing how he felt. Even with the stolen glances, delicate kisses and light touches, you weren't sure if he felt the same. Sunoo was hard to read, in a way you could never tell when he was being serious or simply playful in nature. It's like he used his touch to speak for him, but when it came to words there was no sign of the man that kissed you like you were his flame.

It was the one thing that kept you in distance, when all you wanted to do was pull him closer and kiss him.

—

Morning came, and even as the kitchen bustled with chefs and maids on hire you found yourself distracted. Your skin burned where he had touched it the previous night and only god knew the things you did after he had walked you to your room.

Your fingers curled beneath your dress, face shoved into your pillow to quiet down your moans. It felt filthy, sinful, to think of a man that wasn't yours and do such things, but he'd invaded the most sensible parts of you.

"Miss Sharpe??" Your brief flashback to last night is cut short as Ingrid calls out your name.

"Yes… Yes, I'm sorry Ingrid."

"Your bath is ready and we've chosen a few dresses, your father's choice. We also picked a few we thought would look perfect on you tonight."

"I'll be right up." You give her a nod and bring your cup to your lips. Making no plans to rush yourself, you take your time, finishing your tea before going to join her upstairs.

The bath seemed to be the only time you got some sort of relief from today's events. The moment you stepped out it was immediate hair styling, makeup and dress fittings.

Every dress your father picked out felt dull, lifeless, way too calculated. Luckily, you had known Ingrid enough that she knew the things that would flatter you and accentuate your assets the way you liked.

"What do we think of this one, Miss?'' She asks as she fluffs out the edges on what was now your fourth dress.

"Are there any more?" You ask, taking in the fit and ruffle of the dress in the mirror.

"There is one more, I think it would be the perfect fit for tonight, but your father may not approve Miss.''

"Let's try it.'' She doesn't oppose, just gives you a look, questioning if you were sure about it. "It will be fine Ingrid, let's just try it.''

You strip down to only your corset and undergarments and she helps you slip into the new dress— a beautiful champagne colored dress, made entirely of rich satin silk. Nothing too over the top, just a simple off the shoulder dress, with a slightly ruched train. Not too many ruffles, or jewels or sparkle. Your beauty alone made up for the lack in extravagancy.

"This one, this one is beautiful Miss.'' A large smile curls onto Ingrid's lips as she straightens out the bottom of your dress. As you take in your reflection in the mirror, you catch him standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like he were viewing something familiar— something that was his.

Ingrid seems to catch sight of him as well. Sensing the way you held your breath upon seeing him, she gathers all the others and exits the room with the excuse of getting more accessories.

"Do you think it is the right choice? All of father's dresses are so over the top that they feel less and less like me every time he picks them out,'' you start, all while he takes you in from head to toe.

"No, this one. This one is perfect.'' He steps behind you, so close that you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat against your back. He stares at you through the mirror as his fingers dance across your skin from your fingers up to your exposed shoulders. That touch alone made the air in the space feel charged with something that was way too intimate too ignore.

"You look beautiful." His breath ghosts on your neck, a little too close for comfort. You finally let out a shaky breathe when you hear Ingrid's voice down the hall. Sunoo takes a step back just in time as the girls all enter the room again. Sunoo slips from the room like a ghost, leaving you with a now lonely feeling that felt more like yearning.

By the time you had finished getting ready, dinner preparations had already been complete and your guests had finally arrived. You could hear their cheerful voices in the foyer as you take the lift down to the second floor. They had already started of the evening with their wine and bread. The moment you descend down the staircase, all eyes fall upon you. While Riki's family had much to say about how beautiful and breathtaking you looked, you could tell by the look on your father's face, he did not approve.

"A little late to the party." Riki approaches with ease, oozing a confidence you hadn't gotten to see on your first meet.

"We can't all wake up looking like Nishimura Riki," you respond, earning a laugh from him. He takes your hand and guides you down the rest of the way.

"This is the first time I'm seeing your entire family," you tell him, your eyes falling on his parents that had been happily chatting with your father. All while both of who you assumed were his sisters, sat comfortable at the fireplace chatting.

"Your father insisted we all be here to celebrate, said you could use the company?"

"Of course he did." You roll your eyes, finally letting go of his hand as the two of you join the rest of them.

"Finally, we can start our evening," your father says cheerfully, a hidden malice in his undertone as if he was upset for you having come down so late. Nonetheless, he holds out his arm, leading everyone down into the dining hall that was only used for special occasions.

Most of the dinner had gone by smoothly, though it had been mostly conversations of business and your father flaunting all the different places he'd been to. From what you gathered from Riki's family, they seemed far less strict and controlling compared to your father. It made you wonder how they had even made such good friends with him.

The conversation had now taken a turn for the best, with the attention now on you and Riki. Your father was more than thrilled to have you discuss your current interest in literature.

"So Yn, your father tells us you're interested in becoming a writer," his mother comments, wanting the two of you to feel included in the conversation.

"Well yes, I work at a publishing company back in New York, but for obvious reasons I've had to take a few days off."

"Right, America. Our Ki loves it there, he studied the arts there for, what was it? Five years darling?" She looks her husband before taking a bite of her food.

"Six," he corrects before returning his interest to his food.

"Oh I didn't know you were the artistic type?" You tease, more so for him to hear than anyone else.

"After one dance you think you've got me all figured out?" He responds, fully amused at your attempt to tease him.

"You two look brilliant together.'' Your father comments, suddenly shifting the energy in the room from one of fun and comfort to a subtle awkwardness.

"I don't know, from what I've heard Yn seems to be more interested in books than men," Riki responds jokingly, sensing the awkwardness of your father's words. You give him a thankful look and a smile curls onto your lips.

"I think books can treat me a lot better," you respond, making him chuckle. Your father takes it as something endearing. Seeing the way the two of you interact in such a manner only further fuels his delusions that you'd be together.

The rest of the night seemed to flow smoother from there, most of the diner being spent with the two of you laughing and discussing the most minuscule of topics. Meanwhile a lonely figure stands observant in the archway of dining room, having seen every interaction between the two of you.

The dinner eventually came to an end and your father stood outside discussing further business plans with Riki's parents while his sisters entered the carriage. The two of you weren't too far behind, walking side by side with slow strides.

"Interesting little relationship we have here," Riki comments, making you laugh.

"I think we both know it'll be easier for us to stay friends, despite my fathers obvious delusion for something more between us."

"And here I was thinking we'd end up together,'' he jokes. You shoot him and amused look, a smile curling onto the corners of your lips.

"Guess you're just not my type, I'm a little bit more into my books.''

He laughs, nodding his head in surrender.

The two of you finally make it to the doorway and he bids you goodnight before going to join his family. You watch them all climb into the carriage, your head resting on the doorframe.

Your father joins you at your side with a smile on his face as he waves them off. "Riki seems like a fine gentleman,'' he comments, more like a statement than a simple observation.

You sigh when he finally leaves you alone, the weight of the night and your father's expectations finally lifted off your shoulders. You slowly stride up the stairs, taking the lift up to the third floor instead of turning in for the night. Padded footsteps and the creak of floorboards above you tell you that Sunoo is still awake.

You hear him shuffling around as you approach the door and push it open. Just as you suspected, he's sat at the piano, crumbled music sheets and freshly used ones sit scattered on top.

"I didn't think you would still be awake so late.'' You step inside, but he doesn't turn to look at you like any other time. "Have you written something new?''

He doesn't answer, even as you make your way over to him and place yourself on the other side of the piano. Your eyebrows crease in confusion as he sat there, still writing as if you weren't even here.

"Sunoo?'' Still, he says nothing.

"Did I do something wrong?'' His silence remains, even as he pushes himself up from the work bench and moves over to the desk for more paper.

"Will you really ignore me after this morning ? After everything? After staring at me in that mirror and touching me like it was natural to you? After holding me in your arms in your own bed? You're going to remain silent?'' Your words are met with the light rustling paper.

"Fucking talk to me!''

"I can't!'' You're startled by his fist slamming against the desk.

"You can't? You can touch me like I'm yours, dance with me as if it were just the two of us existing alone. Y-You can hold me like you want me to feel safe in only your arms,but you cannot talk to me? You stare at me with eyes that tell me you desire me, as I do you, and yet you cannot open your mouth to speak simple words?''

"It is complicated. This is complicated. Does not matter what it is you see between you and I, it will not go beyond touches in secrecy.

"So I am your secret?''

"No, I am yours!'' The harshness in his voice makes you scoff, you don't say anything more you just stare at him. He who stood there different from the man that usually showed you tenderness and compassion. His hair disheveled like he had been tugging at it, the veins in his arms on full display as he gripped the table beneath his palms.

"Do you know how it feels to burn for a woman so desperately? After years of isolation and keeping my distance. You come here and you make me rethink every moral, every value! This can have no happy ending. Your father despises me and it is why you will only be mine in secret, I cannot fully have you when I know there will be others.''

"My father? I have completely gone against everything I've known. Everything my father wishes. To stay with you and be with you!"

"I did not ask you to!''

You take in a sharp breath, a quick inhale that feels like a sharp knife to your chest with the words he spoke. He seems to realize he's made a mistake and it's only confirmed as you turn your back to him and walk away.

Within a matter of seconds you feel a hand clasp around your wrist. Your hand is only inches away from the doorknob but even as you don't turn to meet his gaze he does not let go.

"I yearn for you. Are those the words you long to hear? Against all that I know, against everything that I have intended to happen here. I yearn for the one woman that complicates everything that I know.''

"What is it that I complicate?'' You ask, finally turning to look at him.

But he does not answer, he takes your face into his hands and he kisses you. Every ounce of burning passion that the two of you had held back comes out in this kiss alone. Your fingers slip away from the door knob and you reach for his hair. His kiss is not hungry nor insatiable, it is tender, passionate, like he had waited to do it since the moment you'd met him.

His right hand is still clasped around your wrist as the other falls down to your waist.

He doesn't beg or plead to touch you, it's like he already knows that even without your approval you'd say yes to him.

His hands are hot as they touch every part of your body, like he were mapping a holy relic.

Despite how he normally held himself together, his fingers trembled as his hand slipped beneath your dress, pushing it up slowly. His eyes drink in the sight with awe before his lips find your neck and you tangle your fingers in his hair with a shaky breath.

"Beautiful. Every inch of you is beautiful,'' he whispers in between kisses. "It makes me insane.''

Finally, his hand slips to the small of your back and he holds his breath as he feels you arch. "Tell me to stop, tell me now that we should take this no further,'' his voice is soft as he pleas for you to end the moment there. But you don't.

"Please.''

He seems to understand everything that you're pleading for in that moment. It breaks every bit of restraint that he had left in him.

He unties the dress before watching as it falls at your feet, he wastes no time removing everything else beneath it with frustrated huffs like it was keeping him from you.

When he finally strips you down his eyes are yearning, adorning like he were seeing a goddess right before his eyes.

He captures your mouth again, this kiss losing all the vestiges of his restraint. It's deep and consuming, with his tongue exploring yours that gave way to desperation. His hand cups your thigh, bringing it to rest around his waist as he frees himself of all restraints.

He cannot hold himself back, this feeling that explodes from him for the first time is to much to bear and he needs to pour it all into you.

He presses against you, his tip swollen and angry nudges against your clit like a question and a promise. Your nod is all the reassurance he needs before he pushes in with a shiver. You can feel him shudder against you the moment you cry out and clench around him. In a matter of seconds, his lips are on you, leaving a trail of passionate kisses as if he were worshiping a temple.

He waits until you let him know it's okay before pushing forward. A groan spills from his lips, one desperate and yearning that comes from the deepest depths of his soul. He pulls out then sinks into you slow with one single deliberate motion that has you gasping for air. The feeling of your warmth draws slow moans from his lips

His lips find your breast where he leaves hot kisses before taking your nipple in between his lips. "You feel like home…'' He let's out in between breaths. "So warm and snug around me… Like you were made in heaven and sent for me to worship.''

You let out a choked moan as you feel him completely bottom out. The duality of his words so sweet and, his lips that worshiped every part of you, and the harshness of his thrusts were ruining you in the best way possible.

Slow and deep thrusts that were less about friction and more about the connection of your bodies. Each thrust was like a prayer to whatever god that made you, withdrawing sweet moans from the both of you.

"So beautiful, even like this.'' His voice breaks with every word, thick with emotions that he would never convey outside of that moment. You don't speak— just pull him closer to you, like he would slip away if he weren't close

It draws a sharp, shuttering gasp from his lips. the intimacy of your body pressed against his, completely bare, sends a jolt through him. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, marking you as if you were completely and utterly his.

His thrusts deepen with each mark he leaves behind, becoming more urgent and needy. Each movement shows a desperation to escape any physical or mental distance between the two of you. His hands slide down to grip your waist, and his nails press into the soft flesh beneath his fingers making you his. He loved it, loved knowing that he was the one tainting your beautiful skin. Even if he wasn't the first, but god he hoped that he was.

"Sunoo...'' His named spilled from your lips like a prayer, a match to gasoline, setting him ablaze, and you were the only thing that could put out the fire.

His hips snap forward, a sharp, desperate thrust that steals the breath from both of you. The slow worship is gone and replaced by raw consuming need. He captures your mouth in one last searing kiss. His tongue tangles with yours, messy and needy.

The close proximity is the only thing on his mind. The sound of your bodies becoming one is the only sound that fills the room—a wet, rhythmic slap that underscores his every plea to have you as his, even if he couldn't say the words.

"Shit...'' His eyes land on you who were so beautiful in his arms. Mouth slacked open, eyes screwed shut as if it were all too much for you to take. His hand finds your cheek and he strokes your cheek with his thumb. Your eyes open to find his. They were blazing, full of a terrifying yet beautiful devotion.

The rhythm of his hips become erratic and frantic. Each one is a final pleading prayer. His body tenses and coils like a spring on the verge of bouncing. His fingers dig into your hips that signed away his body to you.

The release crashes over him with a heavy violence that made him shiver, and you came moments later with a shudder. he held you as you trembled in his arms, riding out the last of your orgasms with cries of pleasure that insisted it was winding down. He held himself there against you even after, buried to the hilt, his body pulsing against yours, buzzing from the high of the moment.

You woke up this time to the sunlight shining in your eyes through the frosted windows, only this time it wasn't you alone. Sunoo's arms wrap around you, your bare chest pressed against his and legs tangled within his. You were the first to wake while he slept soundly beneath you, soft breaths spilling from his lips with the rise and fall of his chest. You sat admiring him, his naturally tan skin and rosy cheeks that made him seem so delicate despite all the ways you knew he could destroy you. The way his golden hair fell onto his face covering his forehead and sleeping eyes, as if they were a secret.

You reach up to brush it all from his face and his hand immediately catches your wrist. Though he doesn't open his eyes, he brings it to his lips immediately and places a kiss there.

"You were awake?''

"I thought it would be rude to interrupt you while you were staring so intently,'' he responds, his thumb brushes over the pulse point of you wrist and he places one more kiss before his eyes finally flutter open.

"Good morning.'' His hand drops from your wrist to your hair, giving it loving twists around his finger before tucking it behind your ear.

"You look breathtaking,'' he whispers softly, making your cheeks flush.

"What now… After this… What happens with us?'' You ask him, resting your head against his chest you can almost hear his faint heartbeat. He tangles your fingers together, gone completely silent as if he was taking a moment to think.

"I have to go back to New York soon...'' His response was simple strokes to your hair, as if he were trying to lull you back to sleep with that motion. Though it didn't make you sleep, it did ease your mind for the moment. The two of you lie there for just a bit longer, bodies intertwined with one another like branches of a tree interlocked.

Sunoo found himself thinking about last night over and over, like it was the last drop of sand in an hour glass telling him that his time was up. You had made him start to question his every being, every reason for him being here that led up to this moment. He had his reasons for having been so loyal to this place, to your father, but would you accept him if you knew the truth? Would you accept him for everything that he was?

He had been putting on his coat for his visit into town when he heard footsteps approaching, originally he thought that they belonged to you, but to his surprise, it was your father.

"Ah Sunoo, just the gentleman that I was looking for.''

"Mr Sharpe? Is something the matter?'' He asks as he slips on his coat, his eyebrows crease with worry, had something happened to you?

"I'd like to have a talk with you, just us men?''

Sunoo had been quite skeptical at first, your father usually didn't communicate with him unless he needed events planned or something around the manor taken care of. Nonetheless, he follows your father's trail— down the hall and into his office.

He doesn't flinch even as your father slams the door shut and the latch on the door locks with a soft click. He eyes him as he moves around him and to the half empty desk in front of him. The room, although tidied and clean, looked as if it hadn't been used up until this point. There's a cold silence that settles between the two of them, as if the house itself could sense unmarked tension. Sunoo's eyes follow your father as he reaches a hand behind his desk and pulls out a single sheet of paper, a check.

"I figured that when I told you I didn't like you with her, you'd heed my warning the first time. But clearly, I was mistaken of your persistence.''

"I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Sharpe,'' he immediately cuts Sunoo off, holding out a hand as if to silence him.

"I know very well the things you've done with my daughter. I've seen the way she looks at you, as if she would go against everything that I have built for her to be with you, and I will not have it.'' He stands from his seat, his footsteps loud and taunting as he moves towards Sunoo with authoritative strides.

"You will take this check and you will leave the manor immediately, you will break my daughters heart and give her no explanation. No reason to look for you beyond today."

Sunoo's eyes fall to the check he held out before him, sharp and void of any emotion other than annoyance. "And why would I do that?'' His tone goes flat as he meets your father's gaze. He stood there as calm as ever, even as your father's jaw visibly clenches, as if Sunoo's gaze was some sort of challenge. Like he was overstepping into territory he had no business being in.

Stepping back, your father chuckles— a breathy laugh, not out of amusement but rather disbelief that Sunoo hadn't chosen to take the offer here and there.

"Persistent. Your persistence can be your undoing, just like your parents.'' Sunoo visibly stiffens, going completely flush at the mention of his own parents.

"At first I thought it were mere coincidence. A Kim, of all people, being my home's caretaker while I were away. 'No Thomas it is by mere coincident that he is here.' Then you tell my daughter that your parents died a few years ago.'' He chuckles as he throws the now void check onto the desk.

"And I thought, well that just can't be… Your parents. Well your parents died eleven years ago.'' The look in your father's eyes were that of a man that showed no regret nor remorse for the things that he had done.

"You thought I did not know? You think i do not check the backgrounds of those that I hire? Kim Sunoo, an orphan at the age of thirteen, moved into the manor as a caretaker when you were only sixteen, and until then you've been snooping around so desperately."

Sunoo's fist clench at his side, even until now he had been trying to keep his composure, to hold on to the last of his restraint.

"If only you had been in The Grand that day, to die along with your parents.''

The last of his restraint had snapped. You, who had previously held him back, were no longer a thought in his mind. The stable side of him had completely gone cold and his next act was something that he knew he could not take back.

You found yourself cheerful today, your previous night with Sunoo making you feel warmth and fuzziness inside despite the cold and frostiness outside. Though you were now alone, and Sunoo had gone off into town for the day you felt a slight giddiness knowing that he would return to you. You find yourself humming a soft tune as you take slow strides down the staircase and towards the kitchen. The soft hum of the stove top fades into your ears as you look out the window. watching as snow fell lightly and dusted the windows— painting everything in white. You found yourself smiling at the faint memories of playing in the snow and making snow angels. the days of enjoying the snow— of enjoying winter — felt far behind you.

The chirping of a kettle alarms you that your water is perfectly heated. You remove it from the stove long enough to pour yourself a glass and slip in a fresh tea pouch. For a while longer you sat in silence, peaking out the window and just taking in the view of the outside world. This was the first time you had found beauty and peace in a day such as this, when the snow was heavy and inches deep.

Setting aside your empty tea mug, you make your way out into the foyer, slipping on your coat before stepping out into the heart of it all. The cold air immediately kissed your skin, making you shiver and hug your coat tighter to keep in the warmth.

There was a subtle nostalgia in this moment, one that felt much like de ja vu. You could feel all your childlike innocence seeping back into you with the cold of the snow. You walked only a few feet away from the door before dropping to your knees and laying flat, sweeping both your legs and your arms around like you hadn't a care in the world.

The clouds stretched over the blue of the sky making everything look white and misty, you could see your breath with each exhale and it all felt so exhilarating. If your father were to come out right now and catch you this way you knew that he would scold you for looking so ridiculous. In his eyes, women should mature by the age of twenty one and leave such childish things behind.

A light hearted chuckle spills from your lips as you roll around, taking fistfuls of snow and throwing it in the air just to watch it all fall. You couldn't care less about the frost nipping at your hands or face, because in that moment, you felt free. Like you could be yourself with no judgment or outside factors controlling how you had fun.

Rolling onto your back, you let out a content sigh, your eyelashes and lips are almost immediately dusted with the falling snow, but you don't mind it. The burn of the cold feels oddly comforting in that moment.

Finally, as if you'd had enough of it for the day, you push yourself up and dust off your coat. You're ready to head back inside and cozy up at the fire, but the moment you get up on your feet your eyes catch a slight hint of red in the snow. You freeze on the spot, sucking in a breath that burned with the cold. You should have ignored it, should have just stepped away as if you hadn't seen it, but you never learned your lesson, even all these years later.

You followed the skater, soft hints of red that almost disappeared beneath the snow, but it hadn't fully disappeared just yet. You held your breath as it pulled you further from the mansion and deeper towards wooded territory. You tried to convince yourself that it had possibly just been an animal, wounded or dead— fallen pray to something much bigger. But everything in you was screaming that this was not a good idea— that you should just turn around and head back inside without letting your curiosity get the best of you.

The crunch of snow and softened leaves beneath your feet felt like a warning almost, something you should have heath and listened to immediately. Eventually, the small drops of crimson had turned to something scarier, more sinister— you were now following a trail. Leading you deeper and deeper into the woods, like following the map until you stumbled upon treasure. Soon enough your strides slowed until they came to a full halt.

"Oh- oh god.'' the words spilled from your lips with soft gags, followed by soft heaves and shortened gasps.

A body, the head smashed in, like it had taken multiple physical blows. Blood spills onto the snow along with shattered fragments of bone and flesh. Even without seeing his face you were well aware of who it was, your chest tightens as a cry rips from the deepest depths of your throat. Your hands tremble as you reach out to his own, brushing over his now blue knuckles with your fingertips. Your breaths became shaky and unstable, and suddenly, you were no longer a twenty one year old woman, happy and finding her way— you were that same ten year old girl that found her mothers dead and lifeless body.

The cold was no longer nipping at your skin, as it seeped deeper and deeper into your clothes it had started to bite, but you just couldn't get yourself to move. You knew that you and him hadn't had the best relationship, but you would never wish him death. No matter how terrible the relationship had been between the two of you ,you'd have never wanted to see him dead.

You felt an arm wrap around you, followed by the crackling sound of hollow bones and faint whispers. You swallow hard, the previous sadness you felt turns into something fearful. You visibly stiffen, the tears that had been falling from your face have long stopped and seeped into your skin with the cold. With a shaky breath, you turn your head, praying to yourself that Sunoo had returned and somehow found you out here in the cold. But it was not Sunoo— a hand, jet black and bony, much like that of the woman you saw in the bathroom, rests on your shoulder. You choke back a sob, turning fully to meet whatever it was face to face. It towers above you, slender and skinny like it's flesh had faded away with time, but it has no face. As if some sort of mist or fog were concealing it's identity.

A scream rips from your chest and you push yourself up, almost stumbling as you head straight for the manor. Twigs snap and crackle beneath your feet with each step you take— each step felt agonizingly longer.

As you finally reached the clearing that brought you back to the front of the house, you turn around, wondering if whatever it was had followed you beyond the woods. It stood staring back at you, one finger pointed towards you, or the house even— it was hard to tell. Then it faded along with the wind, disappearing like mist among the falling snow.

You were startled back to reality when you felt Sunoo's hands latch onto your arms and shake you back. The moment your eyes found his, the tears started falling again. He held you tight against his chest, even as you broke down and your legs could no longer hold you. He just stood stroking your hair, his eyes trained onto the wooded area he had seen you slip out of only moments ago.

That night, he watched you sleep— he had insisted on leaving you alone to let you rest but you refused to allow him to leave your side. You didn't want to be alone, you couldn't, not after everything that you had just witnessed. When you finally woke, he didn't push you to speak, he just watched you as you sat curled up near the window, broken and frightened of being alone.

No matter how many times he had offered to leave the room, to make you tea or porridge, anything to provide you nutrients, you would grab his arm and beg him to stay.

He had to watch you go on that way for two days, you were silent and broken and the sad part was, he couldn't bring himself to feel any remorse. He found himself thinking back to the morning it all occurred, the way he hovered over your father after the first blow. How even after, your father remained just as prideful, not a cry or a plea when he hit him the second or third time. The way he helplessly inched towards the door, desperate crawls as if Sunoo would ever let him slip away.

Even as he carried his lifeless body into the woods and dumped him there, he felt no remorse, nothing for the man that had admitted to killing his parents as if it were an achievement.

He knew very well that it was wrong, the way he held you close, bathed you, clothed you, kissed you to sleep— like every kiss and touch wasn't laced with that secret he kept. What reason did he have to tell you? After all loving you was a factor that had been unaccounted for.

The first time he set eyes on you, you breathed life into every plan he had made before your father's arrival. He wanted to strip your father of everything he had, to make him hurt after all those years he had gone without his father, without his mother. Originally, he hadn't foreseen your father's death, a death was never planned. Not until your father admitted to killing them with his own hands.

For years he had been under the impression that his father and mother had killed themselves— an eleven year old boy coming back to the place his parents loved so much to find them dead.

His mother was strung up above the stage with a rope around her neck. His father however was found propped up backstage with a knife in his hand and blood on his neck as if he had slit his throat— broken down by grief after finding his dead wife.

When the police had arrived on the scene and found documents of failed payments and overdue bills, they just assumed the two killed themselves out of stress and the weight of their dreams failing. There was no further investigating or suspecting of fowl play and he was simply disregarded— Sent off to the first orphanage that they could think of, as if he were a problem for someone else to solve.

He was the ripe age of sixteen when the rights to his parents theater had been fully passed down to him. That was when these weird men had started to pay visits to the orphanage— he assumed they were here for the reason all the other adults had come there; to adopt. But they had a different agenda. They never wanted to see any of the other children, it was always him— and each time they all had one simple request. They claimed to work for some wealthy property owner in New York City that had been interested in the theater. But Sunoo would only turn them away. It was all he had left of his parents and their legacy, it was bad enough that their parents had already given 25% ownership to some family in Japan— he couldn't think of giving it away entirely.

As he grew older, they had become more persistent, always offering up large sums of money as if that would sway him. It made him curious to know who the man was, so eventually he had started to ask around. That was exactly the moment he had come to realize it all and put things into place. The letters piling up in his family's office, the mysterious man that would always show up at the theater to talk 'business' with his parents.

He started to think that maybe, all this time, your father had been one of the cause of his parents' downward spiral. That he had something to do with the business failing and your parents signing it away with their lives. The more digging he had done the more his suspicions of your father increased. The death of his parents, your mother having died on that same day, it all became a driving force. So he made a vow to himself that your— Thomas Sharpe— would lose everything that he cared about, that he would expose his true nature, even if it meant giving up his life to ensure it.

A month, a month had long passed since your fathers passing, and the light in your eyes would have slipped away entirely, if it wasn't for Sunoo remaining at your side. He tended to you as if you were a delicate rose that he planted himself— one in need of watering and sunlight to flourish. He never allowed you to wallow in misery— he'd often take you on walks, hold you when you slept, cooked for you, he even accompany you when you stayed up reading late nights. All because he knew even through sadness you needed to love.

There had been many moments you found yourself slipping away— the shell of a woman who's heart was buried with the last of her living family. But he had always been there to lift you up again with a smile, he was kind and tender and understanding, no matter how many times you'd try to push him away. And maybe it had to do with the fact that he understood the way you grieved, or perhaps it was the hidden guilt bubbling beneath his surface. Do understand he felt no remorse nor guilt for killing the man, the man that had stripped him of his parents— only hatred that he so felt so passionately for something of his creation, the daughter of a man he truly loathe.

He started to realize early on that you were no longer just a pawn to get to Thomas. You were something he had never planned— an anomaly unaccounted for that had invaded the darkest parts of him and made roses bloom. A beautiful woman; kind, intelligent, radiant— a truly complex woman that he had started to find too much comfort in. From the moment you danced, the moment he held you close and inhaled your scent, you had started to consume him. He'd search for you in every room, yearn to see your face, hear your voice, to come home late nights and find you reading.

You had wormed your way into his thoughts, slithered between the darkest and lightest parts of his mind, and what made him ache was that he wanted you to stay there. So he lied to himself, told himself that everything that he had done wasn't selfish— that having you, the daughter of the man he killed, all to himself wasn't so absurd.

He thought that he could just move on and be happy with you— that everything would pass and the manor would be at peace. But, Sharpe manor never kept secrets, not the place that swallowed lives and replayed their whispers through empty halls, like some mystery for you to solve.

You stood above your fathers grave, your eyes half lidded and red from crying. Sunoo stood at your side, your hand clasped in his own as his other caressed your back. He stared at the empty hole that would soon host your fathers body with an empty look in his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to understand how you could feel so lost and distraught over a man that had caused you to feel so lonesome while living. That you could grieve a man and not know the secrets that he kept— the skeletons that he ounce hid in his closet that now roamed the halls of your home, the he you lay your head at night.

The ceremony passed by like a strip of film burned at the edges— a mirage of empty scrambled faces and voices long lost in your ears, all while you exchanged casualties with everyone that had come to honor your father. Many of them were people you'd never seen before and if you had memories of them were long gone— buried with your father. Your father had kept most of his life separate from you anyways.

You had been sat at the kitchen dinner table, watching as guest chattered and passed by as if it were some sort of simple gathering. All smiles and laughter— because of course they didn't really grieve your lose. They were here to make partnerships and gather information. To see what you knew of your fathers business and how they could stake their claim. Sunoo stood silently behind you, a fresh kettle of tea now bubbling on the stove.

"Yn." A woman's' voice pulls you out of your momentary dissociation. Your eyes— tired and drained of light— drift to the doorway. Riki stood there with the rest of his family, each of them giving you a solemn look— possibly the most genuine you'd seen all day.

His mother is the first to make a move, walking over to your side of the table and engulfing you in a hug as if you were her own kin. It was the first time you had felt some sort of motherly warmth since leaving New York behind.

The rest of his family followed, all wrapping you in their arms and hugging you like it was an unspoken remedy. They each exchanged their condolences— reassuring you that you could reach out to them if ever needed, then you were left with only Riki to accompany you, while Sunoo silently made tea.

"How are you holding up?" Riki asks, pulling the empty seat beside you at his feet and taking a sit.

"It… It's been hard but I've been managing. I thought that I had grieved enough but this is just extra consuming. I'm forced to face the reality that he is truly gone." you respond.

"Is there anything that we can do? That I can do?"

"You being here is enough, out of everyone that has held my hand and whispered condolences your family has felt the most genuine. That's all that I can ask for."

Sunoo remained quiet the entire time you and Riki spoke, but he listened to every word. Unlike the first time where he watched the two of you speak and Jealousy coursed through his veins, he understood now that Riki was nothing more than a concerned friend. His confidence flowed in your blood, in the way your body trembled and burned for him just months ago.

Soon enough the manor was cleared of its guest and Riki and his family are the last to leave. He hugs you tightly, as if he were releasing all his worries about you with that one hug alone.

"Remember if you need anything, just reach out." He tells you one last time, nodding to Sunoo that stood behind you, before going to join the rest of his family.

A sigh spills from your lips as you shut the door with the exit of the last guest—and along with them goes the last of your resolve.

From behind Sunoos arm wraps around your waist and he holds you close to his chest. An action he had become accustom to within your month of being alone together. He allows his actions to speak for him as he takes your hand into his and places a kiss on each finger. He had somehow become your strength, the one factor in your life that made things feel normal and less gray.

"What do I do now?" an empty question you simply toss in the air, not expecting an answer.

"Let me take care of you." He responds softly, leaving a trail of kisses up your arm as if they were the answer to every question you had.

Truth be told you were afraid now, afraid of this place, of truly falling for him, when it seemed like everything you loved was lost to these walls. Like your family was cursed— Like you were cursed.

But, Sunoo didn't let that stop him from caring for you, from waking you in the morning with soft kisses or light touches, all things that left you desperate for more of him, but he knew it wasn't the time. He needed time to prove to you that he deserved you, or maybe he was just trying to prove it to himself.

November had long gone and when December rolled around it felt like years had passed since the moment you and Sunoo met— Since the day he held your waist like he knew that you would be his, and the two of you shared that dance.

You had slowly found yourself slipping back into your old routine— reading, having tea, and journaling your thoughts as days passed, the only differing factor was that now Sunoo had made himself part of that routine. He would encourage you to take walks in town, or to spend late nights with him wrapped by the fire, no words had to be spoken though, most times you just sat in silence and consumed one another.

Tonight the two of you lie upstairs in what had become both of your safe space, Moonlight shined through the attic window as he sat at the piano, his fingers danced aimlessly across the keys, all while you sat with your eyes closed and head resting in the curve of his back.

"Sunoo can I ask something of you?'' Your voice cuts through the silence, like waves crashing on a silent beach. He doesn't stop his playing, just responds with a soft hum.

"This, whatever this is between us, what do we call it?" Finally his playing ceases and takes your hand in his, caressing your knuckles beneath his thumb.

"It has been two months since we have met one another and I would like to think of this as you courting me, but since that night where I gave you all of me I have not heard your true feelings.'' There's a charged silence as you held your breath, like you were anticipating the words that would leave his lips.

"I've been taking my time. Getting to know you and everything that comes with it, learning to love you and tend to the parts of you that may be broken or have not been nurtured because of all of the loneliness that your father made you feel. I also needed to know that I could give myself to you with out worry or fault.'' You listened intently with every word, like his love confession was something you needed to breathe.

"While allowing you to heal and helping you do such. I was answering the one question that I myself have been unsure of since the moment I laid eyes on you. I needed to know that I was ever capable of ever loving a woman, of loving you. I can now admit to myself that I Kim Sunoo have fallen completely in love with you Yn Sharpe. In a way that feels maddening.''

"You're… In love with, me?'' the question rolled off your tongue before you could even fully grasp his words. Part of you longed to hear those words from him, but the moment he spoke them you couldn't fathom it. This unfamiliar feeling of falling in love with and wanting a man, and having him be in love with you.

He turns to you. "So much that I question myself, I question everything that I know and believe, everything that I am when it has nothing to do with loving you,'' he pauses and takes your face into his hands. "Every part of you has consumed me, even if you do not speak the words that you share the feelings that I do-''

"I'm in love with you Sunoo. So much so that it eats me alive knowing that I have gone against everything I've ever known to love you. I ache knowing that I could not please my father in the end, that he died disapproving us, but I cannot sacrifice my feelings. I think part of me will always mourn my father because I could not be his perfect daughter until the end, but You will not be a secret. I want you as mine in the open.''

He doesn't say a word, just stares at you with raw unfiltered awe.

"Then you will be mine,'' he pauses to kiss your hand, "You will be mine, and I will take my time loving every inch of you, every curve, every perfection and imperfection. I will love you inside out until I memorize what it is like to drive through the forests of your mind."

With every word and every kiss a shiver crawls up your spine. You stare at him, as if this moment would slip away if you took your eyes off him for even a second. He didn't let go of your hand this time, just kept your fingers locked with his while he used the other to go back to playing his tune. Every now and then, he would bring your hand up to his lips and kiss it, it had become his thing.

The rest of the night slipped away with time, and eventually the sound of the piano melted into silence, and you both turned in for the night.

With the confessions of the previous day came silence and distance from Sunoo. You woke the next morning to find the bed empty beside you, but unlike usual there was no note. You had expected to stroll into the kitchen and find him there as you occasionally would, making breakfast or having tea— but you were met with a quiet emptiness. An emptiness that continues throughout the entire manor— the study, the office, bedrooms, the attic, the athenaeum; he was nowhere to be found. And that made you scared.

Your stomach began to turn at the thoughts that began to creep in within his absence. Thoughts that the curse could have claimed yet another victim, that you could have lost him just as you lost everyone else in your life. You clutch your chest, whispering silent prayers that he was safe, that it was only your superstition, and you turn back down the hallway.

You're halfway back to the staircase when you hear the floorboards creak above you and you immediately perk up. "Sunoo?'' you call out, looking up as you make your way to the lift, taking it to the second floor.

The screech of the lift taking you up is the only sound you're met with, but it eventually comes to a stop, letting you off into the empty hall. You follow the direction from which you heard the footsteps with no caution, and maybe that was your first mistake. Instead of listening to that nagging feeling in your stomach that had been telling you something was wrong, you stroll further down the hall.

"Sunoo are you here?'' Still no answer, but you do hear the sound of a door creaking open further down the hallway.

You should have turned around, went downstairs and waited for him to come back home, but you didn't. You shove the door open, realizing that it had been one of the rooms that had been locked during your stay here. As you step inside, a chill crawls up your spine. The room itself was old and frozen in time. Just a bunch of furniture draped over with old sheets, covered with cobwebs and dust. Remnants of it's age and not having been cleaned for a long time. The room itself smelled stale and rotten like something had died there and the smell just soaked into the floorboards.

You sigh, wondering why you even though he could possibly be in here. You're just about to turn and leave when a faint clicking sound draws your attention to a sheet in the corner of the room. The room falls silent again, and for a moment you just stood there waiting to hear it again, but you don't.

It was like the house was toying with you, sending you on wild goose chases for its own entertainment. Letting out a frustrated huff you turn on your heels and head straight for the door, only to hear the faint sound of a sheet drop behind you. It makes you freeze on the spot, but you don't turn around— you don't need to. Whatever it is you can sense it's presence, even without turning to face it.

You start off with slow strides, inching towards the door until you're fully in the hallway and even then you don't turn around. You tell yourself not to panic and remind yourself of the words Sunoo once told you, it was just your grief— just your mind playing tricks on you after everything that you had been through in this place.

Whatever it is follows you out of the room, you can't see but you know it's there. The closer you get to the lift the closer it feels— like it was only a breathe away from you. You choke back a whimper, your eyes full to the brim with tears but not yet spilling over.

"What… What do you want?" You call out, knowing you'd get no answer, you never did get one but you couldn't run. Every time you ran, they always came back— but you'd never truly had the courage to face them, whoever they were.

A grumbling followed your question, like someone snipped of their vocal chords that could only communicate through groans and clicks of their tongue. You swallow and let out a shaky breath— lips trembling with choked back cries as you slowly turn your head. Your breath catches in your throat what you finally meet it face to face, not a woman or faceless figure like the times before but a man. A man, completely crimson much like the woman you'd seen all those nights ago. He looked to be in his late forties, hair slicked back, his suit neat and pristine. His lips part as if he wants to speak but no words follow, your eyes fall upon his neck and you catch a glimpse of a straight slit, blood pours from it and swirls around him as if defying gravity.

"Miss?!" Ingrid's voice is loud and clear startling and making your head jerk in the direction of the lift. When you turn back the man is gone.

"Miss I have been calling you all this time, ever are you doing wandering the halls?" She asks, giving you a worried look.

"Did you see him?" You ask her, her eyebrows furrow in confusion, but straighten as she seems to think she's caught on to who you meant.

"Sunoo? Did he talk to you already? He told me this would be a surprise?"

"Sunoo? No Ingrid I was talking about the man, the red man." A look of concern flashes on her face and she brings a hand up to your head.

"Are you alright Miss? Are you sure you got enough sleep?"

"Never mind," you tell her, waving away her hand with a sigh, "I'm fine Ingrid, what brings you by? It's not like you to show up uninvited."

"Sunoo asked me to come, he said to help you pick out a dress and make sure you were ready for tonight?"

"Ready for tonight? Ingrid what's going on?" She doesn't say, just flashes you a smile.

"Let's just get you ready Miss, I'm sure all of your questions will be answered tonight."

With one last look behind you, you allow her to take your hand and guide you. The hallway remains empty and the door you once entered, was now closed as if you had never entered it in the first place. Despite your confusion you allowed Ingrid to lead you into your bedroom. No matter how much you pestered her or how many questions you through her way, they remained unanswered.

It was odd, so add how your emotions could have within a matter for seconds here. How you could go from sadness to anger, fear to comfort in a matter of seconds, and not even question it. Perhaps it was the effect of the house and the spirits it kept, but up until now, you had never found yourself questioning if it was really you that was the problem.

"Ingrid can I ask you something?" Ingrid responds with a soft hum as she continues to tighten the ribbons of your corset.

"As long as it does not pertain to Mr. Sunoos plans, I was asked to keep quiet."

"I've already accepted that you are indeed tight lipped when you want to be. It isn't Sunoo I inquire about but this place, the manor."

"Oh? What of it Miss?"

"You've worked here for quite some time? Have you ever noticed anything strange?" her eyebrows furrow at the question.

"I haven't seen anything of the sort no, if there's anyone you would want to ask such a question it would be Sunoo, he's worked here longer."

"Right, sorry. Perhaps I'm just stressed." You sigh, placing your hands in front of you as you take in your appearance in the mirror.

"Are you sure you're alright Miss? Even when I found you in the hall you seemed to be a little frazzled." You don't miss the look of concern she gives you as she lets the ribbon fall against your back.

"I'm alright, Perhaps I'm just still taking in how fast this all has transpired, my father, getting close to Sunoo. This all doesn't seemed to rushed does it?"

"We all move at our own pace Miss. Time is abstract, it may not move when we want it to but it moves at the pace we need."

