Melancholy Madness

All the stars aligned when I met you ♡

[luvyeni]

℘ meanie ⸝⸝⸝ 박지성 ! 

⌗ MEANIE —. he’s so mean … but you love it …

< 🫧 ⧽ 一 pairing。 ⸝⸝ nerd!jisung x fem!reader 𓄵 wc. 0.5k genre。smut contains! degradation he’s mean , language , oral ( m. receiving ) , pnv { back to library }

( request ). euehheheheue can’t stop thinking abt mean dom park jisung even though he’s a nerd he’d def be so mean w submissive younger gf who just stares at him like 🥹

( yeni’s note ). i actually hold mean nerd sung close to my heart

nerd!jisung who’s literally so mean , anybody would think you’d need help — but why they don’t know is you are right where you want to be. you want him to degrade you , belittle you. it makes you wet when he calls you dumb.

“is your brain there just for decoration?” when you get a question wrong while he's forcing you to study at a cafe ( only because you can’t keep your hand to yourself in private and he actually wants to study ) and you’re just sitting there smiling , eyes glassy and cunt throbbing. “stop looking at me like that , we’re in fucking public.” he hisses. “you look good.” he rolls his eyes, turning to his work. “is that all you think about? hm? when’s the next time you can touch me?” whole time his hands are in between your thighs , tapping the book while his fingers worked his way into your jeans.

nerd!jisung who isn’t just mean to you , he’s literally a jerk to everyone , real condescending attitude; sometimes people don’t understand how you can stand being around him — “he’s so mean how can you stand him? if you have anything under a 80 he treats you like you don’t matter” and it’s not even true , you have way below a 80 and he tolerates you. “he’s just really serious about studying.”

“your grade point average is 76?” he stares at your computer and then back at you. “come here.” he calls you over from where you’re sitting. “sit.” he drags you into his lap. “you think you deserve my fucking cock?” he grabs your cheeks. “fucking look , how you’re still in this school i don’t fucking know.” letting your face go. “get on your knees , i’m not fucking you tonight.”

nerd!jisung who fucks your face with your hands behind your back when you do bad on an assignment as a punishment. “50%? and you think i’m gonna fuck you? you truly are stupid.” slapping your face , untying his sweats letting his big cock swing in front of your face. “look at you can’t focus on your work but the moment you see my cock it’s the only thing you fucking see.” his hands tangling up in your hair. “don’t touch me , gonna use this mouth tonight.” when you whine he slaps you again. “i should be the one crying , my girlfriend is a cock obsessed dummy.” tapping his tip on your lips. “just take it , all you’re good for.” he says right before he fucks your face messily , gagging you on purpose before cumming all over your face. “good slut at least you’re good at something. “

nerd!jisung who isn’t always mean though , some days he softens up ( in his own way ) , knows when you really tried but you just can’t seem to get the work down. “you tried really hard didn’t you?” your round eyes watering as you sniffle. “don’t cry i get it.” his hands grabbing your jaw softly. “you’re just too stupid , and that okay.” he says in a soft tone. “i got you baby just lay there.”

he’d fuck you nice and slow. “pretty girl so dumb for me.” his cock stretching you out. “ji-jisung.” you stutter out. “don’t speak princess , just lose yourself.” making you cum as many times as you need until you’re boneless in his bed. and of course after making you cum and making sure you’re fed and sleepy — he goes back to studying ( and doing your homework for you )

yeah you aren’t that bright and he’s a little mean , but you’re perfect for each other..

©️LUVYENI

[yaluficsaddict]

makeup

Steve Harrington x fem!reader - fluff

The kids are having a sleepover at you and Steve's place and as you teach El and Max how to do makeup, Steve realises that you're the one he wants to marry and have kids with.

authors note: i got this ideia in the middle of class FINALLY SOMETHING GOOD

warnings: fem!reader, make up, kissing

words: 1271

dividers: by @saradika-graphics

masterlist

It’s time for your monthly sleepover! 

Ever since you and Steve moved in together, the parties, dinners and every other celebration is hosted at your house and tonight the kids gathered together for a night of movies and snacks.

Indiana Jones, Star Wars, Rambo and so many more movies were seen. Max and El are sharing a blanket together on the right side of the couch, the boys made themselves comfortable on the pillow mess on the floor and you and Steve share the left side of the couch, it was a tight squeeze, but seeing all of them laughing and playfully arguing with each other about which Star Wars movie is the best to watch it just warms your heart.

You feel a kiss landing on the crown of your head and you look up from your spot under Steve’s arm to see his face. Messy hair, slightly dark eyebags from work yet his smile was so soft you could melt and his eyes have a spark in them that you can’t help but lean up and peck his cheek in response.

“Ew guys cut it off!” you hear Dustin grunt over the little affection you two shared.

“Hey it’s our house!” Steve replies with the same emotion.

You can only shake your head with a small chuckle. These two have been through hell and back together and still act the same way no matter what.

“Alright, alright no more kissing, got it!” you raise your hands in defense before moving on from the subject.

“Which movie is next?” you ask the guys.

“Poltergeist!” Mike chirps in and all the boys agree.

From the lack of noise beside you on the couch, you notice that El and Max didn’t answer, you know horror movies aren’t Eleven’s favorite genre so as much as you don’t want to leave Steve's embrace, you whisper to him.

“I’m gonna do something with the girls upstairs, alright?” you tell him.

Steve nods before patting your thigh as you leave the couch.

On your way out you grab Max and El’s hands and lead them upstairs.

“Hey, where are you going?!” you hear Lucas complaining with a mouth full of popcorn.

“Girl stuff!” you yell back before hushing the girls to the bedroom. 

Downstairs, Steve can hear the door of your bedroom closing along with some whispery giggles, he shakes his head with a smile.

On the other hand, you and the girls sit by your bed as you put a big box in the middle.

“I know horror movies aren’t your thing so I thought I could teach you some makeup” you open the box revealing several makeup products, various lipsticks, eyeshadows, brushes and much more that you’ve been purchasing over the years.

“This is so cool!” Max grabs a lipstick from the bag, she rarely has girly moments like these where she can experiment more with her feminine side.

El reaches for an eyeshadow palette with all the quintessential shades from the 80s, bright pinks, blues, purples. “Can we try these?” she asks in awe of the amount of products around them. You smile at her because, just like Max, El didn’t have a normal childhood and her excitement to learn more about makeup only makes you more eager to get started.

“Of course! I’ll guide you step by step. Oh- and I have some things I don’t use anymore, you guys can have for yourselves!”

Both girls squeal with excitement, not only do they get to learn about makeup but they can bring some back home?! Hell yeah!

Max jumps off the bed and heads to your vinyl player, after some searching she puts on Madonna’s album “Who’s That Girl”, a gift from Steve to you this past Christmas.

At first the makeup tutorial’s going well, the girls were focused on learning new tips and tricks to do with their new makeup products and tried to mimic the looks on the magazine covers you had laying around, but somewhere along the way you all start goofing around with bold eye colours, overlined lipstick, even stealing your heels and scarfs to complete the look. You feel like a teenager again in a sleepover in your parent’s house, it’s a breath of fresh air.

You head to your bedside drawer and pick up your old polaroid camera, after a few minutes trying to find the roll, you put it together and turn on the camera.

“Ladies! Say cheese!” you point the camera at Max and El. The girls dramatically pose for the picture mocking the magazine poses, stumbling around in their oversized heels.

Poltergeist was almost done in the living room, the four boys were so engrossed in the finale that Steve had the opportunity to do a quick escape to check on you upstairs. He walks on his tippy toes up the carpeted stairs and, as his hand hovers over the door, he can hear the giggling and music playing, so he turns the knob slowly to not disturb your moment.

When he opens the door, he is met with the cutest sight, you, El and Max trying to fit together for a polaroid picture, your cheeks were pressed up together with huge gummy smiles yet you couldn’t click on the camera button which made all of you laugh all over.

Seeing you like this, so carefree, reminded him of when you were younger in high school, collecting pennies to go to the arcade on the weekends, sneaking out your window when you heard your parents come over or the stolen kisses between study sessions.

Steve opens the door a little wider now and, as he clears his voice, your attention goes to the open door.

“Looks like you three need help with the camera” Steve’s smirk grows wider at the eyeroll you give him.

“Definitely” El replies as Max takes the polaroid from you and gives it to him.

Steve props up the camera and all of you, with your big hats, furry scarves and wild makeup pose for the photo. There’s a click, then a flash and the polaroid starts to print from the bottom of the camera.

El takes the blacked out picture and starts waving and blowing on it to process the photo quickly and Max takes the camera back.

“Thanks for the help” you head to where Steve stands near the door.

His arms instantly snake up your waist like it’s second nature and yours go to his chest. He was about to answer back but you had other plans, your hands at his chest pull his shirt close to you and you crash your lips to his. Naturally, Steve was aback for a second before readjusting, only when you two separate is when Steve notices this was a trap.