Her words stuck with you even as you made your way down the staircase— she walked only a few paces behind you, holding the train of your dress as she guides you into the Athenaeum.

"Mr. Sunoo will be here shortly, he told me to bring you here and to give you this." She leaves no time for questions, just place a book in your hand and flashes you a knowing smile before exiting the room.

"Ingrid what am I to do-" you call out a little too late, by then she's already out of the room. With a sigh you flip the book in your hand, to your surprise you see the cover of a book you had already read a hundred times. A book you were sure you could recite forwards and backwards if you needed— Frankenstein.

"He brought me here and had me get dressed to read?" You sigh, pulling open the first page and out slips a lonely slip of paper. You set the book aside as your curiosity gets the best of you and you crouch to pick it up.

"Time to test the flame again, I believe you owe me a dance Sweetheart"

Sunoo

You scoff, the ghost of smile on your lips as you read it. It was something so unexpected from him yet it was perfectly Sunoo. Leaving everything to mystery, and making you wonder rather than just being straightforward. The note remains in your hand as you hoist up your dress and slip out into the hallway.

You cannot hide your anticipation as you grow closer to the dance hall— your heart rate is proof of that.

"Sunoo?" As you slip inside the place is half lit by a trail of candles lighting your way, at the end of it are dahlias— your favorite flowers. Your heart seems to beat faster as you follow the trail to the center of the room. Sunoo is still nowhere to be found but lie too enthralled by the attention to detail in the room to realize.

Tables aligned with candles and dahlias, books scattered across them— all seemingly strategically picked from your collection; Phantom of the Opera, Dracula, Nosferatu, The Fall of The House of Usher, and— once again — Frankenstein.

Frankenstein of course sticks out to you because you had held the book in your hands only moments ago. To your knowledge there had only been one copy in the Athenaeum.

Dropping the skirt of your dress you take it into your hands, expecting to find yet another slip of paper inside. Unlike the first time you open this one carefully, flipping it open to see that it was not a note inside, but something far more complex, emotionally taxing.

Your breath catches in your throat as you reach your hands inside and pull a ring from between the pages.

"You look breathtaking sweetheart." You hear him say behind you as he traps you against his chest- his hands resting on your waist.

"Sunoo is this.."

"I've thought long and hard on if this was the right time, but time doesn't wait and I needed to ask before you slip away. Before time slips away, and decides I'm not worthy of staying at your side. Before you think about returning to be New York, I know that if I let you slip out of my grasp I will regret it."

His fingers trace your skin, from your shoulders and down your arm until your hand is in his own. He doesn't bring it to his lips, not this time. He pulls you closer to his chest, stealing the ring from between your fingertips he plays with it between his thumb and index finger, before slipping it onto yours.

"Your dance will be all the answer that I need, if I feel your fingers intertwine with mine and your arm around my neck, there is no need for words. I'll accept you as mine, I'll accept that I am yours. That moment you yelled at me to reveal my true feelings, I became yours." He pulls you out top the middle of the floor, and then you feel the warmth of his body leave you.

The moment you turn around he's already standing there, candle in hand like he is ready to claim the dance you rightfully owed him. You stare at the flame that flickers as if it's already on it's last life, then you smile at him. A smile that makes all of his worries and doubts slip away.

Your hand easily fits into his, and your other hand rests on his neck. He doesn't hesitate to pull you closer, allowing there to be no more space between the two of you.

This dance feels much different from the first— there are no judgmental gazes or worries of disappointing a man that was now, long gone.

This dance felt charged with unspoken words and revelations, a waltz that made you feel weightless.

With every twirl and glide across the floor your dress followed with a soft swish, but it weighted that of a cloud.

Both your bodies moving at the will of the music, not of your own will, but to a tune that solidified everything that this was. This was not just a waltz, it was confirmation of two hearts that longed for one another. Two hearts that no longer belonged to the bodies that housed them- but the person that each of them held.

With the end of your waltz came smoke, as the candle blew out once more- but this time neither of you paid it much mine. You were too enthralled by each other— too entranced by the fact that you now had nothing holding you back from loving one another. Your fathers last name no longer held you back— and a new name would once again breathe life into you.

You sat at his bedroom window with a smile on your lips, your robe having fallen off your shoulder as you sat writing the first letter you had in months.

My Dearest Elisse,

I'm sorry that it's been so long that I have reached out to you, but I'm sure you know things have not been easy. I do wish you could have been here for fathers funeral, but I understand that you must have other priorities. This letter is to not frighten you or worry you, but to let you know that I'm doing well now. I still grieve my father, those feelings have not left, but I do seem to be finding my spark again within his absence. I know you must find what I'm about to say absurd, but for once it feels like I'm allowed to make my own decisions with no one to tell me they're wrong. I write to you with news that I am

soon to be wedded, I am not a Misses. It sounds crazy to say, me the woman that would have rather died a widow months ago, now married to a man I've only known for months. But I think that when you meet him you will understand.

Sincerely,

your darling fluturaș (little butterfly)

As you set the paper aside Sunoo enters the room with a tray of tea and fresh fruit. He sets the tray down before making his way over to you, placing kisses on your shoulder, down to your hand.

"Writing a letter?" He asks, placing one final kiss on your finger where the ring rests. A beautiful ruby colored jewel clasped by a black band.

"To Elisse, I'm sure she's worried since I haven't written to her since finding father, but I'd like her to know I'm well again."

"Will you invite her to the wedding?"

"Of course, she's the last I have that feels like family, I will send off the letter along with an invitation." You respond, standing up from your seat and going to take a strawberry from the display of fruit.

Sunoos swiftly take your hand into his, pulling you against his chest with a smile. A laugh spills from your lips as he pulls you close to his own chest, brushing the messy strands of hair behind your ear.

"Do you really want a wedding? I know that you were never fond of big displays." He asks, his thumb rubbing circles in your waist.

"I'd love something small at least, a small ceremony with Elisse, The Nishimuras, Ingrid and the others as well." Part of you feels slightly saddened as you go down the list of possible guests. You can't help, but since if Sunoo aches— knowing that the last of his family died with his youth.

But of course he shows no signs of sadness, he just flashes you a smile and places a kiss on both corners of your lips. "If that is what you want then it 's what we will do. I'll have Ingrid come in the morning to help you with a dress and the rest of the details we will handle together."

Together— a word you weren't used to hearing. For so long your father had so much control over everything that you had almost forgotten what it was like to decide for yourself

The week seemed to fly by as you busied yourself with ceremony plans, and wedding invitations. Something that should have been simple with such a minuscule list of guests, yet it was still very-much time consuming. But it was all worth it because it all came down to his very moment

You stood, taking yourself in in the mirror like you were some sort of princess. Nothing too much just a simple white raven dress, and lace veil that fell a little ways past your hair.

This moment felt surreal, knowing that you were about to marry— about to give yourself away to be kept and loved by someone.

"You know when I last saw you I wasn't expecting you'd run off and get yourself married." You heard a voice speak from the doorway, a smile curls onto your lips as you turn to find Riki standing there.

"You came." You rush over to him with a smile, and the hug he pulls you in feels safe and familiar.

"You did ask me to walk you, I'll admit I was surprised by your request, but as your friend I feel like it's my job to be the one to give you away." He responds.

"I know that it's a big request when we've only known one another two months now, but you're the only one I feel secure enough to walk me down."

"It's okay, no need to explain." He nods, reassuring you that you didn't have to say more, he understood very well what you meant and how you felt — even if you didn't say it.

Ingrid appears in the doorway seconds later, giving Riki a brief nod before looking at you.

"Miss the guests are all here and Sunoo is waiting in his place."

"Thank you Ingrid, we'll be on our way." She nods and exits the room, you hear her heels click against the floor before eventually silencing the further away she becomes.

"You look beautiful, he's a lucky man Yn." He holds out his arm, and you take a deep breath before placing yours on top. The walk from your bedroom and down the stairs felt agonizingly long. The moment you step outside the cold kisses your skin making you shiver, but it doesn't seem to bother Riki.

He leads you away from the door and down to the lines of chairs that sit scattered in the front of the manor. The setup is simple, but intimate— not too extravagant like all of those events your father once forced you to attend.

The snow slowly starts to fall as you walk down the pathway leading to him, all eyes immediately fall on you and your eyes find Elisse— sat with the look of a proud mother on her face.

When your eyes find Sunoo he looks at you as if you were the most precious Jewel, like art meant to be on display of a museum. He stands there as handsome his ever, his locks that were the color of sunlight, now paralleled a dark night sky.

If you weren't walking and breathing right now you'd have thought your heart stopped in your chest. He looked breath taking, you'd never known a man to be so handsome, that it made you question if this was your true reality— up until now.

As you finally stand in front of you Riki places your hand into Sunoos with a nod, and it gives you the sweetest de-ja vu as he smiles and says to Sunoo, "she's all yours."

The moment the Veil is removed from your face Sunoo the biggest smile spreads across his face. He brings your hand to his lips and he kisses, not your fingers, but your ring. And the ceremony begins.

With every word spoken throughout he stares at you like he was finding his life in you. Like every secret he kept, every word he didn't speak, they were all slipping away with your vows.

Your voice was laced with silk, melting against his ears with every word you spoke, pouring out your heart to him until there were no words left to be said.

But with his own vows, he wasn't just seeking love in you, seeking freedom from pain and suffering, caused by his inability to let go of the past. With his vows he was sealing away the secrets that he kept from you with silent prayers that they would never be revealed. He knew that if you found out the truth, then you could never love him the same. That if you found out the man you loved— killed the last of the blood related family, he would lose you.

Your vows are sealed away with a kiss. He pulls you close by your hips, and his breath tickles your nose as his face inches closer.

"Until death do us part." He whispers to you, pulling the veil over both your heads as if it gave you some sort of privacy, like it was a blanket separating you from the rest of the world. Then he kisses you, the first kiss that solidifies your lives now belonged to one another.

The rest of the ceremony felt intimate, like yours. Like you were finally able to enjoy something that wasn't just for business or making deals. As you found yourself smiling and laughing with the people you are sure you could now call friends, family even, everything felt like it wild be okay.

Once everyone had gone home and it were only the two of you Sunoo couldn't seem to wait to have you alone. Soft giggles spill from your lips as he carries you up the stairs and into the lift. He hadn't taken his eyes off of you for even a second— he couldn't.

You were radiant, breathtaking, and most important of all his. Once you enter the room the silence swallows you both whole- bit it goes interrupted by the sound of his breath, heavy and impatient.

He sets you down in his lap so that your facing him, his hand resting on your cheeks as he takes a moment to just admire your beauty. His voice is a ragged whisper as he leans forward, his lips only in hes from your neck when he whispers, " mine, beautifully, undeniably mine, from the moment I saw you. The moment you held my hand. The moment I first heard you moan my name."

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his breath warm against your neck. He can feel you shiver at his touch, the warmth of your body alerts him of your anticipation

"Every inch of you— mine to hold, to kiss, to care for, to savor." With a groan of surrender, he closes the distance, his mouth meeting your skin earning a soft moan from you. Every kiss is desperate, hungry— like he wanted to brand your skin with his lips, leave evidence that you belonged to only him. As he removes your dress you can feel the anxiousness coursing through his fingertips, years of longing and fear of loving someone, slowly slipping away with each touch.

"You're so beautiful." As he finally frees you from your dress, his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter against him.

"Sunoo." His name falls from your lips like a prayer to god, making all of his patience slip away. You were his damnation, the forbidden fruit that would make him sin time and time again.

He can no longer wait, releasing himself from the prison of his restraints, he lets out a shaky breath. The moment he slips inside of you its all the relief that he needs. His eyes roll back slightly, a choked, guttural sound escaping him the moment he feels you clench around him. His hands tremble where they grip your hips, guiding you further onto him until you're completely full of him.

"Shit." He lets out a sharp, strangled gasp as you take him fully, his body shuddering against yours. His eyes are wide, locked onto your face and the way your mouth falls open as you take all of him.

His hips buck against yours, his control shattering the moment he feels you bounce once, like telling him to move. His hands clutch your hips, his eyes squeezed shut, and a low moan tears from his throat. "God, if you keep clenching like that I'll cum faster than you want me to sweetheart." He vocalizes, pushing your hair aside and leaving sloppy kisses on your neck as he thrusts into you.

"So pretty, my pretty girl, my wife. I will make every part of you mine. Until you only know my name and the walls whisper your moans back to you." His fingers graze your neck as he holds you in place, his lips coaxing you to take every inch of him.

He drives into you with a desperate, and punishing rhythm, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. "let me hear you sweetheart, I want to hear all the sounds you made when you thought I wasn't around, thought I didn't hear you. My precious girl." His fingers dance across your skin, burning any place it touches.

His touch is a fire that can't seem to be extinguished in that moment, grazing your neck down to your chest where he takes your nipples between his fingertips. "You're so sensitive, so easy for me, it's cute. Makes me want to destroy you in every way I can."

You suck in a breath as he pinches your nipple between his thumb and index finger, his thrusts abusive like he wanted to to fall apart around him.

A whine falls from your lips, the only words you can seem to let out are his name among incoherent babbles. He chuckles, a breathy sound that makes you completely lose it with everything he was making you feel in that moment.

"That's it sweetheart, you have a voice, need you to use it for me." Every part of your body became his canvas, and every mark he left on your skin was his art.

"Sunoo I- I can't."

"You can baby, fall apart for me, so that I can do it all over again." He pulls your body flush against his, his fingers press into your hips as he guides them against his own. He can tell you're getting closer, the way you clench and suck him in like his cock was your lifeline. "You're almost there baby, go a little longer for me."

A curse spills from his lips as you shudder in his arms, the sound of skin to skin and the slick between your thighs was slowly turning him mad. His thrusts became harsh, less loving and more abusive like he wanted the inside of you to remember every inch of him.

"My pretty girl." A broken, surrendering sound escapes him. His hips stutter, and his grip on you tightens as he spills deep inside you with a shuddering gasp. He continues to drive into you until you're finishing on his lap with a violent shiver. He lets you use him to ride out your orgasm until you fully collapse against his chest.

You're both completely spent, your body both sticky and sweaty messes from what was only the first round of what he would put you through tonight.

He lifts you up from his lap, carrying you over to the bed as if you weighed nothing— like he wasn't even tired in the slightest.

He lays you down on the bed, his hands are frantic but soft against your skin. His thumbs rub loving circles on your thighs before he pushes them back against your chest. "Going to take good care of you."

He doesn't give you a moment to think, your breath is immediately stolen away from you as his lips meet your clit. Hungry and eager- like your taste was the only thing that could satiate him. It pulls a cry from your lips, having cum only moments ago you were still sensitive and you hadn't come down from the high of your first orgasm just yet. But he didn't care, he needed to feel you in every aspect, to taste you until he could memorize the flavor.

"S- Sunoo." You choke out, he glances up at you momentarily and it makes you flinch. His eyes are completely glossed over, his lips shiny with your arousal. He was completely lost.

He hums against you, his tongue coaxing the filthiest of moans from your lips with every lick, every suck of your clit. Everything about him drove him mad— your scent, your moans, your taste.

"I think I'll lose my mind. He stares up at you, his eyes searching yours. I want to try something sweetheart, i need you to breathe for me. Open your pretty mouth for me." The words make your face heat up and you feel yourself clench around nothing. He was so shameless, he could ask you such things so easily and it sent your head spinning.

Your heart thumps against your chest as you part your lips, he brushes over your lips with his thumb, whispering soft praises and 'good girl's to you as he parts them further.

"Going to taste you while you're tasting me," He kisses you softly before pulling back. Using his thumb to part your lips further he spits into your mouth without asking, it melts onto your tongue like candy. "I want to feel you come apart with my cock in your pretty mouth."

He lies back on the bed, and pulls you gently to straddle his face, his hands guiding your hips. "Be a good girl and sit for me."

You breath catches in your throat as you hover over his face. His hands are firm on your hips, guiding you onto his face until his breath ghosts against your clit. His eyes are locked on yours, dark and full of worship. "That's it. Slowly. Just like that pretty."

The moment you settle over his mouth, he lets out a muffled groan of pure pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut. His tongue is immediately eager, lapping at you with a focused, reverent intensity.

He coaxes you to lean forward, his own hips shifting so his erection is right there, nudging against your lips. The scent of your arousal and the taste of you on his tongue is dizzying.

His hands slide down to grip your thighs, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles as he devours you. The vibrations of his appreciative hums travel through you. "So good. You taste so good sweetheart."

A sharp, guttural cry escapes him the moment your lips touch him, his entire body arching off the bed and into your mouth. His hands tighten on your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin leaving his mark. The dual sensation is overwhelming. His tongue works you with a frantic, worshipful rhythm, while the heat and weight of him fills your mouth. The room is filled with the wet, desperate sounds of mutual pleasure. You're both entangled with one another in the most intimate way possible, like your bodies were becoming one, like you were no longer just Sunoo and Yn, you were one person.

He seems to loses himself in the act, his focus splitting between the heaven of your body above him and the exquisite torture of your mouth on him. His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming less controlled and more desperate. He was falling apart, you were making him fall apart. Everything about you was toxic and dizzying.

His moans became choked out cries each time he felt your throat contract around him, when he felt your tongue graze his skin. It started to feel like you wanted to swallow him— to completely milk him for everything he had and he was feeling it.

A ragged, choked sound rips from his throat at the sensation, his hips bucking uncontrollably. His hands fly from your thighs to your hips, gripping you like a lifeline. His tongue lashes against you with frantic, desperate strokes, matching the rhythm of your mouth on him. And slowly but surely the tension in the room coils to a breaking point.

His whole body tenses, a guttural, drawn-out groan tearing from his chest as he spills deep into your throat, his release hot and pulsing. "Fucking, hell."he breathes out, before diving back in to your pussy. He can't stop, not until you cum, not until you fall apart and completely shatter around him. Your orgasm comes with a violent shudder as he cleans you up— like waves crashing to shore with a violent urgency.

You're both a complete mess by the time he's finished. His hands trace your thighs, rubbing loving and gentle circles until finally he sits up and pulls you up into his lap.

"Are you alright my love? Was it too much?" He asks softly as he pulls you flush against his chest, gently massaging you shoulders, your hips and your inner thighs. You shake your head letting him know you were okay, you just needed a moment to catch your breath.

He leaves soft kisses on every inch of your skin, dismissing the saltiness of your sweat on his lips, as he shatters you one last time with his kisses alone. When he finally felt you relax into his chest he pulls you down onto the bed with him, keeping you snug against him as he pulls the duvet over the rest of you. He didn't let go of you even for a second, it was like he needed to be holding you at all times.

Even as your exhaust took over and you fell asleep in his arms— your legs tangled with his, he held you close. Like if he let you go he would lose you, like you would slip away just like everything else slipped from his fingertips.

You woke the next morning to sunlight peaking through the curtains, his arms wrapped around you as if you'd disappear if he let go. A smile curls onto your lips at the memory of the previous day, you had really done it— really got married. You brush the soft strands of hair from his face, taking this moment of quiet to admire him.

He seems to be deep in thought even in sleep, his eyebrows furrowed, and lips poked out, but it makes him look all the more cute. Sighing you finally press a kiss to his lips before pushing yourself up out of bed, he had done enough lately, maybe it was time you took care of him in the morning.

Pulling on your morning gown you take one last look at him before exiting the room. Your steps feel soft and light as you stroll down the hallway, humming sweet melodies alone while making your way down into the foyer.

The first thing you do when you step into the kitchen is put the kettle on, you sit and admire the scenery from the window as the water Simmers.

"You're up earlier than usual fluturaș." Your head immediately snaps towards the entryway.

"Elisse?!" As shocked as you are to see her still here you rush over to her and she engulfs you into a hug. "What are you doing here? I thought you went back home to New York?"

She chuckles and gives your back a loving rub before leading you to sit. "Your fiance asked me to stay a while longer, said you could some family around. Don't worry I won't interrupt your honeymoon phase, I made sure he put me in the furthest away from both of you." She winks, moving over to the counter to grab three glasses.

"So you're staying?" Your eyes light up with the news of her staying a little longer.

"I'll be here a week longer then I'll be out of your hair, but until then you sit, you and Sunoo should be able to relax and enjoy your time together. I'll take care of everything else."

"You came all the way here to work?" You pout, feeling sad that she felt the need to work even now.

"I came all the way here to take care of the sweet girl I care for as if she were my own daughter." The words make your heart swell in your chest, you had always thought of her as your motherly figure, but you had never known that she felt the same.

"Good morning." A tired voice greets the both of you from the doorway, your eyes find a sleepy Sunoo, half clothed in pajama pants and a nearly unbuttoned white button up.

"Well good morning, have a seat. Coffee's in the pot, tea is in the kettle." Elisse greets, a slight smile could only her lips as she looks between the two of you. Her eyes follow him as he enters, as if analyzing which he would pick.

"Do you two have any plans this morning?" She asks as she sets down three plates of food— fresh fruit, eggs, bacon and scones with jelly.

"I was thinking of taking a trip into town, they're having a small winter festival." Sunoo mentions, taking a seat at the table. He grabs a strawberry first, even that doesn't go without being analyzed by Elisse.

"Ah the parade yes I did hear about it, I hope you two enjoy yourselves." She smiles as she joins you both at the table.

"Are you not going to join us?" You question, brows creasing in confusion.

"My dear you're a newlywed, your time away will give me more time to explore the place, enjoy your day as a wife."

The rest of the morning went on quite different from usual, you weren't met with silence or loneliness, because you now had two of the most important people in your life, here with you.

Elisse seemed to be getting along with Sunoo just fine, or at least that was what you had concluded. The chatter seemed to flow pretty easily between the three of you, but what seemed to go amiss by you was the way Elisse analyzed his every move.

Elisse was a sharp woman, she had felt a very intense shift the moment she entered the manor. The home itself felt angry, alive, like every window had been watching her, like the doorways spoke secrets, and the walls breathed with the air of those once living. She had known you nearly all your life, known the nightmares that came along with you from this once. But who she didn't know was Sunoo, nor did she understand why he would choose to stay in a place like this— if ask the things you said were true.

So she watches as the two of you leave, as Sunoo takes your hands and guides you into the carriage before the two of you were out of sight. The moment she closes the door the silence on the inside becomes deafening.

The moment she turns her eyes scan the foyer, the floorboards groan beneath her feet, every step feels heavier the further in the house she seems to step. The chains on her waist dangle as she saunters down each hallway, her eyes darting to each door as if she could see straight through them— see the secrets they held behind them.

She finds half stopping at a double door-ed room, one that had been off limits since your father had died, in all honesty it had been off limits before then. She could feel the energy beaming from behind the door, her suspicions are only confirmed as she places far hand on the door job and she feels it rattle. She shoves the door open and steps inside, revealing a neatly put together room, the only light shining in was from a window with the curtain half pulled back.

As she ever it was clear who's room it was, it was neatly done to your fathers taste. Old dresses aligned the closet and jewelry lay scattered on a fine crafted vanity. He assumed it was all your mothers, a ghost of the woman she once was, still lingering and long forgotten wanted the two of you left.

"You're still here, aren't you...?" She whispers aloud as her fingers graze the diamonds and pearls she left behind. She may not be able to see her here but she could feel it, sense it.

"And you aren't alone." Her eyes shift to the hallway outside the door where she hears the floorboards creak with the presence of something or someone, else. She follows the faint sounds of the home— light creaks, soft tapping on the walls, the groan of floorboards as if someone had been leading her around.

They stop at the lift, and although the sound is faint she could hear the sound of something falling in a room above. She takes the lift up to the third floor, ignoring how it groans and creaks— evidence of the houses age.

The lift comes to a stop with a large clank, and she steps off onto the third floor that now feels colder, eerier. The noises of the house finally cease as she enters a room with a large piano— the piano that he always played for you.

Her eyes scan the place taking in the skeleton of the room, as if it would tell her everything she needed to know about the person it belonged to.

Meanwhile, you and Sunoo walked hand and hand through town square, without a care in the world. The entire evening consisted of him adoring you, as you ran to each marketplace or food stall with the cutest smile on your face. 

This was the happiest he'd seen you in weeks. It made his chest tighten with feelings he couldn't explain. To see you smile was everything to him, it gave him a reason to live— A true reason.

"do you think we should bring something back for Elisse?" You ask him, as you swung your hands back and forth.

"You know her better than anyone, I'm sure whatever you bring back for her she'll love it." he responds, brushing the wild strands of hair behind your ear.

"We should all eat together tonight too! Just like this morning." 

"Whatever you want sweetheart, as long as I get to see you smile like this I'll agree to anything." He brushes a thumb over your lips before kissing them. It makes your heart flutter, you should have been used to it by now, his kisses, but this was the first time he did it so openly. 

You couldn't hide the smile on your lips as the two of you finally arrived at the main square, a large fountain sat in the middle of a few town hall buildings, shops and markets. The area was flooded with people— children running about with ribbons, some of them sat playing with spinners and bottle caps, families and couples scattered about— all gathered around just to enjoy today's festivities.

It felt so foreign, being here with him— no longer lonely, but someones wife. You didn't think that much would change when you finally decided to settle down and get married, you always thought that in the end your father would get what he wanted and you would marry someone of his choice, but you didn't. This was a choice you made for yourself, choosing your happiness instead of being the puppet for someone elses.

"Have you ever thought about children?" You ask him, the words falling from your lips before you could even realize you had thought them.

For a moment he remains quiet as if he were thinking it over. "For the longest time I wasn't even sure if I was ever capable of love, children were only yet another painful reminder of something I wouldn't have." He responds, it makes you hold his hand tighter.

The rest of the evening had gone by in a flash. You simply just enjoyed each others company, watching the children play, and watching clouds— simple things that felt like so much more all because you were doing it with him. It all felt so new to you, actually allowing yourself to love someone instead of pulling away or choosing to be alone. But it also felt so amazing to feel seen and cared for when you had gone all your life feeling like you could only rely on yourself and Elisse.

Back at the manor Elisse had nearly turned the attic upside down feeling like she was searching for something that would never show itself. Old photo books and music sheets sat scattered across the old wooden table as she searched around, knowing whatever it was that was in this house would not let her be until she had found it. 

She sighs taking a seat at the piano and mindlessly pressing keys as if it would help her think. Her eyes trace over them, following her fingers until they land on the last one 'C'. Her eyebrows crease the moment she hears it, slightly pitchy and off key— she plays it again. 

She pushes open the lid and peaks inside, each string seems to be in tact, but as she looks closer, her eyes find something shimmering beneath the exact key that has previously sounded pitchy.

She carefully reaches inside and pulls it out, twirling it in her hand as if she were inspecting it— a sound cylinder?

"What are you doing in there?" As she remembers vaguely seeing a phonograph in your fathers office, she slips out of the attic and takes it along with her. 

The home feels like it's holding its breath as she makes her way downstairs, the sound of her footsteps are swallowed by the walls as she moves down the hallway like a woman on a mission. The moment she steps inside the room feels heavy with something nasty and unseen. She sets the cylinder on a desk as she searches around, looking through half empty drawers and shelves. 

As she closes a drawer the force sends a cup with a single fountain pen falling into the trash. She leans down to pick it up, placing it all back onto the desk, along with a crumbled up slip of paper that she realizes may not have been on the desk at first. She goes to throw it away but curiosity gets the best of her and she smoothens it out of the desk. She feels unease creep in the moment she realizes what it is— A lonely check written to none other than Kim Sunoo, from your father.

The door creaks open, and her gaze immediately shoots up to find Sunoo stood in the doorway.

"Oh Sunoo I didn't hear you come in." She slowly adjusts her hand so that it sits just above the evidence, but it was far too late, he had already seen it. "Wheres Yn?"

"Taking a bath." He answers coldly, his gaze shifting from her hand to the candelabra he had previously used on your father.

"I should check on her, see how your day has gone." She excuses herself, slipping the check off the desk, entirely forgetting about the actual reason she had come in.

Sunoo doesn't say a word. He just lets her slip past him and out of the room. She let's out a relieved breath, her feet moving quick as she exits the room, but she could hear his footsteps not too far behind her. The quicker her steps echo his are only seconds behind. Finally she breaks out into a sprint, heading straight for the stairs to warn you, she's quick but he's quicker. 

He immediately stops her at the first two stairs, grabbing her and dragging her down by her feet. He raises his hand to take the first blow but he can hear your voice from the hallway upstairs. Elisse turns to push herself up but he grabs her again silencing her with a hand over her mouth. 

She thrashes around, using all her strength to fight against him but he eventually drags her out of the house. He didn't want to do this, the last thing he wanted to do was take the last loving family member that you had away from you but he couldn't have you know the truth. He couldn't have the one thing he had left stolen away from him.

"Sunoo..?" You call out to him, your night gown hugging you nice and snug as you make your way down the hallway. "Elisse?" But still, you receive no response.

You make your way down to the first floor and into the kitchen, thinking that maybe they had gone to start on dinner, but no one is there. Soft creaks down the hall draw your attention to your fathers study, a place that no one was supposed to be— but it didn't mean it should go unchecked. 

You step inside, your eyes scanning the room, but they had been nowhere to be found here either. Your gaze lands on the long forgotten cylinder, something that hadn't never there any other time you'd come in here. 

Taking it into your hands you take a moment to inspect it before taking it with you to the Athenaeum where a phonograph sat long forgotten— collecting dust. You aren't expecting much from it, you thought maybe it was just some old song or dialogue your father had kept to keep himself entertained. but the moment it began to crackle with the sound of static and only seconds later you hear your moms voice— you realized it was something far more important.

“If you’re listening to this it is the twenty sixth of November eighteen ninety. Please know that if you've found this then you are the only one that knows this secret that I hold. My husband has done a terrible thing. That family and their child, all dead by his hands…he says he has nothing to do with it but I found him cleaning blood in one of the rooms. I'm afraid that if i do not leave soon then my daughter and I will suffer his karma. I’ve seen their spirits walk these halls, i know it is not just illusion. Soon enough if i do not leave this place my daughter will see them too-"

it ends with the sound of a door being forced open.

Tears well in your eyes with the information you had just been given by your own mother. You tremble as you let out shaky breaths, that make your chest feel heavy every time you breath in. Your father— a killer.

Your legs can barely hold your weight as you stand, the heaviness of something cruel and disgusting now weighing you down. 

The world around you seems to spin as you make your way down the hall, the whispers and faint footsteps you ounce heard as a child all seem to come flooding. Your ears ring with many theories and what ifs but only one you knew had to be true.

"Oh god." you didn't want to admit it to yourself, that your father a man you thought to be madly in love, would be responsible for killing the women he actively grieved for, but it was the only thing that made sense.

You stumble down the staircase and into the foyer only to see Sunoo enter seconds later, he freezes in the doorway the moment he sees you. You can't tell what's real from what's fake as you see him standing there, blood staining his clothes, seeping into the white of his shirt. With your eyes full of tears you stare up at his face, the face of a man that knew it was all over.

"Yn.."

"What..what did you do?" the tears don't stop falling, even as you back away from him.

"She was going to.. She was going to take you away I didn't have a choice…"

No coherent words would leave your mouth as you stumble back and turn to go back up the stairs. It all had to be some sort of sick joke. He follows suit as you rush back up the stairs, leaving him behind as you slam the lift door shut. 

"Yn." His voice falls deaf upon your ears as the lift takes you up to the second floor with a loud clank. You stumble down the hallway, ignoring the way he calls out for you. 

As you get further and further does the hallway it started to feel like the walls were closing in on you. Like an endless stretching corridor that wouldn't stop until you turned and faced the truth. You stop when you hear the floorboards creak in front of you, as if you hadn't already had enough the spirits from your previous encounters finally make themselves known. 

Sunoo is only a few places behind you, he freezes the moment he sees you standing in the hallway. His eyes land on the woman standing before you, fully red, draped in lace, her hand resting on her stomach. The woman he had seen time and time again before you and your father had ever returned here. She never spoke to him though, she only ever appeared when he felt like he was closer to a truth.

"You..you can see her?" He speaks up, making you jump and turn to face him.

"You can see her too the woman? The woman in lace?"

"You- you told me that you couldn't see them? You lied to me." You shout back at him, tears falling down your face, making your lips taste of salt.

"Them..?" He inches closer, holding out his hand as if he wanted to reassure you, but you back away. "Yn what do you mean them..its only..its only her she's the only one here."

"No- you're lying.. you're lying to me again Sunoo! Again you won't tell me the truth!"

"I just wanted to protect you- I don't want to lose you-"

"Did you kill him?" 

"What?" He knows very well what you meant, but he knows that if he answers there's no going back, he will need to spill every truth.

"Did you kill my father?" You ask, your words shaky, like even though you know the truth you can't bring yourself to believe it.

"It was never my plan to hurt anyone."

"Plan…Plan? Sunoo you lied to me, you used me. I thought you loved me!?"

"I do love you!" The words hit you hard, how could he love you and take away the only things that you had that felt like family.

"He killed them, he killed them and he laughed in my face like it was an accomplishment, like their lives were trophy's. I got angry… I didn't mean to kill him but then I remembered finding them. My mother strung up over the stage..my father with his throat slit. They ruled it a suicide."

"What…what did you just say?" Your blood ran cold, your eyes widening the moment he mentioned the way his parents had died. The woman in red with the rope around her neck, the man with the slit in his throat. It was all starting to make sense, you weren't crazy and neither was your mother— she had seen them and you started to see them too.

"You… you've seen them…" you don't face to say the words for him to know, the look in your eyes says everything that he needed to know. 

"Yn… have you seen them." He inches closer to you but again you step back.

"You… my mother…oh god." The realization had finally dawned on you, your father had not only killed Sunoos parents, but he killed your mother because she was going to take you away. Those same spirits that your father had bound to this home had haunted you since you were young.

Every ghostly visit, it wasn't to torment you or scare you, they were to warn you that you had lived in the home with a murderer, all this time thinking that you were safe.

"Sweetheart just talk to me, I didn't mean to lie- i never even meant to hurt anyone…" the pain in his voice almost makes you step toward him. Only last night he had made you fall apart, you had only just become his— just found happiness with him for it all to fall apart. 

"When i found him in the woods, when I saw him you- you knew." You clutch your chest, feeling like your heart would burst at any moment from everything that you were feeling.

"I loved you I gave myself to you." 

"Yn please." He steps toward you and you immediately back away, running past him and back to the lift. You don't wait to listen, you take the lift back down to the first floor and rush out the door, not even bothering to grab a coat. The wind and the snow is harsh, it seeps through your clothes and taints your skin the moment you step out the door. 

Each step feels heavy as you trudged through the snow moving further and further away from the house, he appears in the doorway moments later. He sounds desperate and almost fearful as he runs behind you. You just needed to be away, away from this house, away from this place— it was a curse, everything and everyone you loved died here. This land devoured happiness and swallowed it whole. 

"Yn I love you, I love you so much that it pains me when I am not near you." His words no longer make you feel warmth, they feel cold ans nagging—They ate away at you. Even after all of this you still felt love for him, he still owned your heart and that was the worst part of all. It felt like you were battling with every emotion that you ever knew.

Ignoring his words you try to move on, you try to keep going, not the moment you look ahead you see her again, for the first time in years. She stood, draped in red lace just as Sunoo described, one hand on her stomach and the other on her side where she was wounded. Your tears felt heavier the moment they began to fall, seeping into your skin and freezing on your cheeks from the cold.

"M-mom." She didn't say a word, she just stood looking back at the manor as if she had been waiting for it all to fall apart. You finally turn, your eyes landing on Sunoo who finally stops a few feet away the moment he realizes you've stopped walking. When your eyes finally land on him he takes it as the opportunity to speak, slowly moving forward and closing the distance between the two of you.

"Yn." He reaches out to you, the space between you slowly closing in until he stops. You don't realize it at first until the red seeps through his clothes. Up until now you hadn't even realized, Elisse standing behind him clutching her side before she collapses. Sunoo stumbles back, the blood pooling in and spilling from his wound is already too much to be saved. He turns and looks back at the manor, all while you stood looking at the last of your family bleed out on the ground— painting the snow crimson.

"Elisse!" Your emotions fully take over and you no longer care about leaving, all you care about is getting her somewhere safe, making sure she's okay, but its too late and she knows it. The moment you rush over to her, and fall to your knees beside her she just smiles.

"Your mother, she was beautiful." She tells you, bringing her hand up to your face. "You look just like her." 

"We- we can get you help, I can go to town I can find someone.." 

she shakes her head. "Town is two hours away, no one could here in time." 

"No i could-" she stops you, before you could say another word, before you could come up with some kind of way to convince yourself that you could fix all of this.

"Go home…live the life your father never allowed…my beautiful girl, don't come back here." you watch as the light dies from her eyes, and the final breath that leaves her. A loud cry spills from your lips, it felt like the worst case of deja vu. Holding her in your arms the way you did your mother. The cold air, feels like fire in your lungs as you sat there holding her. 

Then you remember, Sunoo, the reason she was gone. Your eyes follow the trail of red snow leading back to the house and you push yourself up. Blood now stains your night gown, it seeps into your clothes and dries on your skin like it was part of you. Ignoring the cold that eats away at you, you trudge back towards the house.

"Kim Sunoo!" His name rips from your throat, harsh and pained. Like it no longer just made you feel butterflies to say it, it came with pain and loss.

You follow the trail, a dark red that stains the floor as if it were part of the house. It leads down the hallway and into the dance hall and you follow it inside, it ends in the middle of the floor. He stands clutching his stomach as if it would stop the life from slowly slipping away from him.

"I watched her die, I watched… I watched the life drain from her eyes. All over again I had to relive that I had to be that same ten year old goth that found her mother dead in the snow Sunoo. I have to lose you, i have to lose the only man I ever loved." You step closer, but he doesn't speak. He just looks at you as if words weren't enough to express the things he felt.

"Say something!"

He steps closer to you, and as he moves to wipe the tears from your eyes you don't even flinch.

"I never wanted to hurt you, I didn't want to hurt her… but you… you became something that I don't want to lose." He brings his hand to your cheek, his blood taints your skin almost immediately.

"I love you, so much that it pained me to think you could find out the truth and you would be taken away." The tears seem endless as he speaks, you should have walked away, should have left him to die— but you couldn't, not when part of your heart would die with him.

"I will spend a thousand years, scorched by hell for hurting you and bringing you pain. But one last time, for my sake… for my sanity. Waltz with me." 

You stare at him, the man before you completely broken and vulnerable, for the first time. You turn to walk away from him, and his fingers twitch where he once held your face. You should have walked out the door, but instead you return to him with a candle in hand. His eyes widen, like he had expected you to leave him here, even if he had he wouldn't have stopped you— he deserved to rot for ruining the one thing he ever truly loved.

His hand molds into yours one last time, like it was the perfect piece of a puzzle— but that no longer mattered did it? 

This time as his other hand rests on the small of your back it feels painful, you do not feel the butterflies you once felt with him. As you take the floor, his eyes bore into your own with failed promises, and secrets now fully revealed.

This waltz feels like the end to a tale as old as time, yet at the same time it feels like the end of a story that hadn't even begun. Your life with him, all gone in the blink of an eye. Every memory with him seemed to flash in your mind as the two of you glide around the dance floor with practiced grace and efficiency— with a delicateness that hadn't been present the first two times you'd waltzed with him. 

You could feel him grow weaker with every step— feel his hold on your waist loosen, his steps slowly turn into staggers, but he kept going. He danced with you until the silence rang in your ears like bells telling him that his time was now up. By the time he spun you to a stop, the candle had still been lit. 

It was a painfully funny sight, the dichotomy of the candle light remaining lit while Sunoos light was slowly dying out— your love along with it.

A faint smile curls onto his lips as he stares into the light, bringing your hand to his lips one last time for one final kiss. "You were beautiful, loving you was beautiful." 

He brushes the tears from your face one last time, and when you reach up to touch his face he presses slow kisses to your wrists, he spent every last second of his life kissing the parts of you he would no longer begin to kiss. 

"Sunoo." He responds with a soft hum, his legs slowly giving out beneath him, you catch him in your arms but his weight brings both of you to the floor.

"Sunoo please, you're all that… you're all that I have left." Your words, are swallowed by silence, and his fingers fall stiff in your hand. You watch as his chest rises and falls one last time before he falls stiff. 

He was gone— everything you'd once loved had died in the walls of this house. Sunoo, your parents, Elisse, All gone. The silence of the halls felt deafening and mocking— the spirits that once roamed, warning you and leading you were nowhere to be found.

You felt empty as you walked down the hallways that no longer scared you but invoked something far worse and painful. The floorboards no longer creaked or groaned with the presence of someone else, but the lift creaked as it took you down to the first floor— like old bones cracking and shattering with age.

Your steps felt heavy as you trudged down the stairs and past the kitchen that held many memories— memories of being sat in Sunoos lap as he read the paper, or having breakfast together before starting your day.

Even the cold no longer bothered you when you finally step outside, fully numb to the snow that fell against your skin. All you cared about was leaving this place behind and not coming back even if that meant you'd walk for miles. 

So you kept walking, and not once did you look back, even as a white figure looms in the attic window, watching as you grew further and further away from the manor like it no longer mattered. This house that had haunted you for so long, the reason that you had been so afraid to go out on your own and live— it was nothing more than a curse broken. 

The memories of your mother, of Sunoos' parents, of Elisse, it would all die with the manor. Even as it rot and fell apart, as its bones began to crumble and decay you would never return. For everything you loved had died along with it.

TAGS @kikidoul @jaylaxies @fancypeacepersona @hhoneyhan @stellargolden @nesquikluvr @maewybakes @sunooselle @angelhyuka @vixialuvs @m3chigo @diorcelle @yvampyr @gyuzies @sol3chu @heartheejake @gweoriz @nishimura-mimura @gweoriz @deaddcrow @bbangbies @wonzzziezzzz @dazeymazey11 @stayar1 @neogotmysam @taystarr @icatpjs @sunshisthings @joneborder @izzyy-stuff @bubblytaetae @firstclassjaylee @i-am-not-dal @luvjichang @lveegsoi @soobundle1009 @juliejulesjule @zoe1love @mymayaship @miirtilosazuis @cursedcursives @yourgirlyoi @riribelle @rikchic @laya18 @lakoya @jaysguitarstring @melodisic @kiwicup @baybayyy

[jaylaxies]

MARIONETTE

PAIRING: doll!jungwon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, porn with plot, unprotected sex (be safe), mentions of accidents, blood, slight body worship, somnophilia, manhandling, cunnilingus, heavy makeout, heavy dubcon themes, supernatural themes and elements, artefacts collector!reader, usage of nicknames, aftercare, fluff if you squint, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, mentions of jaemin and karina.

WORD COUNT: 16,104 words.

SYNOPSIS: As an antique collector, you had encountered many oddities; splintered relics, cursed heirlooms, objects that whispered in the dark, but never a life sized doll so breathtakingly beautiful, so humane. There was only one rule, to not open its coffin before the onset of New Year, however, temptation is quite a decadent exquisite poison. And now? Something stirs beneath the glass, something that waits for you, dearly so.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni.

A/N: hihi loves <3 it’s my first time writing something like this, and to think it was inspired by a dream? gosh, i did work hard on it and i really hope you guys would enjoy it too :3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <33

Chapter 1: The end? Or the lackof. 

Darkness was always your friend, it engulfed your being, the depth of your soul with the warmth even mere humans couldn’t provide, something so utterly beautiful, something you couldn’t see, the quiet, the warmth, the loyalty that cradled you in stillness. 

A stray tear cascaded down from the crevice of your eye, streaming through the curved expanse of your cheek and dripping all over the velvet carpet laid below, the kind that muffled sound, even your sobs. It covered the entire penthouse floor—another purchase made in silence for a place too big for one, a place too big for yourself. 

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered into the window, pressed against the cold surface which seemed baptised with the water droplets forming, courtesy of the snow, which slicked the city in the shade of white, adding another bland vision through your cornea. 

No one answered. The silence pressing you back into the surface as a reminder that you were indeed alone, it was brutal, and worse, familiar. Money brings happiness they said, then where were your parents? Friends? A lover who you so desperately wished to replace the embrace of the darkness to something real, so raw? A heartbeat beside yours.

You turned around slowly, eyes grazing over the meticulously arranged space, the walls lined in rich charcoal silk, the carved moldings of the ceiling dipped in antique gold, each piece of furniture either vintage or custom made to tailor your taste. A museum, people say when they visit. A mausoleum, you thought.

You were most likely the only exhibit that still lived.

Passing through the hall, you stopped just to see the picture frame standing tall on the marble table. The photo of your family—if it could even be called that. A frame that hadn’t moved in the past year since you came here, like the people in it. Your mother’s tinted red lips were parted in a laugh far too wide to be genuine, your father’s hand resting too heavy on your shoulder. All of you dressed in black tie for a gala you didn’t remember, smiling for an audience that didn’t care.

You turned again, towards what you claimed to be the heart of your home, if it could be called that. Each step was muted by the velvet of the carpet, your movement turning into an illusion of some dream as your fingers mindlessly caressed the artefact you always carried with you—an ancient key, so elegantly engraved, yet it opened nothing you owned. 

To your left, the antique room sat sealed behind tall French doors.

You didn’t go in, you couldn’t, not tonight.

Your obsessions slumbered there peacefully, a wooden crucifix with a bloody split down its middle, a weeping angel bust with glass eyes, an 18th century mourning veil still faintly smelling of rosewater and rotten flesh. 

It was a collection of grief, the kind of grief people celebrated, framed in golden wrapped silk. Each product was valuable, as if the burden in them could be traded for money. 

Your feet didn’t stop there, not until you were standing in front of the big wooden door with the serpentine handle, your thick black coat hanging on the rack, almost like a relic—so dark and finely woven in Italy. You draped it over your shoulders, slipping your gloves on with no destination in mind. 

But something in the air had switched from the very second the frost teardrop splattered down to the carpet, it was as if someone breathed down on your neck, like a whisper from within the walls. 

You found yourself stepping out, into the elevator, down the echoing lobby, well decorated in shades of green and red, a few children bubbled with excitement with wrapped boxes in their arms.

“Where to, Miss?” your driver asked.

You hesitated, gulping down your emotions. The city was still wrapped in snowfall, painted in black and white till the bone. Every possible location—gallery, restaurant, hotel lounge—felt as hollow as the apartment you had just left, despite being so full of life, so full of humans. 

“I don’t know, just drive—somewhere,” you murmured to the suited man with greying hair.

And so he did, seamlessly guiding you through the colour flashes outside of the window, a celebration you couldn’t quite grasp, something so fulfilling for others yet an empty vessel for you, glass fogging up per second as you found yourself delving deeper into the heart of the city. 

You almost didn’t notice the sharp turn as the car veered into a slow stop, right over the cobblestone, near the entrance of a rusty iron gate that was wide opened, the appearance of the gate juxtaposing the liveliness inside the grounds. 

A carnival.

It was blooming up the grass like a childhood nightmare to you, grown not from joy but from something older, more terrible—decay dressed in ribbons, nostalgia strung with nooses, with the flashback of your parents abandoning you in the middle of the crowd, with a pathetic excuse of work calling. 

The lights flickered like fake stars, too yellow, radiating warmth, casting the ground in a sickly kind of glow. Music reverberated through the cold air—violins detuned, a carousel melody slowed to a dirge. You stepped out of the car with a hand to the frame, your gloved fingers pausing as you caught sight of your own reflection in the passenger window, eyes empty, dried lips, your face floating behind the few stray hairs that made their way upfront. You looked like someone who attended a funeral, which seemed fitting.

No one should have been here out this late, the clock nearing midnight, yet the place was full. Crowds of people passed by, too smooth for your vision for them to seem humane. Children laughed, but the sound was wrong—too jolly, too bright. Balloons hung from the strings, glossy and silent. The scent in the air was thick—caramel, popcorn, and smoke curling together like a spell brewing.

Your feet moved without any motive, their own consciousness dragging you through the murmurs of the crowd, above the snow clad cobblestone as the place unfurled around you in shades of red and gold. Joker masked men took over the place, entertaining and guarding each shop. 

Without notice, a girl with doll like features handed you a candied apple, the red dripping down the ground in a way that made you feel sick. With a tap, you paid for it before offering it to a kid who looked hungry. 

You walked past it all, as if on a mission you weren’t aware of, the mist guiding you through, near the alleyway behind the giant wheel which hadn’t stopped moving all night. 

Then you saw it. A tent. It was the only place draped with black, and roped with red stripes. It didn’t have any signs, just tarot cards hung around, adorning the place. 

It wasn’t a beckoning, just a feeling—a feeling that someone was calling out your name. 

You paused outside the tent, the velvet flaps gently shifting though there was no wind. A low warmth bled from within, curling at your covered ankles like a blissed sigh.

Without thinking twice, you ducked inside the tent, the air thickening as if you had entered another realm altogether. The scent of something ancient, even darker than your antique art room, a pretence of divine divination. 

Under the red candlelight, against the dark walls, you met with a woman, skin as if a dark parchment, hair as if silver threads, luring you right in as her gaze met yours. 

“You’ve taken your time, we’ve been waiting,” she said, hands kept on table, her voice stoic, no anger, no sweetness. 

“We?” You asked in a whisper, confusion taking over your face. 

She didn’t answer as the candlelight flickered above your head as you sat down on the wooden chair, which creaked with each movement. 

The table between you was covered in black cloth worn out from decades—no, centuries, so out of touch. Golden thread formed a circle at its center, symbols stitched in curling foreign shapes, as if it was a cult. Atop it rested a deck of tarot cards, the edges frayed, the backs patterned in thorned roses.

The woman’s fingers moved, almost inhumane with how fast she shuffled the deck, portraying something simply inevitable.

Within a second, you had three cards laid in front of you, pressed face down, before she turned the first one over. 

“The past.” She murmured. 

The card read out Death in big, bold letters. 

A shiver travelled down your spine as your eyes assessed the figure of a skeleton, adorned with roses, seemingly half alive, but at what cost?

Her voice dropped an octave, “you’ve mourned things that are still breathing. But death doesn’t care about the soul ascending to hell or heaven, does it?”

Your lips parted in hopes of finding an answer, but she spoke nothing short of truth. Your parents? Alive but dead to you. Your friends? Barely one caring for anything other than your money. No existence of love, a true one at least. A dull ache curled in your chest with the card being taken back. 

Not even a second later, the second card was being turned around to reveal Collector. 

A massive figure seated on an antique throne adorned with jewels from top to legs, background filled with broken doll heads, and clocks of shapes you didn’t even know the names of. 

It was clear, the words echoing present through and through, your nails digging into your skin with the accuracy and abnormality of the given situation. 

“Collecting pieces long forgotten? Safekeeping them, when in reality no one intends to return to them.”

You felt as if the words were being carved into your bones, “you were made to be adored, but you’re caged in cruelty now.” She continued, “abandonment that leaves you searching for empty pieces.”

You were parched, each word acting like a truck of truth, hitting you over and over again, and it was only a second of silence as the last card was being flipped, as if awakening someone, something, into existence. 

A doll. That’s what the third and the last tarot card said, the image on it striking something primal in you; especially when you laid your eyes on the white porcelain doll, way too delicate for this world, carved into perfection of some sort, clad in a dark suit. He was perfect. Cheekbones high and blushed, lips blood red, glowing, and eyes? Closed in peace, in wait. You tore your eyes from the card the second you felt something burning on your wrist. 

A red thread, something you hadn’t worn before entering the stall, something that resembled exactly the threat around the doll’s wrist. It wasn’t silk, or cotton, it was something old, almost like a crimson fibre. 

The women didn’t blink, didn’t show any hint of emotions this time, “you’ve been chosen.”

You breathed out, waiting for her to elaborate. 

“He’s been waiting, he didn’t summon you, he chose you. It was when you were ten, in this life, he fell in innocent love all over again, the same place, the carnival.”

Her eyes weren’t moving, goosebumps rose up your skin at the mention of the carnival, the same carival which you visited with your parents, the same, which taught you abandonment years ago, the place you were at right now. 

“Who’s he?” You croaked out. 

“He saw you entering, the innocence long gone, now he craves, he desires your love.”

Your heart thumped out of your chest at the mere mention, the slight possibility of someone wanting you. 

“Where’s he?” You asked before you could control yourself, the words, the mannerism almost foreign to you. 

The women’s lip twitched up for the first time, the darkness highlighting the curve, before she snapped her fingers, making everything go dark as you stood up, stumbling back with a gasp, and right out of the tent. 

It was snowing again, the bustle of the crowd, the cheers of the children. The world was bright again, even in the darkness, but you were hollow, the thread burning around your wrist every passing second, as if in a rush to convey a message. 

You weaved through the crowd, past fire breathers and jugglers, past children squealing over marionettes—you yourself felt like one as past a the thread pulled eastward, toward the quieter edge of the carnival. You didn’t ask questions anymore. You just followed.

It didn’t feel real, just a dream with no end. And then, you saw it—tucked between two towering, crumbling buildings was a narrow, glassed storefront you hadn’t noticed before. You would have missed it entirely if not for the thread tightening against your skin, humming now with warmth. A wooden sign hung above the door, painted in fading gold. 

The Chiller House: Antiques and souvenirs. 

The windows were clouded, frosted even from the inside, yet you could faintly make out the silhouettes of laces, dolls, relics you couldn’t identify. The floral vines covered the sign which sat atop the door. 

Binded with love, caged with obsession. 

You stared at the sign, heart knocking against your ribs. You had a soft spot for antiques—always had. Things that had lived lives before you. The scent of old paper and polished wood. The way broken toys still smiled, even your room back home looked more like a museum than a bedroom. The past always felt warmer than the present, safer, even when it wasn’t.

A brass bell chimed in peace as you stepped inside, it was like a time capsule bound together. Display cases brimmed with forgotten artifacts—cracked porcelain faces, jewelled gloves, pressed flower letters that looked like they’d crumble at the slightest touch. The scent of cedarwood and dried rose petals filled the air, however, the room wasn’t musty, it was preserved. 

You twirled around the empty store, feeling alive for the first time in months, staring at your reflection in an ornate vanity mirror, before stepping behind the curtain, into a room which was dim, but not enough to hide him. 

A single glass coffin in the corner of the room, as if meant to be hidden from the world. Lit from below by a single, flickering bulb, the coffin glowed like an altar. And within it—he looked too perfect to be real. A life sized porcelain doll, mouth barely parted as if sighing in sleep. His skin was smooth, pale with a bloom of warmth on the cheeks, and his lips painted a colour of warm red. 

Blonde curls falling over his forehead, his suit was tailored in black, lapels stitched with gentle thorns, the collar closed neatly with a thin crimson ribbon. A matching red thread circled his porcelain wrist—identical to the one still burning on your own. 

He was so delicate, exquisite personified, crafted so meticulously, it almost felt like a sin to be staring at him. You didn’t realize you were moving till your palm rested on the fogged glass. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice called out, jolting you out of your trance. 

You turned around quickly to see the shopkeeper—a woman older than time itself, dressed in a black shawl with hazel eyes that gleamed like a summer storm. She didn’t sound angry, but tired. Like she’d been here before, like she’d seen this play out before. 

“I—why? Isn’t he for sale?” You asked. 

“He’s not for sale.”

“But why? This is a shop and he’s a doll,” you asked again, desperate to understand. 

Her gaze didn’t falter, “he’s not just a doll, and this isn’t just a shop.”

Today has been confusing, but this? It was way par your usual understanding. Not a doll? Not just a shop? It was as if you were bleeding into the thin crack between dream and reality. 

“I want him,” you repeated like a broken record. 

Her eyes flickered down to your wrist in a scowl, before she gasped, demeanor doing a one eighty, “I see, so it’s happened.”

“What has?”

She didn’t answer, walking past you to the coffin, brushing the gold plated oval, depriving it of the dust that had settled there over the time. 

Jungwon—the engraved text read out, a name as pretty as the face. 

“I’ll pay anything,” you declared, as if he would cease to exist if you don’t get him, if you don’t keep him preserved with you. 

“Anything,” she echoed, “everything,” she confirmed.

You stared at her, wondering if this was yet another tactic used to get a higher price for a certain possession, to quantify the amount of desperation one can behold. 

Still, she didn’t answer you directly. Instead, she moved around the coffin, unlatching locks you hadn’t even noticed until now—iron clasps, rusted, something that creaked with each movement. Not the lid, never the lid, just the base. Preparing it for transport.

“You’ll take the whole thing,” she started, as if telling you the rules. “Don’t try to lift the glass. Don’t remove the thread. And no matter how much you want to—don’t open the coffin before the onset of new year.”

“How much?” you asked, breath catching in your throat with newfound warmth blooming up your chest. 

She paused her slow movements, scribbling a figure on a torn piece of parchment and handed it to you. Her fingers were cold and dry, like paper itself.

The number was beyond the point of absurdity, a cost that screamed sacrifice, not currency. More than what a doll should be worth, if it was just a doll that is. 

You got your card out without a second thought. It was all you had, a price you got for having the ever so absent parents. She nodded, as if she expected you to say yes regardless of the circumstances. 

“Handle with care, he’s—he’s more fragile than he appears to be,” she murmured, “alas, don’t forget the rules.”

You nodded, fingertips quick to call, informing your driver to pick up the coffin, the brass bell chiming as you stepped out of the Chiller House. Your eyes followed him, throughout the journey. 

All while not knowing that your red thread had disappeared. 

Chapter 2: In the name of love. 

The glass clinked under the brightness of the chandelier, a voice that reminded you much of cages. 

Especially here, at the HYBE Plaza, where every corner shimmered with the festive celebration of New Year’s eve. And yet, not a single thing about this night felt new.

You sat at the long table draped in glitter, surrounded by people who wore their smiles like fake masks. Your parents sat two seats away, laughing for appearances, eyes always glancing sideways. Your fiancé, Jaemin, their choice, sat beside you with a hand on your chair, a smirk evident on his face, the usual routine for him. 

“You barely spoke a word tonight,” he accused, “this night is important.”

“To whom?” You stared into space, fingers playing with the red threads of the table cloth. 

He sighed, a vein popping out with the anger he couldn’t control, “to your family—to my family, to me.”

“The contracts, you mean? The exchange of money for souls, ah? Is that what I was raised for?”

Your fiancé shifted uncomfortably beside you, but his grip on your chair only tightened as he leaned in, teeth clenched. “Don’t do this here.”

“Where should I do it then?” you asked, still not looking at him, “at the altar? In bed? Over brunch with our mothers while they plan the next generation of heirs to ruin?”

He inhaled sharply. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“No,” you replied, turning your head at last, eyes sharp, the chandelier above caught in your eyes like fractured glass. “I’m being honest. You should try it sometime.”

“Sweetheart, maybe you need a breather, want me to walk to the balcony with you?” Your mum breathed out in her sugar dipped voice, almost embarrassed at the way you clearly worded what they’ve been doing all this while. 

“Where was this sentiment when it was my birthday, mother? Perhaps you were too busy to remember? Right, father?” You said, eyeing both, who looked rather embarrassed at your outburst, almost piercing them with the serum of truth. 

Truth that you were their daughter, a human, not an investment or doll, by any means—something that they’d been overlooking all this while.

You didn’t wait for a reply. 

The chair’s legs scraped against the marble like a declaration, loud enough to silence the violins. A hush rippled through the room. Your mum’s painted smile flickered, your father’s eyes narrowed with the slow cruelty of a man too long accustomed to control, however, you kept walking.

When the elevator doors slid shut behind you, the last thing you saw was your mother clutching her pearls, tears glistening her eyes, as if she finally realized a tinge of the hurt she’s caused you, but not a way to make it better. 

Winter had returned to the city like a storm—snow falling not gently, but rather, in solemn sheets. The chauffeur said nothing as he opened the car door. He didn’t dare, not when you looked stoic. 

All you remembered from the car ride was the flashes of colours, the scenery collapsing into an abstract piece too bright for your taste. The lift carried you into warmth in utter silence, juxtaposing the kids in the lobby, way too enthusiastic to celebrate new year. 

The penthouse greeted you with the familiar hush of years long curated wealth. It smelled faintly of roses and marble, of nothing real. The chandeliers stayed lit, as if unaware the girl who lived beneath them had shattered hours ago.

You walked in without removing your heels, only leaving them midway on the velvet of the carpet as your legs started to wobble, as if uncertain if you should be standing anymore or not. 

By the time you reached the bathroom, your fingers could barely unhook the back of your gown. Your body trembled from exhaustion, you peeled the dress off your skin as if it were a second one—a shell of who they wanted you to be, and let it fall in a puddle on the heated tiles.

The water scalded your skin, but you didn’t move, you stood beneath the stream like something carved from grief, arms hanging limp at your sides, head bowed. The steam curled around your body, trying to hold you together, but nothing could. Not tonight.

Your sobs were quiet—choked, too exhausted to echo in the grand bathroom. They slipped past your lips like secrets, buried in the hiss of falling water. You sank slowly to the floor, knees folding, cheek pressed to the cold marble. You stayed there until your fingers numbed and wrinkled.

Eventually, you rose, wrapping yourself in a robe, barely bothering to dry your hair, and stepped into the dim corridor, the lights flickering faintly above. The silence of the penthouse felt sharper now—closer. The velvet underfoot muted your steps as you passed gilded mirrors and untouched heirlooms.

Wrapped in a white robe, you drifted down the corridor, dripping steadily down your spine, leaving a trail of water. The chandelier above the foyer flickered gently behind you, casting your shadow down the hallway like a second self.

You opened the bedroom door, the air inside was chilled from neglect, the heavy curtains still drawn shut from earlier that morning. The only light came from the candle you must have forgotten to snuff—its flame dancing beside the mirror, golden and low.

And in the corner of your room, against the rich velvet of the carpet, rested the glass coffin, the one you had brought home, the one that hadn’t left your mind since.

You walked toward it slowly, your bare feet cold now, trembling slightly as you approached. Your wrist burned as you knelt beside the coffin. Your hands found the smooth edge of the glass lid, fingers hesitating, remembering the warning from earlier, what the shop owner said. 

Don’t open it before the onset of the new year.

It wasn’t new year yet, you were five minutes short of time, of patience. 

What would even happen? It’s just a doll, a pretty piece of porcelain, something you pondered about for the next four minutes. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the latch, “I can’t wait,” you mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

With that, you unlatched the coffin door, and as you did, the sharp corner of the coffin caught your hand, causing a sudden, precise sting.

You flinched, hissing softly, watching as a bead of blood gathered at your fingertip—round and dark, like ink waiting to stain something sacred.

Before you could think, it slipped, fell down, right onto his slightly parted lips.

The moment it touched him—the first firework exploded beyond the window, a bloom of sound and colour cracking through the silence. The sky lit up in gold, and then another, and another—an orchestra of celebration for a world that had nothing to do with the one unfolding here, the celebration of new year beyond your room. 

When you looked back, the blood was gone, disappeared. You wondered if he had a crack, a hairline in his mouth, letting the blood seep through, or it actually disappeared. 

Your hand reached beneath him, slow, cradling him once more—arms beneath his back and knees, lifting him gently from the coffin. The robe slipped further down your shoulder, forgotten. His weight pressed into you softly, the fabric of his suit warm against your chest as you carried him across the room, he was heavy, heavier than any porcelain should have been. 

The fireworks continued behind the curtains, echoing against the window panes like distant thunder. But inside your bedroom, it was just you. Just him.

You laid him down on the bed, carefully—pillowing his head, smoothing the lapels of his suit, brushing your trembling fingers once across his cheek as if to confirm he was still there.

Then you joined him, sprawling over the silk sheets, eyes blank as they stared into the plaster of paris perfectly sculpted into the ceiling. 

Your hand reached out blindly until your fingers brushed his, cold and delicate beneath the satin glove. You held it like it might tether you to something real. 

“I don’t know how to be normal anymore,” you whispered into the dark, voice hoarse from crying. “I’m always pretending, every fucking room I enter, every dress I wear—it’s like a costume. A fucking mask, and no one ever sees what’s underneath. I’m not even sure I do.”

You turned your head, breath catching as your eyes landed on him. He didn’t look human, he looked like an angel. 

Lips parted the faintest bit, lashes long and still, his face peaceful in the way the world never allowed you to be. You watched him, tears welling again, cascading silently down your cheek.

“I’m so tired, I only see red, no blacks and whites.” You sighed, as if curving into the madness of what the world put you up with, “you’re beautiful,” you mumbled, fingers tracing the outline of his lapel, the thorn-stitched embroidery catching against your nails. The silk beneath was soft, too soft—like skin meant to be kissed.

“It must be nice, being a doll, a real one with no feelings, just plush beauty, and stillness,” you whispered, his eyes shining with an understanding, a glint that shouldn’t be seen in the non living creatures. 

It wasn’t just grief now—it was like vertigo. That hollow, high feeling that came when you’d fallen too far and realized there was nothing left to crash into? You’d hit the bottom. The absolute, ridiculous bottom. And here you were—wanting to kiss a fucking doll.

You crawled toward him slowly, silk dragging behind your thighs, breath hitching. Every inch you moved across the mattress felt like a climb up the hill, a ritual of some sort, of great importance.

Your knees slid to either side of his hips. You climbed on top of him like sin climbs onto innocence, soft and slow, an angel falling .

You shouldn’t be doing this, you knew that, and still, you sighed into relief as you cupped his face between trembling palms, his skin was porcelain, yet it wasn’t cold.

It had taken on warmth—not humane, but something subtler, as the sun shone warmly on the sealine, almost a personification of liveliness of a peculiar sort. 

You leaned down slowly, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t realize how hard your heart was beating until you were so close to him you could hear the soft rasp of your own blood roaring behind your ears. 

“Everyone hates me,” you whispered, your voice inhumane, lacking warmth. 

Your finger traced the curve of his reddish porcelain cheek, perfect, “gosh—would you hate me too?” You asked like a child talking to a wall, expecting no answers in return. 

He only listened, attentive and polite, brown eyes staring into yours like an emotional support anchor, “I’m insane, I’m so insane, I,” you breathed out, chest heaving up with your face tilting in a fashion that if you’d bend down a smidge, you’d touch him, “keep me safe, even if it’s for a night.”

With a sharp intake of breath, you slotted your lips onto his, the act purely devastating, trembling against the solid, unmoving porcelain, clinging onto a kiss that gave you nothing physical in return, just pure warmth blooming in your chest.

Your lips parted over his, opening wider, messier—tongue barely brushing his, knowing there was no true warmth to meet it but needing it anyway, making you whimper and push down into his lap. The silence scorched you, it bloomed in your chest like fevered devotion.

The kiss turned wetter, more obscene, your hips rolling over his waist as your tears began to fall—again. You gasped through them, mouth open against his, panting.

“I just wanted someone to want me,” you sobbed, forehead resting against his, “is that so wrong? Is that so—fucking wrong?”

Your bathrobe had fallen open completely by now, the fabric slipping off your shoulders like silk cloth, exposing your bare chest to the cold, to him. You didn’t care, you wanted him to see. You wanted to press every part of your ruined body to the hollow sculpture of his form and pretend it meant something. Your thighs clenched around his tiny waist, your hands fisted in his jacket, still kissing him like a girl who believed enough could bring back the dead.

There, atop a doll who could not hold you back, half-naked, tear-streaked, heartbeat trembling like a loose violin string—you finally slept, not peacefully, but possessively.

And watched. 

He always did. 

Chapter 3: I see your heart is pure. 

Fingers trailed down your chest, not cold, not glass smooth.

It was flesh, real human touch. 

You inhaled sharply, the sound catching somewhere between your ribs and throat. Your breath hitched again as one fingertip circled your tits—tentative, like he was trying to remember it. The pad of a thumb brushed over your nipple, coaxing a shiver so deep it left your spine tingling.

You opened your eyes, the room was cloaked in shadows and gold. Velvet curtains half drawn, a single candle burning, but you didn’t question the shift. You didn’t ask where you were or what time it was, because he was there.

Jungwon.

Seated beneath you on the mattress, half clothed in his black suit, his blonde hair tousled like he’d just woken from the same need that drenched your body. His brown eyes were wide and almost fevered, pupils dilated as if he was starving.

His hands slid down the curve of your body, making you gasp quietly as they touched your bare skin, your robe had fallen open long ago, exposing you to him, thighs spread without any shame, not here. 

“Jungwon,” you breathed, unsure if it was a plea or shock. 

He looked up from where he sat between your legs, lips parted, gaze locked onto your core like he was watching something beautiful unravel. 

“You’re soft,” he whispered.

His voice sounded carved from candle smoke and shadow. Soft, velvet lined in some way. It felt like it was coming from inside you, like something whispered to your soul rather than your ears.

You parted your lips to respond, but your words didn’t come as he bent down, mouth ghosting the inside of your thigh, not touching where you needed him but still close, so close. 

A low whimper was all you managed to let out, making the pretty man smirk, a gentle dimple gracing his innocent face, that didn’t harbour a single innocent thought inside of him. 

He licked once, just beside your cunt, not quite there. A warm, wet trail that made your body twitch.

“Please,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair, tugging gently.

His mouth was so close you could feel it—not just heat, but presence. As though the very idea of him had weight. His lips hovered just above your cunt, parted, exhaling breath that couldn’t possibly exist. He didn’t move—just stared up at you with that hollow devotion, like your worship was the only thing he’d ever known. 

You moaned, soft and broken, hips lifting instinctively. His lips barely brushed you, just a flicker—when suddenly the entire world fell out from under you.

You jolted awake with a harsh breath. 

It was a dream. 

The second you tried to sit up—you gasped, to be pulled back gently by the weight of a hand around your waist. Not accidental, not your imagination. It was real.

You felt a shiver going down your spine. His arm draped around you even though you hadn’t moved him by any means. It was the same doll who once lived in a glass coffin, now lying behind you, cradling your body like a lover who refused to let go. His fingers splayed just below your ribs, unmoving but perfectly placed, as if sculpted for the sole purpose of holding you through the night.

Slowly, you guided his hand away, his arm dropping without resistance, gently settling beside him on the sheets, lifeless, as if nothing had ever happened.

But it had, you knew it had.

Your legs wobbled as you stood. The room felt colder now, like whatever warmth had been there with you had sunk back into porcelain. Into silence. You didn’t dare look at him as you crossed the room, bathrobe clinging to your body with sweat and shame, thighs still aching with want. 

Your skin was glowing in the reflection you saw of yourself, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, before you stepped into the shower, getting ready for your godforsaken uni. 

By the time you got to campus, the city had woken up but barely breathed, snow melted in streaks across the pavement, students milled about like ghosts of themselves, laughter thin. 

You met your friend near the steps—Karina, too bright for this weather, a paper cup of coffee steaming between her hands.

“You came to class on a bank holiday?” She asked, raising a brow, “should I be worried that you’ve final-fucking-ly lost your last marble?”

You smiled thinly, “I just needed to be somewhere—uh, not alone.”

She nudged your shoulder gently, knowing about your family problems, “rough night?”

You swallowed, not maintaining eye contact for once, “is it weird,” you began, voice low, “to want something that’s not, uhm, human?”

She stared at you, caught off guard, “what? Like a celebrity crush weird or maybe a serial killer weird?”

You didn’t laugh, not when you felt this way.

“I mean actually—feel something for it,” you clarified, “something not alive. Something you know isn’t real but—”

You cut yourself off before the words but it touched me could fall out.

Karina tilted her head, “okay, hold on, babe. Are you into one of your artifacts or something?” She teased, half laughing, not serious about the situation at all, “you’re really committing to your collection, I see.”

The second she saw you not laughing, staring at the ground as if you wanted it to swallow you whole, her tone dropped, “babe, you can’t be serious—wait, seriously? Y/N—”

“I have to go,” you whispered, grabbing your bag tighter as you walked away, ignoring the echoes behind you. 

The cold air outside did little to numb the burn still clinging to your skin. It felt as though your body hadn’t fully left the bedroom, like some part of you was still trapped under the weight of him—those porcelain arms, those parted lips, that impossible stillness that somehow kept watching. The memory of it clung to you as you crossed streets and waited through red lights without seeing them, breath ghosting in front of you with every hurried exhale, and by the time you reached your apartment, you were shaking.

Inside, the silence greeted you first, then the sudden burst of warmth.

Not the artificial kind piped through radiators, something richer, something fuller, as if the space had been lived in while you were gone. You turned your head toward the bedroom and froze.

The glass coffin hadn’t moved—but its contents had. Jungwon lay just as you’d left him, and yet his body was no longer the same, his head was tilted toward the doorway, ever so slightly, lips were still  barely parted, but they appeared softer now, not rigid with ceramic but plush, almost flushed. The light caught on his skin differently—as if it had deepened in tone. No grey undertones, but something dangerously close to human. His chest rose faintly, or maybe you imagined it. Maybe you had to.

You stepped closer before your brain could warn you otherwise. The air felt heavier around him. The scent was no longer just cedarwood and dust but warmer, enough to make you shiver in anticipation. 

Don’t open the coffin before the onset of new year.

The voice echoed through your mind, your greed had gotten the better of you, and you didn’t have the slightest clue of the consensus, never having asked the owner about it, her word was final—yet you resorted to disobedience. 

It was hard to figure out where you were meant to be with how often you escaped from places, soon staggering into the Carnival after a silent car ride. It was still there, the rusted iron gates, the music bustling, children laughing. 

You walked fast, passing the clowns with their painted smiles, past the fire breathers, and carousel horses locked in crooked gallops. Your breath came quick and hot now, fogging in the air like you were being hunted.

And then you turned the corner, to where it had been, The Chiller House, gone. 

No dark striped tent, no artefacts, there was nothing, not even footprints. Just untouched snow and a lingering emptiness, a strange dead zone between booths. The kind of space you noticed only because it shouldn’t be empty. 

Only, your wrist burned where the red thread had once been, as if tugging you, as if controlling you. 

As if, you were a marionette. 

Chapter 4: My sacrifice. 

Dim lights surrounded you, black silk draped over your body in an elegant ballroom dress, only, the dress was bunched around your waist as you sighed softly, laid on a long table. 

Your breath came light, dazed. You weren’t bound, but your body refused to move. Not from fear—something else. 

The figure between your thighs moved slowly, Jungwon.

He knelt before you like he was praying. His blonde curls shining in the flicker of dying candlelight, casting a halo around a face too angelic to be real. His eyes met yours once before descending again, gaze dripping down your body like melted gold, like hunger dressed in devotion.

You whimpered as his mouth pressed into your inner thigh like a kiss of worship, porcelain lips gone warm, alive somehow. You didn’t know how you knew it, but you knew, he’d waited to taste you for centuries.

When his tongue finally touched you, you gasped, spine arching off the table in instinct, in need. The room didn’t echo, it swallowed your sound. Your moans melted into velvet as Jungwon held you still.

His hands were delicate but firm, cool at first, then warm, his tongue moved in slow, curling drags, like he was learning you, memorizing you. Every breath against your cunt was a confession. You heard your name whispered into you—not from his mouth, but from your bones.

“Missed you, waited for you all these years, hm—mine,” he mumbled mindlessly, prettier than ever, speaking like a true lover. 

His mouth never stopped, kissing your clit with need, flattening his tongue as if he needed to taste you in order to stay alive, as if you were the oxygen he needed. 

Your body trembled as he groaned into you, eyes rolling back, the familiar feeling of your high coming had you moaning, it was so close, just another flick of his tongue, yet the second his lips touched your cunt, you swore you saw the world collapsing. 

Then, a gasp.

You woke up breathing hard. It was yet another wet dream, however, it felt real, as if you’d lived it before, thighs leaking with your wetness, which had pooled down your cunt. 

Jungwon laid beside you, exactly in the position from last night, after you came home trying to find the chiller house, but to no avail. Pondering upon it didn’t work, which is why you found yourself next to him, telling him about your day as if he’d asked you to. 

As unnatural as it felt, he brought you peace, a sense of belonging, enough for you to forget that he’s a doll, enough for you to fall asleep in his arms, only to dream of him for the second night in a row. 

You looked his way, wondering how his lips looked softer now, hair more tousled than before, lashes longer, nothing seemed artificial anymore. Was your mind playing tricks on you? Or did he truly look more human now, even more so with a tiny drop of moisture on his lips—as if he had tasted you, not in the dream, but reality. 

“Just what—who are you?” You whispered, tracing the curve of his cheek, plush now. 

He was captivating, so utterly beautiful, you found yourself leaning in, pressing your lips upon his in a slow fashion, warmth blooming over again. There was no reciprocation, no movement, just you with your frantic breath as you pulled back. 

You stared at him, eyes tracing every shadow of his face. Something about him had shifted again, not in posture, not in expression—those remained still, but in presence. He no longer felt like an object in the room, but the very gravity of it. The space bent around him. 

You should have been disturbed.

Instead, you reached again, cupping his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth. The drop of moisture was gone now, but the memory of it ghosted against your fingertip. It was real, you knew it in your bones that something was changing.

The sharp shrill of your phone shattered the moment. You sighed, reaching toward the nightstand, vision blurred by the dissonance between this world and whatever realm you’d been slipping into beside him.

It was an unknown number.

You answered with a whisper, “hello?”

At first, only static crackled through, then a voice—breathless.

“Y/N? I—It’s your fiancé.”

You didn’t speak, your lips had forgotten how, you listened further, ex fiancé you wished to say. 

“There’s been an accident,” he continued, the words heavy in his throat, “It’s Jaemin. He—he crashed his car, it might be serious. you should come.”

You didn’t speak for a few seconds, heart rate rising up, “how?” you asked, voice low.

“They’re not sure,” your father answered. “There was no ice on the road, no other driver, no brake marks at all. It was like the car veered itself off the highway and straight into a barrier.”

Your free hand tightened where it rested on the edge of the mattress. Jungwon remained still, perfect and innocent in his silence, but your eyes locked onto his again—and something in your chest bloomed in dread and awe alike.

He had looked at you differently, earlier. Just before your dream, as if he’d been listening and he understood. 

You ended the call without another word, the phone slipped from your hand to the bed with a dull thud. And then, slowly—almost afraid of your own confirmation—you reach for Jungwon’s hand, sliding your fingers between his.

“Did you—?” You asked, gulping, “this can’t be, maybe I am going crazy,” you whispered to yourself. 

Completely missing the curve of his lips, a ghost of a smile, warm and satisfying. 

Chapter 5: Lock and key. 

Home felt warmer than ever, which was a foreign feeling to you, granted your own heart was cold. However, it was as if some sort of magic had been sprinkled through your penthouse, it was brighter, your fingers twitching each time you neared your bedroom. 

Madness crept in gently. You found yourself smiling at him—Jungwon, speaking to him with tenderness usually reserved for lovers in candle lit portraits, and lord, worse, you meant it. Even the kisses now felt familiar, the kind you give to someone you’ve missed for lifetimes.

So you left. You needed to be out, carrying your emotional support key to fiddle with, mindlessly so, as you found yourself roaming around where your favourite antique store had been, the storefront looked the same as always, stained glass glistening in the sun, the door carved in spirals like vines curling around the door.

After a few minutes of pondering upon which new piece you could get, your eyes landed on a small wooden crest at the very back of a velvet lined shelf. You picked it up without thinking twice, shivering as you felt the same material as that of your comfort key, which rested warmer than ever in your pocket. 

You bought it in silence, not even bothering to ask its origin. Some objects are meant to be answers, not questions, and when you stepped back into the cold daylight, it wasn’t the antique shop you remembered—it was something older. A feeling curling at the base of your spine.

You didn’t go anywhere else, rushing home, boots echoing sharply on marble floors, coat clutched tighter around you, the crest now held to your chest like a relic. The moment your bedroom door opened, Jungwon was there—exactly where you’d left him, laid beautifully among the folds of your sheets, framed by candlelight you didn’t remember lighting.

His gaze, as always, was half lidded and still, but you felt watched, or rather, held in an embrace. You sank beside him, heart too loud in your ears, and slowly, your fingers reached for the key in your pocket. You’d never understood why it meant so much to you—it was always just a key, until now. Until it began to pulse softly against your palm in the presence of the crest.

You brought both items together. The second the base of the key met the carved sun and moon wood, there was a click. The crest opened like a locket, splitting from the middle in a flowerlike spiral.

Inside, there laid a folded page, yellowed with time, edges charred as if it had barely escaped a fire, you lifted it, hands trembling, ignoring the other stuff that laid inside. 

The ink had faded, but not enough to erase the sketch drawn in hurried, desperate strokes, portraying a girl being mourned in black with her eyes closed, standing beside a young man with soft curls and a thread around his wrist. Red. The face of the girl was not clear, but his face was unmistakable even with the faded colours—Jungwon.

His eyes, his mouth, even the angle of his neck. Him, exactly as he lay beside you now—down to the shadows beneath his lashes, the solemn part of his lips.

“No,” you whispered, but the sound barely made it past your throat, “w—what is this?”

There were no dates mentioned, no names, no title. Just a mark at the bottom—a sigil you didn’t recognize, but which made your body shiver. Like it belonged to you.

You wanted to step back, but you couldn’t, you were already on the bed, his body just inches from yours. You clutched the paper against your chest, as if holding it would keep your sanity from slipping. Your heart thundered against his quiet.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Why are you in this? Why—why do I feel like I’ve seen this before?”

You turned to him slowly, eyes watery.

He lay there, serene and unbothered. A holy thing, but something in your throat twisted the longer you looked. You had no words for it—this quiet ache that gripped your lungs and told you, you’ve been here before.

You didn’t think, simply leaning in, arms curling around him, resting your head beneath his chin, pressing your body against his like it would ground you—like it would stop you from breaking in half.

And as you held him, eyes wide in the dark, the sketch burned behind your eyelids, making you shiver, mind so distraught that you barely pay attention to the fingers who curl tighter around your waist. 

Chapter 6: Can I have a dance?

The room pulsed with heat. Not comfort, but the kind that made you ache, you didn’t remember walking here, but your body had arrived, soaked in watery silk. The chamber around you was vast and dark, stone walls veined in tarnished gold, and steam blooming from a bath sunk deep into the earth like a tomb carved for lovers.

And he was there, of fucking course he was.

Jungwon, kneeling between your thighs like a man in prayer, the water swirling around his hips. His curls were wet, clinging to his cheeks, his mouth already at your skin.

You were bare beneath the surface, soaked in warmth, and him. He kissed the inside of your thigh firmly, reverently, like he’d missed the taste of you more than breathing. His lips trailed upward, and when his tongue finally reached your cunt, your spine arched from the stone—as if blessed.

Your hands found the ledge behind you, fingers white knuckled against the carved obsidian. He licked slowly—decadent, like he was savoring something rare and forbidden, tongue curling with memory and need. You moaned, broken and low, your legs spreading wider.

“Still just as sweet,” he murmured, lips brushing your folds, “even after all this time, hm, sweet.”

His fingers dug into your thighs with something feral, and when he began to suck, kissing trailing upwards, making you cry with each flick of his tongue, it almost felt known, and around you, the air changed.

The mist parted just enough for you to see them, mirrored silhouettes lining the perimeter of the bath, placed with hollow eyes. Their mouths sewn shut with red thread.