“Now Max!” you point at the girl with the camera.

Quickly, you grab Steve’s cheek and put it against yours and the picture was taken.

“Wait- what was that for!?” Steve asks in confusion as the photo prints.

“Oh, just you wait, honey” you giggle along with the girls.

Max hands you the picture and as it reveals he can only laugh along. The picture shows your faces smushed together with equally messy bright red lipstick across your faces, you have your eyes closed with the brightest smile ever as he looks straight into the camera with the most confused look. It’s unperfect, it’s messy, you two look like clowns, but it’s so you.

All of it, the parties, the sleepovers, the whole Hawkins mess you’ve all been through is encapsulated in this picture, messy moments by messy people.

Stranger Things taglist

@r0segardendr3ams ; @splodencible ; @snake-in-a-flower-crown ; @leovaldez0924 ; @linolapi68 ; @kozume-ko ; @linolapi68 ; @envious3

If you want to be added go here!

[stxrrywoo]

MAKE YOU A MOMMY ── j.yh

synopsis ; watching you babysit your best friend's daughter was a sight that left yunho yearning and the moment you showed even a semblance of sign you wanted kids he was on you in record time.

pairing(s) ; husband!yunho x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 0.9k ☆ ── genre ; smut w/ a tinge of fluff ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, unprotected sex, dom!yunho x sub!reader, petnames (angel, sweetheart, sweet girl...), breeding, just straight baby making, implications of multiple rounds, a tinge of manhandling, fingering (if you squint), creampie, lmk if I missed anything!! ☆ ── notes ; this one got a bit longer than intended 🤓 (hence why it's in this format and not my drabble one...), smth about yunho and breeding just makes me a little crazy I fear 🤪 now this is based off this request, enjoy babies!!

⏤͟͟͞͞ JOIN THE TAGLIST ── MASTERLIST NAVI ── MAIN NAVI

You and Yunho have been married for almost two years, and during that time, neither of you really thought about having kids. At least not until your best friend asked if you'd watch her daughter while daycare was under construction for the next few months. At first, it was just a simple babysitting thing; you'd watch the little girl while Yunho worked, and he'd come home to you playing with her.

However, the longer that you took care of the little girl, the more his thoughts began to race. Visions of you pregnant with his child, belly swollen and round, even the thoughts of your little pregnancy waddle. They were harmless thoughts, really, at least they were until he started imagining stuffing you full of his cum until he was sure that his seed would take. There had been a few times that he had to excuse himself to go take care of the raging boner that suddenly popped while he watched you babysit.

It was starting to drive him up the wall; he was trying so hard to keep his composure, not wanting to scare you. However, he met his breaking point when you let out a soft sigh, and those few words slipped past your lips.

“Man, she makes me want a baby.” Your words held no true meaning, just a longing for the future, but when you didn’t get any kind of response from your husband, you looked over at him. Your breath caught in your throat due to the intensity of his gaze, his pupils blown wide, and his lips parted.

He didn’t even give you the chance to call out his name before he was on his feet, walking towards you. A yelp fell from your lips when he grabbed your waist, hauling you over his shoulder. Your questions and protests fell on deaf ears as the taller male made his way towards your shared bedroom. You let out a huff as Yunho all but tossed you onto the soft mattress, his body instantly coming down to cage you underneath him.

His lips moved down to ghost over your warm breath, fanning your face and causing your eyes to flutter while your heart raced in your chest. Yunho's hands gripped your waist, tugging you flush against his body, relishing in the shiver that ran through your body.

"Let me give you a baby, angel, please," He pleads with you, his tone borderline whiny, and all it took was a simple nod of your head for him to strip both of you bare, lips all over your skin as he stretched you open on his fingers first.

"Y-Yunho," You choked out, nails scratching red marks into his back as he began splitting you open on his cock. The mixture of pain and pleasure caused your mind to fuzz over, your head falling back against the mattress, while Yunho left wet kisses all along the expanse of your chest and neck.

"Gonna give you everything and fill you so full your sweet little body has no other choice but to get pregnant," He growled against your skin, rocking his hips into yours, swallowing your moans and whines when he kissed you.

Stars danced across your vision when he began to fuck into you at an almost animalistic pace, hands moving to grab behind your knees. Incoherent babbles fell from your lips when he brushed over your sweet spot, the sensation causing the coil in the pit of your stomach to pull tight.

"Nghh, Yunho!" You nearly scream his name when he pressed down further on your knees, pressing your thighs to your chest, and the tip of his cock kissed your cervix. The tall male then leaned over you, lips finding your jaw and nipping at the skin, and your back arched, mind completely overtaken by pleasure.

"'M gonna get you pregnant, sweet girl. Make you a mommy," He cooed against your skin, and you let out a pitched whine, walls clamping around his cock. "You're gonna look so fucking pretty carrying our baby angel,"

"P-Please, Yun." You cried out, eyes rolling back when he delivered a particularly hard thrust to your aching cunt, "wanna be a mommy, wanna make you a daddy."

Yunho groaned at the words that fell from your kiss-swollen lips, his cock twitching in your walls. That familiar coil tightened in your gut, and before you could even warn Yunho, much less comprehend it, your body shook violently, your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. The way your walls squeezed Yunho's cock had him toppling over the edge as well, hips rocking against yours, riding out his and your high and fucking his cum back into your sopping cunt.

"Fuck sweetheart, you're milking me dry," Yunho growled, fingers tightening on the back of your thighs, and you could only cry out when he started to fuck into your abused cunt once more.

He didn't stop until both of you were completely drained dry, the mixture of your and his cum seeping out of your twitching cunt. Yunho laid on your weak body, relishing in your warmth and the way you ran your shaky fingers through his hair. Then he was lifting his head, bringing his lips to yours, kissing you sweetly, and you cupped the back of his neck.

"You're gonna make such a good mommy," He cooed against your lips, and your body heated at his words, red dusting your cheeks, and you covered your face, causing the brunette to chuckle, kissing your knuckles.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[emmiesoverthemoon]

when did you get hot?

returning to your brother after studying in australia was something you counted down the days to after graduation. if only a certain brace-faced vermin of a boy named yang jeongin wasn’t attached to his hip all the tim—where did the braces go?!

pairing: yang jeongin x reader wc: 2.7k tags: brother’s best friend!jeongin, brother!chan, suggestive, allusions to sex (only making out lols), fluff, bickering as foreplay, enemies to …?

for @way2jellyous, happy secret stay, hope you enjoy! 💌

you spot chan before he spots you.

he’s just standing in place, shifting his weight from foot to foot in black trainers and a hoodie that’s probably older than he’d care to admit. under the hood is a beanie you’d swear is glued to his head with how many times he wears it.

and then his eyes land on yours.

and all of that tension in your shoulders—every inch of it—evaporates. you drop your bag, not caring that it lands upside down, passport and snacks scattering across the floor.

because he’s here. in the flesh, with his arms open wide. chan also kicks up to a run, then slowing to a jog, then fully lifting you off your feet like you’re still twelve and not fresh out of a four-year degree in the opposite hemisphere. his arms wrap tight around your middle, rib-crushing and immovable.

“jesus, it’s been years.”

“you visited someti—”

“not enough.”

you press your face into the fabric of his hoodie and breathe, chest tight with the weight of time and distance and how no hug has ever felt more like home.

“ready to go home?” he asks, nudging you toward baggage claim, looping one arm around your shoulder. you lean into it.

“yeah,” you murmur. “i think i am.”

“oh i forgot to tell you—jeongin lives with me now! we needed to save on rent so… suprise? an extra roommate is always fun!”

you hold back on throwing up.

and then consider how much trouble moving back to australia might be.

chan’s house is warm with late-summer heat and half-unpacked boxes, the kind of domestic chaos that smells like home but feels a little too staged—like a memory you walked into rather than made. your suitcase is bleeding open by the doorway, and chan is already halfway through trying to haul several boxes upstairs himself, despite your protests and his limp— a pulled hamstring from a gym injury he swears has healed enough for lifting.

“you’re gonna make your leg worse,“ you scold, trailing him with a grimace, still jetlagged but alert enough to clock the way his leg seizes. “don’t hurt yourself more, my god, just give it here—“

“i’m your big brother, not a cardboard cutout. i can lift things.“

“you can be both.”

he huffs a laugh, turns to grin over his shoulder like the last four years were just a blink, not a few continents away. it’s warm, open, a grin you haven’t seen in person since he visited for your third year showcase, his face blurred in memory by tears and fluorescent studio lights. and then—

“don’t let her fool you, hyung. she’s been this annoying forever.”

—that voice. behind you. smug, slick, deeper than you remember it being the last time he made your eye twitch in the living room.

a chill of revulsion rolled down your spine as you turn to the source.

jeongin. of course. but not quite the one you left.

the boy who once tripped over his own feet rushing into your house to catch a gaming tournament with chan is long gone, apparently replaced by… someone taller. broader. unfairly sharp-jawed for a guy who used to have churros stuck in his braces. the hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows are not helping, nor is the thick glasses that compliment his face shape far too well, or the fact that he has the audacity to wink at you when your eyes drop.

“hello jeongin. always a pleasure,” your voice flat, and making no effort to hide just how much his existence is not always a pleasure.

he mirrors the tone, slow, and infuriating: “hello yourself.”

chan, the poor bastard, is oblivious to the burning glares. “innie called off work to help set you up. because of my hammie, i can’t get be of as much help like i’d like to be.”

“right,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “so generous. must be hard jeongin, crawling out of the sewer to grace us with your presence.”

jeongin smirks, and you feel nauseous. “funny. thought you’d still be halfway across the globe pretending to be a designer.”

“and i thought you’d still have a neck that could hold your head up properly, but here we are.”

chan groans like he’s used to this—which he is. “i’m gonna… go get a drink of water...”

you and jeongin don’t look away from each other. your mouths twitch like you’re both on the edge of a generational crash out. the air thickens with something that wasn’t there when you were both seventeen before you left. something tighter. hotter. matured.

he breaks first, with a glance that drops—and lingers—at your neckline before he stretches his arms behind his head and walks toward the kitchen to chan like he owns the place—which, to be fair, he partially does, “welcome home, princess. try not to trip over your ego on the way to your room.”

you want to throw your shoe at him.

you want to wipe that fucking smile off his face.

you want—

you need to sit down.

later, when the sun is low and chan’s asleep on the couch, you pass the hallway to your room and catch him in the mirror—jeongin, standing in the doorway of his room, arms crossed as he leans on the frame, watching you like he’s been waiting all day for the chance.

“you look… different,” he says lowly.

“so do you,” you shoot back, not slowing. “shame. i liked the version of you that knew how to shut up.”

his laugh is gravel now, cocked behind his teeth. “you liked me?”

“it was pity. don’t get excited.”

you disappear into your room and slam the door shut before he can respond. but something is left to linger.

it starts with doing the dishes.

or rather—what should’ve been doing the dishes.

“i’m not washing something you ate off of with your mouth open.”

“right, because your delicate sensibilities can’t handle a bit of backwash?”

you jab a soapy finger toward his face. “because it’s disgusting, you human garbage disposal.”

jeongin leans back against the sink, drying tea towel in hand, and has the gall to look amused. he’s wearing a threadbare tee, one that sticks too well to his chest and rides too high on his arms—and you hate how much you notice it now that there’s sweat on his neck and water dripping down the grooves of his hands.

“this is exactly why we never got along,” you mutter, trying not to let your gaze catch on the slope of his bicep.

he hums, too casual. “no, we never got along because you’re a brat.”

you turn your head slowly. “you wanna say that again?”

he grins. crooked. wicked. “brat.”

you flick water at him. soap, too. it splatters on his chest. you try not to look at the size. try.

he gasps like you’ve shot him point-blank. “i knew you had violent tendencies.”

“and i knew you were insufferable.”

“yeah?” he steps closer, dish towel slung over his shoulder like this is a war zone and he's thriving in it. his voice drops, goading. “admit it.”

“what, that you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met?”

he tilts his head. smirks wider. “that you missed me.”

you blink only once. your stare is a mix of shocked, confused, and a little… you won’t admit what.

and then, because you’re composed and level-headed and absolutely not affected by the sudden press of heat behind your ribcage, you take the plate in your hand and put it down into the sink a little too hard.

“you’re delusional.”

he licks his bottom lip slowly. like he’s tasting the way you said it.

you definitely do not stare.

it continues with the couch.

you’re curled up in the corner after dinner, knees hugged to your chest, flipping through chan’s old lyric notebooks for a project that won’t see the light of day. his scrawl is familiar, comforting, and the only reason your heart hasn’t leapt clean out of your throat since that kitchen incident. chan’s sat beside you, playing something mellow on the speakers. your brother, sweet, oblivious idiot that he is, ruffles your hair like you’re twelve again and mutters, “missed this.”

“me too,” you reply.

and then jeongin walks in. his hair is still wet from a shower, his skin pink at the collar of his band shirt. wearing grey sweatpants and an expression that says what, this? i’m just existing.

you immediately sit straighter, as if the feeling of repulsion snatched any relaxation out from your posture. chan doesn’t notice.

“there she is,” jeongin drawls. “learning to read words longer than two syllables, are we?”

you slam the notebook shut. “careful. i know where you sleep.”

“so do i,” he fires back, and your face burns, because the way he says it is loaded, is laced, is—

chan groans. “can you two not flirt while i’m here?”

“we’re not flirting!” you and jeongin exclaim at the same time—though yours sounds horrified, and his sounds far too pleased.

chan sighs like he’s aged fifty years. “you fight like an old married couple.”

“if i were married to him i’d throw myself into traffic,” you say sweetly.

jeongin only laughs. laughs. and then has the nerve to add, “that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

you hurl a pillow at his head.

he catches it one-handed, and smirks down at you.

your stomach does something unpleasant. you choose not to say a word.

later that night, you brush past each other in the same hallway as earlier.

you, in your sleep shirt, shorts, and socks.

him, with a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, hair damp again, towel around his neck, sweats hung low on his hips. did he shower twice in a few hours?

it should be silent. it should be awkward.

instead—

“you talk too much,” you murmur, going to brush his shoulder as you pass.

he doesn’t move away, doesn’t blink, and doesn’t break eye contact.

“you look too good for someone who ‘hates’ me,” he says, low.

you swallow. “i do hate you.”

one hand still braced on the hallway wall like this is just another battle. like this—like you—don’t set something sharp behind his gaze. he’s too close. too tall. too steady for someone who used to trip over his own feet. the towel slung around his neck still smells faintly of soap and cologne, and his shirt clings just slightly where it’s damp, like your attention was meant to be dragged across his collarbones. like he knew you’d look.

you shouldn’t look.

you do.

he tilts his head, eyes flicking down, and suddenly the air goes tight again, sharp with something not-quite-spoken.

“yeah?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper, but it sinks its teeth into you. he leans down slightly. “say it like you mean it.”

you blink, slow. stubborn. your heartbeat is in your mouth, your ears, your wrists.

“i hate you,” you say.

and it sounds nothing like hate.

his gaze dips to your mouth.

you don’t move.

you can’t.

not when his hand is brushing down your waist now, not when the heat of his palm settles against the curve of your hip like it’s been there before, in a dream or a memory or something more dangerous. not when you let him. not when you lean in, helplessly, like it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever done.

his nose brushes yours.

“you sure?” he whispers, lips ghosting just shy of yours. “because you’re looking at me like you want to ruin me.”

your fingers curl into his shirt.

“you’ve been ruining everything since i walked through the door,” you breathe.

and then—

then he kisses you.

and it’s awful.

horrible.

searing, breath-stealing, catastrophic.

but so good simultaneously.

you gasp into his mouth and he drinks it down like water, like you’re the thing he’s been parched for, missing deeply, clawing at for four long years and two hundred thousand wanted arguments while you were away. his other hand finds your jaw, thumb tipping your chin up just slightly, guiding you like he already knows what kind of kiss you need. it’s not slow. not sweet. not when his teeth scrape yours, not when his grip tightens, not when your hands snake up to his nape to pull him closer like you’re trying to rewrite every memory of him with this moment alone.

your back hits the wall. he follows.

he groans, soft and low, when your mouth opens for him—and you’re dizzy with it, drunk off his breath, his body, the way he mutters your name like it’s been caught between his teeth for years.

you shouldn’t.

but god—you do.

his hands are on your waist, under your shirt, his knee between your thighs, your breath caught and spilling between kisses that blur into each other like a secret you never meant to say out loud.

you only break for air when he starts laughing—quiet, rasping, full of disbelief.

“still hate me?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

you try to speak, but the words are caught in your throat behind confliction.

instead of saying something, you grip his shirt collar, pulling him into your bedroom, and closing the door behind you. moonlight carves the floor in silver stripes, cool against the sheets you haven’t slept in yet. his silhouette is in front of you, chest rising like he’s just run a mile—like you’re the finish line.

he exhales, slow.

his voice is rough when he says, “this is… insane.”

you nod.

he takes a step forward anyway, your shins find the edge of your mattress.

his hand finds your waist again, and you don’t stop him.

not when he leans in again, not when his mouth finds yours for the second time tonight—slower this time, deeper, dragging heat from your chest to your knees. your hands curl onto his biceps, fingers aching to grip, to pull, to keep. you kiss like you’ve both waited years for it.

because maybe you have.

once you pull away to breathe, jeongin kisses down your jaw, and tucks his head into your neck. he sucks in a breath through his teeth, as if to savour the moment. to savour what he’s craved for years.