Your head snapped down—his eyes were on you, dark and endless. And he smiled against your nipple, which rested between his lips, a faint trace of dimple shadowed his face.

“Let me make you remember, my love,” he whispered.

You shattered with a soundless scream, clenching around nothing, body pulsing, the climax burning hot and holy through your veins, as his two digits plunge into your wetness, warm and inviting. 

And then—silence.

You woke in your bed, sweat clinging to your skin, thighs damp, breath caught in your throat, the room was dim still, velvet shadows all around. 

Then you felt it, an arm deliberately curled around your waist. Fingers resting at the base of your ribs, too precise. 

You turned your head the slightest bit, barely breathing now. He lay behind you, not stiff like porcelain should be, but pliant, like flesh that had long since remembered how to mimic life. His cheek brushed your shoulder, his breath, if it was breath, fanned faintly against your nape.

You had goosebumps all over, not sure if the dream caused it, or was it your mind playing tricks on you, about the fact that you felt it in flesh, the doll feeling more humane each passing day. 

He hadn’t moved last night, but now, he held you.

And you realized that you had no memory of falling asleep, only of speaking to him, barely clothed, trembling. Your body had crawled into his presence like it belonged to him—and perhaps, in some unspeakable way, it did. It always ended like this.

You beside him, asleep, getting pulled into a world you were familiar with, only, it felt foreign the second your eyes snap open, each time. 

As if your soul was following a rhythm it had long since known by heart.

Your wrist burned again, you shook it, desperately trying to ground yourself in a way you won’t spiral, hence, picking up your phone, scrolling religiously as it casted a warm glow on your face. The curtains were drawn shut, candlelight flickering near the vanity—your usual nighttime ritual. You hadn’t looked at Jungwon yet, you didn’t want to.

Not because he scared you—but because tonight, he felt too close. You set the phone down for just a second, reaching for the glass of water at your bedside, and it slipped your gasp, hitting the ground screen down. 

Your speaker picked it up, connected automatically, a moment of silence before that sound, however familiar, but still something you’d heard for the first time. 

A slow, waltz inspired ballroom melody. Instrumental, full of violins, the kind of tune that made the air feel like it’s silky, like it belonged to another century entirely, and maybe, just maybe, it did. 

Your head turned slowly to stare at Jungwon, who glowed under the candlelight, complexion no longer cold, rather, he looked soft, flushed even, lips glistening and brows furrowed, staring at you.

You rose to your feet without knowing why, the melody urged you to move forward, each step feeling as though it belonged to someone else—someone older, someone who had walked these halls before in bare feet and silk. Someone who had danced already to this same waltz, in a time before mirrors.

You reached him, hand brushing his cheek, warm—not startling, not artificial for once, just warm enough to make your breath hitch.

“I must be dreaming,” you whispered, for the nth time you believe.

He didn’t answer, of course. But he didn’t need to.

The music only swelled.

You slipped your arms beneath him, your robe falling open slightly at the shoulder. His body pressed into yours, heavier than it looked, and yet you lifted him, pulled him close. Like he weighed nothing at all. Like he belonged to you, like he walked with you so as to not burden you with his weight. 

You carried him—through the corridor, past the mirrors and the antique cross stitched chairs that no one ever sat in, past the glass cases filled with relics of lives not yours. The music followed, blooming louder now, until—you entered the grand living room.

The chandelier loomed above in fractured crystal and dust, casting slow shadows across the room. The fireplace was cold. 

You stepped into the center, socks covering your bare foot as they turned against the polished marbles, his arms limp around you, but his weight tilted with you, as if his body remembered the rhythm. The two of you swayed—left, then right, a half turn, a pretty dance which wasn’t perfect by any means.

However, it was real.

And as you turned again, as the violins drew longer and you felt it, the shift, not in him but in you. 

Like a dream had opened mid movement. Like the edges of time had folded. The chandelier above flickered.

And suddenly, you were not in the penthouse anymore.

You were in a ballroom.

Massive and candlelit. The scent of wax and rosewater heavy in the air. Gilded frames on every wall. A harp playing somewhere far off.

Your dress was full bodied silk, dark and red like overriped cherries, the ones who love so much. You wore gloves, and his hand was firm at your waist.

He was alive, laughing and whispering something into your hair.

“Don’t look away. If you do, we’ll forget again, don’t wanna forget, not yet.” He pressed his soft lips upon the corner of your mouth, smudging the cherry coloured lipstick. 

You gasped, holding onto him tighter, trying to feel the warmth that he radiated, like a human, as if he was never a doll in the first place. 

Pulling him closer, you tried to maintain eye contact, staring right into his big brown eyes, a soft dimple gracing his face, even more so when you leaned in to kiss him, to feel real, as if you belong somewhere. 

That’s when your feet caught on something.

You gasped, letting go and Jungwon’s body dropped from your arms, slow, the way dreams fall when you wake too fast. He collapsed onto the marble, arms spread loosely, curls bouncing once as his head hit the rug.

“Shit—” you dropped to your knees, breath caught in your throat, “oh, fuck! I’m sorry, I—”

You reached to lift him again, but  your hand scraped something sharp, a low gleam of silver caught, his lapel pin—a small thorn, twisted around perfectly. It pierced the pad of your finger with surgical precision. You hissed, watching a single drop of blood rise.

It rose up and whole—down your finger, and before you could stop it, it fell right on his throat, then another, in his eye which still stared into you, now bloody and more real than ever. 

The music stopped right then, just when you were about to take a step towards Jungwon, heart heavier than ever, mind spiralling as if you’d reached a point of madness, no conscience of past, present, or future. 

“Jungwon?” You whispered, the sound barely coming out, not coming from your throat, but rather somewhere that buried deep inside you. 

He didn’t speak, however, his lips were parted, the same mouth that was carved from stillness, now hung slightly open. His chest, once impossibly still, seemed to move, yet you couldn’t be sure, but one thing was clear—something had changed. 

You gasped the second the shrill voice of your phone rang, startling you, grounding you back into the present, violently so. You picked it up with a shaking hand, the blood now drying along your fingers. The name flashing across the screen was one you recognized, your manager. 

“H—hello?” You answered, dizzy. 

The voice came out clipped, “I—I didn’t wish to call like this, I know you don’t wish to be a part of the mess anymore, but Y/N, listen—it’s about your father.”

That cleaved onto you like a blade, your eyes still fixated on the doll, whose eyes seemed to be glowing by now. 

“The press got hold of his old finance records, the funds which were rerouted, laundered, and offshore holdings. Even political donors—Y/N, they’re everywhere, headlines and broadcast stations are looking into it. I don’t think it can be undone, the police took him in.”

Your phone felt heavy in your hand, or maybe your hand had gone numb. The blood had cooled to a tacky smear against your palm.

“You’re safe, stay there, okay? We’re contacting lawyers to help your parents—”

You cut the call, words barely registering at the moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing about the situation felt normal to you, not when you already found yourself spiraling about different things, about Jungwon. 

You tried to breathe, but your lungs weren’t working right. They expanded too quickly, then refused to collapse. Panic gripped your ribs and twisted as your heartbeat slammed, thudded in your ears, in your skull. Your head was too light, your hands too far from your arms.

You couldn’t think about the phone call, about your father, your mother, the lawyers, the broadcasts. None of it belonged here—not anymore.

Not when something unnatural, divine, was happening just a few feet away. Your mouth opened, a gasp, a name—none of it came. You were spiraling, fast, and the ground no longer wanted you.

The moment cracked with your knees giving out. A soft thud echoed through the room as your body fell sideways, limbs collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. The marble floor rushed toward you, but even that felt dreamlike, distant.

Everything was fading, only one thing remained—him.

The last thing you saw, just before your eyes fluttered shut, was a flash of motion—Jungwon, no longer still, no longer cold. He moved with terrifying speed, rising from the floor like he’d always been capable, like he’d only been waiting.

His eyes locked onto yours in panic, and his arms—real arms, reached for you.

You didn’t feel yourself fall, you only felt him catch you, your eyes closing as the last thing you heard was his voice before passing out. 

“Don’t leave—”

And then, silence. 

Chapter 7: You’re the one I was meant to find. 

You were running. The corridor around you was narrow, candlelit, carved from stone older than reason. Your fingers clutched the sides of your gown as your breath tore from your lungs, heart thundering beneath a bodice bound too tight. Your slippers slipped against the marble, the walls rushing past in a blur. Somewhere behind you, voices rose in anger. The violins still played, faint and far off, as if from another room—or another lifetime.

Just then, a hand caught your wrist, black gloved, steady despite the tremble in his grip—Jungwon, dressed in royal robes, eyes brighter than ever, searching for yours in a hurry. 

He only pulled you forward, faster through the passage, your fingers tangled in his. Behind you, the shadows were growing figures. You could hear the clink of armor now, boots striking stone.

A crack of thunder split the sky.

And suddenly you were in the courtyard, barefoot on wet stone, skirts dripping, hair tumbling free as you spun in his arms beneath the moon. The storm raged above, and yet the violins still played. He held you like he was trying to memorize your shape, the way your breath stuttered every time his hand brushed your spine. The music swelled, and you twirled, laughing into his shoulder—but the sound was short lived.

Another crack of lightning hit—way closer now.

Flames flickered behind tall windows. Guards poured from the doors like an army, making you turn, hand still in his, and run toward the stables. Your lungs burned, his name trembled on your lips. The horses reared in panic as you approached, but he steadied them. A look passed between you—a mix of fear and love, and he lifted you onto the saddle, swung up behind.

But the gates never opened.

The trees beyond the wall seemed so close, and yet, arrows flew like black wings from the towers above. One struck his shoulder. His body jerked behind you, warmth spreading across your back. You turned, horrified, clutching him as he slid from the horse with a cry.

And just like that, the ground returned.

You were on your knees, soaked in mud and blood, sobbing as you cradled his body. His fingers still moved, reaching for you. He tried to rise, he tried to speak. But the clang of metal drowned everything.

The guards seized you both.

The next flash came with the howl of wind tearing through tall windows—tattered velvet curtains flailing like wounded wings.

You were in the throne room, your family lined the steps in judgment. Gold and crimson banners hung behind their heads like execution ropes. Your father’s voice boomed as he paced before the assembly, fury twisted into something rehearsed.

“Loyalty cannot be faked. Treason wears many faces, and fraternizing with the enemy will have consequences, no matter if it’s my own flesh, punishment will be given.”

Your mother said nothing. Her hands were folded tightly, white knuckled in her lap, her pearls glittering like tears that refused to fall.

Jungwon knelt at the base of the dais, blood streaking his cheek, lips split, eyes never leaving yours. He looked regal even then—bruised and broken, but unyielding.

“She chose me,” he said, voice low, shaking, “and I would die for that choice again.”

Another crash of thunder—and you were beneath the cathedral rafters, cloaked in shadow, your fingers pressed to his jaw as you kissed him like it was a rebellion in itself. The scent of incense and storm hung between you. Your tears mixed with his.

“If I could be born again,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his, “I’d still choose you, in every life, I would give my love to you, Jungwon.”

A gust of wind tore through the memory.

Suddenly the forest closed around you again, and your blade was drawn—one you hadn’t even realized you were holding. Blood on your hands. The enemy’s blood, or yours. It was all the same now.

They pulled you back. A scream echoed—his, yours, mixed together in the deepest symphony of pain. 

Steel pierced your side, and then it came, the emptiness.

Your knees hit marble, vision swarming. Your body folded in on itself, cradling the wound as though it could be held shut. You couldn’t see him anymore, but you heard his voice breaking in the distance, each word louder than the last, but fainter in your ears, “don’t take her—don’t—please—no! Y/N!”

Your blood pooled like spilled ink across the floor. The music had stopped, you didn’t know when. Then the world began to dim, his name was the last thing in your mouth.

The next memory didn’t come with lightning, but with silence so deep it felt like falling into a crypt. He knelt again—this time in chains, surrounded by your family, their faces cold as marble statues. There was no trial, no last words.

Your father spoke the curse himself, voice like iron.

“Let him live and never forget, let him see her again, and never reach her.”

The thread appeared—red as blood, drawn through his chest, binding his limbs in place. His skin cracked. His breath froze in his lungs. He didn’t scream. Only stared forward, lips parted in horror as his body hardened.

Porcelain, in silence, cursed like a marionette with the strings invisible, a prince entombed in the skin of a doll.

The centuries passed like ash on wind. You vanished from the records of history, reborn again and again, never remembering. He remained, all these years, shelved. Watched over each time, still long forgotten. Until you, until this year.

Until now. 

You woke with a violent gasp, a cough, as if dragged from beneath water that had long since gone still. Your lungs burned as you clawed yourself upright, heartbeat deafening in your ears, skin cold. The room tilted and shadows had changed. The light no longer flickered against porcelain.

There was heat beside you, some weight, and before your mind could catch up, your body reacted. You turned sharply, hands slipping on the edge of the blanket, still in the living room, eyes locking with his, wide and burning.

Jungwon.

No longer the lifeless doll, no longer the mute witness sealed in centuries of stillness. His chest rose with breath, his pupils blown wide, and his hair, once perfectly styled when you first saw him—was tousled now, disheveled like something had been undone from the inside out. His coat lay forgotten on the floor behind him, abandoned in the chaos of resurrection. He looked alive in the worst way—raw, barely contained, beautiful, and terrifying all at once.

You didn’t think, simply twisting away, a broken sound leaving your throat as you scrambled for the edge of the room, running away from what felt like a nightmare, even though your heart beated out of our chest, urging you to go to him instead. 

However, he was faster, hand catching your wrist before you could rise to your feet, grip firm, not enough to hurt, but enough to shake something loose in you. You yelped, shocked by the strength, by the heat of his touch, how real he felt, how utterly he refused to let you go.

“Stop,” his voice boomed, reverberating, still cracked at the edges, “you’re not running. Not again.”

Your breath hitched as you stared at him, trembling under the weight of the moment, the tension stretched tight as piano wire.

His jaw was tight, but his eyes were chaos, wild with something that couldn’t decide whether to be angry or longing. “You looked at me,” he said, his voice gritted with disbelief, love—all of it layered in a single breath, “you saw me again, and now you want to run?”

“I—” the word barely formed, your mouth felt numb, the panic in your chest twisted with something else now, a longing of something long forgotten. 

He leaned closer, still gripping your wrist, still breathing hard. His shirt was half untucked, collar loose, neck flushed, the candlelight flickering at his cheekbones. He looked ruined, and furious, but most of all—desperate for you.

“You died in front of me,” he said, louder now, every syllable laced with venomous heartbreak, “and I lived in silence for centuries, waiting for you. You think I’m going to let you leave me again?”

You tried to wrench your arm free, but he held fast, dragging you a step closer, the distance closing like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t you remember what they did to us?” He spat, voice sharp, “you think you’re scared? I’ve been trapped in silence, in a damn glass coffin, hearing your voice in rooms I couldn’t move in. Do you have any idea what it did to me—watching you pass me by without knowing?”

The room swam around you, every breath felt like thunder in your ribs. He wasn’t calm, nor was he composed. He wasn’t the memory anymore—he was the consequence of all of it, of love twisted by time, of passion turned obsessive by grief.

His hand finally loosened, just slightly, fingers brushing down your wrist, but he didn’t let go.

“Say something,” he breathed out, “say my name.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came as you stared at his blonde messy hair, big yearning eyes, laced with despair, rosy lips, dying to get a taste of you. 

He laughed once, bitter and breathless, dimple showing despite the frustration, teeth gritted, “no one has said my name with love in a hundred years, and I only wanted to hear it from you.”

His grip shifted again, gentler now—but still firm, like if he let go, you’d vanish. His forehead dropped toward yours, not touching, breath warming the space between you, gaze locked in yours like a curse reborn.

“You were mine,” he whispered, “you are mine, do you think anything else matters?”

Your hand moved before your mind did, reaching up to brush the strands of hair from his forehead. He didn’t flinch, he leaned into it like a man starved of touch. Your fingers trembled as they slid down the side of his face, feeling the heat of his skin, the realness of it, the pulse just beneath.

“Jungwon,” you breathed.

The moment you said it, everything changed, his eyes fluttered shut, like the sound alone was enough to break him. His fingers dug back into your waist, holding you with quiet violence, breath stuttering against your cheek.

You didn’t pull away, you simply couldn’t, instead, the words clawed up your throat, bitter, almost angry, “was it you?”

He stilled, lips hovering just beside yours, controlling himself, “what?”

“The stories, t—the leaked accounts, ruined finances. My ex fiancé’s accident,” your voice cracked, but you pushed forward, fury threading through the fog, “did you do that to them?”

He opened his eyes slowly, the look in them wasn’t apologetic by any means, “yes, I wanted to burn every name that ever tried to replace mine,” he said, voice low and shaking, “and I did. I watched him touch you like you were some fragile, pitiful thing to be married off. Like you were his to protect, to claim, as if I hadn’t died screaming your name.”

You should’ve felt sick, perhaps a part of you did, but the other part—the darker, crueler one buried deep in your chest was quiet, pleased.

He was the only one who ever loved you so violently, so completely, that he’d ruin anyone who dared stand where he once stood, even if it was wrong, even when it was madness. 

Your voice dropped to a whisper, “you destroyed them for me.”

“I’d do it again,” he said without blinking, “in less time, with worse consequences.”

Your breath came harder now, lips brushing his,  “you’re insane, you—you’re not real, am I still dreaming?”

“I’ve been waiting over a century. What do you expect me to be, not insane? Not real for you?”

Your hand tightened around the collar of his shirt, fisting it. He exhaled like he was finally allowed to breathe again. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat damp and shaking. The line between hate and hunger blurred like smoke between your mouths.

He looked at you like he was about to kiss you—or devour you, maybe both. 

“You think I give a damn about right and wrong anymore?” He whispered, voice as sweet as you could remember, and lord, now you did remember, even if it made you spiral into madness, you remember now, “they never loved you. Not like I did, not like I still do.”

This time, it was you who moved first. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a desperation that didn’t feel like yours, but something older, something buried. It wasn’t sweet, rather, it was starving. Teeth clashing, lips bruising, hands scrambling to pull, to grip, to ground yourself in the heat of him.

He groaned into your mouth, and it was deep, guttural, ragged from centuries of holding back. His hands flew to your hips, pulling you into him like proximity could undo time. There was nothing patient in the way he kissed you—just need consuming him altogether, the kind you didn’t walk away from.

“Say it again,” he begged against your lips, not stopping, “say it, my name, say it like you remember.”

“Jungwon,” you breathed, again and again, like a spell, like a lifeline, like you were anchoring him to this world.

Each repetition made him more frantic. His grip on you tightened, his body shuddering under your touch like he was afraid it might fade, your lips parted as he kissed down the side of your jaw, then lower when you whimpered, hot open mouthed kisses all over your neck. 

“I need to feel you, need to know you’re mine again,” he groans against your skin, voice beautiful, “that I’m not fucking dreaming—”

“You’re not,” you breathed out, pulling his face back up to yours, looking him in the eye. “I’m right here.”

He surged forward with something close to a snarl, crashing his mouth to yours with violent purpose, lips swollen and slick as his hands gripped your waist and hauled you into his lap on the silk covered couch like you belonged nowhere else. You straddled him, legs falling around his hips, your chest pressed to his as he devoured your mouth with a hunger you didn’t know a body could carry. It was angry, obsessive—years of silence and watching and grief pouring into every kiss, every clash of teeth, and tongue.

You tried to speak, maybe to say his name again, maybe to tell him you wanted him now—but he didn’t let you.

“I said no more running,” Jungwon grunted against your mouth, voice low and beautifully frayed, “ you’re going to stay right here, on me, just like this.”

His hands traced your back, slow and possessive, until they gripped your ass and grounded your hips down hard against the bulge straining beneath his trousers. You gasped, fingers curling into his shoulders for balance, your cunt rubbing right against him—too much friction, yet not nearly enough.

“Oh god—”

“No,” he groans, breathless, biting down on your shoulder, “not god. Me. Say my name when you’re like this, yeah?”

“Jungwon,” you gasped, your whole body twitching as he rutted up into you again, cock grinding against your bare cunt through the fabric of his pants. “Fuck, Jungwon—”

“That’s it,” he breathed, mouth against your throat, sucking a bruise into your skin as you rocked your hips down on him like instinct. “That’s all I wanted for a hundred fucking years, you, falling apart on top of me.”

He grabbed the backs of your thighs and stood in one swift, jarring motion, lifting you with him. You wrapped around him by reflex—legs clinging to his waist, arms around his neck, body flushed against his chest. The room blurred as he carried you, stumbling back into the bedroom you’d long since abandoned when he was nothing more than porcelain.

You barely had time to think, the chandelier flickered above, casting gold and red across the walls like spilled blood and candlelight. Then the bed hit your back, his weight covering you a second later.

He kissed you again, deep and slow this time, like he was drinking from your mouth. His tongue curled over yours, wet and thick, stealing every breath you had left. Your legs parted for him without thought, and his hips slotted between them, his clothed cock rubbing right against your soaked core as he started to grind again.

“Feel that?” He panted, pressing harder, rutting his hips down in short thrusts that had you moaning into his mouth, “you’re dripping for me, darling, and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You whimpered, eyes rolling back at the friction, so raw and filthy it bordered on unbearable.

“You used to do this in secret,” he said, thrusting again, his voice rasping as he rocked into you, “when you thought I couldn’t see, pressing your thighs together, grinding against your pillows, pretending you didn’t want me.”

“I did,” you gasped, “you know I always did.”

He groaned, hips stuttering as you clung tighter to him, “I used to imagine this before we got together—holding you down, just like this, feeling you grind all wet and desperate over me, crying my name.”

You could feel how hard he was through the fabric. He was panting now, moving faster, the rhythm filthy. His cock slid against your clit with every stroke, and it had your thighs trembling, cunt pulsing with the tension coiling in your gut.

“You’re going to cum like this,” he whispered against your lips, like a command, “right here, before I’m even inside you, hm?”

Your hips moved on their own, chasing the friction, chasing him, your breath caught in your throat, “please,” you whimpered, “don’t stop—don’t ever stop.”

He kissed you sloppier now, his teeth catching your lower lip as he groaned into your mouth, sweat slicking your skin.

“Say my name,” he ordered again, fucking up into you harder, grinding your clit perfectly with every motion.

“Jungwon—Jungwon, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“You’re mine,” he groaned, “you hear me? No one else, never again.”

The pressure burst like it was breaking your body, your back arching as you came hard—loud and shaking, your moans swallowed by his mouth. He groaned with you, grinding hard through your climax, his own hips bucking as he rutted with desperate rhythm, chasing his own peak.

“You make me insane,” he gasped against your neck, still grinding, “you don’t even know what you do to me—”

You held him tighter, your body still pulsing, already dizzy again from the aftershocks.

You still hadn’t caught your breath—your body trembled beneath him as he flipped you over on your back, lips swollen from kissing, slickness coating your thighs, but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. His hands were already moving, ruthlessly so, as if he didn’t trust time to wait for him this time.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice ragged, chest rising and falling like he was barely containing himself. “You’ve always been mine.”

Then you heard it, the nasty sound of fabric tearing.

You gasped, hips jolting as his hands flipped your robe up, gripping your soaked panties and tearing them clean in half—fingers curling into the delicate fabric like it had irritated him just by existing between you. The torn scraps fell to the side, forgotten.

“I’ll rip through anything that keeps me from you,” he said, low and fervent, voice thick with heat and hunger. “I don’t care if it’s silk, steel, or fucking centuries.”

His mouth hovered above your core, breath hot, uneven, “I should’ve done this the second you walked back into that house,” he growled, eyes locked between your legs. “Should’ve thrown you down and tasted you until you forgot the name of every man who touched you after me.”

You writhed beneath him, already breathless, your thighs falling open for him like muscle memory, but then he paused, sitting back on his knees and reached up to his collar.

Your chest rose and fell faster at the sight—his fingers moving slowly now, unbuttoning the pristine white shirt clinging to his chest. One button, then another. With every inch of skin revealed, your pulse surged harder—his collarbone, the plane of his chest, each line of him carved like something ancient and holy, divine and terrifying. The candlelight bled gold down his stomach, catching in the cut of his abs, the trail of veins along his arms twitching from restraint.

You watched, dazed at his pure beauty, he looked like a prince raised from the grave—beautiful and damned.

“You look at me like you remember,” he whispered, letting the shirt fall from his shoulders with a smirk, “do you? Does your body know me now, darling?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself, lips parted, “I do. I remember all of it.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound nearly a growl, “then lay back,” he said, crawling between your thighs again, “and let me remind you why no one else ever satisfied you.”

He didn’t waste a second as he was on you, mouth open, tongue wet and greedy, licking through your folds with a growl like he’d gone feral. Your body jolted at the first contact, back arching, thighs trying to close from the intensity—but his hands gripped your knees and forced them open, pushing you wide as he buried his face in you like he was starving.

“Fuck—” you gasped, hand flying to his hair. “Jungwon—”

The sound of his name broke something in him, making him moan, a sound so loud and obscene, right into your cunt, reverberating, tongue curling against your clit, sucking so hard your hips bucked. His hands pressed your thighs flat to the bed, holding you down as he devoured you like a man who’d waited lifetimes to be fed. There was no rhythm, only unadulterated hunger and reverence. His mouth was wet, tongue fast and erratic, fucking into you like he needed it to live.

You mumbled out something incoherent, and he groaned again, louder, mouth sealing over your clit, sucking until your vision blurred, until your voice cracked.

“Jungwon—please—”

“Say it again,” he ordered, teeth brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue never stopping.

“Jungwon, I swear Jungwon, uh fuck, please—”

He didn’t stop, he couldn’t.

“You belong to me,” he said, licking deep into your entrance. “Even now, even after death. Say it, baby, say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—” you gasped, near sobbing from the pressure building inside you again. “I’m yours, I’m, oh fuck, Jungwon, I’m gonna, fuck!”

“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice thick with lust and control, “make a mess on my tongue. Let me taste every fucking inch of you.”

That sent you over the edge, you came with a cry so sharp it felt ripped from your chest—your thighs clenching around his head, your hands yanking his hair, hips rocking up as you fell apart. It was too much, way too intense, too long coming.

He moaned into your cunt, licking you through every pulse, every twitch, swallowing down your release like it was holy, and when you finally opened your eyes—he was still between your legs, a dark lopsided grin on his face, attractive, but even more so, scary, as he laid there, still hard. 

Still hungry.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice deep, “but you’re not scared of me anymore, are you?”

You couldn’t speak, only shook your head, throat too raw from moaning. Your wrists still burned faintly, the red thread pulsing under your skin as if it knew something ancient had shifted.

He sat back on his heels, slowly, dragging his palms up your trembling thighs, claiming every inch he touched, he looked mad, in an obsessive way, in a fashion that creepy dolls do, but he was real, and waiting. 

“You came so sweet for me,” he whispered, brushing a finger between your folds, smearing you across your thigh with reverence, “but, baby, it’s not enough, just not nearly enough, hm?”

His hands moved to his belt, and you froze for a second, eyes following every inch he moved. The sound of leather sliding through the loops echoed in the room, his eyes stayed locked to yours the entire time, not blinking once as he tugged the belt loose, then let it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

“You don’t know, baby, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this,” he continued, voice cracking, “not just having you like this, but fucking you still half clothed, holding you open while you scream my name into the dark—because you remember me now, and you’re not going anywhere, fuck—I’ve missed this.”

He didn’t take his pants off—not completely. His hands dropped to his belt, the metal buckle clinking open with a quick, practiced tug. The soft hiss of leather sliding through loops reverberated the air. His eyes never left yours, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, the fury in his body barely caged.

Then the button, the zipper. He shoved his pants down with one hand, just low enough to free himself, his cock springing out, flushed and thick, already leaking, twitching from how long he’d held back.

He fisted the base with one hand, the other still holding your thigh open, “you’re mine,” he said, almost to himself, then louder, “fucking say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed, almost choking on the words.

He chuckled, a devilish smirk on his face as he looked at you with dark eyes, “again.”

“I’m yours, Jungwon.”

He groaned, like your voice alone could unravel him, and leaned in, bracing his forearms beside your head. His cock dragged through your slick folds as if he was teasing, catching on your entrance, and he hissed at the feel of you already so wet, so ready.

“I should’ve never let you forget me,” he growled, lining up, “never should’ve waited this long,” he mumbled, “wanted to fuck you right there when you climbed on my lap and cried even when I was a doll, when I fucking lost my mind, you kissed me, baby, you needed me even then.”

You whined as he brought up what you had done, and just as you were distracted, he thrust in without much warning, no build up before, simply a deep, brutal snap of his hips. 

You cried out, head jerking back, back arching off the bed. He was thick, too big for you, and the stretch was unbearable, perfect, like you were being broken in half. His hands clamped around your wrists again, pinning you down with bruising force, and your skin lit up. 

The red thread under your wrists seared like fire, glowing bright, like the curse had been reawakened fully the moment he was inside you.

Jungwon’s breath hitched against your ear, “lord,” he rasped, “you feel that? That’s it, that’s fucking us—”

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the stretch, by the thread, by the way your body clenched around him like it already belonged. Like it had been waiting for this moment through lifetimes.

“I knew it would burn,” he whispered into your throat, hips snapping forward, “I knew it would recognize me the second I was inside you again.”

He thrust again, hips grinding now, like he was savoring every inch of your slick, shuddering cunt.

“And it does, doesn’t it?” he hissed, “your body knows. Even if your heart forgot me—your body never did.”

You sobbed out his name, barely a whisper, and that made him lose what little control he had left. He slammed into you, again and again, hips snapping with violent rhythm, his cock dragging against your walls with every brutal stroke. The bed creaked beneath you, the air around you fogging up in a mist of sex. 

“Fuck—Jungwon, slow—”

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he groaned, “centuries of silence—centuries of emptiness. You think I’m going to take it slow?” 

His lips crashed into yours, devouring your cry, tongue sliding past your lips like he needed to taste everything at once. And still, he kept moving, hips hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, every thrust sending sparks of pain and pleasure through your entire body.

“Do you feel that?” He gritted against your lips, “the way you squeeze me—fuck, baby, you’re shaking.”

“I can’t, please Jungwon—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was feral, “you’ll take it, all of me, every fucking inch. You’ll take it because you’re mine.”

His grip shifted—one hand sliding down, hooking under your knee, throwing your leg over his shoulder so he could drive in deeper. The angle made you scream, body arching off the bed, stars flooding your vision as his cock hit the spot that made you unravel.

“Right there?” he chuckled, “that’s the spot. That’s the one that used to make you cry for me in your past life. Remember it?”

You sobbed—half lost, the sensation too much for you to incorporate any new information in mind; and nodded.

He thrust harder, deeper, so much rougher, every movement frantic with obsession, “say it,” he moaned, “say you remember.”

“I remember,” you gasped, “I remember you, Jungwon, I remember everything—”

The noise he made wasn’t humane by any means. It was broken, starved almost. He bent over you, still buried deep, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down between your bodies.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he whispered, “so deep you never forget again. So full you won’t be able to think of anyone but me.”

The red thread pulsed yet again—twisting tighter, glowing like fire at your wrists, along your thighs, down your chest.

“You were made for me,” he breathed, “bound to me. You’ll die with me inside you, if I have to make it happen, and I’ll die with you again, over and over, again.”

He groaned through those words, your moan was louder, vibrating through his skin, squeezing him tighter as your body agreed, you were made for him, and gave him exactly what he wanted, you, falling apart all over his cock. 

The sight was enough for him to lose his control, letting himself go, filling you up, deep and hard, cock pulsing inside your fluttering cunt, as your body convulsed around him once more, milking him through it.

However, he didn’t pull out, didn’t bother moving, stopping. 

His hips rolled again, already hardening inside you. He looked down at you, eyes burning red under the chandelier’s flicker.

“I’m not done.”

Chapter 8: With or Without you. 

The water shimmered with faint steam, delicate curls of warmth rising into the candlelit hush of the room. The tub was enormous—black marble, sunken into the penthouse floor, surrounded by tall gothic windows that looked out over the city like a cathedral watching the living. The only light came from candles, myriads of them, flickering along the ledges, their glow casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. 

You were weightless, finally, your bare body floating gently between Jungwon’s thighs, your back pressed to his chest, your head on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you, palms resting on your belly, then lower, fingers brushing just above your thighs, as if he couldn’t stop touching you even now, not even here.

The red thread had faded back to a dull, molten line along your wrist, no longer burning, but you could still feel it, tied between your pulse and his.

He was warm behind you, human, finally, irrevocably real.

He kissed the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, his lips dragging up to your jaw, “you’re still shaking, darling,” he murmured, his voice low, intimate, as if speaking louder might wake the rest of the world.

You let your eyes drift shut, “I’m not sure it’s real yet.” You said, scared, abandonment being your worst fear, and now you knew why, you had a reason, carved deep inside you. 

“It is,” he whispered, “I am.”

You felt his hand curl tighter across your stomach, protective, anchoring you in place. He kissed you again, and again, trailing his mouth down the curve of your throat as though trying to memorize every inch of skin, leaning back into his embrace.

“I never want to wake up if this is a dream,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” you said, softly. “Not unless I do too.”

There was silence for a long while—only the water shifting around your bodies, the distant hum of the city beneath the stained glass, soft fluttering in your stomach, and Jungwon’s possessive hold, telling you that it’s real, that no matter what happens, he’ll stay. 

You had no idea how you would explain the addition of a new human into this world, how you’d describe where he came from, but that was the least of your worries now.

You turned in his arms then, straddling him in the deep water, your knees pressed to either side of his hips, your hands finding his shoulders. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face, his cheeks flushed from the heat. There was something about him like this—messy, still a little inhuman. Like the remnants of porcelain had never quite left. His eyes gleamed like something ancient.

“You never stopped loving me,” you whispered, fingertips brushing down his chest.

He shook his head once, slowly, his blonde curls now wet, caressed your skin in the process. “Not once. Not even when you died.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his, but didn’t kiss him just yet, “and all that time, you waited?” You asked, as if you needed confirmation over and over again. 

“I waited, burning all alone,” he said, voice thick, eyes shining with the truth, taking you in with nothing but unadulterated love, “every night, every time someone else touched you in another life. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just felt it, you moving on. You forgetting.”

You cupped his face, stared into the truth of that devastation, “I never really forgot, not because I wanted to at least.”

“I know,” he breathed, “I felt it. Even before you remembered—your blood called me back, you cried to me, you just didn’t know it yet.”

You finally leaned in, noticing the faint dimples on his cheek as you got closer, eyes holding hearts for you. The kiss wasn’t frantic, not like before. This one was slow, perfectly drawn out, all breath and lips, and silent apology. It was centuries of mourning buried in a kiss, two lovers who had lived and died with that ache carved into their bones.

He sighed into your mouth, letting you take from him as long as you needed. When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I won’t let go,” he whispered, “not in this life. Not ever again. I love you so fucking much.”

“You don’t have to,” you breathed, “I’ve loved you, I love you, I’ll love you.”

For the first time, it wasn’t a curse, it wasn’t a punishment, it was real, a promise.

The candlelight caught on the red thread beneath your skin once more, pulsing faintly between you like a heartbeat in unison.

He wrapped his arms around you again, pulling you into his chest as you sank back into the water, your cheek against his collarbone, your limbs tangled under the surface. Outside, the world continued, the time marched on, the city moved.

But in here, in this penthouse above the world, time stood still, he had returned to you. 

And he would never let go.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[zreamy]

YOU ON MY MIND, YOU ALL THE TIME

only two years post-debut, NAPE are the band to beat, and you might be the only woman in london whose heart races in a bad way at the sight of their guitarist—your ex-boyfriend, jay. 

pairing ✩ jay park x fem!reader

genres: band au, exes to lovers, smut, fluff, angst | warnings: minors dni, reformed evil guy jay, set in london (#SCOTLANDFOREVER), so many english people (#SCOTLANDFOREVER), yn is #GoingThroughIt #Confused, hoseok is the bus driver, BLATANT PLAGIARISM OF SONGS BY EXISTING ARTISTS SORRYYYYYYYY | word count: 37,699

playlist: lover, you should've come over by jeff buckley ✩ puddles by not for radio ✩ eventually by tame impala ✩ where do broken hearts go by one direction ✩ 505 by arctic monkeys ✩ no control by one direction ✩ stateside by pinkpantheress ✩ you da one by rihanna ✩ change your ticket by one direction

from zo: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASAHICORE !!! wow u are 23.25 now! amazing. youngest person ever. happy reading to everyone else and go wish asahicore a happy birthday rn. AS ALWAYS SHARE FEEDBACK OK LMK WHAT U THINK !!!

BACKSTAGE WITH NAPE ON THE ‘NO WAY BACK’ TOUR.

By: Daydream Mag. Photographs by: Heeseung Lee, Jay Park, Jake Sim & Sunghoon Park.

4:02 P.M. SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2025. PARIS: If you’re one of NAPE’s four members, how do you spend the hours before the final show of your sold out tour? By sleeping, calling your mum, watching YouTube mukbangs, or taking film photos of your bandmates doing any of the above.

In broken Frenglish, guitarist, Jay, plays tour guide for the green room they’ve made home over the course of their three day concert at the iconic Le Trianon. “Did you know that Rihanna played here?” he asks, eyes wide as he swats away Sunghoon’s camera. “And Kesha, and Fifth Harmony? So many legends and now we’re here—crazy downgrade.”

This same eager, mildly insecure, energy permeates the green room as the band discuss highlights from the last two months on the road — riding a beer bike in Manchester, seeing the Eiffel Tower at midnight — and express how much they wish the tour could last forever. “Performing is the absolute best part,” Jake says between slurps of cup ramen he brought with him from London. “We’re always trying to find local pubs to play in because we can’t get enough.”

“That’s where it all started anyway,” explains their half-asleep frontman, Heeseung. “Playing in pubs, busking in Zone 5 shopping—

“Well, well, well,” Aeri says, appearing over your shoulder and catching you in the act. “If it isn’t Little Miss NAPE-hater drooling over a two-page spread.”

A chill runs down your spine and you couldn’t have dropped the magazine quicker if you tried. At your feet, it clatters with a flinch-inducing thud that rings throughout the deserted entrance of your local twenty-four hour Tesco. Neither you nor Aeri make any move to lift Daydream Mag’s summer 2025 issue from the speckled tile, so from its glossy cover, the face you’ve come to loathe gazes up at you through lidded eyes.

You scoff, affronted by the very suggestion. “I’m not you, Aeri. I wasn’t drooling.” And even if you were drooling, it certainly would not have been over Jay Park and his band of idiots. “It’s a four-page spread, by the way.”

“Same difference.”

Over Aeri’s shoulders, the sun’s first rays are threatening to shine through the glass on what is already an obscenely hot day for September. Dye slips from her damp hair down her face like blood, staining her white collar red, and you watch as she takes a picture of the magazine on the floor between your feet and hers before picking it up. She posts the picture to her story with one of NAPE’s songs playing and tags them so they can eventually see it and repost. They’re always doing that—reposting things fans tag them in. Satisfied, Aeri puts the magazine back in its place on the shelf, between Interview and the last copy of Dazed that has a photo of NAPE’s bassist and drummer laying together on the cover like something from a CEO yaoi. You have no idea how or when they got so popular.

Finally, leaving the band behind, you and Aeri loop your sweat slick arms and move through the aisles. You sniff and review scented candles; browse the books on the shelves, sharing thoughts on the ones you’ve read; and pick up snacks with Clubcard discounts, all on the way to find the one thing you came for at this time of night: salted caramel cheesecake cookies. Along with the rest of the internet, Aeri’s boyfriend has been raving about them since he tried them two weeks ago, and the three of you have been on high alert ever since. You even reached out to Somi’s little cousin, Riki, whose ex-girlfriend has a friend that works here to see when they’d be back in stock.

She told him to kill himself.

This is why, when you finally see them — fully stocked and still warm in their bags — you gasp. Understandably, when Aeri tries calling her boyfriend, he doesn’t answer, but you take as many as you can carry and run for the self-checkout.

Under the purple sky, you and Aeri walk all the way home, carrier bags in hand. It takes a lot not to eat all thirty cookies as soon as you cross the threshold, but, in an exercise of immense self-control, you leave them in the bread bin, and bid your flatmate goodnight.

Love her as much as you’ve come to, you often find yourself wishing it was some incredible story that brought the two of you together. A great tale of intertwined fates and instant connection. Instead, you found Aeri on spareroom.co.uk and when you deemed each other harmless enough, you signed the lease and moved in. It took a few months for you to shake off your anxiety and say more to her than, how did you sleep? but you got there in the end, and almost one whole year down the line, this flat and Aeri feel more like home every day.

As the working world’s alarms go off, you get into bed, showered and fresh-breathed, where sleep is reluctant to find you. One hundred counted sheep later, you give up and open Twitter. Now, you are mature enough to know better than to engage with content you know you’re not going to like—you’re not a critic. But… you are a hater. While NAPE haven’t yet brought forth the next strain of fandom-induced illness — à la Bieber Fever or One Direction Infection — they’re inescapable if you use the internet in any capacity. Profiles in magazines, Spotify playlist covers, constant viral concert clips: sweat-sheened skin and lidded eyes, long, thick ring-clad fingers strumming guitars or stroking mic stands. The tattooed back of their frontman populates hit tweets and Instagram Reels alike.

It’s not like you’re immune to attraction or allure. You have eyes. Eyes that widen at the sight of Sunghoon flexing his arms or Jake biting his lip. At Jay and his perfectly mussed hair that sits right at the junction of neat and messy. His two silver hoops in each ear. His dimpled cheek. How he sings with his eyes closed. The scar on his nose that you can only really see up close or when the light hits it just right. Keeping up with things like this is important because if you’re going to be a hater, you’d like to at least be an informed one. This is why, when you search for them on Twitter and the first tweet that comes up is the link to NAPE Catch Each Others Lies | Teen Vogue, you click with no hesitation.