“you drive me crazy,” he breathes, lips suckling the skin next to your throat gently. “you always have.”

you laugh—quiet, disbelieving, a mix of that and a sigh pulled from somewhere in your throat. “you’re such an asshole.”

“yeah.” he kisses your collarbone, hands sliding further up your waist under your shirt, now brushing the band of your bra. “i know.”

“i mean it.”

“i know that too.”

his hands slide all over you, not rushed, not groping—deliberate. like he’s finally gotten permission and he’s memorising the way you feel, every breath and curve and edge of skin. he maps you out like he’ll only get to do this once. if you have your way, it will most certainly not be the only time this happens. your hands feel up his upper back muscles over his thin shirt.

you’re both still mostly clothed. it almost makes it worse. the restraint. the tension still curled beneath your skin like it’s watching. like any moment, one of you might step back and laugh, like it’s still just a joke. like the bickering and insults and i hate yous were anything but armour.

but you don’t laugh.

you just let him touch you as he pleases.

let him press kisses down your neck, over your shoulder, teeth grazing. soft, then sharp. your breath catches when his hands lift the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging against bare skin. slow, reverent. like this is not just a thing to do—but a thing he wants to do right.

he pulls back only when he has to. only to look at you. and you hate him a little for it—hate the way he looks like he’s seeing you for the first time, even though you’ve been in his life since before he had his second growth spurt.

“you still hate me?” he murmurs.

you nod, lazy and flushed and out of breath. “with my whole heart.”

he smiles like you’ve just said i want you.

and then he kisses you again.

chan can’t know.

not yet at least. you both agree. you have too much to figure out for now.

and if he heard the soft thud of your body falling back onto your mattress between gasps, he doesn’t ask.

and if he noticed jeongin’s not in his own bed by morning—

well.

he doesn’t say a word.

event taglist: @makeitworse @katdish @firelordtsuki @hynjinnnnsmuse @madirye062 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @dazzlingjade @stayville-citizen @joenjenny @eyes-ofhell @veronica123 @four_eyes13 @madebybec @thisisnotjacinta @aaassshhhaaa @a-brilliante-mariposa @vember77 @soechangbinsrightboob @meloncremesoda @sweetley @ima-jellybeanz @elenas-kaleidoscope @starlostjisung @bahngarang @chrizzztopherbang

[neogotmycookie]

here, again | l.mk (part one)  

summary: One night during freshers’ week, followed by a quiet disappearance. No promises, no numbers exchanged, no reason to ever see each other again. But when you run into Mark on campus two years later, it becomes painfully clear that some nights don’t stay in the past — no matter how hard you try to leave them there. pairing: student!mark x female student!reader.       genre: university!au, fluff, crack, angst, strangers to lovers, smut! mdni! word count: ~15k    warnings: emotional slow burn, blurred lines, it’s giving ✨situationship✨, mark is a sweetheart, like tooth-achingly sweet, alcohol consumption, lots of flirting and awkwardness, he’s shy but confident at the same time(?), he says ‘dude’ a lot (obvs), talks of pregnancy, menstruation and sanitary products, oc is one confused human being pls don’t judge her, smut: fingering, unprotected sex, pull out method is used (don’t be silly), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, light choking, lots of teasing, nipple play, he’s a hard!dom for like a sec and then pathetic again, multiple positions, oral (fem receiving), brief masturbation (he watches lmao), cumshot, cum eating<3, he makes her cum while she’s on her period bc he's a king (she’s wearing a tampon dw), probs more…ya'll should know how unhinged i am by now so read at your own risk. a/n: hi hi hi hi!! After many many requests, I wholeheartedly give you Mr. top yearner himself, Mark Lee! This part is mostly smut and emotional turmoil bc I had to somehow introduce their backstory. The second part is where shit goes down, so there will be a lot more plot in that one. This story is very dear to me bc it’s basically inspired from real life events (yes, I used to be a messy bitch back in uni, sue me), but my Mark wasn’t as nice as the one in this fic. Anyway, I genuinely hope you guys love it as much as I do and pleaseeeee do let me know your thoughts!! I would also appreciate ideas and guesses for part two as I’m still currently working on it. I can’t wait to read your comments and asks. Please don't hesitate to bombard me.  Love always,  Cookie <3 masterlist | ko-fi

Mark squints against the morning sun, nursing the headache pounding at his temples. Coffee in hand, he trudges along campus with Giselle beside him, who’s already mid-rant about something he’s only half-listening to. Maybe a date? He’s pretty sure it’s not too important anyway.

 Last night’s party is still hanging around in his skull like a bad song he can’t skip. Every step feels like it’s happening underwater — students rushing, bikes clattering, the faint smell of coffee — but Mark barely notices

 “—and then he—ugh, I can’t even—” she huffs, flopping her arm dramatically against her tote bag.

 “Mm,” Mark mumbles, focusing on nothing in particular, willing the throbbing to ease.

 Out of the corner of his eye, movement. Someone rushing. Head down. Bag bouncing. Textbook late-for-class energy.

 “Giselle!” a voice calls, sharp but friendly.

 Mark freezes. Head still fuzzy. He glances over—and it clicks.

 Y/N. Shit. What the actual fuck. No way.

 His chest stutters in a way that’s both familiar and alarming. Two years ago. One night. One too many drinks. Memories creeping in before his brain has a chance to protest.

 Giselle, oblivious, smiles warmly. “Oh! Y/N, hey!”

 Mark blinks, still stunned.

 “Mark,” she says, gesturing to him, “this is Y/N. We…uh, go to the same Pilates class.”

 Simple. Casual. Like nothing else exists.

 You raise an eyebrow, calm, clear recognition. “We actually know each other,” you say lightly, voice teasing but neutral. “Small world, huh?”

 Mark’s throat goes dry. Words stick. Coffee threatens to slosh. His hangover doesn’t help. He wants to say something witty, something—anything—but his brain refuses to cooperate.

 You glance at your phone, already in motion. “Sorry, I’m actually so late. Catch you later Gi!” You pause for a moment. “Good to see you.” That last bit is directed at him and all Mark can do is bob his head like an idiot.

 “See you tomorrow!” Giselle exclaims, her chirpy voice penetrating his throbbing skull.

 You dart off without another word, back straight, long strides taking you in the opposite direction from the library.

 Mark stands frozen for a second, watching the familiar sway of your shoulders disappear down the path, stomach twisting, headache forgotten.

 Giselle nudges him. “You good?”

 Mark snaps back, clutching his backpack strap like a lifeline. “Yeah…yeah, fine,” he mutters, voice rough. But inside? His heart refuses to behave.

 This must be some kind of joke.

 “Dude.” Mark’s voice comes out in a whisper. As though he’s wary of people hearing.

 Giselle takes an inquisitive look at him. “Why are your eyes so big?”

 Great, now he looks insane.

 “How do you know her?” Mark asks, completely ignoring Giselle’s valid question. He needs to know.

 “I literally just said Pilates?”

 “Oh…right.” He keeps walking and Giselle quickly follows. Her expression nothing short of baffled.

 “Umm. What am I missing here?” She speaks in a rushed manner as she tries to keep up with Mark’s quick strides. Who is he even running from?

 “Nothing.” Mark deflates as he quickens his step. The library couldn’t feel any further.

 “Oi, spaz!” Giselle grabs onto Marks elbow. “Slow down and fess up.”

 Her demands get through to him. He halts his pace and turns to face his friend properly for the first time since you walked away from them. With a heavy sigh he accepts that even the slight attempt of hiding something from her, would be futile.

 “We slept together first week of uni.” The words come out so jumbled, he’d be surprised if Giselle caught them.

 “Pardon?”

 “We fucked. Two years ago.” He rephrases. Slower this time.

 “Sorry. What?” The question more of an indication of shock than a demand of clarification.

 “Ever heard of sex?” He tries sarcastically.

 “Uh-huh.” Giselle’s frown almost resembles an animated character’s.

 “I’ve had it. With her.” He points a thumb towards the direction you earlier walked off to and he can’t help but feel amused at Giselle’s flabbergasted reaction.

 “How-”

 “A party. Fresher’s week. C’mon dude, switch on please.” He’s embarrassed. Maybe even slightly irritated that his reckless escapades from freshers’ week have become such a big matter of attention.

 “Okay. Sorry, I just- I pictured it and now I need someone to reset me.” Giselle pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closing as if trying to erase the picture from her brain.

 Marks rolls his eyes at his friend’s exaggerated gag. “I could flick your big fat head.”

 “Okay, okay. So…” She trails expectantly, completely dismissing his irritation.

 Mark doesn’t really know what more he can say. He’s elaborated enough.

 “Yeah..?” He gestures his hand for her to continue.