It’s weird seeing them in motion like this, comfortable and joking around. Not singing. They’re decked head to toe in smart casual. Loose blazers and tailored trousers, fake glasses and neatly parted hair, smart shoes and polo shirts. Even though it’s different to their concert outfits and doesn’t really match what seems to be their vibe — evil-demon-fuckboy-rockstar — it suits them, highlighting their oddly perfect proportions.

From this video, you learn that Jay doesn't know any of their birthdays, Jake uses Sunghoon’s deodorant, and Sunghoon has never fallen asleep during rehearsal. Heeseung is also there. When the video ends, you fall asleep without a hitch, fresh linen and sweet dreams pulling you under.

Until you force open your heavy eyes to the sound of your phone ringing at eight o’clock—you slept for exactly two hours. It’s Aeri’s boyfriend. You can’t even speak when you answer, letting out a grumble instead. “Welcome to the land of the living, sweetheart!” he chirps, sounding much too awake for your liking. “Care to open the door?”

“Come back later.”

“But your breakfast will be cold later.” There’s a poutiness to his voice that would irk you if your hungry ears didn’t perk up at the sound of breakfast.

Turning over under the covers, you lean up on your elbows. “What’s for breakfast?” you ask slowly.

“Toad’s.”

To you — and the rest of London’s Gen Z population — Toad’s is the breakfast spot. At seven a.m. every day, there’s a queue that wraps around the corner. They recently issued a statement to request that customers stop selling their spots in line. Tired as you are, the thought of eating Toad’s without having lined up thrills you so much that you run straight to the door and fling it open. There stands Heeseung, a cup-holder in one hand and several paper bags in the other. A pair of sunglasses keep his bleach-fried hair from his forehead.

“You look nice,” he says, smiling as you step aside to let him in.

Smoothing out your hair with self-conscious palms, you inspect your face in the mirror beside him, seeing the crust lining the corners of your puffy eyes. “We are not close enough for you to speak to me like that,” you tell him, leaning into your reflection to clean yourself up a little.

Though you’re joking, mostly, Heeseung and Aeri have only been together for two months, and as her close friend, he should be on his best behaviour around you for at least the rest of his life. He frowns, apologising sincerely as he holds out one of the red and white paper bags. “Can I interest you in a forgive me choux vanille?”

The words make your heart race in your chest as you give a reverent nod, taking the bag from him.

“There’s, like, four of them in there—all yours.”

You have seen fanpages for these choux vanilles, you have been close to starting one yourself, and here, now, on a random Tuesday morning, standing in your hallway with NAPE’s frontman, you hold in your trembling hands a bag of, like, four of them. Later in life, when the time comes, you will name your firstborn after this man, probably.

“Heeseung,” you say softly. “Speak to me however you like.”

He laughs at that, as if he hasn’t just made your whole week. The soft sound breaks you out of your stupor and you help him carry all one million things he brought. “How’d you even get all this?” you ask over your shoulder, everything is still warm, perfect. “What time did you get there? What time did you even wake up?”

Heeseung follows you into the kitchen, his footsteps light against the hardwood. “Will you think I’m a prick if I say I’ve been up all night?” His question surprises you as you take in the sight of him once more—he is the picture of wakefulness with his bright eyes and glowy skin.

“Ah.” You set the goods on the counter, nodding as you take a picture of his haul. “Rockstar life, huh?”

A smile spreads over his lips as he rolls up his sleeves, tattoos appearing from under the white cotton, oddly sheepish. For an artist of his — their — size, with his — their — visibility, there’s a certain meekness to Heeseung that you thought was an act at first, but now you’re not so sure.

“Not even,” he mumbles, looking down at the dark worktop and describing the epitome of rockstar life. “We had this party thing in Soho, but it was dead so we went round this guy’s flat instead, and he stays proper close, as in the line goes by his front door—one of Jongseong’s friends…”

Whether Heeseung knows you’ve stopped listening at the mention of that name is anyone’s guess, but suddenly, your long-awaited Toad’s matcha tastes like nothing and your blood pumps thickly through your body. Loud in your ears. It’s one thing to anticipate seeing or hearing about him — watching that video before bed or bracing yourself for posters plastered in stations and around the city — but like this, so casually, from the mouth of your one person in common, it still shakes you up.

“Whoa.” He waves his large palm in front of your face. “You alright?” Concern creases his eyebrows.

An attempt at a light-hearted laugh stumbles from you. “Just sleepy.” A long, ungraceful moment dawdles by as he studies you, performing some form of assessment that you’re sure you’ve failed.

“Same, honestly,” he finally agrees, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod, watching as he makes his way to Aeri’s room and snapping your neck in the other direction when he looks over at you. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Perfect!” you call out over your shoulder, all but sprinting to your bedroom.

In the privacy of your four walls, you sink into the chair at your desk and eat your steak, brie, and mushroom toastie. Half of it anyway, the thought of Jay is too distracting to enjoy it fully. You open Instagram before you even realise, hitting the search button and typing pzzong without a second thought. Eighteen hours ago, he made a post. A photo dump: his guitar in his lap, a blurry sunrise, a gym selfie with Sunghoon’s naked back in the mirror, a video of a lively crowd, and a piercing through his left eyebrow. Life is good, he wrote. The comments display varying degrees of thirst for Sunghoon. Blue ticks light up the screen as you scroll through them. Heart eyes from Bae Sumin. Best show ever babyyyyyyy from Yeh Shuhua.

Good for him.

Seriously.

You have committed a cardinal sin, for which you will never forgive yourself—you forgot your headphones at home. And so, like the rest of Central London, you’ve been subject to hearing the rustle of plastic on plastic in your bag as you walk down the street. As it turns out, no matter how delicious, eating thirty ginormous, sickly sweet cookies is quite difficult, so you’re taking them out to the pub where you’re meeting up with some friends.

The bell above the door at Ruby’s rings loud and clear over the radio when you step inside. For a Wednesday afternoon, it’s busier than you expect, patrons crowding the bar and tables alike, though you suppose, as one of them, that this is the way of the unemployed. Speaking of, Riki towers over everyone at the bar, oblivious or uncaring towards the pretty bartender’s fluttering eyelashes. At the sight of you though, he raises his bleached eyebrows, waving you over.

“Three p.m. tequila shots, don’t mind if I do,” you say, beaming into the rough collar of his denim jacket.

His hug is tight and brief. “Aw, yeah. I’ve got class in the morning,” he offers unhelpfully, holding up a clear shaker. “Salt?” Riki pours salt all over the back of your hand, more granules falling to your feet than sticking to the spot you licked, and hands you his wedge of lime. Holding up his shot with surprising steadiness, he says, “C’est la vie!”

Doing a shot of straight fire would burn less, but Riki isn’t fazed, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you towards the back of the pub where the rest of your friends are. Yizhuo sees you first, peering over the booth and her face splits into a grin. You feel yours doing the same. She and Somi leap to their feet, pulling you into a hug and wrapping you up in a cloud of florals and spice and beer. “You’re alive!” Yizhuo cries out, pulling back to get a good look at you, her hand on your jaw to turn your face this way and that. “And still so beautiful!”

“Against all the odds,” you mumble, accepting the wet kiss Somi plants on your cheek with a smile. Right when you settle into the booth beside Yizhuo, texts from Aeri light up your phone screen, notification bubbles covering up the chestnut horse on your lockscreen.

aeri: heeseung said the guys can make it after all ! he promises they’ll behave

aeri: they’re not as bad as you think !!!

You groan around a long sweet sip of the cloudy IPA Somi ordered for you. “I’m meeting Aeri’s boyfriend’s friends tonight,” you mumble, sending a thumbs-up emoji in response.

“Wait.” Yizhuo pauses, looking over her shoulders before leaning over the table. “NAPE are going to be at your flat tonight?” she whispers, eyes wide and buggy.

What comes from your mouth is a disgusting sigh-groan hybrid that makes Riki flinch as you say, “The one and only.”

Somi’s entire face crumples and she hunches over, hitting her forehead repeatedly on the tabletop, making it wobble. “Why do good things keep happening to you instead of me?”

“This is public knowledge, I texted the chat like a week ago.” You lift your golden pint and Yizhuo’s dark Guinness from the table so they don’t slip off the edge. “Plenty of time, no?”

“A week ago…” Riki repeats, voice trailing off into nothing as he rubs his stomach and leans back in his seat. “That’s like an hour’s notice in employed people's time.” He sighs. “No offense, YN.”

“Okay, Big Rik.” You scoff. “You’ve had a job for ten minutes.”

He glances at his watch before squinting at you, venom written all over his cute little face. “And that’s ten minutes longer than you, is it not?”

“Did I do something to you?”

“You know what? I’m glad you br—” Somi cuts off her little cousin by shutting his mouth with her hand. “Can we please focus on the real issue, you’re partying with NAPE tonight and I can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“My mum’s up and we’re having dinner,” she says bitterly.

“Just come after.”

“Or don’t come at all!” Yizhuo butts in. “I have plans for Jake Sim tonight and I don’t need him getting distracted.”

Riki kisses his teeth, shaking his head. “I’m willing to bet a good amount of money that your plans involve staring at him from across the room, then blowing up the chat to talk about how you two caught a vibe.”

This is, to Yizhuo, the greatest offence — despite its truth — and you have to actually hold her back from leaping over the table to strangle Riki, but there’s nothing you can do about the string of insults that leave her mouth.

Somi’s ring-clad knuckles rap against your side of the table, right beside your glass. “Really sorry about Daydream, by the way. Seriously,” she says, frowning. “If it makes you feel any better, I heard a bunch of their permanent staff got laid off as well.”

Only now, with Somi’s sincerity, do you realise how long it’s been since you last saw your friends. Nearly three weeks have passed since you lost your job, and this is the first time the four of you have managed to get together. As much as you hate to admit it, Riki was right about needing loads of notice to schedule something as simple as day drinking at the pub. Your world used to revolve around your planner, with separate sections in your worn Filofax for work, personal, and social—which was, largely in part, due to your obsession with stationary. Sitting down on a Sunday night to plan out the week ahead was one of your main hobbies, pencilling in coffee dates and errand-run-hangout hybrids wherever you found an hour or two in common with one of your friends. If you didn’t live with Aeri, you’d probably never see her.

“You know what, Somi? Not really, but thank you.”

Undeterred, she beams at you. “One door closed is a million doors opened, I swear.”

“Cheers to that!” Riki grins, raising his shot glass to his cousin’s nonsensical proverb.

Pushing your doubts away, you raise your pint and toast to the possibility of a million doors opening up before you. Beautiful doors with even more beautiful things behind them, of course. You need all the luck you can get.

Somi has time to nurse another half pint before she has to leave, begging you to text her everything about tonight as it happens. You make no promises. It’s another four pints and a sunset before the rest of you get up to leave, zigging and zagging through the crowded bar out into the crisp fresh air. And because the speakers in the beer garden are playing music, different music to what was on inside, Riki makes you and Yizhuo sit shivering with him at a picnic bench so he can listen to Folded by Kehlani.

“Fuck, Riki,” Yizhuo mutters, rubbing her face with her hands when the second verse starts. “Don’t you have music at home?”

He rolls his eyes, pausing his singing to say, “I’m sure even you could appreciate that hearing a song you like in the wild is way better than listening to it at home.”

“I would love to agree with you, but I have central heating at home.” Your teeth chatter when you finish talking, and all you can think about is your bed and the multiple other ways you could be experiencing warmth at home right now. Hot water bottle. Electric blanket. Taking a bath. Cuddling with Aeri.

“You also have NAPE at home.” Yizhuo points out.

“We’re all going there, what’s your point?”

She pulls a face that you know means she’s not coming.

“We?” Riki repeats, eyes bulging out of his head. “I’m going home. There’s music at home, as Yizhuo so kindly reminded me.”

“Neither of you are coming? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, brother.” He nods solemnly, standing up from his seat as the song comes to an end. “None of my mutuals are going.” He pats his pockets, in search of the big three — phone, wallet, keys — before zipping up his jacket.

“Your mutuals…” Yizhuo trails off, eying him. “Riki, this is real life.”

“Also it’s literally my flat, where I live… I thought we were mutuals.”

“Ladies, please.” He holds up his hands defensively. “I can ragebait Jay Park any time, okay, I don’t need to go to your house to do that. I also think I reserve the right to sleep in my own bed tonight. Alone.”

“Who else would be in your bed?” Yizhuo scrunches her nose, pulling the fallen strap of her bag back up her shoulder.

Gesturing towards all six feet of himself, Riki licks his lips, stumbling just a little. “Have you seen me?” he asks, a smug smile curling over his mouth.

“Unfortunately, we have, princess,” you say, patting his back. “Let’s get you home.”

Ruby’s isn’t your favourite pub, but it’s the best option if you’re drinking with Riki, because he stays so close and the only way any of you will have peace of mind after a night out is if you actually see him getting into his flat and hear the lock clicking behind him. The three of you walk arm in arm with Princess Riki towering over you in the middle. It takes all of fifteen minutes to get to his place and then the station across the road. Side by side on the platform, Yizhuo bumps your hip with hers. “How are you feeling?”

Given the pile of her texts you haven’t yet returned, you have a good idea of what she’s referring to. Even so, you ask, “About?”

Yizhuo gives you a look, pursing her lips before mumbling your name. She got lucky, jumping off the slowly sinking Daydream ship in time to snag a senior editorial position at Interview. She’d encouraged you to do the same, move up in your career, but no, you just had to prove your unwavering loyalty to a company for which you were no more than a name on a list. A recipient for an email with the subject line: Notice of Organisational Changes. Hindsight, as always, is 20/20 and the signs were there before you even got to London. The Edinburgh office, where you’d worked since graduating, closed last summer for financial reasons. Transferring seemed like a no-brainer, a blessing, but if you knew you had a year left, you would’ve stayed put.

“The downtime’s nice.” Over the last three weeks you’ve fixed your sleeping schedule, started and finished eight books, gone home to see Minjeong, applied and been rejected from nine editorial positions, and played through all of Super Mario Bros. Wonder. Twice. “I do, however, enjoy receiving a salary, so it would be nice to work again. Quite soon.”

Yizhuo nods, squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out for openings, but it might help to get your work out there, keep you sharp and all that. Are you on Substack?”

You laugh in her face. It’s 2025, everyone is on Substack—including the two-hundred subscribers you panicked and abandoned when your page started gaining traction. “Yes, Yizhuo. I’m on Substack.”

“Perfect!” she exclaims and because this is the Central Line and Londoners do not care about anyone else, no one spares her a glance. Your cheeks burn anyway. A happy sigh falls from her lips, and she tilts her head. “Write and post, write and post. Anyone will read anything these days, just get your name and your gorgeous words online, and I promise, you’ll be rolling in opportunities.”

“Yizhuo…”

“I’m serious. Write about your crazy NAPE party tonight, God knows how many people would kill to be in your position.” She lets go of the handrail and makes a show of pointing at herself with both hands. “Just do something, okay? You’re too young to sit in your room watching TV all day. You need to leave your house and live your life and see your friends.”

“I know, Yizhuo. I know that,” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “It’s not on purpose or anything, I just… sometimes I need a day to do nothing, and then it’s two days and then it’s a week.” Your stomach curls in on itself at the thought. The longer you spend at home, the harder it is to leave. You had to psych yourself up this afternoon, staring at your reflection and repeating: my friends do not secretly hate me. My friends enjoy my company. I am good company.

She frowns. “I get that, really. But you don’t have to deal with everything on your own, you have friends. A lot of friends who love you and want to spend time with you.” It all sounds a bit like an affirmation tape, a YouTube subliminal, and maybe if those weren’t the exact words you needed to hear right now, you might have laughed. “Next time you’re home doing nothing, text me and we can rot together, okay?”

You nod.

“And please, please, please get some NAPE dick tonight and review it ASAP,” Yizhuo says, whispering the name of the band as if that was the worst part of her sentence.

“I’ll pass.”

“Not a request.”

“Okay, daddy. I’ll do it,” you say, which, of course, makes London’s so-called nonchalant population turn their heads in your direction.

Yizhuo’s head falls back with laughter and you look up at the map above the door. Seven more stops for you, though hers is next. She pulls you into a hug, and you hide your face in her puffer jacket, willing your cheeks to stop burning. It doesn’t work. When the doors slip open, she kisses your cheeks and says, “See you later, Kitten.”

Flustered doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel as you call out, “Text me when you’re home, okay?”

She nods and blows you a kiss before climbing the stairs, disappearing into the sea of commuters leaving the station while the doors close. The Tube chugs on, homeward bound. With Yizhuo’s words on a loop, you finish the rest of the journey home, relieved to feel the autumn wind on your cheeks when you get back outside.

Dread stirs a pit in your stomach as you hear the party before you even see your front door. And dread almost kills you as you take careful steps around the people sitting in the corridor to get inside. The music is loud but there aren’t as many people as you thought. It’s mainly just a bunch of influencers you recognise by IG handle instead of name—jenaissante and _chaechae_1 are stretched over your couch, yawnzzn laughs with you.th in the kitchen doorway.

Heeseung spots you before you have a chance to retreat to your room. He is elated and red all over, pulling you into a hug, and wrapping his warm tobacco scent around you. “Hello!” he yells into your ear, before gesturing behind himself. “Jake and Sunghoon.” NAPE’s bassist and drummer, the ones from the yaoi magazine cover you went back for a copy of, are somehow much better looking in person.

The camera doesn’t quite do justice to Jake’s large… everything. His eyes, nose, lips, and rose-tinted knuckles are so big and so beautiful. He tucks some of his hair behind his ear and smiles with all of his teeth. “Nice finally meeting you,” he says, seeming to mean it. Having a favourite member in a band where you know half of the members personally feels wrong, but Jake is that for you, and so, the tipsy fangirl-adjacent part of you gives him a hug that he graciously returns.

At his side, Sunghoon stands in a white button-up that clings to his huge biceps. Great. His hair is perfectly parted over his forehead, his tie tight and straight. His lips are plump and pink, pulling into a sheepish smile as he raises his huge hand to wave at you. The sight of it, the dimple in his cheek, sets off a flutter in your stomach and you can’t help giggling like he’s done something special. “We’ve heard so much,” he says. “I mean, J—” He groans, keeling over and clutching his ribs where Jake elbowed him.

“It’s true, Gigi’s always talking about you,” Jake finishes off like nothing happened. “Something to drink?”

Dazed, you blink at the band boy, but take him up on his kind offer of a drink in your home. Jake leads you through the sparse crowd, weaving artfully towards your kitchen and making small talk along the way. “I actually used to play in church,” he tells you, opening your cupboards and taking out what he needs. Absolut Vanilla, simple syrup. A sticky bottle of Schweppes swiped from the kitchen island behind you. “I wanted girls to like me.”

“Did it work?”

Jake looks up from the counter at you, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he halts his mixology. “Of course it worked,” he says, disbelief written all over his face. “But I was too shy to do anything about it.”

“I see,” you say, struggling to conceal your laughter as he hands you a cup.

“Wasn’t for nothing though.” He shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I guess you could say I’m pretty confident these days.”

You’ve seen enough about NAPE online, fanwars and uproar about the personal lives of the members, to know firsthand he’s not exactly lying. This is the face of some of Pinterest’s favourite couple inspo, one half of the now-mourned JakeZuha. You’d met her once, Kazuha, at a work thing. One of Daydream’s holiday parties. She was nice, more than, even if she didn’t have much to say about anything that wasn’t her boyfriend. Their breakup in the winter had fanpages proclaiming that love was dead and that they were children of divorce.

The thought makes you laugh in his face and you’re just glad he laughs too as you clink the rims of your plastic cups together.

Armed with the sweetest vodka lemonade you’ve ever had, you head to your room, desperate to change out of your jeans. After triple checking the lock on your door, you leave your jeans in a heap at your feet, stepping out of them and towards your dresser, where you settle on your favourite grey sweatpants and resolve to only be photographed from the waist up. One large gulp of drink, a deep breath, and you pull open the door, returning to the party—if fifteen people in your flat can really be described as such.

Before you can go over and join Aeri, a knock at the front door catches your attention, though you seem to be the only one to hear it. The knock comes again and you roll your eyes, unwilling to apologise for noise at nine p.m. on a Friday night. You know your rights. At the sound of a third knock, you stomp over to the door and fling it open.

“Mrs. Kim, we—Jay?”

The last year of your life living in London has been long. A massive adjustment. Hiked up prices and supermarkets closing early on Sundays, learning Tube routes and constantly being an hour away from any given plan you’ve made. So much has changed. You have changed. You are not the same petrified grown up who left everything she knew to move here, nor are you the same lovestruck girl Jay abandoned all those years ago. Yet the sight of him, live and in person and standing at your door dislodges something in your chest. In your memories, those odd dreams you have from time to time, he always looks so grown up. Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. It had never occurred to you back then how young you both were, especially given that he was a year older. Reconciling that version of him with the 25-year-old man before you now is impossible. The last of his baby fat, those stubborn chubby cheeks you loved with everything you had are gone now.

Is there any part of him, of this stranger, that you still know?

His hair is slicked back, a few strands left down, streaking over his forehead in that handsome way. You’d always liked it back like this, though he rarely did it. Reserved it for special occasions. Grad Ball Jay. Anniversary Jay. 25-year-old Jay. Even though the sun is down, a huge pair of sunglasses rests on the straight bridge of his nose. The silver ball above his eyebrow shines in the light. Making sense of the odds in your mind is impossible. How, at once, you are pleased to see him and thoroughly disgusted by it. How after everything, he can look at you, smile, and say your name.

“Jay…” you say again, trailing off, uncertain and half-expecting him to vanish into thin air, like some hyperrealistic figment of your imagination, complete with the cologne he used to wear. Scent — his scent — that most powerful of senses that hurtles you into the past as soon as you catch it. Hurtles you long back into his soft hoodies. Into your bed where that same honey musk lingered on the sheets long after he left.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, sincere as ever.

“I know,” you agree, stomach turning. Nervous. Nauseous. “I, uh, I do think I’m going to be sick, though.”

Before you have the chance to rush away from him, to do anything, you wretch and spew alcohol onto the doormat between his feet and yours.

Pinching yourself does nothing—this is not a nightmare to be woken from.

“Fuck,” Jay says, crouching into view. Concern drenches his features, the last thing you see before screwing your eyes shut. “Are you okay?”

Mortification creeps through every last inch of your body, settling between your bones. This is not happening. This can not be happening. Seeing Jay again was supposed to be an event of Princess Diana revenge dress proportions. You own a revenge dress! You had grand plans to make Jay Park regret the day he was born, never mind the day he dumped you. Yet here you are, in a crop top and joggers covered in your own vomit.

“Great, Jay,” you mutter. “I’m great.”

Against your better judgment, you let him take you to the bathroom where you lean over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out, but he rubs your back and holds your hair away from your skin anyway. His gentle touch burns through your clothes. “Are you alright?”

Kneeling on the checkerboard linoleum with Jay at your side has been a real test of strength, though, even with your screaming joints, you’re certain it’s better than the alternative—actually having to look at him. Weepy-eyed and vomit-breathed. “I’m fine,” you say for the hundredth time, sighing. “You can stop asking now.”

He scoffs, an amused sound that heats your skin to hear. Behind your closed eyelids, you can picture the look on his face. Clearly see the lopsided curve of his lips, the hint of a dimple. “Alright, my bad for worrying after you threw up all over me.”

Your hair slips from his hold when you whip your head to face him, strands sticking to your neck as soon as they’re free. Frantically, your eyes search his dark jeans. “It got on you?”

Jay smiles and he is so painfully gorgeous in the warm light of your shared bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Seeing him here, seeing him at all makes your heart stutter. “No, YN.” He shakes his head, quickly, voice a low rumble. “You’re all good.”

You hum, raking a hand through your hair. “I’m all good,” you agree.

Now that your level of goodness has been sufficiently clarified, Jay clears his throat. “Alright, champ,” he says, as if you are an eight-year-old little boy while helping you to your feet in much the same manner. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

On your waist the weight of his palm, the heat of it, is dizzying, and your alcohol consumption and post-vomit fogginess do nothing to stop the room from tilting. “Don’t touch me,” you croak, wriggling out of his grip. The words are rough on your throat.

Ever respectful, he lets go at once, stepping back and apologising as he flushes the toilet. A thrum of irritation flares in your head, hammering at your skull, at how easily that word came out of him, sorry, slipping from his little pink mouth and over the smallest thing. At once, the desire to wring his neck and to press your lips against his spar in your head. Neither wins. “So that you can apologise for,” you say under your breath instead.

Somehow, the look he gives you — tilted head, wide eyes, lips ajar — is the worst thing that’s happened since he arrived. Jay pities you, his scorned lover. The tightness in your chest is immediate, a thick knot that won’t give. Before he can speak, you turn away to clutch the sink and it is a grand effort. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“It’s fine, Jay. I’m fine,” you say, though it is the furthest thing from fine you can think of. “It was a big deal to me and not to you. We’re over it, we’re fine.”

In the mirror, he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, like you are Patrick Zweig asking for Tashi Duncan’s coaching. “Not a big deal to me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Who said it wasn’t a big deal to me?”

You cover your face with your hands, sighing into your palms. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“I think we need to.”

“Yeah, Jay. We did,” you agree, catching his eye in the glass. It’s a mistake. “About three years ago before you up and left out of nowhere.”

“Out of nowhere?” he says, as if he absolutely must repeat everything that comes out of your mouth. “I was always moving back here, YN. That was always my plan, you knew that.”

Your eyes sting at the corners. Tears eager to spill. He’s right. You did know that. Jay made it explicitly clear. But there had been a time back then, when you were a part of those plans too. When his tongue slipped around I and we like they were the same thing. They were. To you. When we go to London… He brought you here that last winter. You drank Bailey’s hot chocolate at Winter Wonderland and met his parents. Met Heeseung. Jay had a life here, a vibrant one, and with each day you spent together, it became harder to imagine him anywhere else. By the fireplace in his family home, he asked you if you liked it, liked London. Of course you did. The flame raged warm in his brown eyes when he asked if you could see yourself here, with him. Your heart was beating in your throat. You loved London, and you loved Jay even more. You would have moved to Aberdeen if that’s where he wanted to go.

“Jay?”

His gaze softens, gone is the harsh crease of his brow, his squinting eyes. It’s like staring the past dead in the face. Everything you wanted so badly and never got to have. “Yeah?” he says gently.

“Get to fuck.”

Jay clenches his jaw, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you want.” He closes the door softly behind him when he leaves.

It’s only now, alone, that you register the hammering of your heart, the thudding of your pulse in your ears. You cry into the sink until your head hurts. You brush your teeth. Wash your face.

Opposite the bathroom door, Jay leans on the wall. Sunglasses on. Bottle of water in his white knuckle grip. He holds it out for you to take and you sigh, far beyond the mood to hear whatever he has to say. Minted by Colgate and Listerine, the water is ice in your mouth. Refreshing. “Thanks.”

Jay flicks off the bathroom light by your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Together, you turn down the hall and into the living room. All of the guys — NAPE, at least — lapse into silence to watch you, though Heeseung is polite enough to pretend he’s not staring. Your stomach turns. Leaning up to Jay’s ear is grossly reflexive when you ask, “Do they—” You pause, pursing your lips and knowing the answer already. “Obviously Heeseung knows, but…”

“I told them.”

No matter how evil he was / is, he has every right to talk about what happened. About what he did. It’s Jay’s story as much as it’s yours, and he can do with it what he wants, regardless of how mortifying it is to think of other people knowing. What you did with it, and intend to continue doing with it, was keep the whole ordeal to yourself, like any other mentally sound adult woman would, which is obviously very healthy and working out really well for you. Jay had to move back home and we agreed it’d be best to end things. This is the version of events everyone else in your life has heard, and it’s what Minjeong and Jaehyun would have heard if it wasn’t for your living with them.

“Sorry,” he adds in a low voice.

That word again, easier than breathing it seems. “It’s fine.”

At the sight of you, Aeri’s face lights up and she stumbles out of Heeseung’s lap and over to you, taking you into her tattooed arms like it’s been an age since you last saw each other. In a way, you can’t believe it hasn’t been. “Here you are!” With her hands cradling your elbows, she takes a good look at you, eyes latching onto every part of your face. “You feeling okay?”

“Perfect!” Your voice is unusually high, strained.

“Heeseung cleaned up.” Aeri’s gaze flickers over your shoulder and she grins. “And I see you two have met.”

“Actually—” Jay starts, but you talk over him. “Yeah!” You face him, grinning too widely and extending a hand for him to shake. “Sorry about that. I’m YN.”

Only after a moment does his confusion clear and he takes your hand in his, shaking it. His fingertips are rougher than you remember, thick callouses boiling hot on your skin. “Nice meeting you,” he says, holding onto you for just too long. Too long for a conventional first meeting, anyway. No amount of time holding Jay Park’s hand could ever be long enough.

True peace and relaxation only find you when everyone has left, trickling out into London’s night time, cluster by cluster. Heeseung and his band boys stayed behind to tidy up and get their hands on one last pint before leaving your place even neater than they’d found it.

While you wash the breakfast dishes you abandoned in your room this morning, Aeri tiptoes into the kitchen behind you, humming happily to herself and pulling you into her arms. “They’re not so bad, are they?” Unfortunately, she and the rest of the world are correct. NAPE aren’t so bad after all. In fact, they are perfectly charming, and funny, and kind. Even their evil guitarist. You hum in response and focus on keeping a firm grip on your bowl as you move it to the drying rack.

“And…” She trails off, apparently waiting for you to finish her sentence. Much to her dismay, you do not. Aeri lets go of you and leans on the counter at your side, tipping her head to see your face. “What do we think of Jay?” she asks in a sing-song voice, and if she were referring to literally any other guy on the planet, you’d have smiled along with her.

But she isn’t and the sound of his name dries your mouth. “He’s… okay,” you say after too long. “Seems nice.”

Aeri’s jaw drops. “He’s okay?” Her disbelief is palpable, expressed through every part of her. “He held your hair while you threw up in the toilet and you think he’s just okay?”

“I actually didn’t throw up at all in the toilet,” you correct her, like that makes it any better, defensive in an off-putting way that makes you cringe. “But I guess the rockstar thing doesn’t really do it for me.”

“The rockstar thing,” she repeats under her breath, shaking her head. “What about the freakishly understanding thing? Or, I don’t know, the extremely fuckable guy thing?”

A pit takes over your stomach. “You’ve fucked him?” You don’t mean to ask, or to sound so dejected when you do, but the words come out before you can help it.

“Jesus, no.” Aeri sighs. “I’m not that lucky.”

You hate how relieved you are to hear it.

“He’s, like, impressively celibate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had on, like, a chastity belt or some shit.” She shakes her head solemnly. “A damn shame if you ask me,” she starts, though quickly changes her tune. “But, you know, I’m obviously very lucky with Heeseung… yadda yadda yadda.”

A scoff comes out of you, but you can’t help the smile on your face. “Right.”

Aeri yawns and stretches her arms out over her head. “Believe me when I say I cannot wait to see the kind of person who does it for you.” It’s the last thing she says before she kisses your temple and heads for bed.

you: I threw up on Park Jongseong tn.

minjeong: YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

In bed, you open your phone and search for the thread you haven’t looked at in years. His contact still has a kissy face in it.

jongseong 😽: i got my shift swapped soooooo sleepover?

you: 😭😭😭 YES YES YES YES YES YES

jongseong 😽: hahaha leaving in 10 ❤️‍🔥

jongseong 😽: baby baby baby baby baby baby

Because this knife to the gut isn’t quite sharp enough, you search for the word dakgaejang, and those first messages come up.

jongseong 😽: hey yn! it’s jongseong from earlier, i hope you don’t mind me asking around for your number, i’m only now realising how creepy this is… i just wanted to make sure you were able to get home okay, and i’m really sorry i couldn’t walk you all the way back, i swear i meant to! and don’t worry about the hoodie, just hold onto it and stay cozy!!! if you have someone at home who can cook, my mom has this insane recipe for dakgaejang, that shit could cure anything, and if you don’t have someone at home who can cook, i’d be happy to whip some up for you when i get home and drop it off!!!

jongseong 😽: whatever works for you, okay? just lmk!

When you finally fall asleep, you dream of Jay. Of Jay and your university bedroom back in that freezing Edinburgh flat. At the foot of your bed, he hurriedly picked his clothes from the floor while your space heater roared into the cold. You leaned up on your elbows, but said nothing. You couldn’t speak. Finally, he saw you and froze in place. This was not the Jay of years past. Not Jongseong. It was Jay as he’d been last night. With his hair slicked back and his worn leather jacket over his broad shoulders. Still, he gave you that same look. Those same soft and sleepy eyes.

“Sorry, beautiful,” he mumbled, his voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay.”

All it took was one blink, and he was right there, kneeling at the side of the bed. “I’m glad we got to see each other again, YN. I’ve really missed you.” His palm rested on your cheek, calluses on the tips of his fingers. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back soon,” he said. A dimple dented his cheek when you nodded, and his soft lips grazed yours—you wake up with a start, sweat-drenched and heavy breathing. Heart pounding in your chest. Tears welling in your eyes.

When you finally manage to get out of bed, you go straight to the shower. You don’t bother drying your hair after, which you will regret. On the kitchen counter, the kettle boils noisily, but you can’t bring yourself to worry about waking your flatmate. Can’t bring yourself to worry about anything other than the fact you haven’t been able to steady your breathing in the thirty minutes since you tore yourself from your damp cheeks.

A door clicks shut down the hallway, making you flinch. Heeseung appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. “How’d you sleep?” he asks through a yawn.

Your dream, Jay, comes to mind quickly and with no warning. The ghost of his palm on your cheek, his lips on yours, all so vivid like he’s here with you now. Like he really spent the night. “Same as always,” you say, clearing your throat. “You?”

“Slept alright.” He shrugs and takes a glass from the cabinet by your head, filling it up with water from the filter. “Are you going to tell Gigi or should I?”

The drop of your stomach is immediate. “Tell Gigi what?”

After a sip of water, he presses his lips into a flat line and takes a moment, like he’s carefully choosing his next words. “I know it’s none of my business but—”

“Stay out of it then,” you interrupt, pulling the kettle from the element and filling your mug. Instant espresso splashes onto the counter.

“But he’s really sorry, you know?” Heeseung says as if it makes a difference.

He’s sorry? Great! The urge to punch Heeseung in the face for his crime of simply having a functional relationship with your life’s great evil is overbearing. Your clenched fist trembles at your side and a maniacal laugh rips out of you. He takes a step back. Your coffee burns your tongue. “Wow, Heeseung! Why didn’t he just say so? Holy shit, this changes everything!”

“YN—”

Desperate for this conversation to be over, to bury yourself under your duvet and start again tomorrow, you cut him off yet again. “It’s not your mistake to fix.”

“You’re right.” Heeseung sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, obviously you’re going to stick up for your friend, I get that and it’s fine. It’s just that I’m not exactly—” You pause, running a hand over your face. “I have a lot I need to figure out.” The awareness of how long you’ve had to do just that, and how long you’ve spent avoiding it, weighs heavy on your shoulders.

He nods, twisting the back of the stud in his ear. “Of course, YN. It’s just… you know…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely into the space between you with both hands. “I’m your friend too, I hope. And, it’s not like I think he can justify what he did, but it might be helpful to hear why he did it. From him?” he suggests, voice tipping upwards as your eyes get progressively more squinted.

The absolute last thing you need right now, is to hear Jay wax poetic about being a true artist and unlocking one’s inner self. How he absolutely had to leave and that was it, you weren’t allowed to be upset about it, because trapping an artist in a box would be like clipping a bird’s wings. Or something.

“Just think about it, yeah?”

For lack of anything better to do, you blow on your coffee, rippling the surface before taking a cautious sip. Over the rim of your cup, Heeseung is watching you, gnawing at his bottom lip with his teeth. If not for the twinkle of hope in his ginormous eyes, you wouldn’t give in and say, “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

His face lights up like you gave him a firm yes and he claps his hands together. “Are you free on Friday night?”

You splutter, coughing into your elbow as you put down your cup. “You’re giving me thirty-six hours to make up my mind?”

“No, not at all. No rush, I swear,” he says, waving his hands frantically. “We’re playing a show at The Helmet, and I thought it would be cool if you came along.”

Disbelief tugs at your brow. “You thought that?”

Heeseung opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, saying nothing. And if you weren’t so curious, you’d drop the subject and decline, but… “I think—” He starts, cutting himself off to look at the ceiling. Then, with his hand on his heart, “All of us would be honoured to have you there. Collectively.”

You’ve seen enough clips online to know that seeing NAPE perform, seeing Jay, would do horrible things for not only your healing journey, but for feminism at large.

As if sensing your reluctance, he adds, “You can come backstage and everything!”

“That would be lovely, Heeseung. No thank you.” Right as the words leave your mouth, Yizhuo crosses your mind and you ask, “Is Jake single?”

With saucers for eyes, he tilts his head. “Pardon?”

“Is he?”

“Are you asking for yourself?”

“Would that change your answer?”

A quiet second passes, Heeseung’s actually thinking about it. “That depends.”

“I’m not going, but I have some friends, two, who would genuinely die to go backstage,” you explain unhelpfully. “I’ll speak to Aeri about it and they can all go together.”

“No can do, YN.” Heeseung purses his lips. “If you’re not backstage, then your friends aren’t either.”

“Then I guess they won’t be backstage.” You frown, lifting your coffee from the counter. The steam has cleared. “Break a leg, rockstar.” On your way out, you pat Heeseung on the back.

Poor Somi and Yizhuo.

The Helmet is a pub of relative dinginess. Each step you take is a mild effort for how sticky the floor is with God knows how many hours of uncleaned booze. And quite small compared to the venues NAPE have been selling out recently, but according to Aeri, “This place has sentimental value! They played their first ever gig here, it’s special.”

She loops her arm through yours and drags you into the throng, not caring who she elbows. And the elbowed don’t seem to mind either when they realise it’s Heeseung’s girlfriend. And you. And Somi. And Yizhuo and Riki and Jaehyun. There is no barricade between the stage and the crowd. Just a foot high elevation and a whole lot of trust from the lack of security the pub seems to boast. Despite how packed it is, it’s not difficult to get to the bar, as evidenced by Jaehyun and Riki’s trips back and forth to supply you guys with drinks.

The DJ plays a jarring mix of alt-rock and 60’s pop music and everything in between. Muse’s Supermassive Black Hole becomes Like I Love You by Justin Timberlake becomes Surfin’ U.S.A. Who the target audience is, you’re not sure, but the more you drink — and the more Riki moves his broad shoulders to the beat — it becomes easier and easier to bear.

“I went to international school with that guy!” Riki yells in your ear. “Name’s Asahi and he’s fucking crazy.”

“The DJ?”

“No, you idiot. That’s Jungwon.” Riki flicks your forehead. “I mean the bartender.”

Around you, the crowd cheers raucously when the stage lights dim. Nothing happens. The DJ continues to terrorise all of you with more insane transitions — Sugar Water Cyanide into No One Noticed — and you continue to drink.

The lights go dim and the crowd around you roars. At your side, Aeri shakes like she’s the one about to perform, grabbing your hand and giving it a tight squeeze. She doesn’t let go. Another swell of screams fills the air as a song starts playing, one of NAPE’s. No Way Back was the first and last NAPE song you ever listened to. It was everywhere—the lead single of their debut album, the title of the tour they just finished, the common song choice for TikTok OOTDs and DIMLs. They were everywhere—BBC Live Lounge, The Tonight Show, Saturday Night Live.

And, much to your dismay, they were damn good.

In the blink of an eye, the lights come up slowly and you hold your breath as NAPE appear on stage. With Aeri, you look straight up at Heeseung who smiles, leaning towards the mic and singing, “When the last sun sets…”

They are a golden spotlighted blur to your tipsy eyes, but Jay has maybe never looked so good. There’s nothing special about wearing a flannel over a plain white T-shirt, you know that, but on him, now, it’s mesmerising. He is mesmerising. Glowing under the lights and so, so close. His guitar sits right by his waistband, veins criss-crossing over the backs of his hands as he plays. Goosebumps rise along your skin, and a funny feeling ravages your stomach. Butterflies on crack, just like the first time you saw him.

It seemed unjust that someone like him could exist not only on your campus, but within walking distance of your flat without you knowing. That someone so handsome had been existing and so close to you for three years. That was all you could think back then. If only we’d met earlier. If only we had more time. It was a real cosmic injustice. You had no real plans to stay in Edinburgh, but not for lack of wanting to—there you had a roof over your head, you had friends, and you had Jay. You had nights spent curled around him, you had mindblowing sex, and you had something special and real that you will never get back.

Knowing what he has now, it would have been ludicrous for Jay to stay behind. He has a crowd screaming his name, and a flat right in the centre of London and most of all, he has accepted that things are over and his life is better for it.

When you lift your stinging eyes from his guitar, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are wide, his lips set apart. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, like he too is using this most inconvenient of moments to mourn the past. To mourn you. He freezes, fingers stilling over the strings for long enough that Heeseung casts a look in his direction.

You chew on your bottom lip until it hurts and snatch Jaehyun’s cup out of his hand to finish it. When the song ends, the crowd erupts into cheers, again.

Jay Park is a god among men.