 “Well, what happened after the…you know.” Giselle’s eyebrows shoot up suggestively.

 “The sex?” Mark points out on purpose and snorts a laugh when his friend scrunches up her nose in disgust. He might as well make her feel as uncomfortable as he is.

 “Yeah, that.” Giselle nods, the pained expression still on her face.

 “I haven’t seen her since. Well, hadn’t.” He admits simply. It’s the truth.

 “Shit, so you quite literally just fucked.” It’s a statement but it comes out more like a question.

 “Pretty much.” Mark shrugs, struggling to keep an unbothered front. “She sneaked out in the morning and I just never saw her again.”

 “You didn’t get her number or…?”

 “I mean, I didn’t really get the chance. Plus…” He pauses to think. Or more like reminisce.

 It was his first night out on campus, and you? You were the first person he noticed when he stepped foot in that house party. The first girl he brought back to his tiny, undecorated dorm at the time.

 He didn’t really expect anything more than what he got. That’s what he approached you for initially. But he also didn’t expect you to disappear without so much of word after the night you had together.

 Mark still thinks about it sometimes. Not because it was magical or anything of the sort. If anything, his performance could easily be described as bang out average.

 What he really thinks about is how you two stayed up for hours. Naked. Talking, kissing, fucking then talking and kissing, then fucking again. He thinks about how he felt so comfortable. So at peace but also confused at the same time. How you’d only known him for a few hours but still trusted him enough to fall asleep on his chest, in that small first-year dorm bed.

 Mark, never having been the naive type, he knew he couldn’t just date the first girl he met at the first party he went to on campus, but spending days typing your first name in his instagram search bar definitely wasn’t on his bingo card. Not only that, but unintentionally searching for you at pubs, bars, parties, uni corridors for weeks? Yeah, that certainly wasn’t on his bingo card.

 “Plus, it wasn’t anything serious.” He concludes, sounding almost defensive.

 “Aww, Markie poo. Did she break your heart?” Giselle pouts performatively.

 “Tsk.” Mark kisses his teeth in annoyance, adamantly refusing to succumb to her mocking, as he resumes his quick steps. Giselle, of course, unfortunately for him, isn’t one to let things go. So she matches his pace.

 “Oh, come on. I’m just playing-

 “Wait. So, if you’re, like, friends,” Mark abruptly turns, index accusingly pointing at her, his steps coming to a halt again and Giselle exhales in relief. “How come you’ve never mentioned her?”

 “I literally met her a month ago. She was on a year abroad last year.” Ah. Well, that certainly explains a lot.

 “Damn, that’s cool.” He utters in surprise, as though he was hoping you were some kind of loser who was hiding out in a library. Meanwhile, you were out in god knows what country, doing god knows what and god knows who.

 “Damn, you falling back in love already?” Giselle coos annoyingly and Mark starts walking again, dismissive of her teasing. “Wait! I’m sorry! At least tell me if the sex was good. Oh my god, is she like the best you’ve ever had? Is that why you’re hung up on her?”

 “You’re a nuisance.” He mutters grumpily.

 “Awh, really? I mean I could invite her to Chenle’s on Saturday but if I’m such a nuisance then I guess I won’t bother-

 “Wait. Actually?” Mark’s head snaps toward his friend a lot quicker than he can comprehend, sounding too hopeful and probably a little pathetic, and Giselle’s sinister grin makes him realise his slip up.

 Damn it.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Mark’s patience started to waver about two days ago. Now it’s close to non-existent.

 There’s no way you’re not toying with him. You’re everywhere. Wherever he goes. The library? Tick. The park? Tick. The main building cafeteria? Tick. The psychology building cafeteria? Tick. His favourite café? Tick.

 How can someone go from not existing to occupying every corner of this plane earth?

 He’d gotten accustomed to not worrying about bumping into you, but now he’s always wary. Always alert. He’s even started putting more effort in his outfits, just in case you see him. Even though, he’s pretty sure you never notice him. At least not like he notices you.

 And however wary he is, he still feels taken aback each time he comes across your presence.

 And now, Mark is annoyed. Because he simply can’t enjoy his Saturday night like he always does.

He can’t get absolutely plastered with his friends like he always does to forget about deadlines and assignments. Because what if you’re here, at this very party? Yeah, Giselle did invite you and of course, you gave Avery vague response — something along the lines of ‘yeah, that sounds like fun’ — and of course, you’re allowed to do as you please, but what if you turn up out of nowhere while Mark is black out drunk? What if he embarrasses himself in front of you? Or worse, what if he utters anything stupid? God forbid.

 And so, he takes it easy tonight. Small sips. Slowly consuming whatever his cup contains. He thinks it’s vodka with some kind of tropical mixer. Not really his cup of tea, but he settled anyway.

 “What sort of pace is this?” Chenle asks, sounding almost offended.

 “Huh?” Mark looks up from his cup, one hand swirling the liquid in his cup, the other splayed on the back of the sofa behind Chenle’s shoulders.

 “Your drinking pace is embarrassing.” The younger boy explains. “We got no practice on Monday, so the whole two-day hangover excuse ain’t gonna save you this time.”

 “I got other commitments too, you know.” Mark side eyes his friend. “Basketball isn’t my only worry, I’m in final year.”

 “Blah blah blah. Don’t give me that shit, you’re acing all your exams. Pretty sure you’re on for a first class.” Chenle babbles loudly, definitely tipsy by now and Mark can’t help but wrap his arm around his friend’s shoulders, playfully trapping him in a headlock. Chenle doesn’t even fight him off, comfortably resting his head on Mark’s shoulder.

 “Since when do you worry so much about me, huh?” Mark teases, squeezing Chenle into his side.

 “Since when are you so affectionate?” Chenle questions suspiciously.

 “I thought you said being a little gay for your bros is acceptable.” Mark defends, referring to the time they spooned while having a drunk, deep meaningful conversation about their childhood trauma and then fell asleep.

 “Don’t remind me. I’ll get hard.”

 “Get off me.” Mark shoves a giggling Chenle away, squishing him against a random girl sat next to them. And just like that, in the midst of apologising, Chenle’s already compromised attention span works in Mark’s favour, because a few minutes later, the younger boy is entrapped in a flirty conversation with the girl that laughs a little too loud at his bad jokes.

 Thankfully, Mark’s gaze catches Giselle’s, who’s stood by the kitchen counter. She excitedly waves him over, holding a shot of clear liquid in each hand and he can’t help but scrunch his nose in disgust. The tilt of her head along with the disappointed expression on her face does enough to convince him.

 Fuck it. One shot won’t hurt. He’s a big boy.

 He spills a bit of his drink as he squeezes through the swamp of people that occupies the living room. Pitbull blares through the speakers and Mark realises that shot is definitely needed. He’s too sober for this chaos, so he rushes for the kitchen.

 “Honestly, how the fuck does Chenle get girls so-

 Mark is pretty sure the colour drains from his face the second he steps in the kitchen vicinity. There you are. Again. Like his fucking shadow. Haunting him. Only this time you’re mid-laugh, perched up on the counter, a filled shot glass in your hand and Mark realises that he’s walked right into Giselle’s trap.

 “Hey, loser.” Giselle interrupts his trance, casually shoving the spare shot glass in his free hand. “Here. Do a shot with us.”

 “Umm. Yeah, okay.” Mark doesn’t have the time to ponder his actions. As though he’s on autopilot, the second you and Giselle down your shots, he tips his head back, doing the same. He doesn’t even flinch at the burn, probably in need of it and the second his eyes land on yours, Giselle starts violently coughing.

 “Jesus.” He mutters, quickly grabbing an empty glass from the counter, filling it with tap water before passing it to his struggling friend. “Down it, you idiot.”

 And Giselle starts doing just that, but before she can finish the contents of the glass, she’s covering her mouth in panic. Mark steps closer, and the second he touches her shoulder in concern, she’s running out of the kitchen and down the hallway where the bathroom is.

 Fucking brilliant.

 “Do you think she needs help?” Your voice penetrates his ears, urging him to turn around and face you. As always, taken aback by your presence.

 “I- um- nah. Nah don’t worry. She’ll be fine.” Mark tries to sound reassuring, but his voice has a slight tremble to it. Get a grip, dude.

 “I can go check up on her if-

 “Honestly, she’ll be fine. The woman can never stomach shots. Trust me.” His words are rushed. Partly because he’s telling the truth, and partly because he refuses to miss the opportunity of whatever this is.

 “Are you two together then?”

 “What? No.” He shakes his head so fast his neck slightly cramps. “No, we’re not. Just friends. We live together.”

 He relaxes a little when you nod. A tight lipped smile adorns your pretty face and for the first time in what feels like forever, Mark finally gets the chance to take you in.

 Here you are, again. Right in front of him. So close. Looking at him. As pretty as he remembers you. Albeit looking different in a way, still carrying the same calm aura.

 “What?” You ask softly, smile a little lopsided.

 “Nothing. Just — don’t worry.” He shakes his head again, eyes drifting down to his hands, twirling his drink in his cup again to distract himself from his fast heartbeat. “It’s weird.”

 “I like weird.” You’re still smiling when he meets your eyes again.

 His eyebrows raise a little when you pat the spot next to you, silently asking him to join you in the counter as more people crowd the kitchen.

 His shoulder brushes yours briefly when he hoists himself up, the warmth hard to miss. He does his best to steady his breathing but feels like he’s miserably falling when he breathes in your sweet perfume. “I dunno. Just weird seeing you. Feels like I’m seeing a ghost. Kind of.”

 God, that sounds so lame. He almost winces in pain.

 “Wait, how do we know each other again? I know we do, but I’m having trouble placing you.” You say in genuine wonderment and Mark feels his heart drop to his stomach. He miserably prays that you’re playing a horrible prank on him, but your perplexed eyes tell him otherwise.

 “You don’t re- we- um- freshers week? C’mon. Surely you remember.” He tries subtly, hoping he won’t have to spell it out for you.

 You shake your head in denial. “I honestly have no clue what you’re on about.”

 Fuck. You have actually forgotten. Were you that drunk or was that night so insignificant to you?

 This is fucking horrifying. A nightmare he's hoping he can wake up from. “Yo, seriously?”

 “Remind me?” You suggest lightheartedly, with the most innocent smile. “I have the worst memory, I’m sorry.”

 What the actual fuck.

 “Wha- you actually don’t remember? Like no recollection whatsoever?” He checks one more time, hating that he sounds so desperate. He really finds it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten a night he remembers so vividly. A night he often has to lock up in the back of his mind.

 You snort, a short laugh escaping as your face shows nothing but amusement. “You’re really gullible, you know.”

 Jail. You belong in jail for that. He’s suing you for emotional damage.

 He scoffs loudly, hating that he almost fell for it.

You laugh a little louder this time and he can’t help the little smile that curls on his lips. “You fucking- are you having me on?”

 “Sorry, it was just too easy.”

 “Dude.” He whines, hiding his face in his hands. “That is actually vile behaviour. You’re going to hell.”

 “For being too funny?” Your comical expression would have normally pissed him off if you weren’t this captivating.

 He doesn’t have a comeback. He just stares straight ahead, jaw clenching to retain a smile, hands struggling not to squish the plastic cup in them and he almost flinches when your foot kicks his. Intentional, playful, soft as ever.

 “Of course, I remember.” Your gaze burning his side profile is so difficult to ignore. So he succumbs. Head turning to face you, eyes finding yours. “Kinda hard to forget.”

 “Really? That bad?” He jokes, although, he’s worried he might be right.

 You breathe out a cute laugh, eyes dropping to your fumbling hands, fingers playing with the rip on your jeans. “I’m not insulting your performance, Mark Lee.”

 He’s positive he’s blushing. His face and neck feel hot, hands are sweating and he’s very aware of your proximity. The music is loud enough for you to lean closer to speak.

 “What are you insulting then?”

 “I could be praising you know.” You side eye him for a reaction he refuses to offer. “Unless you’re not into that anymore.”

 He can’t help the shocked laugh that escapes his throat. How can someone be so forward? Bringing up a kink of his you clocked back then? Outrageous. Uncalled for. And honestly? Kind of sexy.

 “Well, this is embarrassing.” Mark nervously downs the remainder of his drink in a big gulp at a failed attempt to cool down as he’s pretty sure steam is coming out of his ears that don’t fail to pick up at the loud snort you let out.

 “See? I remember a lot more than you think.” You tap your temple with your index finger. A harmless gesture, which Mark finds inexplicably attractive.

 “Why hard to forget?” He redirects the subject, refusing to have a nervous breakdown before he finds out what’s important.

 You seem skeptical, as though you’re assessing your words before you utter them and Mark’s nerves resurface. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now.”

 “What?” He presses impatiently.

 Did he get you pregnant or something? Oh god, is that why you disappeared? Does he currently have a two-year old child running about?

 “Okay, don’t make it a big deal.”

 “Shit. Do I have a kid?” He accidentally thinks out loud.

 “What? No, Mark, what the- no!” Your loud laugh helps him relax a little and he can’t help but notice the way you lightly shove him by the shoulder as you throw your head back. At least one of you is amused. “I was just gonna say— that it was my first time.”

 Oh.

 OH.

 “Huh?” It comes out louder than intended. He can’t help it. You’re definitely lying. “As in you never— before that?“

 “Yes.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes.”

 “Shit.” He can feel his eyes widening to the max as he looks around in shock. “I’m sorry.”

 “What for?” You’re clearly holding back a laugh and Mark feels like he desperately needs air. Or a whole bottle of vodka. Yeah, that would do.

 “I don’t know.” He panics. “I just— I mean, your first time is— you know, important. It should mean something. No?”

 You narrow your eyes at him for a second and Mark decides he’s going to die. Here, tonight, in Chenle’s fancy kitchen. “First of all. That couldn’t be more of a stereotype. Second of all. Who said it didn’t mean anything?”

 “I mean, it was pretty obvious it didn’t.” The words roll out like waterfall.

 “What?”

 “How much could it have meant if you just…left?” That seems to shut you up, your eyes wider than before, mouth slightly open. “Without a word.” He adds. He had to say it. After all this time, he finally gets to complain about something that bothered him long enough and he feels relief. A weight lifted off his shoulders.

 He expects you to argue. To defend yourself, and the little nod you give, somewhat shocks him.

 “Fair point.” Your attention returns to the rip on your thigh, your fingers pulling at the loose threads.

 “I didn’t do anything weird, right? Like, I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable in any way, or…?” He can’t help but worry that maybe it was all too much for you, considering you hadn’t been with anyone else prior to that. Maybe that’s why you quietly escaped in the morning?

 “No. Not at all.” You quickly shake your head with a sweet smile. “If anything, I don’t think it could have been any better.”

 Mark feels relief wash over him, his limbs instantly relaxing. He nods with a satisfied pout on his face but inside he’s proudly gloating.

 “Well, I’m glad I—ummm, you know.” He realises that whatever he’s about to say, could easily be misconstrued.

 “You’re glad you took my v-card?” You ask with an amused frown and he can’t help but roll his eyes. Mostly at his stupidity, but also at your relentless teasing.

 “No.” He gives you a pointed look. “Just glad I didn’t ruin it for you.”

 Your fond smile makes him feel warm. In a good way this time.

 “Can I ask you something?” He blurts out, curiosity getting the better of him. You simply give him a small nod as you take a small sip of your drink. “How come you didn’t say anything? Not that you had to obviously. I just feel like I would have been more careful if you had.”

 “That’s exactly why I didn’t.” Your purse your lips in thought. “I would have. But, with you, I figured it was unnecessary.”

 “Oh, sorry, was I a little too vanilla for you?” He complains sarcastically.

 “I’m not gonna give you feedback.” You retort with a grin and Mark swears your cheeks weren’t as flushed a minute ago.

 “I didn’t ask you to.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

 It could be his delusion, but Mark feels tension brewing, and he wonders if it’s just him. Maybe it’s the alcohol finally catching up to him, but your silence betrays something he can’t quite decipher.

 “Was it not obvious then?” You interrupt his inner thoughts, the question simple, easy to answer, but Mark’s brain short circuits for a moment.

 “I mean, I wasn’t that experienced myself.” He clears his throat once. “I just thought we were both shy. Clearly that’s not the case for you anymore.”

 “That a problem?”

 “Nah. It’s been what? Two years? And you’ve spent a year in a foreign country. I’d be surprised if you were the exact same person.” He explains and he circles the rim of his cup slowly, suddenly a little bashful, but content at the same time.

 “What about you? You think you’re still shy?” You slowly reach over, hand gently wrapping around his wrist gently before you bring his hand to your lap. Mark is about to question your actions but your fingers delicately untying the knot of his bracelet make him hold back his protest.

 “At times.” He responds as he watches you fix the knot carefully.

 And when you’re done and he’s about to remove his hand, your hold tightens, preventing him. His breathing stutters and so does his pulse. The heat of your skin on his, too much for him to handle, but he still obliges, letting his hand rest limp on your thigh, palm facing up, unable to properly touch you, but still enough for his brain to remember things. To remember how he touched you that night. How you touched him.

 “What about now? Feeling shy?” You don’t meet his gaze when he looks at you, your eyes still on his hand as your thumb traces his pulse point. Goosebumps litter his skin, the tiny twitch of your lips telling him you’ve noticed.

 “I don’t know. Do I seem shy?” Answering with a question is the only way his brain can muster.

 “Hmm.” You finally eye him, carefully inspecting his face, and he feels exposed. “Maybe a little. I kinda think that’s part of your charm, though.”