“What you saying, London?” Heeseung says, grinning, and the crowd goes crazy over it. Over him. You can’t blame them. There’s a charm to him, like this, standing in front of you on the stage. Heeseung the idol, you the… well, reluctant fan of sorts. “We’re NAPE and we’ve got a special show prepared for you tonight.”

The crowd cheers. To his credit, Heeseung is electric on stage, and you are standing so close you can see the sweat beading along his hairline and can already predict the tweets you’re going to see later about all of this. For fear of doing something rash, like jumping on the stage and tackling Jay for a kiss, you keep your eyes trained on the reflective red of Heeseung’s microphone as he continues to speak to the crowd.

“If tonight’s your first time with us, then allow me to introduce the band,” he says, his voice low in a way you’ve never heard before as he gestures behind him. Sunghoon on the drums, Jake on the bass, and his good friend, Jay on the guitar.

“Thank you for that, good friend Heeseung.” The words leave Jay’s mouth in a slow mumble, his cheeks a little flushed as he touches his palm to his heart. The screams for him seem the loudest by far, but that might be because you’re screaming with everyone else. “It’s good to see you guys, I’m Jay. Let’s have fun tonight, London.”

They launch into the next song immediately, a funky track about how they’re always going to be there for their ex who they left in unfavourable circumstances and still love. Sunshine, another unfortunately good song that is a perfect fit for Jay’s voice. Minjeong was the one who sent this single to you when it first came out, along with a message telling you to check the credits. Jay was listed as the sole writer.

Artists take creative liberties, you know that, and it’s easy to see why an attractive guy writing about still loving his ex, no matter what, would do better than an attractive man singing about being Satan’s son. But still, it’s weird to think of the millions of listeners who think they know what happened because Jay wrote about it. Who think he is the perfect, sweet, dream man who’d do anything to be wherever you are. Unless, of course, that place is Scotland—though you can see how that might have been difficult to rhyme.

And even still, despite your growing irritation, you can’t help but look at him in awe.

They play one song after another — not saying much — and you don’t know any of them, but they only get better. The crowd gets more excited, louder somehow, and Jay only gets harder to look away from. Seeing him like this, on stage, is overwhelming. His skin honeyed under the strong lights, slick with sweat making him glow. His thick fingers move quickly over the frets, his straight teeth bite his bottom lip. When he leans towards the mic, his lips brush the top of it, eyes meeting yours. You can see how people idolise him, idolise them, because holding his gaze, staring into the eyes of the man you once knew is impossible, and it’s an effort to stay upright on your weak knees.

A song called Helium closes to raucous screams and applause and all of the members look to Jay. You do the same. As the crowd calms down, he chuckles, tilting his head. Around his hairline, damp strands stick to his face, his temples, and he leans down, mouth a breath away from the mic. “This last song is actually, uh… It’s pretty personal, you know? It’s the first song I wrote when I moved back here,” he says, scrunching his nose. Jay is clearly nervous, his cheeks and neck turning rosy.

The girl behind you says, “He’s so cute when he’s shy!” And you hate that she has learned him enough to see what you do. Hate that she has learned him enough to have formed opinions on Jay and his tendencies, while being lucky enough not to know him personally.

Lucky enough to look at him and see hardly anything more than a blank slate upon which to project her every whim and fancy. This version of Jay, her Jay, that she has gotten to know through YouTube videos and overanalysing social media captions. Who she must imagine is very clear and upfront about his feelings, if that’s what she’s into. What does anyone in this crowd know about Jay? How lucky they all are to have only a part of the picture that makes up the whole, to have straightforward positive feelings for and towards this side of him that anyone with internet access can see. Lucky not to know what it’s like to fall asleep by his side, or to be scared half to death in the middle of the night to find him sleeping with his eyes half open. Lucky not know what it’s like to miss those things. To miss him.

“We don’t really do this one live, but Heeseung wasn’t lying when he said tonight was special.” His eyes flick over to you for the longest second and Jaehyun nudges your ribs.

While the crowd erupts once again, he shows you something on his phone. It’s his Notes app, with the words, get a fucking load of this male manipulator, written in all caps and bold. And because, yeah, I’m trying to, isn’t the right response, you can only offer your friend a forced chuckle before you gulp.

“So for what I think is the first time ever, here’s Carolina,” Jay says, launching into the opening chords. There is a clear difference between this song and the rest. It’s upbeat, and catchy, sounding almost like what you imagine would happen if The Beatles had made a song you enjoyed.

It is also, quite clearly, about you—though it was your father who told you to swim before you drown.

If you had your wits about you, you would probably turn on your heels and storm out. How unfair of Jay to do this. To sing about you and your life and the heartbreak he inflicted on you without so much as a simple text to let you know. Give you a heads up. Hey, I wrote a really fucking good song about our relationship for my first EP and reduced two years to a one night stand lmao. Unfortunately, you do not have your wits about you, and so, as you stand there bobbing your head to the beat and swaying, you cannot help but bite on your lip and stare indulgently up at Jay as he sings about what a good girl you are.

“How would I tell her that she’s all I think about?” Jay sings, looking at you. “Well, I guess she just found out.”

When Jay first told you about his dream, a pang of horror punched you in the gut. Fearing that your fate would be like that of girls everywhere, that he would be your tropey boyfriend, your canon event: the privileged, untalented SoundCloud rapper, or indie artist. All you could do was nod your head and smile stiffly as he told you how much he loved his guitar and writing music. It was to your great relief that Jay wasn’t just good, he was great. You’re certain that’s why, now, as you watch him sing about your relationship for hundreds of adoring fans, there is a flicker of admiration, of awe, right alongside your annoyance.

“She feels so good,” he sings over and over, with his eyes shut. A vein presses against his forehead. His neck.

With that, and a rapturous combination of applause and screaming, NAPE give a bow and leave the stage. They do not do an encore, though a good number of stragglers wait behind for one, while Aeri drags you and all of your friends through a door marked with restricted access. The corridor lights come on one by one as you walk further and further towards another door that she doesn’t hesitate to push open. All of the members are startled by your sudden entrance, but relax quickly at the sight of her.

“Baby!” Heeseung calls out, embracing Aeri, while you and everyone else stands around by the door.

Besides her, you’re the only other person who has met all of these people, and so, you’re tasked with introductions. Jaehyun greets everyone but Jay who stands there looking at him with a straight face. Thankfully, everyone is too caught up with Somi’s huge reactions and extra enthusiasm towards Sunghoon to pay anyone else any mind. He eats it right up, nodding at all the right moments and tucking blonde curls behind her ear while she speaks. Yizhuo, whose big plans for Jake Sim involved taking him to pound town, stands in the corner and stares at him from a distance while he drinks his water.

After filing out of the back exit, you quickly learn that trying to coordinate ten drunk people to use the Tube on a Friday night is more than a bit hellish. But somehow, you manage, with your arm looped through Jaehyun’s the whole way. Jay doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as he and Sunghoon are tasked with keeping all six feet of Riki vertical.

What Aeri refers to as The NAPE House whenever she’s visiting Heeseung, is a four bedroom penthouse apartment that could surely hold more people than the pub they just performed at. There are people everywhere, influencers and other niche celebrities, drinking and laughing and grinding on each other. Not a phone in sight—only vlogging cameras. And on the black leather living room couch, you have a front row seat. A comfortable one you share with Heeseung and a sleeping Aeri.

“Can you do me a favour?” He lolls his head in your direction, yelling. “Will you get my hoodie from my bed?”

You make a show of rolling your eyes. “You owe me. Where’s your room?”

“Always.” Heeseung smiles. “It’s the last door in the hall, straight down.”

You weave through the crowd, throwing apologies over your shoulders and trying to remember exactly which hallway he was referring to. When you get there, his door is slightly ajar, a dim glow coming from the room right at the end of the hall like he said. The sight of the bed alone, dark sheets pulled tight and waiting, is enough to make you sleepy, a nagging exhaustion you only feel now. Noticeably missing though, is his hoodie, but it’s hardly an urgent matter. Surely not. Blinking heavily, the duvet calls for you, the corn on the cob plushie begging you to hold it—a weird choice for Heeseung, but maybe Jay got it for him.

Since you’re doing him a favour — and he uses your couch more than you — you figure there’s nothing wrong with resting your eyes on the end of his bed. It would be foolish not to seize this moment now that you have it. Carpe… moment. Closing the door behind you, you find a key in the lock, and if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. With the door locked, you pass the guitar rack on the way to the bed, and make yourself comfortable, facing the ceiling. Sooner than you expect, your eyes flutter shut, honey musk tickling your nose.

A soft voice wakes you up. “Hey.”

You don’t need to see Jay Park to know it’s him. If not for the American shape of the word leaving his mouth, the fresh scent of his shower gel gives him away. How annoying, knowing someone. When you open your eyes, he’s leaning over you with a smile on his face, very close. Close enough to see that his hair is damp. To see the light from outside reflecting on the droplets that cover the solid muscle over his shoulders. The scar on the bridge of his nose.

A drop of water falls from his hair, hitting your chest—you swear you hear it sizzle. “What are you doing in here?” The words come out before you have a chance to think of something less accusatory to say. Hey, might have been a good place to start. You shoo him away with your hand, sitting up and facing him, ignoring the heat in your stomach. The butterflies. It’s a mistake to look at him properly, to see all of him. His white vest is vacuum sealed over his defined torso, cinching where his waist does. With his hair flat over his forehead, he looks so young again. Looks like himself. Looks like he’s yours. Like any second, he’s going to pull you into him and press his mouth into the crook of your neck, to say, I’ve missed you, gorgeous. You can feel it already, the shape of his phantom words against your skin, the hum of them from his chest. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t you be one of those very strong women who’d fallen for an ugly man? How was it fair that Jay could break your heart and only get better looking?

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m allowed to lie on Heeseung’s bed. He’s my friend.” With that, it’s all you do to hope Jay doesn’t pass this on, you calling Heeseung your friend.

Jay eyes you, wetting his lips. His attention, having all of it, warms your skin. “I’m sure you are, YN. But this is my bed, so if I let you lay on it… what does that make me?” His eyes narrow, just a little. Just enough. There’s something behind them, a challenge to match his low voice.

Everything in your life feels so different now. You have new friends, a new address, different interests and opinions, but still, a very agitating part of you is moved by Jongseong. Charmed. “I think that would still make you my evil ex-boyfriend,” you say, more as a reminder to yourself than anything else. A mental marking of the words, do not open, on the overflowing can of worms with Jay’s name on it—a solution about as effective as sellotape around a broken bone.

He pulls air through his teeth, nodding. “Fair assessment.”

It’s been long enough that the vague dim shapes of his bedroom have sharpened into some form of clarity. The names and faces on the posters visible now: Oasis, Bon Jovi, Destiny’s Child. His desk is completely free of clutter, only housing a huge monitor, a notebook, a mouse and a keyboard. It seems in your absence, he’s gotten a grip on keeping tidy. Mounted on the wall above the guitar rack is the plastic guitar that came with the old copy of Guitar Hero you bought for him. Your heart twists in your chest.

“So this is your room,” you announce. And just like that, the pieces of Heeseung’s drunken puzzle slot into place before your very eyes—he was already wearing his hoodie.

Jay hums, a smile tugging his mouth up at the corners. “You like it?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I’ve spent so long wondering what your life is like here. Where you hang out with your friends, if you still smoke. I’ve been really keen to find out your life is terrible.” You have no idea why you’re saying these things, but it’s difficult to stop now that you’ve started. “Seeing it though, seeing you on stage, seeing you at all. I’m really glad it isn’t, Jay.”

The crowd screaming his name. Singing along to lyrics he wrote. Of course he had to come here. There is no universe where Jay staying in Edinburgh, staying with you, was the right decision. All of those versions of reality play out in your head, split like a kaleidoscope—you are happy, Jay is not, there is more for him than you or Edinburgh can offer, and he resents you for that. Even if his method wasn’t ideal, he did the right thing by leaving, and the realisation forces a lump in your throat.

He mumbles your name, running his hand through his hair. The water makes it stay put like gel, pushed off his forehead, and his eyebrow piercing shimmers. “I didn’t even know you stayed here.”

“It was none of your business.”

“No, I… Yeah, you’re right, it wasn’t.” Jay looks like he has a billion things on his mind, you can practically hear the gears grinding against one another. “I’ve been wanting to see you is all. Catch up.”

A laugh bursts out of you, dry and bitter, as you stand up from the bed. “To catch up,” you repeat. “What, so you could tell me all about your perfect life in perfect London? So you could thank me for inspiring your discography?”

Jay’s jaw ticks when he clicks his tongue. “Do you think so low of me?”

“Hard not to.”

This seems to genuinely hurt him and some part of you takes delight in that fact. His face drops right away, a sad glimmer in his big eyes as he steps towards you. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay—more than.”

“I’m great, Jay.” You don’t bother wiping the first tear from your eye, but as soon as it falls, the floodgates open and there’s nothing you can do to close them. You can hardly see anything anymore, a fuzzy blob replaces Jay where he stands in front of you. “I just let go from a job I really loved and now I’m crying in my ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. Clearly, I’m…” Getting the words out is an effort so you stop, letting the sentence die around the block in your throat.

When you take your hands away from your leaking eyes, the heels of your palms are black with mascara and eyeliner, and Jay says nothing. He’s sitting on the end of the bed, hiding his face with his hands. In your head, a tiny drunk voice wills fervently for him to take you in his massive arms and pat your back. To rest his chin on the top of your head and tell you that it’s all going to be okay. That it’s all going to be good. You hate yourself for wanting that. For wanting him.

Instead, Jay looks up at you with wet eyes. “I really am sorry. It wasn’t meant to happen like that, I swear. I had everything planned out and I just… I don’t know.”

“After all this time, you’re telling me you don’t know why you did that to me?”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Elaborate then.”

“Before I met you, all I did was keep to myself, study, and think about coming back to London. That was it, okay. Being in a relationship was the absolute last thing I wanted back then an—”

You scoff, cutting him off. “Good to know.”

“That’s not what I… I was sure about you, YN. From the start, I was sure about you.” The rest of what comes out of his mouth is secondary, background noise to this.

You feel those words, in your bones, with every single fibre of your being. Recognise them. Because it’s exactly how you felt. There wasn’t a single part of you that would have believed or accepted anything other than the fact that he was the one. Your one—right from the day you met, you knew you wanted him.

Jay sighs, the sag of his broad shoulders catching your attention. “But I couldn’t ask you to do long distance, it wouldn’t have been fair.”

“Fair?” you repeat, hardly believing your ears. “You think disappearing was fair?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing, that it would be easier for both of us that way.”

The thought of hearing him say anything else to defend himself turns your stomach. Worse is the fact that you actually want to hear him out, pick his brain on it. Ask all the questions you never had the chance to. Try to make sense of the mess and sort it all out. Sort yourself out, finally. You just need a minute. Need a minute to get your head on straight, and that’ll be impossible with Jay watching you the way he is, his glossy eyes boring into yours. You fling open the door to his ensuite and shut it behind you before he has the chance to keep speaking.

Heat from the shower hits you immediately, condensation lingering in the corners of the mirror. It’s a beautiful bathroom, glossy white and matte black fixings, a deep sink basin with lots of counter space and a roomy shower. His hand wash and lotion are perfectly lined up by the tap, his watch and some rings placed neatly in front of them as if he wanted to take up as little space as possible. Despite how much makeup stains your palms, your eyes don’t look as horrific as you thought they would, it’s the swelling and redness that makes you look awful. His Le Labo soap smells warm and green, lathering nicely over your fingers when you finally spot something amiss. A blister pack sits between the tap and the wall, all of the tiny white pills gone bar one. Sertraline, reads the foil over the front when you pick it up, and for the second time since you and Jay have come across each other again, you throw up in his vicinity, vomiting into the sink.

The lone tablet clatters to the floor at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Jay asks. The door does nothing to muffle his concern.

How could you possibly answer that? I’m grand! Only gone and found your antidepressants HAHAHA. His antidepressants. Just thinking the word in relation to Jay is enough to make you wretch again. Nothing comes out.

“May I come in?” To your silence, he continues, escalating from polite question to concerned statement. “I’m coming in, okay?”

While you fight for breath over the sink, Jay counts loudly from one to five before the door clicks open behind you. In the mirror, you see his eyes drift to the floor and widen. He picks up the blister pack and puts it in his pocket, aiming for subtle but being more overt than you’ve ever seen. “I saw it, Jay,” you say. “I know.”

He nods slowly like he’s coming to terms with what’s happened. As if he’s the one finding out about his diagnosis. “It’s uh… I’m okay,” he offers weakly, though his reassurance only makes you feel worse.

Your palms itch against the counter, desperate to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. To yell in his face that he doesn’t have to act like he’s alright with everything all the time. Finally, you’ve found something about Jay that hasn’t changed. What a shame it had to be this. “You’re okay,” you repeat, speaking the words more like an affirmation than anything else.

“I’m seeing someone about it and I have good people around me. I’m okay.”

A chill runs over your spine, pulls the hairs on your arms straight up, at the way he says it. This, for Jay, is simply a part of life now, as ordinary and boring as brushing his teeth before bed or tying his shoelaces before he leaves the house. You brace against the sink, screwing your eyes shut again. Nothing changes when you open them, you’re still in Jay’s bathroom and he is still depressed.

“How long?” you ask, as if his answer will make a difference.

He looks away when your gaze meets his in the mirror and shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling in a stiff motion. You don’t press him on it. Whether it’s been one year or one day, the point is that he’s unwell. And the gaping chasm between his life and yours is big enough that you had no idea. God, you’ve been so selfish.

Neither of you says anything else, but it’s not until there’s a thump at his bedroom door and a muffled apology called out through it that you realise. Both of you let out the exact same laugh, a huffed breath from your noses, which only makes the pair of you laugh properly when your eyes meet. The crinkle of his eyes is still a delight, still heats you up from the inside out.

More than anything, you are desperate for this silence to end, desperate to be saying something, making conversation. “So,” you start, clearing your throat. “About this family of mine in Carolina.”

Jay’s cheeks pinken, a sweet, rosy tinge blooming against his skin. “That was just something I thought sounded good.” He was right, unfortunately, it did sound good.

This fact, however, does nothing to stop the harsh pull of embarrassment in your stomach. “I was being presumptuous, sorry.”

“No, it was… that song is definitely about you,” Jay admits, for better or for worse. “They all are, when I write anyway.”

Jesus. You still had an entire discography to listen to, all based around the worst event of your life so far. Such is the plight of dating an artist, you suppose. In the midst of your irritation with him over that, and sick pleasure at knowing your relationship — you — had impacted him as much as it — he — had you, was a flare of curiosity. All of his unknowable thoughts, the things you wished he said, existed only a mere couple of clicks away. You could listen to them all right now, read the lyrics. Given the dedication of NAPE’s fanbase, you were certain multiple Twitter threads had been posted with line-by-line analysis.

“Great!” you say, cheeks aching with the stretch of your lips as you give him a thumbs-up. “Thanks, champ.”

His laugh is warm, filling the space between you. “I wrote it thinking about your…” Jay scratches at the back of his neck, cheeks growing pinker by the second. The colour spreads down his neck and over his chest. “You used to talk about riding camp, when you were younger. That pretty chestnut horse you rode as a kid.”

“Carolina,” you supply uselessly, the name hardly audible over the thud of your pulse in your ears.

“The one and only.”

You gulp. “And here I thought I was well behaved.”

“There was that too, of course there was.” He’s smiling, but you can’t bring yourself to do the same.

You’re not even sure if Aeri knows you went to riding camp. “I can’t believe you remembered that.” Some twisted part of you wonders what else he remembers, what other Easter eggs he’d left behind for you. For everyone.

He seems bewildered by this, his brows furrowing, head tilting. “Who could forget anything about you?” Each word is as sincere as the last, breeding a fascinating and surely singular type of hurt deep in the pit of your stomach.

“You know, I don’t usually throw up so often,” you blurt out, turning to the mess you left in the basin and flicking the tap on.

His reflection smiles in the mirror, leaning against the door frame. “Am I that bad?”

“You’re so much worse.”

“Four words every depressed person wants to hear.” He’s still smiling, his posture relaxed, slanted, but it’s the look in his eyes that gives him away, breaks your heart. How glossy they’ve become in the light.

“You’re really okay?”

Jay nods. “I’m okay.”

Every part of you aches to believe him, willing with every fibre of your being that he’s telling the truth. Okay isn’t good, but it’s a start, and soon he’ll be more than that. He has to be. Without a second thought you wrap your arms around him, feeling his warmth as he hugs you back. “I know I can’t take back or change what I did, but I really am sorry,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

And all of a sudden, it’s too much. His soft lips on your skin, the vibration into the crook of your neck. The familiar squeeze of his strong arms around you, his faint honeyed scent. The fact that despite everything, despite the frenzied red flags waving in your brain, you want to believe him. You do believe him.

You pull away, quickly, and take a huge step back, hitting your hip against the sink. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

Jay watches you for a moment, his eyes catching on each of your features like he’s seeing you for the first time. He clears his throat, scrunching his nose with a sniffle before speaking. “I might have a spare head for my electric somewhere.”

“Great,” you say, while he opens the cabinet with pursed lips. “Thanks.”

Those lips. You feel them while you brush your teeth alone in his bathroom, and while Jaehyun walks you home. While you shower, and while you collapse into bed. I really am sorry. God. How much easier this all would be if his belated apology fixed all of this.

jongseong 😽: Thank you for coming to the show, it really meant a lot to me having you there

you: No prob 👍

Under your face, your pillow muffles a would-be bloodcurling scream. “No prob, thumbs-up emoji…?” you repeat into the fabric, affronted by your word choice.

you: Just texted “no prob” unironically

minjeong: To who 😭

you: Rhymes with Jark Pongseong

minjeong: You should have said YES prob or ALL prob in fact you shouldn’t even have responded to whatever that freak loser (VERY DEROGATORY) said to my sweet angel girl

you: It was kind of sweet tbf, he thanked me for going to the gig and then said it meant a lot to him

Minjeong calls you immediately. You answer but can’t say anything for the genuine wave of fear that crashes over you. Through the phone you hear the click of her heels against the pavement, rumble of traffic, roaring engines and beeping horns, the soundtrack to the functioning woman’s afternoon. “You are the lostest cause of them all,” she says. “I thought you were over this insane person.”

“I am over him. I am also allowed to think he is very good looking and incredible onstage.”

“Shut up!” Minjeong sighs. “Also, did you take my coat when you stayed? The wool one?”

“I wish.”

“I’m hanging up now.” Three beeps follow her words, and her black wool coat stares at you from the open wardrobe.

The room spins around you when you sit up from bed. You can feel your brain swooshing around in your skull. Waking up hungover in last night’s makeup and outfit is never a treat, especially not when last night’s makeup is coming off of your face in crumbs every time you blink, and the outfit is a tank top and Aeri’s sequin microshorts. Somehow you make it to the kitchen where you sway by the counter and make a cup of black coffee, flinching at the sound of Aeri’s key twisting in the lock.

“Ugh, the show was perfect, YJ! It really sucks you couldn’t make it, but I know they’ve got some other gigs coming around the city so I’ll text you deets, alright?” she says. “I dropped my film off after yoga this morning, but I was so drunk last night… not hopeful.” Her voice gets louder in the hallway, an ear-splitting squeal sounding through the flat as she approaches and blows a kiss down the phone before appearing in the doorway. “Hey, you!” The grin on her face is wide and shows all of her teeth.

“Hey,” you say, it’s the only thing you can muster as you watch her lean in the doorframe, decked out in a matching brown workout set that ALO sent her in PR.

Her eyebrows give a suggestive wag as she says in a singsong voice, “Guess who I had breakfast with?”

The full scope of Aeri’s circle is still unclear to you, so the answer could be anyone. Playing it safe, you simply ask, “Who?”

“Your boyfriend! Almost boyfriend.”

“And that would be…”

“Don’t be coy, YN. Jay told me all about last night.”

“Jay?” It’s a wonder that your eyes don’t fall from their sockets—it would’ve shocked you less if she’d suggested that Byeon Wooseok was your boyfriend.

“I wanted to put in a good word for you, but he already wants you bad. Never seen anything like that, he asked a million questions about you. If I didn’t have to get home to shoot I’d still be there telling him about your commute.”

“He doesn’t. At all.” You clench your fists behind your back, denting half-moons into your palms with your fingernails. “We dated for a few years at uni, but he…” The sting isn’t enough to distract you from the swoop in your stomach, so you settle instead for clawing at the back of your hand. “He had to move back home and we agreed it would be better to end things.” No matter how many times you say it, it doesn’t get any easier.

Aeri’s face flickers through the full spectrum of human emotion, never quite settling on one.

“I know I should have said something earlier, it’s just…” Embarrassing. It’s embarrassing that not only can Jay live without you, he can thrive. Meanwhile, you can’t even secure a job interview. “I don’t know.”

Finally, she pulls you into a hug, all citrus and sweat, and you sink into her arms. “I have two pieces of good news and one piece of bad news. What do you want first?” she asks, pulling away just enough to look at you.

Clearing your throat, you ask, “Can you do good news, bad news, good news? Like a sandwich?”

Aeri leans against the island opposite you, smiling. “Okay, good news: you don’t owe me, or anyone else, every last detail about your life, and given the whole me dating your ex-boyfriend’s best friend thing, I get why you kept that from me, alright? You don’t need to apologise for that. The bad news is that said ex-boyfriend is definitely still in love with you, but — and this is the next good part — you guys broke up because he didn’t think he could have London and you, right?”

Put simply, “Yes.”

“You’re in London now, you’re both single…” Aeri lets her eyes and hands spell out the rest of her sentence.

“Jay doesn’t… It’s not like that.”

“Okay,” she says, though you can tell she doesn’t buy it. “What about you? Do you still want him?”

What you really want, more than anything, is to feel secure. To feel like the people in your life won’t just up and leave at any given moment. You want to be with someone you can rely on, someone dependable. A person you can call and know they’ll answer—or at least call you back. You’re not sure if that person is Jay.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“You don’t need to know that right now. What you need is to sit down,” Aeri says, guiding you by the shoulders to one of the stools under the island. “Watching you sway like that is giving me a hangover by association. I’ll make you something to eat.”

She makes you a cup of herbal tea and some fruit topped French toast with bacon. You inhale it before she shoos you out of the kitchen. “You need to sleep this shit off, okay? We need to leave at eight tomorrow morning.”

Fuck. She’d agreed to let you tag along on her work day tomorrow so you’d finally have something interesting to post on Substack. You didn’t realise that would involve facing the public so early in the day. “Of course!”

yizhuo: dear sweetcheeks bubblegum fairy woman consider this our final correspondence as i’m literally about to die idk who the fuck was sick near me but they got me brother stay safe also tell that fuckface riki he can stop praying on my downfall ok it worked.

you: i’ll pass that message along for you… get well soon angel pie dream lady :( do u need me to bring anything by for you?

yizhuo: jimin’s playing sexy nurse this weekend dw i’m right wehre i wanna be 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 in other more relevant news, interview is opening another office…….good day for the unemployed, look how many openings there are !!!

Her next message has fifteen links, and those are just the jobs you’re qualified for. These must be the millions of doors Somi was talking about. In a full-bellied haze, you write a new cover letter and apply to every last one of them. After that, with renewed pep in your hungover step, you climb back into bed and watch as many episodes of Pretty Little Liars as you can handle without breaking the screen in half at the sight of Mr. Fitz and his minor-student-girlfriend Aria. It’s two. You manage two episodes and sleep for the rest of the day.

At eight in the morning, when Aeri is ready to leave, you have, unfortunately, reached the end of your life. And as it turns out, Jennifer’s Body had it all wrong, hell is not a teenage girl. If only. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever strain of the common cold is currently nerfing your immune system.

Shivering under your duvet, you scroll through the pictures you took after the gig, smiling, laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that those would be some of your last moments on this mortal plane. Probably you’ll never, ever drink again. Never do anything again. Your throat is swollen. Raw and painful when you swallow. A dull ache reaches all of your joints, weighing them down. Swallowing ibuprofen is a tear-inducing, Herculean task, but you manage, and finally, sleep comes over you.

For the next few hours, you fade in and out of slumber until you quit trying. Your throat still hurts, but the swelling is down. When you blow your nose into your last tissue, your ears pop and the thumping in your head is actually at the front door. The Grim Reaper here to… well, reap, you suppose. He even knows your name and yells it incessantly like some sort of evil, murderous baby who’s just learned a new word. Gun! Knife! YN! It’s only after your fourth, weak, attempt at calling out for Aeri that you remember she’s not home, and quickly resign to your fate, dragging yourself out of bed and then all the way to the door. Against the wall you catch your breath before pulling it open.

“I’m not here to bother—” Jay stops short.

“Jay?” He is hazy and beautiful in front of you. His sunglasses hold his hair away from his face, and none of the three buttons on his black polo shirt are done up, exposing just enough of his collarbone and chest to make your cheeks heat up. He is the cruel mirage of an oasis in the desert. “Jay,” you say again, reaching out your aching arm to touch him.

Against your fingertip, he is completely solid and real, which is more than a little mortifying. He looks down to where your hand touches his chest, where your hand is still, for some reason, touching his chest. He grabs your wrist, his touch soft but scorching through your long sleeve, and puts your arm back down at your side carefully. “You’re sick.”

“A little.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, wearing his thinking face. Head tilted, tongue poking out between his soft pink lips, the same way he would when he was trying to calculate how long it might take your food delivery to reach your place, and if there was enough time for the two of you to share the shower first. “I just need to get Heeseung’s computer and then I’ll be out of your hair. You need to put on something warm.”

You step aside to let Jay into the flat and he goes straight to Aeri’s room, coming back with a laptop tucked under his arm. He inspects you from head to toe and frowns. “Drink some tea, okay? Lemon and ginger with lots of honey.” It’s the last thing he says before he disappears.

Heeding Doctor Jay’s advice, you use the last sliver of your energy to hobble into the kitchen so you can make yourself a cup of lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey. Equipped with a steaming mug, you go back to your room where you pull a jumper on and stuff yourself into your dressing gown, before crawling back into bed. As soon as your head hits the pillow, you fall asleep, lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey cooling down on your nightstand, untouched.

It’s Jay’s gentle voice that rouses you out of your thick sleep, saying your name over and over until your eyes open. “Hey,” he says, his palm massive on your arm. His glasses slip down the straight bridge of his nose but he doesn’t push them up. “Aeri gave me her keys and I—”

“Aeri’s at work,” you say, correcting him.

He smiles. “Yeah, I just saw her.”

“She’s on the other end of the city.”

“So here’s the cool thing about London — and you might not know this — but we have this thing called the Tube and it got me there and back.”

“But it’s so… it’s like an hour one way.”

Jay waves a dismissive hand, his smile unwavering. “Forty-five minutes.”

The words he’s saying are all words you’ve come across. Words for which you know the dictionary definition and spelling, but it’s taking a lot for your brain to make sense of them and their implications in these particular sequences, coming from him. Fuzzy-headed, you lie back down, sinking into the pillow and screwing your eyes shut.

“You okay?” When you open your eyes, he’s watching you with an arched brow, inspecting you like you are fungi on a petri dish and not his dying ex-girlfriend.

“The common cold doesn’t normally kill people, right?”

Instead of laughing or being charmed by these, your final words, he tilts his head. “Well, it can lead to more severe forms of sickness like pneumonia or sepsis, which could, quite easily, kill you, yes,” he says, delivering the information to you in a tone that suggests he was reading about this on the way over.

This had been one of your favourite things about Jay, his insatiable curiosity and willingness to share what he’d learned with whoever was around. He could talk about any subject for hours and you were always keen to listen. It got to the point that you would direct your queries to him instead of the Google search bar, just for a reason to text him. Hey Jay, is thirty minutes too long to cook a steak? Way too long??? I’m coming over. Hey Jay, what’s the name of that Bon Jovi song you played for me? Hi beautiful, it’s called Always :). Hi baby, would you still love me if I was a worm? I’m always going to love you, YN. No matter what.

“Great, Jay. Thanks.” You lean up on your elbows, coughing with your mouth open like a child. “Still a fount of knowledge, I see.”

Bright red blooms over his cheeks and neck. “As always,” he says, though he doesn’t seem happy about this fact, scrunching his nose. “I… uh… I made you some soup.”

“Your mum’s dakgaejang?” you whisper. To his sheepish smile, you mumble, “That shit could cure anything.”

“It always did,” Jay agrees, lifting the steaming bowl from your desk. He gasps at something, putting the bowl back down and holding up a magazine for you to look at. The magazine, with him and the rest of NAPE on the cover. “Wow, I had no idea you liked us this much,” he says, flipping through the pages to find the article.

It hurts to roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. “Don’t flatter yourself, Park. I bought it because it was my first printed write-up.” And last, you do not add.

The lump in your throat is immediate and all-consuming. Seeing the magazine was a real shock, knowing that — though uncredited — you had left a mark on the world, no matter how small. And that thousands of NAPE fans around the country, and in all nations that print Daydream Mag, had you to thank for transcribing the interview. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. Jay’s eyes turn glassy and his gaze falls to the pages once more, running his finger over the words, your words. The thud of your heart in your ears pads the silence. You wonder if he’s thinking what you were, that you’ve both made it. Both of your dreams unspooling before your very eyes, and somehow, after all these years, your paths found a way to cross again. In print, no less.

At least, that’s how it felt before you lost your job.

“Wow,” Jay whispers. “This is really special, YN. You’re amazing.”

The article wasn’t much to write home about. And sure, when you found out, some of your work friends treated you to drinks that evening, and got a celebratory cake made. And yes, you called your mum in happy tears from the office toilet. But seeing Jay make a fuss over it on your behalf is nothing short of humiliating. Your cheeks burn at the sight—a chart-topping artist praising the ex-girlfriend he ghosted over some paragraphs no one else knew she wrote.

God, what a joke.

“You’re the one who said all the words, and the guys.” You fiddle with the loose thread at the top of your duvet cover. “All I did was read some notes, watch a recording and type it all up.”

He shakes his head and in a blink, he’s crouching by the side of your bed, looking up at you with huge eyes. “That was our first big feature, my mum cut out the parts about me and stuck them to the fridge. Heeseung’s parents got it blown up and framed for the living room.”

“Anybody could’ve written it.”

“I know, but ‘anybody’ didn’t write it.” Jay’s eyes search yours, like he’s begging you to see where he’s coming from, that he means it. “You did.”

It’s only when you cough, a harsh rattle in your throat, that he seems to remember himself, remember the situation and the dakgaejang on your desk. Without a word, he helps you sit up in bed, propping your pillow up before bringing the soup over on a tray. Steam curls up from the bowl, heating your face, and the first spoonful is rich and spicy and perfect. Tender shredded chicken and soft vegetables. A long, contended hum rumbles out of you. “Holy shit,” you murmur, already feeling your blocked nostrils starting to open up. It tastes more like a memory than anything else. Like Jay’s broad shoulders in the kitchen, standing over your stove. His hoodie over your shoulders and the soft hum of the washing machine as you watched him cook. Like cuddling on the couch with a stranger and asking him to stay. Whether it was period-induced sensitivity or that food really was the quickest way to someone’s heart, you fell for him that night.

Jay gives a firm nod. “Alright, I know I’m not exactly who you’d want to spend your time with, so is there someone I could call to look after you? At least until Aeri gets off work?”

Hearing it from him, the reminder that he has a life and things to worry about that no longer include you stings the backs of your eyes. Another cold symptom, probably. You take another glorious spoonful of rice and soup, chewing slowly.

“I’ll call Riki when my phone’s back on.”

As if on cue, your phone starts to life, a black and white film strip of you and Aeri staring up at you from the lockscreen. Jay chews his lip, watching you with his hands on his hips, clearly eager to leave, and, to his luck, Riki answers on the first ring. “Yo, YN. What you saying?” he asks, delighted as the music in the background comes to a stop.

“Are you busy?”

“Not really — ow — okay, yeah, I’m kind of busy. What’s good, though? You alright?”

Your cuticles sting where your thumb bothers them, picking at the raw skin unthinkingly. Terrified of admitting to Riki that you need him, you say, “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Talk later, yeah?”

“Safe,” he says and cuts the phone.

Jay raises a brow. “It’s okay to ask for help when you need it. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you say, trying to convince yourself. “I’ll call Somi then Jaehyun.”

“No!” he blurts out, covering his mouth with his palm as if he can push the words back in. “I mean, you don’t need to bother him when I’m here, I could stay. If you want me to stay, I can stay.”

There’s no time to overthink his reaction, nor is there time to overthink the flutter in your chest at the sight of it, because as soon as he’s done speaking, you’re already saying, “You can stay.”

He only nods and stays there, standing over you. He is very still. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Or blinking. Unless he’s blinking at the exact same time you are.

“You can also sit on the bed if you want,” you offer.

He gestures vaguely towards his body. “These are my outside clothes.”

You could have laughed at that, the idea that maybe his smart trousers and the Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into them were his casual inside clothes. Unfortunately, because he is Jay, and you are you, you’re too busy being struck by his remembering such a mundane detail to joke around. A silly thing you’ve since grown out of worrying about. You point him towards the drying rack in the living room where Heeseung had left some laundry. You’re not sick enough to tell Jay he can change in front of you, but you are sick enough to picture it as he closes your door behind him.

Sick enough to picture the smooth expanse of his back, muscles flexing while he pulls his T-shirt over his head. The cinch of his waist, the unfairly round curve of his ass, his Calvin Klein boxer briefs clinging to him like a second skin. His toned arms and thighs. It only takes a second for him to come back, fully dressed, in Heeseung’s grey sweatpants and white Henley that hugs his biceps. You open your mouth to say something casual like, I wasn’t picturing you naked, or you look nice in clothes, but he uses the bottom of his shirt to clean off his glasses and the sight winds you. Dark ink sticks out of his waistband, round edges touching his waist.

“You…” The sentence dies on its way out, your finger shaking as you point at him. “When did you get that?”

“Get wha—Oh.” He looks down at his side, the tips of his ears burning pink. “Two years ago? Last year? I don’t really remember.” Putting his glasses back on, he lifts the left side of his shirt properly, tugging at his waistband too. Only a little, only enough to make your heart race and show the word, nape, written in huge swirling cursive. “Hurt so bad, but it’s pretty, right?”

Pretty sexy, more like. “Yeah. Pretty,” you agree, willing for him to stop showing off his skin before you do something unwise.

“I actually have a couple now.”

The rest of Jay’s tattoos, all one of them, are very tiny and very him—a treble clef behind his right ear. He blushes when you tell him you like it, giving a sheepish smile as he gets under the covers beside you, careful not to knock your bowl over.

“You’re not scared of getting sick?”

“Nah.” Jay shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of me if I do.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, focusing on your dakgaejang instead of your blushing cheeks.

When you finish eating you take a nap, eventually waking to the long set sun and Jay bringing over a cup of tea and some paracetamol. He crouches by your side and feels your forehead with the back of his hand. “How’re you feeling, sleepyhead?”

“Is Aeri home?”

“She texted saying she was going to crash at ours. With Heeseung.”

“Do you think you could stay over?” you ask slowly.

Jay tilts his head, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He’s as taken aback by your request as you are. For a long while, he simply stares up at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t. And so, finally, he nods and says, “I can stay over. Absolutely, I can stay over.”

After a surprisingly restful night of sleep, your second day with the cold begins with your head on Jay’s chest and your leg around him. Neither of you says anything about that.

For breakfast, he makes toast soldiers and beans, and you can’t contain your excitement, even though it hurts your throat to speak. “This was, like, the only breakfast I ate when I was little,” you gush, taking a picture to show your mum. “Especially when I was sick. This is perfect, Jay. Thank you.”

From the other side of the table, he watches you dunk a strip of buttered toast into your dippy egg with a smile on his face. “I know, YN. I’m just glad you still like it.”

You sniff, ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks and neck—Yizhuo was right, this cold is no joke. Rubbing your hands together, you let crumbs fall to your plate and pull your dressing gown tighter around yourself, redoing the belt.

Back in bed, you warm your hands against a cup of tea while Jay opens your laptop. He insists there is a YouTube video you must see, but when he opens the site, the very first video is NAPE Swap Favourite Snacks | Snacked, uploaded fifteen minutes ago. Great. As it turns out, you had it all wrong, hell is not the common cold. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever the fuck is happening to you right now. This cannot be real life. All you did was watch that stupid video of them spotting each other’s lies. And then the one where they played most likely to with Variety. And showed Glamour what was on their phones.

Every inch of your body burns. “I didn’t put that there,” you blurt out. “Should we watch it ironically?”

A shudder racks through Jay and he scowls. “I kind of do not like to… look at myself. At all. So, no. Thanks though.”

Nothing about his tone or demeanour suggest that he’s joking. The thought that someone so beautiful, that Jay, could feel that way seems senseless. “If I had that face…”

“You’d what?” His straight teeth dent his bottom lip, curious eyes roving your face. Whatever insecurities plagued him a second ago are long forgotten now apparently. To your silence, he says, “I’m glad you don’t have my face, I really like yours.”

When this is all said and done, you’ll have to see a doctor about whatever part of the cold is making your heart race like this. “Just show me the video,” you mumble.

“Yes, ma’am.”

What if forks were made of salt? is eight minutes and twenty-four seconds of some white guy asking and answering what you now feel is an essential question. What if forks were made of salt? Would every bite of steak be perfect? Glossing over the mild existentialism at the end, the video is uplifting, awe-inspiring.

So much so that you and Jay discuss it for an hour before he says, “I bought one.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.”

“Yeah way! I’ll let you try it ou—” Jay’s ringing phone cuts him off and steals the smile from his lips. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping his face with his palm. “Sorry. I’ve been ducking our manager’s calls, kind of, so I have to take this.”