 His eyebrows lift in genuine surprise. “My charm?”

 “Mhm.”

 “You think I’m charming?” He can’t conceal the stupid smile that erupts on his face. Weak man. Maybe he does have a praise kink.

 “You managed to get me in your bed. I’m not that easy.” You say with a casual shrug. Too casual. And Mark has to look away. If he could, he’d run away, but your damn hand is still wrapped around his arm, locking him down. It’s your fault he can’t escape and definitely not the fact that he doesn’t want to ever pull away from your touch.

 “Dude, are you, like, flirting with m—“

 “Do you wanna come back to mine?” Again, you’re too casual. No ounce of hesitation, just plain expectation.

 “Now?” It’s the only word he can come up with.

 “I mean, at some point tonight would be ideal, yes.” Your smirk irritates him. He wants to kiss it off your face. Maybe he can if he agrees to go back with you.

 Should he?

 “You want me to fuck you again?” He only realises he’s said the lewd words out loud by the widening of your eyes. Why does he always end up putting his foot in his mouth?

 “To put it plainly, yeah, I guess I want you to fuck me again.” You say with the most demure smile.

  The contrast scares him. You scare him. He should have been wise and ran for the hills the second he laid eyes on you two years ago.

 “I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He rushes to apologise but you cut him off with a squeeze around his wrist.

 “Yay or nay?” You ask, a hint of impatience in your tone that makes Mark bite his lip to hide a smile. You’ve got one eyebrow raised, expression almost offended at the delay in his reply.

 He quickly hops off the counter, empty cup forgotten on the surface, the skin on the arm you were touching only seconds ago, already tingling. But he’s made his decision.

 You seem taken aback, the crease between your eyebrows betraying your confusion. And if Mark were to take a guess, he could say there’s a trace of disappointment in your eyes.

 You’re about to hop off the counter when he cages you in. Almost in panic at the thought of you walking away from him. Your ass is on the edge of the surface and he can’t help but smile at the way you quickly grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself.

 “Where you off to?” He asks quietly, only for you to hear. His hands settling on each side on you on the counter as he steps closer.

 “Nowhere.” You match his tone, legs parting, allowing him to take up the space between them as your hands trail down to his chest. Your touch soft on his jumper, but he can still feel the weight of it.

 He’s positive you can feel his insane heart trying to jump out of his rib cage. He doesn’t mind. Not when he gets to have you this close and feel the heat radiating off your body.

 “Do you think about it?” His voice comes out in a whisper but he knows you hear him. “That night?”

 “Sometimes.” You admit. Eyes anywhere but on his; avoidant.

 “Are you embarrassed?” He leans down a little, levelling with you and you smile bashfully as you finally meet his gaze.

 “More like flustered.” Your hands travel down to his stomach as your knees squeeze him in and he moves even closer, his torso flush against yours.

 “Tell me. What do you think about?” He whispers, his lips brushing against the bridge of your nose as your hands slowly slide lower, until your fingers hook into his belt loops.

 “Not here.” Your breath hits his chin and he desperately wants to lean in, but he refrains, enjoying your squirming a little too much.

 “Why not?” He tilts his head, your lips just millimetres away. His hands decide to move on their own, finding their way to your waist as you inhale deeply. “Whatever it is, I’ve probably already thought about it.”

  Your cocky expression annoys him. “Do I often occupy your mind?”

 “You used to.” He admits openly as he delicately strokes along your ribs, thumbs smoothing over the undersides of your bra, your thin top making the touch more intense.

 You smile smugly as you let your fingers slip under the hem of his hoodie, finding the bare skin of his lower abdomen and he hates that the simplest of touches affects him so much. It’s all effortless. Just a trace of a finger has him weak in the knees, his breath unstable, lips aching to be on yours.

 “Mark?” You lean closer, your forehead dropping on his shoulder as you exhale a trembling breath.

 “Hm?” He traces his knuckles up and down your spine, his other hand splaying on your lower back, where your skin is uncovered.

 “I’m so wet right now, it’s fucking embarrassing.”

 “Jesus.” He whispers, lips touching your ear and he feels your shudder as his hand slithers in your hair, lightly tugging to get you to look at him.

 Your hands clutch at his belt, not really initiating anything, just holding. It’s enough for his blood to rush where it shouldn’t, heart pounding. Your hooded eyes don’t help either, and if it weren’t for the people occupying the kitchen, he’d be bending you over this counter right this second. The scandalous thought very unlike him.

 “There’s a spare room here. I stay in it sometimes after basketball practice.” He suggests carefully, not really possessing the patience to go back to either of your apartments. Fuck being in an uber with a hard on.

 You seem skeptical for a moment. “You ever fucked anyone in it?”

 “No.” He answers quickly. “I don’t really do one ni—“

 “Okay, yeah.” You nod, teeth trapping your bottom lip as you not-so-subtly stare at his mouth.

 He knows what you want. He wants the same thing. But when he kisses you, it’s going to be private. No people staring or interrupting.

 So he pulls away. Your shaky exhale makes him smile proudly. He made you nervous.

 “Come.” He takes your hand in his when you’re back on your feet and he feels giddy at how easily you comply, how you follow him, naturally clinging onto his arm as he guides you through the crowd.

 You squeeze on his bicep with the hand that’s not in his to get his attention and he slightly leans down to hear you over the music. You point your chin over to the occupied sofa, cheeky smile taking over your face as you take in the sight of a perfectly healthy Giselle, laughing her lungs out at something Chenle is so passionately rambling on about.

 Mark shakes his head with a smile, but mentally makes a note to later grill his friend about the totally fake throwing up incident. He doesn’t even say anything, just keeps walking down the hallway, where both bedrooms are.

 When you both enter the neat spare room, he shuts the door behind him and sighs at the loud crowd and music becoming nothing but a background noise.

 “Is this Chenle guy rich or something?” You ask curiously as you look around, inspecting the spacious room.

 Mark lets out a quick laugh, eyes following you around, observing you. “Yeah. His parents are loaded. Pretty sure his dad owns this whole building.”

 You nod with an approving pout and all Mark can think is how adorable you look as you fumble with the bedside lamp, trying to figure out how it works. The second it illuminates, you let out an exaggerated gasp, your eyes widening and Mark doesn’t know what takes over him but he flicks the main lights off, surprising both of you.

 He leans back on the door, resting his weight there, hands at the small of his back as he patiently waits for your next move.

 “Smooth.” You comment with a small grin as you place the small lamp back in its spot.

 He just shrugs, mirroring your expression as you slowly retrace your steps, walking back towards him. It’s difficult for him not to blush as you get closer and closer; his heart threatening to beat out of his chest again and again and he awkwardly lifts a hand to rub against his jawline. His eyes rake over you unintentionally, taking in the outfit you’ve got on tonight. It’s simple; an off-shoulder crop top and light-washed baggy jeans. Pretty. Easy to remove.

 He feels hot at the thought of undressing you. What if he’s too clumsy? What if your earrings get tangled in your top? What if he accidentally pulls your hair?

 “Are you just gonna stand there?” You speak tentatively, as though you’re enjoying the silence. You seem a lot more composed and calm than him. Not like someone who not too long ago uttered the words ‘I’m so wet right now. It’s fucking embarrassing’, but then again, maybe you’re always like this. Fluctuating.

 “Where do you want me?” He asks, not intending for the words to sound sexual, but somehow, they do, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. Composure slowly slipping away.

 “To be honest, you look pretty good just like this” You halt in front of him, but still out of reach. “But for tonight’s purposes, ideally, I’d want you on the bed.” Fuck. “Unless you have any other ideas.”

 Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 “Dude.” He exhales a pained augh, hand covering his eyes in frustration. You simply just giggle at his misery.

 Without him seeing, your hands are suddenly on him; one touching his chest, the other peeling his hand away from his face, forcing him to look at you. And he’s definitely not complaining. Before he has time to take in your pretty face, your palm is engulfing the back of his neck, pulling him down to your level.

 He’s not sure who finally closes the gap, his mind too occupied with the softness of your lips and the way they slot with his. So effortlessly. Deja vu is inevitable when your arms wrap around his neck, holding him closer, and his limbs suddenly come back to life; the sliver of skin between your top and jeans so soft under his touch and so are your hands trailing from his hair down to the sides of his neck.

 The kiss is slow, sensual, almost romantic and the little noise of satisfaction you let out goes straight to his already hardening cock. The way you kiss him, contrasts the demeanour you've held up until now. You’re going along with the pace he sets. You’re not leading and he wonders if it’s deliberate. Can he just do however he pleases with you or will you eventually take the upper hand?

 He decides it’s worth a try by slipping a hand into your hair, tilting your head to the side so he can easily slip his tongue into your eager mouth and he’s rewarded with a low moan of yours, your lips parting for him, allowing him to taste you properly as you lazily glide your tongue with his.