Nosiness gets the better of you. “Put it on speaker.”

Jay obliges, screwing his eyes shut like he’s bracing himself. Through the phone, his manager’s voice is soft, kind, when he launches straight into his spiel. “I’m trying to bear with you here. I get it, I swear, but if you don’t have lyrics, can you just tell me that? We’ll figure it out, but you need to let me help you.”

Immediately, you regret asking Jay to put the phone on speaker, feeling your stomach drop.

He lets a quiet second pass before sighing. “I don’t have lyrics, Sunoo.” At this, the groan that comes through the phone is never-ending. “Yet,” he adds, rubbing his temples.

“I really did not want you to say that.” Sunoo sighs. “But it’s okay. See, you told me the truth and nothing bad happened. We’ll work something out, okay. Just take it easy, talk to your bandmates, and answer your fucking phone when I call you.”

“Got it.”

Sunoo cuts the phone abruptly and Jay hides his face in his hands, ears burning red.

“Ar—” He utters your name, interrupting you. “Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to talk about this right now.”

You reach out for him, palm resting on his knee and giving it a squeeze. He rests his calloused palm over your hand, locking his fingers with yours. There goes your heart, racing again. And what’s left of the day passes in half-awake snippets. The opening scene of The Matrix here, some spoonfuls of hot soup there, until you finally settle down for the night next to Jay. He falls asleep first, his strong arm around your shoulders holding you close. The thump of his heart is soothing as a lullaby. His chest rises and falls steadily with his slow breathing, in stark contrast to the shallow breaths you’re fighting for, until finally, you fall asleep too.

Hours later, a coughing fit wakes you up, skin damp with a cold sweat as you lean over your side of the bed. It’s relentless, each wheezy hack aching a spot in the back of your skull—your throat has never hurt so much in your life. Jay rushes out of the bed and comes back with a cup of water, rubbing circles on the wet fabric of your t-shirt with his palm while you try to catch your breath. When you manage to, you drink the water in gulps, finishing it quickly while he squints at the boxes on your nightstand before opening one of them—antiseptic throat spray. He pushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ears and watching you with worry in his massive eyes. “Can you open up for me, baby?” he asks softly. When you do, he positions the nozzle between your lips and clears his throat. “It’s going to be a little uncomfortable, yeah?”

You nod, blinking with heavy eyelids. He sprays it three times and it takes a lot of work not to gag. A little uncomfortable might be the understatement of the century, but already the menthol is soothing your throat.

“There you go,” he murmurs, taking the spray out of your mouth. “Atta girl.” His large palm rests on your cheek, his thumb wiping your tears.

At this, at all of it — him being here, doing this for you with no complaints — your stomach is in knots. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Why are you being so nice to me?” you croak.

In the lamplight, his eyes flicker over every part of your face before he sniffs. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”

“Jongseong…” His full name slips out of you, like you’re back in uni. Like you’re back together—still together.

He says nothing, only closing the lid on the spray and helping you lie back down before joining you in bed. He doesn’t say anything when you curl into his side or when he wraps his arms around you.

Then, right when you blink for the last time, you feel the rumble of his chest against your ear. He says, “You make it so easy.”

It’s another three days before you feel better and Jay spends all of them at your side. At the end of it all, though there’s no reason for Jay to stay any longer, hugging him goodbye is bittersweet. But in all of your time apart, your phone doesn’t get much rest from seeing his name on it. And you don’t get sick of texting him back. Texting him first.

you: We’re having a movie night on Friday!!! Heeseung is coming so I was wondering if you wanted to come along too? Also it would be nice to see you again if you’re not sick of seeing me

you: Or just sick in general… how are you feeling actually?

jongseong 😽: That sounds really nice!!! I’d love to join you guys thank you for thinking of me ❤️

jongseong 😽: Who could ever be sick of seeing you? If anything I’m surprised you’re not sick of me

jongseong 😽: This is a serious emergency ik it’s 8am but please text back

jongseong 😽: HIIIII can u reply rn

jongseong 😽: Heeseung said you liked the choux vanilles from Toad’s so I picked some up for you even though you did NOT reply in my time of need. Are you home? I’ll leave these at your doorstep and get out your hair

you: THANK YOU THANKY OUU THANK YOU THANK YOU

you: You can come in! I’m getting ready to meet Yizhuo for breakfast but maybe we can head out together?

jongseong 😽: Sounds goood!!!

jongseong 😽: It was really nice seeing you yesterday morning, even if it was only for a little bit. I didn’t mean to make it weird and ik that doesn’t make it any better but I’m really sorry

you: Noooo!!! I swear you didn’t make anything weird, I had a lot of fun with you and I wish we could have spent more time together!

When Heeseung arrives for movie night an hour early, he arrives alone—not counting the two bottles of wine and three pints of ice cream he brought with him. “Hey!” he says, smiling from ear to ear. “You look well, I’ve heard awful things.”

You roll your eyes, taking his offerings and letting him in. “Trust me, it was much worse than whatever you heard.”

“Five days with Jay though, how was that?” he asks in a sing-song voice, following you into the kitchen. At this, your smile is immediate and very wide, so much so that he raises his brows, beaming too. “Wow, that good, huh?”

You turn away, putting the wine in the fridge and the ice cream in the freezer, trying your best to look any less elated. “Did you ask him?” you ask, genuinely curious.

Heeseung shakes his head, sinking into one of your dining chairs at the table. He is quiet for long enough to make you wonder if you’d imagined that second night, what he’d said. You make it so easy. Five simple words that your mind has allowed to colour the rest of the week, and all of your conversations since, rosy. To think harder about how Jay cooked an endless supply of dakgaejang for you and Aeri, restocking your groceries afterwards. How you sat with your back to the bathtub while he washed your hair over the edge of it.

Five simple words that may have been nothing more than that.

Finally, Heeseung says, “I didn’t have to ask, he was texting me nightly updates and gave me a full debrief when he got back.”

“Wow,” you repeat. “That good, huh?”

Shrugging off his jacket, he nods. “Better—” He stops short at the sight of Aeri in the doorway. She’s in her pyjamas, scrunching her wet hair in an old T-shirt and holding her phone to her ear. A great big grin tugs his lips up at the corners, scrunches his eyes. “Hey, baby,” he says, pulling her into his arms, splashes of pink hitting his white T-shirt when he leans down to peck her lips.

She seems just as delighted, holding the speaker against her chest as she looks at you to ask, “Is it you that hasn’t tried that mussels from Lilly’s?” When you nod she puts the phone back to her ear. “Could you add another portion of mussels and black bean sauce to the order, please? Okay, perfect, see you at eight!”

Just the mention of food makes your stomach grumble, hunger taking over as if you didn’t have a bowl of rice and stew an hour ago. From the mini charcuterie board you’d been preparing before Heeseung arrived, you eat a slice of smoky chorizo. And another. Aeri joins you, lifting the wedge of cheddar you bought earlier and taking a bite straight out of it. She hums, pleased, while you watch in horror.

“So that’s actually for sharing,” you point out belatedly.

“It’s only you two.” Shrugging, she puts the cheese down, cutting off her teeth mark. “And Jay,” she adds, looking around as if he might pop out from behind something. “Where is he anyway?”

“On his way. Probably?” Heeseung suggests.

“Probably? You live together, what do you mean probably?” Aeri asks.

“I’ve been out all day. Shall I ring him and see?”

You shake your head. “We’re not watching anything until eight o’clock, he’s got half an hour.”

Armed with snacks, you all set up the living room together. Charcuterie plate in the middle of the table for easy access while you wait for dinner, chilled wine and carton of apple juice, the coveted final packet of salt & vinegar crisps which you plan to steal so Jay can have them. Aeri’s in control of the remote, so the three of you watch YouTube videos of eighteen-year-olds playing Dress to Impress on Roblox while you wait for food and Jay to arrive. Eight p.m. comes quickly and with no sign of either, though it seems like you’re the only one to take notice as Aeri and Heeseung are fully locked in on rating the looks coming down the runway.

“One star.” He groans, gesturing at the TV with both of his palms, furious. “The theme was sea monster, why are you wearing a beret and holding an ice cream cone?”

It’s half-eight when your takeaway arrives, and your phone lights up in your lap.

jongseong 😽: Can’t make it tonight

jongseong 😽: Sorry

Not many things can wipe the Lilly’s-induced smile from your face, but this does the job. In a split second. Worsened by the fact that he doesn’t say anything else. Beside you, Heeseung and Aeri open every container, humming with increased volume and enthusiasm at the sight and smell of each new part of your meal.

jongseong 😽: Tied up with recording but I would’ve loved to see you!

You split a pair of wooden chopsticks, stealing a salt & chilli covered chip from the box in Aeri’s lap. She doesn’t stop you. Nor does she complain when you take more. Heeseung hands you an oil-spotted brown paper bag, chicken balls, but still, the stir in your stomach persists, disappointment rather than hunger.

jongseong 😽: Are you free in the morning? Coffee date?

jongseong 😽: *coffee run

you: No worries!!!!! A coffee date sounds really nice :)

you: *coffee run

jongseong 😽: :)

Locking your phone, you tuck it under your thigh and reach over to open a bottle of the wine Heeseung brought. “Jay can’t make it,” you say, hating how small and upset you sound. Heeseung frowns and Aeri squeezes your knee. You’re the one who presses play on the remote, and Superbad’s opening credits start up, while the empty spot to your left gets colder and colder.

jongseong 😽: Hiiiii sorry again about last night, are we still on for this morning?

jongseong 😽: Ik it’s so early hahaha

You almost drop your toothbrush in the sink at the sight of his name in your phone, rushing to text back.

you: Wowwwww Park, are you trying to bail on me already…? Again? Sick.

jongseong 😽: No way! I’ve already left the flat!!!

Right away, a picture of Jay on the Tube appears in the thread, his smiling cheeks and eyes poking out over the top of a thick black scarf. You heart-react to the picture then remove it, replacing it with a friendly thumbs-up instead—there is, however, no fix for the butterflies in your stomach. The heat in your cheeks. You gargle mouthwash and pack your bag before running off to go meet him at once. So excited, so jittery, you can’t even read the thriller you packed for the commute.

Through the café window, you see Jay before he sees you. He’s drumming his fingers against the table, lips pressed together, his eyes on the door. His hair is short and styled so it sits up off his forehead, spiky sort of. You’ve never seen it as short as this. It’s good, you think, that you’ve seen him first, because now you can turn on your heel and go home to address the thump in your chest. As if feeling your eyes on him, he turns around, gaze meeting yours right away, and a grin breaks out over his face. Crinkles his eyes. Dimples his cheek. Takes your breath away. You can’t help but smile too as you hurry inside. He’s standing when you reach the table.

“Hey,” Jay says, pulling you into a hug that smells like honey and smoke and doesn’t last nearly long enough. “I really am sorry about last night.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re here now.”

He nods, grinning. “I like your jacket, it’s cute.”

“Right? It’s Minjeong’s.” You look up at him, overwhelmed by the closeness of his face to yours, by the handsomeness of said close face. “You cut your hair,” you say, because it’s the only thought you’re having that has nothing to do with how good he looks and smells.

Jay’s lips curl into a sheepish smile. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Of course.” You nod. “You look like a baby.”

And there it is again, that grin. A laugh. “Great, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Thank you, YN.” He gestures to the table, at the steaming mug across from his seat. “I got you a latte.”

He really did! And the art on top of it is really normal!! It’s a love heart!!! And your actual heart is beating at a rate others might hear and think: wow, she’s being really normal right now! Hey, everybody!! Come take a look at how normal she’s being!!!

“Are you ageist?” you ask, taking your seat. To his furrowed brows, you continue. “There’s nothing wrong with looking like a baby. I was a baby once, you know.”

Jay sits down slowly, studying you over the rim of his cup and taking a long sip before he says, “I was too.”

Something about it all, seeing him like this, in a café and not studying, is strange. Jay was big on brewing his own coffee, steeping his own tea—exam season was the only justifiable time to splurge on delicious multi-hyphenate beverages. You take a sip of your own drink and try to come up with something normal to say, settling on, “I can’t believe we’re getting a coffee and it was your idea.”

“I don’t really drink anymore, my medication doesn’t… like that very much.”

“Jay, it’s nine o’clock,” you point out. “Oh… my God.” You cover your hand with your mouth, horrified, and leap to make things better. “I’m not judging you.”

“I didn’t mean I’d drink at this time. Jesus, YN. I’m not Scottish.”

“Okay, so you’re judging me.”

“I can’t help it, that’s just my God given right as a… sort of English person. Asking me not to judge you would be like asking me to kill myself.”

“Really desirable?” You sigh as soon as the words come out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt washing over you.

Jay’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, a surprised, contagious, laugh rushing out of him. He covers his face with his hands while you watch in horror. “Anyway, I was going to ask, how long do you have to stay somewhere before you can claim it?”

He’s still smiling. Your heart is still racing.

“I think it’s more of a feeling,” you say finally.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Jay lifts his notebook from the table, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “You look a lot better since I last saw you, I was starting to think there was something about being near me that was making you sick, you know? Three times is a pattern and all that.”

“We saw each other two days ago.”

“For ten minutes,” he points out.

Ten minutes that you spent the rest of the day poring over, recounting every single detail, every little thing that led to him kissing your cheek when he said goodbye.

“Well, I only just got here, so I’m not sure we can rule it out yet.” Racing heart, turning stomach, breathlessness—symptoms of post-acute infection, apparently. You offer a weak chuckle. “Thanks again for looking after me, you really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to. And besides, it was nice spending time with you.” Jay smiles. “How’ve you been?”

“Just the usual.”

“I don’t really know what your usual is these days,” he admits too casually for the weight of it all.

“Right… uh, I’ve been—” You try to think about it, wondering what usual means to you. It used to be so simple. Your usual used to be studying with Jay before and after classes. Sharing every meal you could when time permitted. Ending the night together at his place or yours, even if you’d spent the day apart. He used to be your usual.

“I had an interview yesterday morning. At ‘Interview,’ and I think it went well,” you say, voice high pitched and trailing off towards the end. Worried about jinxing yourself, you hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Yizhuo who sent you the job posting. But now that you’ve said the words out loud, to Jay, you can’t bring yourself to stop. “But my friend told me they’re interviewing until the end of the month, so it might be a bit before I hear anything. I’m feeling good about it though, my portfolio is strong, and it’s versatile — at least that’s what the recruiter said — so I should have a shot for a few of the jobs there if I don’t get this particular one.”

Jay’s face lights up with every word you say, as if you’ve let him in on something secret, something precious.

“I didn’t mean to talk your ear off,” you say, hiding behind a warm sip of coffee.

His smile takes over his face, ear to ear and so delighted. Pink kisses the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. “Luckily I have two ears, and they really love your voice so…” He trails off, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed by his own sincerity. “I’m really happy to hear that, YN. I want all of your good news. And the bad stuff too—everything.”

Suddenly sheepish, you direct the question back towards him, asking what’s been keeping him busy lately. His smile is immediate and wide. “I’ve been writing like crazy since I last saw you.” Jay tilts his head, chewing on his bottom lip, but his smile doesn’t budge. “It’s stupid but it sort of feels like I can… see or something now, again. If that makes sense.”

“Not at all.” You can’t help but smile too. “Tell me everything.”

Pressing his lips together, Jay lets his gaze flick towards the window, looking out at the quiet street. Across the road is a deserted play park with swings that sway in the wind. A fish-shaped spring rocker does the same, bobbing gently. A man pushes a pram. Jay opens his mouth and says, “It’s like I’ve been walking around blindfolded for the last few years and someone finally took it off of me, and now I can see and there’s—” He stops short, biting his lip as his eyes fall on the swirls in his coffee. And then flick up to meet yours. “Well now there’s so much light again.”

You clear your throat, your mind a storm, thoughts unclear over the rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart in your ears. The latte he got you, while delicious, does nothing to calm the raging waters. It feels so pointed, too pointed to ignore. You were startlingly aware of how your five-day fever dream had blurred a line or two in your head. Spending all that time together, letting him look after you — Neo opening the door, following the white rabbit — flipped the switch in your head and turned your ifs into whens. If / when we’re alone, if / when we kiss. Turned you back into an eighteen-year-old, waiting by the phone for Jay to text you back.

It’s only when his smile falters, just a touch, that you realise you haven’t said anything. “That’s kind of extremely beautiful,” you say finally, massively understating it.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I thought so too.”

After finishing your drinks, you sit for a while longer, rehashing uni gossip you bled dry years ago, until the staff start giving you increasingly dirty looks, all but begging you to leave.

Jay holds the door open for you. “So what are you up to today?”

“This is—” Cold wind scrapes your neck, cutting you off as you button your coat to the top. “This is what I’m up to today.”

An amused breath slips out of him, a white cloud by his nostrils, and he takes his scarf off, wrapping it around your neck instead. “I mean after,” he says, unmoved by his gesture. Meanwhile, you’ve got an inhale full of his scent and the exposed column of his neck, his heart-shaped birthmark, on your mind like a thirsty vampire. To your silence he waves his large hand in your face. “Earth to YN.”

“Right here, Park.” You swat his hand away, clearing your throat. “What are you up to after this?”

“I have a session in about an hour, come with?” he offers. “I should warn you though, it’ll be really boring.”

“Boring? I could tell you hated your job and all of your fans.”

“No, I mean for you.” Jay nudges your shoulder. Despite the layers, your heart stumbles at the contact. “Because you kind of just have to sit there and be quiet, which I know will be difficult for you.”

Heat floods your cheeks, pools at the base of your spine. “Shut up,” you mumble, turning away from him.

“What?” Genuine confusion pulls his voice up a few octaves. “Oh,” he says after a beat, figuring it out for himself. “I didn’t mean it like that, but when did I ever complain? I like it.”

“Please stop talking.”

Jay stands to attention, saluting you. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Fuck, if you’re going to beg me then, fine, Jay. I’ll come to the studio with you.” You sigh, struggling to fight a smile. “I can’t catch a break with you.”

His head tips back with sweet laughter and he loops his arm through yours, tugging you and the butterflies in your stomach down the road towards the station. “No, YN. You really can’t.”

On the empty platform, you stand side by side, looking at the massive NAPE poster plastered on the wall. Jay, who usually has no shortage of things to say at any given moment, stares at it in silence. The poster is taller than you are, with No Way Back Tour written at the top in blocky red sans serif. In the centre is a four cut photo strip with a picture of each member, that’s thresholded to oblivion, and the bottom lists a bunch of different venues around London.

“What do you think?” you ask. “I think it’s cool, the portraits look good with the red on them like that.”

Jay snaps back into motion, turning to face you, his teary eyes finding yours. He smiles. “I think I had something else in mind when Riki told me there was a huge poster of my face in the station.”

“What? Just your face?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, just my face.”

“Park Jongseong,” you utter, shaking your head. “Where is your team spirit?”

Jay rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile. “Dead and gone. Take a picture? Please.” He holds his phone out for you to take and stands by the poster, poking the cheek of his large, printed face.

“Celebrities…” You sigh, though you can’t ignore the swell of pride in your chest. You’ve taken a thousand pictures of Jay standing by posters for movies and artists he enjoys, so this feels almost full-circle in a way you’re struggling to wrap your head around. “Can I take some on my phone?”

He nods, and you slip his phone into your bag, reaching for yours—“This is not happening right now!” A uniformed teenage girl is standing right behind you when you turn around. The strap of her backpack has a can badge with NAPE written on it. Her face and neck and ears bright red as she points a trembling finger at him. “You’re—you’re… Jay fucking Park!”

“Hello,” Jay says, he’s smiling too. He is also turning red. “Good morning.”

“Hello?” she repeats, incredulous. “Hello, yourself, Jay Park. Holy shit!” Everything she says sits at the junction of whispering and screaming as your eyes flick back and forth between the two of them.

“I really slept in this morning and I was like ugh, I don’t want to go to school, so I almost didn’t leave the house, but then I finally did and I was like, I don’t want to walk, so then I came down here, which I literally never do and then I saw you and I was like, she’s so pretty, and then you were taking pictures of literal Jay Park. This is like literally a sign,” she continues, all in one breath. When she shows you her lock screen, she’s listening to Carolina. “My top song for the last two years.”

You’ve never met a celebrity before, as a fan anyway, so you can’t say for sure how you’d react, but her coherence is impressive—you’re not sure you could stand in front of Michael B. Jordan without crying or screaming or proposing, never mind recounting the events that led you there in the first place.

Jay’s entire face is smiling, looking down at this sweet girl like she hung the moon and the stars—he looks like the fan here, hanging onto her every word. “It must be a sign. A great one. I’m really happy to meet you.” A beautiful mix of intrigue, delight, and timidness colours his tone and his wide eyes, straightens his spine.

You feel equally mesmerised by each of them.

“Same,” she says simply, extending a hand for both you and Jay to shake, the picture of composure all of a sudden. She’s amazing. “I’m Wonhee. No one at school’s going to believe this at all, holy shit.”

“Wonhee,” he repeats, to her utmost elation. “Do you want a picture, Wonhee? So everyone at school believes you?”

Wonhee’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding?”

When she says it’s okay, Jay puts his arm around her shoulders, a boyish grin scrunching his sweet face. He looks even more like the fan in all one million live photos you take on Wonhee’s phone. “Wow,” she utters, swiping through the pictures. “Wow!” A glorious, giddy laugh comes out of her and she bolts away up the stairs, leaving the station—so much for school.

“She was so cute,” you coo, unable to keep the smile off your face.

“Yeah.” Jay’s gaze stays on the stairs like she might come back. “Yeah, she was.”

“Look at you, my little celebrity!”

This makes him look away, his eyes falling to his feet, ears and neck just as red as Wonhee’s were. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “Or, not universally, which is a relief. I don’t really get noticed like that, and I think it was only because I was standing next to a giant picture of my face.”

And what a lovely face it is. “You’re her lockscreen, Jay. I’m sure she’d recognise you if she only saw the back of your head.”

“I’m her lockscreen?”

You nod, liking the giddy smile he wears. Liking the flutter in your stomach at the sight of it. The warmth in your chest. “Isn’t it so crazy that you’ve made her day, maybe even her week, and all you did was take a picture?”

“Not really, she’s made my day too.” Jay shrugs, blush still lingering on his skin. “I was already having an amazing day with you, of course. So meeting Wonhee’s just the cherry on top of a great day that already had a cherry on it.” His words come out rushed, one big run on word with no breaks to breathe or think. Like everything he says is coming out of him as soon as it crosses his mind.

“Great,” you say through a breathy laugh. “I’m having a good time too.”

“Washington State is actually the top producer of sweet cherries in the States, did you know that? I was starting to miss them, being away so long—and now I have two cherries on my wonderful day.” Jay is grinning from ear to ear like some sort of adorably Cheshire Cat / Joker hybrid, rocking back and forth on his feet. He might be the most excited person in the whole world at this very moment. Second to Wonhee at least.

You can’t think of the last time you saw him so excited about something. It’s interesting to see a celebrity so thrilled by parts of the job that seem so normal from the outside looking in. Something you’d think he’d be used to by now, two years and millions of streams in. Regardless, you’re just happy he’s happy.

And because you can’t resist teasing him, you say, “I get it, Jay. You’re having the best day of your life because you got attention from a pretty girl. Congratulations.” You give him a slow round of applause.

Undeterred, he tucks some of your hair behind your ear, his warm touch lingering on your skin. “I’m not trying to brag or anything, but I’ve gotten attention from two pretty girls today.”

Your cheeks burn. “Even better.”

Behind you, the Tube whooshes to a stop and the doors slide open right in front of where Jay’s standing. A distraction, finally. “And look at that,” he says, pointing to the doors. “Three cherries.”

NAPE’s room at Laughing Kitty Studios is a large wood-panelled rectangle and you two are the first to arrive. Jay takes his shoes off by the door, so you do the same, stepping in after him. Plaques and posters line the walls, streaming milestones and Nirvana. A worn leather couch sits in the middle of the room with a long table and two chairs at its back. Jay gestures around him and says, “This is where the magic happens.” He gives you a tour when you ask, showing you the huge monitor and lots of expensive mixing equipment that all looks the same to you. In the vocal booth, he shows you the controls and the locked cabinet where they keep snacks.

Helping you out of your coat, Jay hangs it up on the rack beside his and watches as you sink into the couch. “Do you prefer working here or at home?” you ask.

He takes a beat, thinking it over with his hands on his waist. “I guess it depends where we’re at. If we have a deadline or just want to get shit done, we work better here. And it’s nice having, like, a base, I guess, where other writers or producers can come to work with us.”

“That makes sense, it’s like a safe space, kind of.”

“Mmm, safe space,” he repeats. “I like that.” Jay sits too, leaving a small gap between you. “Most days though, especially when the weather’s shit, I prefer working at home.”

“Ah, see, I hated working at home; too many distractions.”

“Sunoo takes all our phones if he’s with us, so no distractions for NAPE at the studio.” Jay licks his lips, eyes meeting yours. “Not normally.”

Your awareness of Jay peaks. Of the spread of his thighs, of his hand grazing your leg when he lifts it from the couch cushion. Every cell in your body zings with this awareness, humming, and even though you’re smiling, even though your heart is a second away from beating out of your chest, you roll your eyes at him, cheeks on fire.

“Will you show me what you’ve been working on?” you ask. “Since I’ve come all this way?”

A boyish grin takes over his face as he nods. “But only because you’ve travelled all of fifteen minutes to get here, my strong, strong girl,” he says, taking out his phone and plugging it into the speaker behind the couch.

His strong, strong girl. Your sanity slips, just a little. Though you suppose it’s this alleged strength that keeps you sitting where you are, rather than jumping into his lap and kissing his stupid, handsome face.

Jay’s thumb hovers over the play button and he hesitates, seeming to second-guess himself before giving a hurried preface. “It’s just a demo, you know? Me and my guitar. I threw it together last night so the final thing probably won’t sound anything like this, alright?”

“You don’t have to play it for me if you don’t want to,” you say, squeezing his knee. “I’m sure it’s amazing though, because you wrote it.”

His ears go bright pink and he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s important to me that you hear it,” he tells you, sounding very certain for someone so clearly nervous. There’s something about it, his certainty, that makes your heart pick up, just a touch as you nod. He presses play and immediately the sound of his guitar fills the room, humming against the couch. Just like he did at the show, how he used to on the end of your bed, he picks a pretty melody. The image comes quick and clear—Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. Sitting in his underwear with his acoustic in his lap, picking the same notes over and over until they either sounded right, or you managed to convince him to get into bed instead. A knife to the gut would hurt less. And then he starts to sing. At first, in some of the most beautiful gibberish and lalalas you’ve ever heard. You open your mouth to compliment him anyway, but the lyrics come in, actual real words with actual real meanings, and everything you wanted to say falls to the wayside.

“You make my heart beat for you. I always cry too often, but I put too much in your hands. So much regret in the end,” Jay sings.

Through the speaker his voice is full and sincere and gorgeous as ever, all while he sits next to you with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. In your chest, your heart does an ungraceful tumble. If he can hear it, your thumping heart, he is polite enough not to comment, instead watching you closely, trying to gauge your reaction, maybe. Trying to read your mind.

“It’s a shame for you, it’s a shame for me. Is the blame on you? No, YN, it’s all on me.”

Oh.

A demo and a confession.

His thoughts laid bare at last, the vulnerability you used to beg for handed over on an acoustic platter. Curling around the room and filling the shortening gap between your bodies until your knee presses against his thigh, or the other way around—you can’t tell who moved. You don’t remember. You don’t care. Not when his lips are parted like that, not when he’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to kiss. The voice in your head says his name over and over. Jongseong. Jongseong. Jongseong. Your favourite nine letters stuck on the tip of your tongue. There are too many things to say, and too many ways to say them, so you don’t say anything at all.

Luckily, Jay says it all for you—sings it. “Wish I knew how to make it right. Just wanna look into your eyes, tell you the truth that I can’t hide, I love you so much.”

Answering seems so simple, but when you try, your mind blanks. Fills, rather, buzzing with all the wrong things. Thoughts and memories. Everything that’s happened over the last three weeks, the time you’ve been together again. Back in each other’s orbit. How he dropped everything to look after you, chose you.

How he finally chose you.

There’s a lightness in your chest, like some persistent weight has been lifted at long last. And now, looking at him, Jay. Your Jay—Jongseong. The freckles on his cheek, how the skin is tinted rosy. Pinched pink. His eyes, dark and wide and staring straight into yours. The only thing on your mind is: I love you, I love you, I love you. You tip your chin, and the space between your lips and his becomes little more than a technicality. His breath is warm against your skin, close enough to feel when it hitches. Close enough to see each of his eyelashes, to count them. To see how they flutter when he blinks, gaze falling to your mouth. Yours does the same, latching on the smooth pink skin, desperate now. Resisting seems futile, so you give in, pressing your lips to his and hoping it’ll be enough to tell him everything.

Jay’s relief is immediate. Clear in the shuddered breath that slips out of him, caught between kisses as he melts against you. His hand finds your jaw, fingers slipping into your hair behind your ear just like they used to. Tongue brushing up to tickle the roof of your mouth and make you smile like always. It feels like it’s been two minutes since your last kiss, not three years. Feels impossible that you went that long without this.

Without Jay.

His grip on your waist is gentle, but his fingertips sear your skin. He pulls you closer, and closer, each point of connection setting off a blaze in its wake. Mouth to mouth. Chest to chest. Knees to the sides of his thighs as you sink into his lap. Like this, under you, the sight of Jay is too much—flushed cheeks, plump lips, ragged breath. The feel of him, all solid muscle and huge palms slipping under your skirt. Nails digging into the curve of your ass. You lean in, lips catching his jaw, finding the side of his neck. His skittering pulse. His birthmark. Sucking on the warm skin there makes him groan, makes his hips buck. His dick strains against his jeans, hitting the exact spot that makes you putty in his hands, moans slipping from both of you as you work up a rhythm.

Your name trails off into a sigh when he tries to say it. “What does this mean?” he asks, breathless.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and for a long while afterwards, the only sound in the studio is the two of you trying to catch your breath. “Do you want to stop?” you ask, terrified for the answer.

Jay says nothing.

Your fingers slip easily through his hair, playing with the tickly short strands on the sides of his head. His question feels heavier the longer he goes without speaking, the longer you stew on it. What does this mean, if anything? There’s an uncomfortable swoop in your stomach, how could this possibly mean nothing? Nothing more than a spur of the moment makeout, never to be spoken of. A unanimous mistake.

On an inhale, Jay’s chest puffs out, touching yours for a heartbeat and he shakes his head. “Not for anything,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss you again.

And this time, when he rocks his hips, his grip on you tightens and he pulls you down to meet them. It’s too much all at once, heat lashing at you from every angle. Increasing with each brush of your tongues, with each press of his covered dick between your legs. Need burns a flame at the base of your stomach, tugs a whine out of you.

Against yours, Jay’s lips quirk into a smile, a smirk. “Needed this just as bad as me, huh, baby?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

“More,” you breathe.

To this, he pulls away, looking up at you with furrowed brows. He shakes his head and says, “No way.” Jay’s heavy palm cups your cheek, his eyes round and wide. A burst of tenderness in the midst of all the heat as his hips freeze under you. A flutter in your stomach. Warmth in your chest, on your cheeks.

“Absolutely, no way,” he says and once again, his lips come up to meet yours. Slow this time, gentle and sweet.

Until laughter erupts from the door, and forces the two of you apart. As if being caught in this position isn’t bad enough, a string of spit attaches you to him when you pull away. There are two guys standing in the doorway, one of them still laughing, the other one pressing his lips in a flat line, as though seeing the two of you like this is disappointing but not surprising.

Frustration and embarrassment wash over you in equal measure, a wave with the force of an eighteen-wheeler casting its great shadow above you. Only death could fix this, of that, you are certain—you can’t laugh at a dead person. At least not right away, surely there’s a buffer period of some description.

The amused one speaks first. “I thought you said you moved the couch off the wall so they wouldn’t fuck on it.”

“Yes, Jungwon. That was the general idea.” Stepping into the studio, shoes off, the disappointed one points at the sign above the light switch—a short list of forbidden things that has, no sex in the studio, written in bold, red letters at the top of it.

Great.

Maybe under different circumstances, if Jay had shown it to you, you might have laughed at the sign, thinking of what had to go wrong to lead to such a notice existing in the first place. For sex to rank over smoking and playing ball games on the list of things not to do in there. Now, like this, sitting in Jay’s lap with only a few layers of clothing between his erection and your dripping cunt, it makes you want to die.

Already, you had a whole host of things to stew over in bed tonight — spending all morning with Jay, the song, the kiss — and now you get to add being walked in on to the roster.

The rush of blood in your ears is disorienting, warbling Jay’s voice when he says, “It’s a great sign, Sunoo.” Completely unconcerned, he wears a great big smile and keeps his hands under your skirt. “But it says nothing about kissing.”

Your breath catches. Sunoo. His manager. Even better.

Without another thought, you stand, straightening your skirt. Jay doesn’t move, he just sits there with his hands on his thighs, eyes trailing over every inch of your body as if you’re still alone. As if now that he knows he can, he wants to use the opportunity to the fullest.

“Yes,” Sunoo agrees, sinking into one of the spinny chairs by the monitor and rubbing his temples. “And I’m coming to regret that.”

Silence hangs over the room as Jungwon steps inside, closing the door after himself. He runs his finger over the sign, following the words one at a time like he’s sounding it out or studying it. How nice it must be, not to have a stake in this moment. You clear your throat, deciding that if the universe isn’t going to answer your pleas for sudden death, you might as well perform good and normal social niceties. “I’m YN,” you announce, so loud that Jungwon flinches by the door. “It’s… nice to meet you both.”

“Likewise.” A genuine smile covers Sunoo’s face, scrunches his eyes—it’s like looking at an angel. “I can see why Jay talks about you so much.”

“Sorry for…” You trail off, unsure how best to put across whatever the hell you and Jay were doing—sorry for having a reconciliatory dry hump on your couch, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “That,” you say finally.

He laughs and the sound is delightful, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying it like he wasn’t just losing his mind. “Please, that wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve walked in on this week.” Sunoo shudders, seeming truly disturbed. “First time offence for Jay though,” he adds thoughtfully, which is oddly reassuring.

Jungwon claps his hands, one loud smack as he sits on the other end of the couch, a bright smile on his face like he’s solved some pressing matter. “So what if the sign says, no partners in the studio, instead?” he asks, nudging Jay.

His emphasis on the word partner sets off your stomach, steadily fluttering butterflies flying around a swirl of heat. Is that where this might have led? Where you and Jay could end up? Partners. Again? Casual-workplace-dry-humpationship isn’t a relationship status you’ve had before, or heard of, but now, the thought of it being as far as things go here, with Jay, is a horrible weight on your shoulders, a pressure in your chest.

Sunoo sighs. “I love this band, I really do, but the horny fuckers would just kiss each other.”

At this, you all laugh. All but Sunoo, anyway.

It’s straight to work when the rest of the guys arrive, and Sunoo settles on the other end of the couch, typing away at his laptop and pausing to give his opinion when they ask. Sunghoon sits with his knees to his chest, picking at his lip as he stares at the screen, clicking this and that, playing it back over and over, no matter what imperceptible change they’ve suggested.

Standing over his shoulder, Heeseung tilts his head. “Actually, yeah. Your way’s better, cut that.”

“I think quiet for half a bar instead of fading out—everything off just vocals, and then back on full force for the last chorus. Louder,” Jake suggests, so Sunghoon does just that and plays the whole thing over again. You can’t hear the difference, but all of the guys hum in approval.

Heeseung riffs. Jay does the same on his guitar, and he was sort of right. Maybe if you were less fascinated by him, you would be bored. But he’s kind of extremely good at this. All of them. They manage to lock in for hours at a time, bouncing ideas around and executing them perfectly in a matter of two or three takes. Late in the afternoon, Jungwon orders pizza and they stop working to eat before getting right back to it. It’s the only break they take all day.

“Look, I know you want to, but you don’t need to take a new song out with you—not yet anyway.” Sunoo stands up from the couch, putting his laptop into his bag. “You still have time to decide on the encore show, but maybe after all the travelling you’ll have a few finished songs. New setting, new inspiration.”

Jake furrows his brows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I think we’re cutting it a bit thin. I mean this is your last full week off — bar rehearsal — before tour starts, and I don’t want you so stressed about something with an easy fix.”

At the mention of the word tour, Jay stiffens. You do the same.

Jungwon takes his headphones off and turns to face the room, laptop in hand to show the screen. “Do we like these T-shirts for the U.S. shows?”

“Yeah, but…” Sunghoon squints, getting closer. “They look just like the Australia and New Zealand shirts.”

“Which look just like the Europe ones,” Heeseung points out.

Every sentence makes things worse and worse. They’re going on tour in a week. Jay is leaving in a week. Going to the U.S., to fucking Oceania, and this is how you’re finding out. The tightness in your chest, the ache in your stomach, is immediate. Instead of looking at you, Jay bites at his nails. Scrunches his nose.

“If we could kindly get back on track,” Sunoo interrupts, pulling his jacket on. “You have Live Lounge when you’re back in March, VEVO Studios in April—much better opportunities to showcase new music. I know you want something special for fans, but maybe we can shoot a performance video of… Royalty? And release it on Valentine’s Day?”

Jay hides his face in his hands. “Okay.”

“Just think about it, okay. It’s up to you, and I promise I’ll support whatever you decide. For now, though, I have carbonara and an episode of Lovely Runner waiting for me at home, so I’m away, yeah?”

With that, Sunoo leaves and Jungwon is quick to follow. The guys sit in silence for a bit before getting back to work. By your side, Jay hunches over his guitar, resting his chin on the body, picking at the strings aimlessly. Across the room, Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon crowd around the monitor, nitpicking.

While their demo plays through the speakers again, louder than before, Jay finally speaks. “You and your friends can come if you’re up to it, to the London show. Whoever you want. On me,” he mumbles, looking at the fretboard instead of you.

“Okay.” You nod, though the thought of having to tell Minjeong that Jay has upset you again, that you’ve let him close enough to be upset by him again, is too grim to bear, so you text the chat, inviting them along instead.

you: Nape concert next Friday night on me (on the band) who’s there?

somi: me me me me me

yizhuo: Will Jake be there?

riki: will jake be at his concert.

riki: what happened w you and jimin 🤔

yizhuo: No further questions your honour (she only wants to hookup HAHAHHAHA).

riki: my apologies twin (Go Get Your #Man).

you: Oh okay bc I thought you all had very important jobs right . Right. MY FUCKING BAD.

And just like that, all three of them stop texting.

It’s ten p.m. by the time you and Jay reach your flat, and neither of you have said anything since you said bye to the other guys back at the studio, ten Tube stops ago. You search in your bag for your keys, desperate to end this silence by disappearing inside. Jay has other plans though, apparently, because when you twist your key in the lock and step over the threshold he sighs, saying your name. You don’t look at him.

“I swear to God, I was going to tell you about the tour, okay? I wouldn’t just leave like that. Not again.” Though his credibility where telling you things is concerned is shaky at best, you nod and he continues. “I’ve known for ages, obviously, but I wasn’t sure when to tell you or if you’d care.”

“You weren’t sure I’d care that you’re leaving for two months?” you ask, hoping he can hear how absurd that sounds.

“Three months,” he corrects, mumbling an apology when you squint at him. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I thought this was or could be, by talking about my short-term plans like you’re my girlfriend or something.”

Your scoff echoes through the hall, an accurate reflection of the irritation that heats you from the inside out. “Sure, Jay. Give me the right idea then.”

He takes a beat, his eyes catching over all of your features. “You’re cross with me,” he states simply.

Cross, he said. As if that even begins to cover it. Maybe if you were any less cross with him, the Briticism might have made you smile. “Very.”

“I’m sorry, YN. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Sunoo told me. You didn’t say anything.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to—” Jay pauses, pressing his eyes shut with his fingers until his nails turn pale. With a shaky breath, he tries again. “We didn’t have hard conversations at home. My parents would just make up their minds and do shit, you know. I found out we were moving to Seoul when my dad came into my room with a bunch of boxes, and told me to fill them up.”

The words rush out of him, each of them a blade to the heart, deeper than the last. Twisting. You’ve seen all of his childhood photos, the calendar his parents had made when he was eight. His permed curly hair and bright smile, those big round eyes that never failed to melt your heart no matter how many times you saw the pictures. Hearing that his parents could raise him that way, their only child, to change his life at the drop of a hat, like he was just another thing to put in a box and cart away, stings the backs of your eyes. From what you remember, he’d gone from the U.S. to Korea, then London, all so quickly—and now you know, with no warning.

“London was the same, back to Tacoma, same thing, and back again. I never really…” He trails off, chewing on his lip before he starts again. “I thought Edinburgh would be like that too, it was supposed to be. But then I met you, and for the first time, the thought of leaving was terrifying. I thought it was about the band, what my parents might say, but it was you, YN. I never had a home to leave until I met you, and I didn’t realise that until it was already too late.”

The realisation sets in with deep unease. His room in Edinburgh was completely bare when you met him, just the essentials, the stuff you can only assume was easy to move with. It was only after the two of you had been together for a while that his room started filling up. Posters and knick-knacks. Snowglobes and postcards from whatever holiday Minjeong had planned for you, her and Jaehyun. At the end of it all, by the time it had been two weeks since Jay left your place and never looked back, his flatmate Wonbin handed you a box with these things in it. To your confusion, to your upset, he only raised a brow and said, I thought you agreed it’d be better to end things? With him moving back home and that…

“And even after I left, I had a million and one chances to reach out to you, to explain, apologise, all of it, but I—I really let you down, and I’m sorry. I’m not that person anymore.” He looks down, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

Your body reacts before your words can, hand reaching out to his cheek, cupping the smooth, flushed skin. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the only thing you can say is, “You’re not. It’s okay, I promise.”

“It’s not, YN.” He presses his lips together, biting the skin until the pressure turns the pink pale. “I just want you to be happy.”

Again, the words are right there, twisting painfully in your throat and stuck to the tip of your tongue. I love you. I still love you. It’s you, Jay. It’s always, only you. But you can’t get them out, can’t bring yourself to say them. “I am happy, Jay,” you say instead.

Jay’s lips quirk up at the corners, not quite a smile but close. “You’re happy,” he repeats, nodding his head as he seems to consider this. The silence is awful, turning your stomach and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, you’re so certain he’s going to wish you a goodnight that you rush to speak first.

“When are you leaving?”

“Saturday.” One day after the London show. Ten days from today. “Manchester’s Tuesday, then Glasgow, Dublin…” He trails off, but you know the rest—Paris, Hamburg, Stockholm… Auckland, Brisbane… You studied the order from the poster Jungwon showed you.

“When can I see you again?” you ask quietly.

“I’m not sure.” Jay tilts his head. “Want me to send you my Google Calendar?”

He’s kidding, you know that much, but still, you say, “Please.”

At this, he pulls up the app on his phone, multi-coloured blocks filling the screen. “Looks like I’m free at 3 a.m. tomorrow,” he says, clicking the share button and pasting the link in your text thread, where your contact is saved as MY ❤️. Still. Jay hits send on the message and again his calendar fills the screen. “And right now.”

“Me too…” You trail off.

To your surprise, it doesn't take much more to get Jay into the flat, into your room. To have your back against the bedroom door and his lips on yours, not even separating to push your coat down your shoulders. His hands span wherever he can touch, slipping under your shirt to press your body closer to his.

Jay tugs at the waistband of your tights. "Want these off."

"Later." You chase his kiss, desperate not to lose momentum, not to give either of you an opportunity to think about this and what it means.

Relenting, his hand slips under them instead, grabbing your ass. Bucking forwards, you feel his thick cock against you, a swirl of heat ravishing the base of your stomach. He sighs into the kiss, parting your legs with his thigh and guiding you over the solid muscle.

It's not enough. "My tights," you say, changing your tune. "Rip them, Jay.”

He moans on a shaky exhale, pulling away to look down at you. "Are you joking? I can't tell if you're joking." His eyes are blown and frantic, searching your face. As soon as you shake your head, he tugs at the thin fabric until it tears, making a hole. Cool air rushes against you, forcing you to draw a breath. "Now what?”

You push your damp underwear to the side, fingers parting your slick folds before you rock your hips once more. Painfully slow. The feeling of his thigh, the rough denim of his jeans grazing your clit, makes you whimper into the space between you. Jay's lips quirk up at the corner, his bruising grip guiding your hips back and forth.

"So needy, aren't you?" He pushes his thigh harder against you. "What am I gonna do with you, beautiful?"

Holding his gaze is an effort, but you'd die if you missed the way he looks right now, half-lidded eyes looking down at you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Even blinking feels like a waste. "Anything, Jay. Do anything."

"Bed?" As soon as you nod he carries you over, setting you down.

You lean up on your elbows to watch him undress—his jacket comes off first, falling to the floor. Then his T-shirt, pulled over his head, triceps huge when he bends his arms. A lick of need burns your core at the sight of his tattoo peeking out over his waistband, the thick dark hair under his belly button. You have to chew on your lip to hold a moan, but he notices.

"Like what you see?" He smiles, freeing his belt from the loops of his jeans.

"Mhm."

Jay's eyes trail over your body, skin ablaze wherever his gaze lands. "Not as much as I like you." He leans over and kisses you. "Your pretty little mouth," he murmurs, lips trailing your throat. "Your neck, your shoulders." At your chest, he takes his time. Sucking and licking your nipples through your tank top, urging whimpers out of you with each bite and tug. It's only when he continues down the rest of you that you remember the point he's making, a kiss pressed by your belly button. "Your stomach, thighs. Everything, baby. Love all of you.”

Love all of you. You can't breathe. Love all of you. His hands slip under your skirt, pulling off your panties and torn tights in one go. Love all of you. You might die here, now, like this.

He gets up to take off his pants, leaving only his tight grey underwear and the dark patch in the centre, where the fabric clings to his leaking tip. "Want you on me, YN." He licks his lips before a breathtaking smile spreads over them, slow and feline. A smirk, more like. "Sound good? You wanna sit on d—my face?" Even the thought of riding his face, of the word he stopped himself from saying, hitches your breath.

Saying, please, is a measured effort, though he wastes no time getting between your legs. Just the feel of him under you, his built shoulders and solid chest, thick arms wrapped around your soft thighs; seeing him like this, eyes half-lidded and stuck on your cunt, is dizzying and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"So pretty everywhere." The words are a low whisper, warm and sudden, before he licks you from back to front.

A burst of pleasure arches your back, coursing through you immediately as you grind down on him, rutting against the tip of his nose. Dipping into you, his tongue moves slowly to match the roll of your stuttering hips—he's kissing you, making out. And loving every second of it if his groans are anything to go off of. It is, at once, too much and not enough. His pouty mouth finds your clit, licking it in circles, driving you crazy.

"Fuck," you whine. "Like that."

When he hums in response, it rumbles through you, forcing a moan from you as you tug at his hair. At the feeling of it, he groans, burying his face deeper and deeper. Tipping his chin towards you. In his enjoyment of it all, in his actions, he makes no effort to be quiet—squelches amplified and filthy, with his exaggerated movements of his mouth against your soaking cunt.

Your orgasm creeps up on you, slow to start but quickly overbearing. "Jay." From your lips, his name is a wobbly cry. "Jay," you repeat. Falling forwards, your hands grip fruitlessly at the sheets, whole body trembling in his hold. Pure bliss washes over you in harsh waves, whiting the dark behind your closed eyelids. How could you ever go without this again? How did you manage in the first place? You can't even voice it, warn him, that you're close, that you're there, unthinkable heat hitting you from every angle as you gush all over him. He doesn't let up, only humming and licking more feverishly, quicker, harder, and pressing the entire bottom half of his face to you, drinking up your release.

Catching your breath is an impossibility, your legs and stomach twitching as he cleans you up with his tongue, murmuring praises against you. Thank you, baby, as his nose hits your clit. Missed this pretty pussy, after he licks your clenching hole. So good for me, when he sucks at your inner thigh. Jay looks a mess when you finally sit up, glancing down at him. Ruffled hair. Slow blinking eyes. Everything from his straight nose down is slick and shiny, cum slipping over his jaw, and a smile curving his swollen lips. A handsome mess.

You clench around nothing.

Later, you share the shower and lots of kisses, teeth bumping under the spray as Jay whimpers, coming in your hand before getting into bed. He strokes your hair, twirling the ends around his fingers, and opening his mouth to speak but says nothing. Minutes pass like this until you finally ask, “What is it?”

He shakes his head, smiling too. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me, baby.”

“I just… I kind of feel like I’m dreaming or something,” he admits softly, though you feel the words in every part of you.

Stuck for what to say, scared to say anything, you lean up and kiss him instead. Kiss him until your stomach starts to flutter. Until you’re gasping for breath, legs tangling together under the duvet, because if this really is a dream, you don’t want to have any regrets when you wake up.

@.gigiseung: DUDEEEEEE JAY GOT A GIRLFRIEND 😭😭😭 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS THE MUSIC IS GONNA BE HAPPY !!!!!!! FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!

112 replies | 675 retweets | 5.6k likes | 752 bookmarks

@.nojayback: no one moved 🙄

@.gigiseung: girl im really sorry but your boyfriend has a girlfriend and it’s not jake or you… i retweeted…

@.sunghoon67: I SAW JAY AT MOONSTRUCK ON A DATE WITH A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THIS IS NOT A DRILL WATCH THE FUCKING VIDEO 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

400 replies | 4.2k retweets | 25k likes | 2.3k bookmarks

@.nojayback: WHY DID HE PUT HIS SCARF ON HER LIKE THAT WHO TAUGHT HIM THAT ??? WHO EVEN IS SHEEEEE 😭😭😭

@.sunghoon67: IDK WHO SHE IS I JUST KNOW SHE’S HOT AND HAS AN ACCENT

@.nojayback: AND LOOK AT HIS OUTFIT HE MET WONHEE IN THIS OUTFIT DID THIS GIRL TAKETHAT FUCKING PICTURE??? @.jaykeyaoi wake tF UP RNNNN DID YOU MEET HER TOO???

@.NAPEisFOUR: So friendship between a man and a woman isn’t a thing anymore? This fandom never fails to disgust me.

@.gigiseung: @.NAPEisFOUR GOODBYEEEE a sex tape would be less incriminating.

minjeong: Oh girl I can’t defend you anymore send my fucking jacket back TODAY

you: What jacket ???

Her next message has ten pictures. And then another set of ten pictures. And then another.

minjeong: Lie again. Asking “what jacket” DUDE I SEE YOU WEARING IT AND WITH YOUR FUCKING SATANIC EX TOO… Killing you would not be enough.

All of the pictures are Twitter screenshots, threads of NAPE fans trying to solve a mystery by the looks of things. Several photos of you and Jay, a video, even. All from yesterday morning.

@.hojumilkpuppy: ALL THESE FUCKING PICTURES AND NOT ONE SHOT OF HER FACE ??? ARE WE KIDDING RN WHO IS THIS AND WHERE DID SHE GET THAT JACKET

@.gigiseung: OP said she has an accent and jay said he studied in edinburgh right?

@.hojumilkpuppy: Are You Trying To Tell Me This Is Miss Carolina.

@.jaysnape: am i the only one who thinks filming them like this is weird af idk it’s nice seeing him all smiley and in love but idkkkkk it feels weird seeing this when they clearly have no idea they’re on camera

@.ClubNAPE: If you’re feeling distressed by the video, it’s ok. But please take care of yourself. Step away from social media for a couple of days. Don’t attack or criticise Jay, too much money and time went into publicly harassing him and it finally paid off for those people.

@.jm4pjs: Thanks for trying to encourage us, but I’m so sad and furious at the same time…For now I’m empty… I hope he uses condoms…

@.ClubNAPE: Trust me when I say he doesn’t go that far with her. Just, please trust me.

@.hojumilkpuppy: You are an adult.

Each thread follows a similar pattern, hundreds, maybe thousands, of NAPE fans freaking out over the video. Posting detailed body language analysis to prove and disprove the true nature of your and Jay’s relationship. The split seems even enough—half of them happy for Jay, for you; half of them affronted by the mere suggestion that Jay might have feelings for any woman in a way beyond friendship. The worst part of it all, by your standards at least, is that you’re just as confused as them and it’s your relationship.

The original video, sunghoon67’s pinned tweet, has over a million views. In all of her replies, she goes to bat for you, insisting that the whole time she saw you and Jay, the two of you seemed comfortable and happy, and that she was not stalking him, but happened to be at the café studying for over an hour when you arrived.

somi: YOU AND JAY???

yizhuo: Do Not even get me started.

riki: you told them about uni? i thought that was a secret yn u made me feel special…you okay though? this is kind of extremely crazy 🤔

yizhuo: What the fuck do you mean UNI

somi: ???

riki: ning yizhuo you have a degree i know ykwtf uni is.

You mute the groupchat, putting your phone on Do Not Disturb.

What Twitter user #hoonjay real’s deep analysis of it all says about them, you’re unsure. An odd mix of delight at the thought of other people perceiving you and Jay as happy together, and discomfort at the thought of someone studying you so closely, filming you without your knowing, clash in your head. The more tweets you read, thanking OP for sharing, and bashing OP for the same thing, the more confused you feel. You spend an hour like this, laying in the bed Jay left this morning, scrolling through Twitter and Reddit, refreshing the timeline to read new responses as they come in. More and more people claim to have seen you together, inventing stories about you yelling at Jay in Notting Hill, or kissing him in Piccadilly. All the while, Minjeong continues to text.

minjeong: And you did it in the street WEARIGN MY FUCKING JACKET THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT YOU STOLE MY JACKET??? This is SO embarrassing for me imagine all the people that think I’m Park Jongseong’s fucking girlfriend because they saw you in my jacket

you: Imagine all the people that think I’M his girlfriend ???

minjeong: You’re not?

you: Define girlfriend.

minjeong: A frequent or regular female companion in a romantic or sexual relationship

you: Define frequent.

minjeong: I really don’t have time for this YN.

minjeong: Are you okay though? Fr

you: I’m good! People think I have nice hair and good taste in jackets, over the moon rn 🥰

Three dots appear on her side of the chat and your phone vibrates in your palm. Jay’s name and an old photo of him with his hair bleached take over your screen. Jay at twenty-one—fast asleep in your childhood bed, cuddling your worn Snoopy plushie. “Hey, are you home?”

“Mhm.”

A sigh comes through the phone, he sounds relieved. “Please open the door.” He’s standing on the mat when you do, chewing furiously at his lip. He hugs you and apologises into the crook of your neck. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Jay,” you mumble into his chest. “Are you okay? Are you coming in?”

Jay sighs again, letting his shoulders fall. He assesses your face, still holding you close. “Wish I could, baby. I’m on a potty break,” he says, completely earnest.

“Potty break?”

“Like, restroom? It’s a long story, but the suits made a slidesh—” His phone goes off loudly in his pocket, buzzing between your bodies and making him sigh. “I’ll tell you later, alright? I have to get back.”

“Later today?”

Jay shakes his head, pecking your lips. It’s not enough—there’s no such thing with him, so you pull his bottom lip between yours. “Don’t want you… staying up just for me,” he mumbles, the words warm against your mouth as his hand comes up to hold your cheek.

“You’re worth it, Jay,” you admit.

He draws a breath, pulling away just enough to look at you. His face softens, a smile on his lips, his eyes on yours. “You’re cute,” he says softly, thumb brushing over your skin. “I’ll think about it.” When his phone goes off this time, it rings. A call. He mutters a curse, pressing his forehead to yours like he might ignore it, like he might stay, then he kisses you once more. “I really have to go.”

“How about you text me when you’re done and we’ll see if I’m still up?” you suggest.

“Alright, princess. We’ll see.”

And by fire, by force, you are still up at two in the morning when he texts you to say he’s all done at the studio. You open the door to usher a tired Jay to the kitchen, sitting him down at the table where you’ve heated up leftovers for him. A slow smile lights up his face and he eats quietly, only breaking to chug water.

Aeri comes into the kitchen, greeting you both with a tired hum before filling her bottle with water from the filter. On the way out, she smacks Jay over the head with a flat palm. “My loyalty is to YN before it’s to you or Heeseung, okay?”

He winces, clutching the back of his head and nodding. “Got it.”

After food, you wash his dishes while he showers, and he climbs into bed with damp hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Thank you so much, baby.”

“Thank you for coming over…” You trail off. For making time for me, you think but don’t say.

“I really am sorry about this whole thing. The photos, people talking… Jesus.” Jay sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you worrying about any of this, it’ll die down, alright? I promise, shit like this, it always dies down.”

“I’m not worried about any of it, Jay. Promise. It’s kind of cool how much your fans care, a lot of people really love you,” you say. “I’m just happy you’re okay and that you’re here.”

His lips spread into a smile against your temple. “I’m happy I’m here too,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest. Though naturally, because you are you, and he is Jay, your lips find each other anyway. Kissing for an hour like a bunch of teenagers before you fall asleep.

It’s perfect.

Mostly.

The days leading up to the concert go by similarly, with you and Jay meeting up after his studio sessions or rehearsals. Some nights you hook up, most nights you cuddle and watch the newer seasons of Formula 1: Drive to Survive, which he pauses every two seconds to add his own — very necessary — commentary. Neither of you mention the concert or what’s going to change when he leaves the day after. Its first mention is on the day of, when he sends you a text.

jongseong 😽: We have about an hour or two downtime before the show if you want to head over during that? So around like 5, yeah? Sunoo can come and meet you and bring you up

you: Sounds good see you sooooonn!

jongseong 😽: See you babyyyyy got soundcheck so talk in a few :D

At a pub you’ve never been to, you meet up with Yizhuo to nurse a pint and eat truffle mac‘n’cheese. So much has changed since you last saw her and it’s only been a week and a half. Life has a way of doing that—flipping things on their head when you least expect it.

“Have you heard back from anywhere?” she asks, clearing her plate. “From Interview?”

You deflate, sipping sweet golden nectar from your glass. “Not yet.”

“Try not to look so worried, it’ll be good news. I can tell.”

“What if it isn’t?” The words are impossible to say, a pathetic mumble over the speakers. It feels a bit like admitting defeat. You’d been relatively optimistic at first, but hardly anyone gets the first job they apply for. Or the first thirty. Creative jobs are hard enough to come by as it is, and after all the difficulty of securing one, the only thing anyone leaves for is the grave. “I can’t wait forever, Yizhuo. I’ve got maybe two more months before I need to go and stay with my parents again.” And that’s if you stop using your redundancy pay for frivolous things like groceries and rent.

“It won’t get to that. You’re capable, you’re smart, you’re qualified.” Yizhuo says firmly, squeezing your hand over the sticky tabletop. “Just because things are bad now doesn’t mean they’ll be bad forever. Soon, we’ll look back at this moment and laugh about it at work drinks. I promise.”

You hope she’s right. You need her to be right.

When you meet up with Sunoo, he leads you through the venue’s back entrance and to the green room, where Jay and Riki are the only people inside, bickering on the couch. At the sound of the opening door, they quit it, and Jay greets you with a bright grin. His tight-fitting black long sleeve is tucked into his dress pants, and a pair of wire-frame glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. It’s like seeing God. He hugs Yizhuo first, though in light of #JaysGF-gate and your sharing of the full story, she’s not his biggest fan at the moment. You however, as evidenced by the last week you’ve spent joined at the hip, are more than eager to have Jay’s arms around you.

“Hey, beautiful. How’s your day been?” he asks, pecking your lips.

“Good, Jay. How are you feeling?”

He was a nervous wreck this morning, pacing the length of your bedroom until the absolute last second he had to leave. Now though, he seems relaxed, like he’s left with only excitement for tonight. “Better now that you’re here,” he admits. It doesn’t sound like a line when he says it, but Sunoo mutters, Jesus fucking Christ, before he leaves.

You tease him too, rolling your eyes despite the smile on your face. Despite the fact you feel the same way.

Unfazed, he only smiles wider, holding your jaw and kissing you. He tastes like spearmint, like Jay. “Want me to show you around, baby?”

“Yes!” Riki says before you have the chance. “I’ve never been backstage before.”

Yizhuo has to grab him by the sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “Not you, weirdo.”

“You don’t know that.” He yanks his arm from her hold, straightening his denim jacket over his shoulders and running a hand through his hair.

Jay takes you by the hand to give you a tour. Just you. Dressing room, catering, the wings. One small lounge for each of the members. There isn’t much inside: a vanity, a couch, a coffee table. His guitar and his bag. All the while, a nervous flicker turns your stomach, anxious like you’re the one about to perform in front of thousands of people.

In the privacy of his locked room, he holds you in his arms, looking down at you. His eyes trail your body, a sweet smile curving his lips. “Look amazing, baby. Always so pretty,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ears.

A different kind of nervousness sets in, classic giddy fluttering, mind racing and trying hard to think of the perfect thing to say at the perfect time. It’s reassuring, feeling like this again, warm and happy—bitten by the lovebug you’d long stopped believing in. No matter what happens tomorrow, when he leaves, at least you know that feeling can still exist for you. The thought is scary now, but most of those big truths always are in the abstract. Until they happen.

You smile up at him, desperate to live in this moment forever, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Thank you, Jay. So do you,” you say. “My handsome baby.”

Pink tints his cheeks, eyes wide for a split second. “You mean it?”

“Mhm. Love these glasses too, they make you look all serious, like a sexy professor or something," you joke, startled to find you mean it. “Tell me more about changing the subject of a formula, Mr. Park.”

“No way,” Jay mutters, his hips bucking towards yours. “Can’t do this with you right now, baby.”

“Can’t do what, Mr. Park?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Be good, YN. Please.”

“Yes, sir.”

And like you’ve scalded him, Jay steps away, biting his lip. With his eyes screwed shut, he grabs at the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself before sitting on the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Stepping out of your boots, you curl into his side, playing with his fingers. “You never told me what happened with the song you guys were working on,” you say, hoping not to pressure him after what you heard at the studio.

Luckily, your question seems to do the opposite, and his face lights up. “We finalised it this afternoon! You’ll hear it tonight, baby. I really hope you like it.” A knock on the door punctuates his answer, and he has to disappear for hair and makeup while you wait in the green room.

The boys aren't gone for long, but you don't get any time alone with Jay before he has to go on stage. No time to properly process how good he looks with his hair all spiked up. His freckles aren't covered at all, and his black long sleeve fits like a second skin, clinging to every curve and contour on his torso and arms. You can't help but touch him, feeling his sculpted chest and racing heart against your palms.

"You look..." There's no single word you could use to describe him right now, as he looks at you through matte black sunglasses. "I think you're going to have to surgically remove my mouth from you later," you say pressing a kiss to his soft lips, already picturing your evening plans. As if overhearing, excited as well, the crowd roars before starting to sing along to whatever Jungwon is playing through the speakers.

“Good, baby. That’s good to hear, I’m looking forward to it.” Jay’s grip on your waist is firm, holding you as close as possible, tickling the roof of your mouth with his tongue. A breath comes out of him, flustered, eager, happy, and he rests his forehead on yours. “Wish me luck?”

Giddy butterflies turn in your stomach, your smile impossible to contain. “Good luck, Mr. Park.”

“Mm,” he hums, kissing you again. “I have no plans to go easy on you later, darling.”

It’s Sunghoon who finally has to pry Jay’s grip away from your waist, a firm tug that does little to quell the burning heat on your cheeks and neck. His transformation takes a split second, going from Park Jongseong, the guy you’ve known and wanted all this time, to Jay Park from NAPE, golden under the amber spotlight and singing his heart out. If he wasn’t so good, you’d have more time to process how strange it all is, how clear it is that he comes alive on the stage. All of them do. Like they’re finally doing the exact thing they were put on earth to do.

Song after song, it becomes clear what they mean when they talk about themselves and the fans and the energy. How they meet in the middle, feeding off of each other. Watching it like this, backstage with your friends, it feels like you’ve been let in on something unthinkably special. That feeling sticks around for the length of the entire two hour set, amplifying.

The crowd boos when Jay announces that they’ve reached the end of the show. “But we have one last song for you tonight, something very new and very dear to me—” he says, grinning into his mic when they cheer again. “—I’ve been going through a bit of a funk, I guess,” he admits.

In the front row, you see very pretty women frowning, touched to hear about Jay’s hardships — no matter how vague — like they’re taking them on themselves. Somi squeezes your hand, pointing them out to you and mumbling that they’re so cute. You agree.

“But a couple weeks ago, something really special happened for me, and when I finally figured it all out, what it meant to me, I sat up all night working on this song. And the guys and I have been grinding to get it done, so it’s been a long time coming, and we hope you love it. This is Out Sick.”

All of the lights go dim, save for a stark spotlight that shines straight on Jay. The venue holds its breath, and he looks over his shoulder, craning his neck just a bit to find you. When his eyes meet yours, he gives you a smile, soft and warm, your Jongseong in that moment. Your smile is immediate, a second of calm in your pounding heart as he strums the first chord and turns back to the crowd.

You know this song already, its shape. As familiar as the back of your own hand. As Jay’s lips on yours or his hands under your skirt on the couch at Laughing Kitty. Your stomach plummets to the floor, eyes stinging with tears. Sunghoon comes in slowly on the drums, Heeseung and Jake’s guitars following to make it warm and round and full.

And then, Jay sings, “I don’t have to try to love you, it comes easy to me…”

His demo. Complete. And performed so beautifully. His voice is raw, vulnerable, as he bares his soul for everyone, for you, to hear. Heeseung’s harmonies are simple, sweet, a perfect anchor for the song. They’re amazing. They are actually amazing. All of them.

As the final note rings out, the lights go dim once again, and applause erupts backstage, your friends squealing and hugging each other while you wait. NAPE don’t take long to appear behind the curtain, all four of them a blur of black clothes and adrenaline. Jay doesn’t stop to speak with the crew or with the other guys, he comes straight for you. Short strands of his hair slick with sweat, his glasses fogging up as he pulls you into his arms.

“It was perfect, Jongseong. You were perfect.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel him smiling into the crook of your neck as his heart thuds against your chest.

Tearing Jay away from the tour kick-off party is easier than you expected. Largely in part due to the fact that he’s the one dragging you through the crowded flat to his bedroom. Music muffles through his door and as soon as the lock clicks shut, you sink to your knees at his feet and Jay gulps when you look up at him, a gentle look on his face, in his eyes, that makes your heart trip in your chest—that he could look so tenderly at you in this moment seems unreal. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, unsure who you're teasing more. You undo his zipper. The button.

He cups your cheek with his palm, clearing his throat. "Only if you want to, baby." His voice is soft, delicate as he traces your lips with the pad of his thumb.

You nod. You need to.

Jay's trousers give easily when you pull at them, falling to his ankles. His white underwear stretches over his erection, a dark patch where he leaks onto it. You can't even pretend to resist, tongue finding the spot immediately, and taking his tip between your lips, sucking on it through the wet fabric. Precum seeps into your mouth, the taste of it heady and familiar, leaving you hungry for more.

His hips buck forward, stuffing more of his clothed dick into your mouth, groaning. "My beautiful girl," he mutters, tucking your hair behind your ears. "Still so dirty and all for me, yeah?"

White-hot desperation buzzes along every inch of you. You can't wait any longer. Jay shivers when his leaking tip smacks his stomach, leaving a streak on his toned skin. Oh, my God. When you take him by the base, your hand only just wraps around him, thumb and index finger brushing. "Let me help you, YN." One of his hands covers yours easily, the other holding your head still. "Want my help, don't you, baby?"

All you can do is nod, watching Jay stroke himself—help you to stroke him.

"Say it. Use your words."

"Want you to help me—" Your mind blanks, that five letter word burning on the tip of your tongue. "Jay," you say instead.

His dick twitches in your fist as he brings his slit to your mouth, spreading hot, sticky precum like gloss over your lips. "Good girl," he whispers, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Always so good for me."

Molten need pools between your thighs. "Only for you," you admit, words muffled against his tip.

Jay's breath hitches, fingers curling in your hair, then, finally, he stuffs your mouth—starts to. At an agonising pace. Inch by torturous inch, he pulls you towards him. Watching with furrowed brows and holding his breath as the stretch starts to ache your jaw. Only when his tip brushes the back of your throat, making you gag, does he let out a breath, a ragged, whiny thing, torn from him. Hearing him like this, being the cause of it, never gets old. Never fails to flip your stomach.

Chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he throbs in your mouth when you stroke the part of him that won't fit. "Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby. Too good, need a — fuck — need a minute." He pulls out, looking down at you like he's confused, like he can't make sense of the thick string of spit and precum that attaches your lips to his tip.

Can't make sense of the way you kiss it anyway, lapping up the mess from his slit with your tongue. Every word that follows is a whined curse, his legs shaking as his grip on your hair lets up. Your name comes out of him, a stern mutter that makes you press your thighs together. Even so, you keep going, licking a strip from his tip to his base, thick hair tickling your face when you suck on his balls.

"Shit, YN," he mumbles, watching you with squinting eyes, shivering while you stroke him. "So good, baby."

Kissing your way back up to his tip, you take him in, letting your hollowed cheeks pull him further. He's twitching already, erratic on your tongue, low grunts and shallow breaths coming from him. This time when he says your name, it's gentle, sweet, as he rocks his hips to fuck into your mouth in shuddered strokes. Over and over, he moans for you, the sound of it lighting you up, spurring you on to take him deeper, quicker.

His stomach tenses, thighs shaking until he bucks hard against you, coming straight down your throat, hot and thick, without warning, making you cough. It leaks from the corners of your mouth, rolling down your chin, warm on your chest. Jay moans at the sight, licking his lips while you swallow what you can, still working your fist over him. Bracing against the door behind you, he lets out a cry of your name that drives you mad, loud and unbidden, as he trembles.

When he pulls out, his dick hits his legs with a loud squelch. Spit and cum drip off of him, wetting your thighs and making a mess.

You can hardly catch your breath or wipe your mouth before Jay's kneeling in front of you, pressing his lips to yours. Pressing your body to his. "My sweet, sweet baby," he mumbles, licking into your mouth. Teeth bump teeth. Tongues on tongues. "Way too good to me." He pulls you into his lap, cock wet under you. Something about the feeling of it like this, soft and pressed against your thong, twists your stomach.

Taking him in your fist, you thumb at his slit, and he whimpers. "Need it. You, Jay," you tell him, stroking desperately.

At this point, the wet smack of his mouth on yours can hardly be described as a kiss, but he keeps at it. "I'll give you what you want, I promise," Jay says, pushing your hand away and running his finger over your slit. "But I can't right now." He sounds truly apologetic, distraught and whiny as he presses on your clit.

Relief comes immediately, but it's not enough, when he slips his finger into you and fills you to the knuckle. Still, you chase pleasure, fucking yourself on his thick digit, humming at the stretch of another finger pressing in. "Yes, right now."

Against your mouth, Jay smiles. "Want you ready, yeah? Don't wanna hurt you," he coos, a third finger joining the rest.

"You won't," you whisper. "Please, Jongseong."

On this, he concedes. On not using a condom, however…not so much. Laying you down on the bed, he undresses you before pulling his own shirt off. Now that he's had a beat to collect himself — free from your eager hands — he's hard again, standing up taller than before. His tip not just flushed but angry red and leaking. At the very least, he lets you roll the condom onto him before joining you under the covers and hiking your leg up over his hip.

"You're gonna kill me," he mutters into your neck, pressing himself against you, right between your wet folds. So close yet so far. "Gonna die if you keep this up."

"If you're going to die anyway, you might as well take the condom off," you point out, rocking towards him. "For old time's sake, you know? Last night, two nights ago—the good old days." It was a lack of condoms that led you there, to Jay whispering sweet filth in your ear while he spilled into you.

"Very funny, YN." His breath fans your skin when he chuckles. There's no humour in it, but he throbs between your legs, rolls his hips back to match your rhythm. "Can't keep chancing it." You can hear his resolve fading, his lack of conviction.

"Don't you think I'd look pretty? All nice and full?"

His teeth sink into the crook of your neck, making you cry out. "Don't," he mumbles, soothing the bite mark with his tongue.

"Used to — fuck, Jay — talk about it all the time." You're panting more than you're talking, eyes fluttering shut as your sweat slicked skin slips over his. "Lost your shit when I'd call you da—" He cuts you off with his dick. Finally.

You moan in unison, eyes screwing shut as he thrusts into you, filling you up with one shaky stroke. There's no getting used to the size of Jay. Whether he's fucking you with it or sending a video, it shocks you every time. It's like he's trying to split you in half to make room for himself, thick heat spreading, unbearable, from between your legs out. He doesn't move yet.

"All good, baby? Feels good?" he pants, burying his face into your throat.

You nod into his pillow, gasping for breath, only managing to say, "Uh huh."

A low groan heats your neck when you claw at Jay's back and he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting right back in. "So good for me, YN. Fit so good, baby. Always fit so good." He fucks you with the same strokes each time, even when his breath turns ragged, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. Tip on the burning knot in your stomach, nudging it undone, one deep thrust after the other.

You bury your face in the pillow, biting down on it, as he brings you to your orgasm like this. Finger pressed to your clit, teeth nipping your neck, hips rutting frantically. He fucks you through it, wet and overwhelming, scorching heat tearing through you. The memory foam muffles your mewls and whiny babbles, and he groans when you tug his hair, muttering, oh, my God, over and over, until he finishes with a loud cry of your name, shuddering in and out of you.

Calming down is difficult, but Jay's hand stroking your hair is a comfort. Lips pressing sweet kisses to your jaw and muttering praise into your skin. Again, you find those three words on the tip of your tongue, eight letters eager to make their way out. They don't have a chance, thankfully, because he pulls out slowly, moving just enough to kiss your lips. His tongue brushes yours, wiping your I love you away, taking it for himself, and smiling against you like you actually said it. Like he's saying it back.

Sleepiness overwhelms you, eyelids heavy, lips lazy on Jay's. After you pee, he wipes you clean with a warm towel, kissing your knee while he does. Falling asleep is easy in his arms, with the steady rise and fall of his chest under your head, butterflies swirling in your stomach, and the knowledge that the terrifying and uncertain tomorrow is still hours away.

When you wake up, no music seeps into Jay’s room, no heavy footsteps in the hall. No doors slamming shut, no yelled conversations. The flat is completely still. Even the street outside is quiet through the open window, London’s morning running on silent. Soft cotton kisses your skin, detergent and sweat float around you. Sunlight streaks the wall, slipping through the gaps in the blinds. Jay’s fingers twirl the ends of your hair. His voice, low and gravelly from sleep, asks, “You sleep alright?”

Alright isn’t enough of a word for how well you slept. You’re not even sure if perfect would suffice, but you nod anyway. “Did you?”

“Mm.” He squeezes your shoulder, holding you closer. “Perfect, darling.”

I wish we could just stay here forever, you think. Saying it is another story. “Do you really have to go?” you ask instead, knowing he’ll have to leave soon to make his flight.

You hear the spread of Jay’s lips and see the curve, his perfect teeth, his smile lines and dimple, so perfectly clear behind your closed eyes. His hand is heavy on your arm, his fingertips warm and calloused, dragging senseless patterns into your skin. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he mumbles. “Promise.”

Resting your arms on his chest, you finally get a proper look at him. His hair sticks up in tiny spikes all over his head, pointing this way and that. A smile creeps over his lips, slight and sleepy, but warm all the same. How desperately you want this all to be something, to mean something. Now and when he gets back. The soft look in his eyes, the relaxed lull of his breath, chest rising and falling slowly under you, his hand on your back. How desperately you want this to be something more than simply blowing off steam before he goes on the road.

“What is it, baby? What are you thinking?” Jay asks, using his thumb to smooth out the crease over your brow. His touch is unthinkably gentle, but it ties your stomach in knots.

The words are right there, slipping from your mind and taking their juvenile shape on the tip of your tongue. What are we? It seems absurd to think that he could leave, even if only for a few months, without asking that question—but picturing yourself asking him is worse.

“It’s nothing.”

Jay’s lips curl downwards and the sight tugs at your heart. He kisses the palm of his hand and presses it to your forehead like a stamp, making you giggle, before his fingers find your hair, scratching your scalp. You could fall asleep again, your eyelids weighing more and more with each graze of his nails against your skin. He smiles, finally, he smiles when you lean into his touch.

“You could always come with me,” Jay suggests. “If you want.”

If you were even a little more secure about your place in his life, those three words — if you want — wouldn’t be so jarring. Wouldn’t turn your stomach or make you want to roll your eyes and ask, what the fuck kind of an answer is that?

“What do you want?” you ask instead.

“I want you to do what you want.”

You sigh, a deep breath torn out of you and into the silence.

“What do you want me to say? What am I getting wrong?”

Feeling bad, you shake your head. “Nothing, Jay. It’s nothing, I swear,” you try to assure him, but you can see his thoughts passing through his head. You can’t stand it. Can’t stand to think about whatever comes after this, after he leaves.

You lean up and kiss him to stall the inevitable, warmed by the low sound he makes, by the way he pulls you into his lap. Warmed by the feeling of him under you, hard already. His lips are slow against yours, tongue licking lazily into your mouth and sighing when you roll your hips over his.

“Tell me, baby,” he says, lips barely leaving yours. “Can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”

When you pull away, his eyes search yours, a million questions written all over his face. His cheek is soft beneath your palm, thumb stroking his skin, and it’s all you can do to hope this won’t be the last time. “Fix what, Jay?” Your voice comes out small, frightened. “What is this?”

Say it, you beg silently. Say you want me. Say that this is everything.

He bites his lips instead. Says nothing.

“Do you still want me?” you ask around the lump in your throat. “Properly?”

Jay’s brows knit together. “I feel like I should be asking you that. I don’t know how else to show you.”

“I can’t go with you, Jay.” Saying it feels final, like you’ve drawn a line under whatever the hell you two have been doing, and he will leave for his tour and come back and this will still be over.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Before you can help it, your face falls, lips curling downwards, and Jay wraps his fingers around your wrist to keep your hand on his cheek. He jumps to take it back, to fix it, but you’re not sure if he can.

“That’s not what…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. Can we just… Can we take a second?” His cheeks are flushed, skin rosy and warm under your hand, his eyes wide, pink lips pressed together. “I just need a minute,” he adds softly. “I’ll be right back, yeah, baby?”

You nod and Jay kisses you quick, gentle, before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. It doesn’t take long for you to make up your mind. To put your clothes on and stuff your bra into your bag, turning your phone off on your way out of the flat.

At home, you get straight into bed, pulling the duvet up to cover you completely.

Twenty-year-old you would be mortified if she could see you now: twenty-three, unemployed, and still worrying about the same problems you had three years ago, about the same guy. Surely by now, having known him all this time, known yourself, you should have seen this coming a mile away.

Sleep comes easily like this, moping under your covers like a kid.

By the time you wake up, it’s well into the afternoon and you turn on your phone to one new notification. A text from Aeri asking you to check if her parcel has come yet. Nothing from anyone else, from Jay. He and the rest of the guys are probably in the security queue, fumbling laptops out of bags and shoes off of feet. Chatty and excited and too busy to spare you a second thought, to send a text—which, maybe, given how you walked out, that’s what you deserve. You’re even now though, you and Jay. And it doesn’t feel good at all.

As if you’d willed it, wished it so much it came to be, your phone vibrates next to you on the mattress. Not a text, an email. It’s from Interview, with the subject line: Offer of Employment.

The smile that breaks over your face is instantaneous and aching, tears welling in your eyes as you read and reread the first line of the email. As you read and reread the whole thing, closing the app and opening it again, waiting for something to change, for a second email to come in saying there’s been a mistake. But no. The word congratulations stays right where it is. A job. An actual job that you get to start in a month when the office renovation is complete. It’s a weight off your chest, a blinding ray of light in the face of countless rejection emails.

When you open the phone app, Jongseong 😽, is right at the top, and it takes your thumb hovering over it to even realise what you’re doing. This week-long instinct, relearned and deep as marrow. I need to call Jay, I need to tell Jay, now your default thought. Again, your default thought.

The silence of the flat feels greater, bed bigger without him in it. As quickly as it came, your delight sours, curdling in the pit of your stomach. Everything you’ve been working towards, the fruit of your efforts finally reaped, and the one person you want to tell all about it, is the one person who’d care the least.

Locking your phone, you press the cool top of it to your forehead and take a deep breath. This is okay. You’re okay. You’re great! You have a job, finally, an actual named and recognised role. And it’s all yours.

Feeling lighter, if only a little, you get up to check the mail room, stuffing your feet back into your boots and pulling the front door open. Jay is there. Here. He looks like he’s run a marathon just to stand on your welcome mat, cap on backwards and his suitcase at his side. Sweat shines on his upper lip, his neck. His eyes are wide, brows raised like he’s surprised to find you here, at your flat, where you live. Nothing comes out when you open your mouth to speak, but your name comes from his in a whisper.

“I can’t go.” His voice cracks when he says it, making him smile. “I couldn’t, we got to the gate and I—I can’t leave if we’re like this. I love you, YN. I do. So much. I’m a coward, okay? I’m a coward and I’m awful at all of this, but I love you.” The words leave him in a rush, and he sighs after like he’s relieved, like the words have been weighing on him all this time. “I know how much I’ve hurt you, and I know I can’t make it up to you, but I’d like to try.”

Your heart races in your chest like it’s trying to burst out, thoughts scattered, too fast to latch onto, to process. You need to say something, you know that much. “I wanted to call you,” you utter, pointing at him as though maybe he doesn’t know to whom you’re referring. “I got the job at Interview.”

To this, he lets out a sound you’ve never heard him make. A half-laugh, half-sob as he takes your pointing hand in his, pulling you in. “Of course you did,” he says, the words a warm mumble against the top of your head. “Fuck, YN, that’s—that’s amazing. You’re amazing.” He holds you so tight you can feel the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest. The frantic pounding of your own heart. For a long moment, you bury your face in his chest, taking it all in. His scent, honey and detergent and sweat. The grounding feel of him, his arms around you, his palm stroking your back, mouth kissing your hair.

Reality, everything he’s just said sinks in, slow and heavy. Jay, here, with you, again. At last. And saying all the right things, saying almost everything you’ve been waiting years to hear. Meaning them. Too good be true surely, the job and now this, and all in a matter of minutes. You pull back, only enough to look at him with your palms flat on his shoulders, and wait. For the other shoe to drop. For Jay to glance at his watch and realise he can still make his flight if he leaves right this second. It doesn’t come. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder, his eyes are stuck on you. Only you.

“What are you—what do you want?”

“I want to be with you, and I want you to want that too. Still, again, whatever, just… you’re it for me,” Jay says decisively. “You’re always going to be it for me.”

Whether he knows it or not, he changes your life with those words. He changes everything. Quiets the years of chaos in your mind and finally, finally calms the storm.

“Yes, Jay. Whatever you’re saying or asking, my answer is yes, okay? I love you, Jay. I love you too, I love you still, all of it.” You tip your chin to kiss his smiling lips, and after all this time, your heart falls back into its natural rhythm.

Jongseong, Jongseong, Jongseong.

© zreamy (2026), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

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