He moves on autopilot, slowly walking you backwards. One hand still in your hair, the other hovering above your ass, keeping you close.

 “Shoes—mph—off.” He mumbles against your lips before you obscenely lick into his mouth and he can’t hold back the grunt that escapes his throat.

 It all becomes messy so quickly. His hands clumsily unbutton your jeans as you rush to kick your shoes off without breaking the kiss, both of you gasping and laughing as you stumble over your feet. You’ve somehow managed to turn the situation around and he only realises when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

His back hits the covers with a push from you and within seconds, you’re straddling his thighs; bare legs on either side of him as you go back to kissing him. He surprises himself with the noise he lets out when both his hands grope your ass. Not just because it’s your ass he’s touching, but mainly because of the lack of underwear, and he’d love to comment on your hastiness but at this point he doesn’t really care. As long as he’s got you naked and in bed, he’s a content man.

 “Take your top off.” He instructs in a whisper, and you oblige without a question, sitting up in a heartbeat and removing the last piece of clothing you’ve got on. No bra underneath and he mentally thanks the heavens. “Fuck.”

 His hands caress your thighs absentmindedly as he takes in the sight above him. There’s something about the fact that you’re fully naked, while he’s not removed a single article of clothing. And you’re not rushing him either, patiently letting him enjoy the view, hands on his chest, ass directly above the very prominent bulge in his jeans. You seem comfortable in your nakedness and that turns him on even more, cock twitching in its confines.

 “C’mon. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” Your voice is sultry, patience clearly wearing thin as his hands remain on your thighs and he abruptly sits up, crashing his mouth onto yours. One hand holds the back of your neck as the other slips between your bodies, shamelessly cupping your entire pussy, the heel of his palm rubbing against your undeniably swollen clit.

 “Fuck, you’re…” He’s not able to form a complete sentence, interrupted by the loud moan you let out against his lips.

 “I told you. It’s embarrassing.” Your fingers thread in his hair, desperately pulling, driving him insane.

 “It’s fucking hot.” He’s corrects, completely enamoured with the way your body responds to him. You’re literally grinding on his hand, seeking relief, kissing him like a starved woman, spit coating both of your lips as he sucks on your tongue, earning a cute whine from you.

 “Feel like I’m dripping on your jeans.” You complain, breathing harshly as the pads of his fingers slide between your drenched folds, spreading your arousal, making a mess between your legs.

 “Cause you are.” He whispers with a smug grin.

 He purposely avoids your clit, in the mood to tease you as his lips drag from your jaw down to the base of your neck. His tongue makes contact with your sweaty skin, tasting salt, your scent engulfing him as his hold on your hair tightens, pulling your head back to gain full access to your sensitive skin.

 “Please, I really need you to fuck me.” You murmur weakly, the hoarseness of your voice causing his heart to quicken and his cock to throb painfully.

 He’s so fucked. Beyond salvation. And you’re so fucking needy. But he doesn’t want to give into you just yet. It’s his turn to torment you a little.

 “In a bit.” He dismisses your pleas with another suck on your neck, your crazy pulse delicious on his tongue.

 “Mark—“

 “Shh. You can wait a little longer.” Two of his fingers tease your entrance, slowly circling, dipping shallowly before slipping out and repeating the action.

 He almost feels bad when your body starts trembling, so he snakes his arm around your middle, holding you as close as possible. Your messy kisses on his neck are cut short the second his fingers ease into you, following the curve of your cunt until they’re knuckles-deep. And when he curls them slightly, your walls tighten and so do your arms around his neck, face burying in his neck as he starts to slowly pump in and out, making sure to repeatedly hit that spot that made you tremble.

 “This feel good?” He whispers against your shoulder, arm tightening around you, the pads of his fingers almost reaching your side boob.

 “Yeah.” You sigh, sounding wrecked already and that urges him to quicken the pace. He starts jackhammering his fingers into you, cunt greedily sucking them inside, your slick dripping down his wrist, smearing on his jeans and the sleeve of his jumper. The filthy thought of never washing his clothes again crosses his unhinged mind.

 You’re both sweating unimaginably, and now he wishes he’d at least taken a layer off, but he pays no mind to that as your body tenses. “You close?”

 “Yeah. Don't stop.” Your nails dig into the skin of his nape, most likely leaving crescent moons and he desperately needs you to come before he combusts in his trousers.

 He starts slamming the heel of his hand into your clit, making sure you’re being stimulated to the max and your whiny exhale reassures him. “Cum.”

 And you do. Body tensing up for a moment before you start trembling against him, the secure arm around you helping you stay upright as you gasp for air.

 “Oh my god.” Your hips buck up, pussy spasming violently around his fingers as he fucks you through it all.

 “You’re okay.” His knuckles caressing your spine, attempting to calm you down as your body gradually goes limp on him.

 “I think I just saw god.” You mumble half-conscious, causing Mark to let out a little laugh.

 “Did you say hi?” He steals a little kiss off your cheek as he slowly pulls his fingers out. Your shudder makes him smile fondly and he lets his fingers lazily caress your slit, before they gently circle your swollen bundle of nerves.

 “You’ve definitely been in at least one relationship since l last saw you.” The statement catches him off guard, and he pulls back a little to look at you.

 “What makes you say that?”

 You blink lazily, sweat dripping down the sides of your face. “You found my g-spot. Real fucking quick as well.”

 “I need a girlfriend for that?”

 “Well, someone’s taught you.” Your smile is teasing and so is the light touch of your fingers on his jaw.

 “Situationships, I guess. No girlfriend though.” He takes in your expression, heart beating a little quicker at your silence. “Red flag?”

 You give him a sweet smile. “I just came. All your flags are bright green right now”

 He mirrors your expression as he leans in, silently asking for a kiss, which you easily give, slowly dragging your swollen lips against his.

 “Wanna keep going?” He speaks softly, praying for an affirmative response.

 “Yes, please.”

 He moans at your words, hands trailing up your sides until they’re cupping your tits, tongue sloppily licking into your mouth. The whine you let out as he pinches your nipples, spurs him on, and he squeezes the supple flesh a little harder.

 “Can I just fuck you? Please? I promise I’ll go down on you later.” The begging tone his voice carries almost makes him cringe. Pitiful.

 You let out a yelp when he flips you over, your back on the mattress now, and he can’t help but notice the way your tits bounce a little as well as the slippery mess between your spread thighs.

 “Yeah, no more foreplay.” You sit up as he stands between your legs that hang off the edge of the bed. “And take that stupid jumper off right now.”

 He chuckles lightly at your frustration but obliges anyway. His jumper and t-shirt are off in one go and he quickly kicks his shoes off as you start unbuckling his belt, lust-clouded eyes gazing up at him.

 “Don’t look at me like that.” He rasps as his hands join yours, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping.

 “Like what?” Your seductive tone clouds his head and the kisses you start leaving down his happy trail make his hands shake.

 You don’t give him time to answer, immediately shoving both his boxers along with his trousers down, deeming him incapable of thinking properly. Your warm exhale hits him straight where it hurts, his throbbing length twitching the second you wrap a hand around the base.

 “Get on your all fours.” He instructs, tone purposely devoid of any warmth. He’s had enough of your games now. But still, his hands engulf each side of your face, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. “Or I just cum on your face and we call it a night. Up to you.”

 Your smirk is sinister as you scoot up the bed until your head hits the pillows and you swiftly turn on your front, knees spread wide, supporting your lower half as you arch your back like a pro, tits squishing against the mattress.

 “Holy shit.” He exhales in awe.

 You’re on full display. Ass up in the air, cunt staring right through his soul, inviting him in, and who is he to decline such an invite? As though the mental breakdown he’s experiencing isn’t enough, you shamelessly slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your dripping folds.

 “Markie, please. It hurts.” You briefly look over your shoulder with a performative pout, shamelessly putting on a show for him.

 “What the fuck.” He’s lost for words, standing there butt naked, staring at your fingers circling your clit before they slowly trail up, catching at your clenching hole and easily slipping in.

 You’re an evil evil woman. He decides right there and then. And the moment you start fucking yourself, he sees red, any resolve left, completely forgotten.

 He’s on his knees behind you within seconds. Hand ripping your fingers away before shoving your face against the pillows by the back go your head. His cock slips inside easily, walls vacuuming him in and he doesn’t wait for you to adjust; his free hand grabbing your waist as he starts slamming into you.

 “You’re fucking filthy, you know that?” He grunts through your high pitched moaning. “Been torturing me since day one.”

 Your muffled voice sounds like a song he’s been trying to find for a long time and he’s finally succeeded.

 “M—markie,” You sound like you’re crying and he loves it. “Fuck, it's so good.”

 “Shut up.” His thrusts become more intense, balls harshly slapping against your pussy, the wet sounds of your walls suctioning around him each time he pulls out, sending him into a frenzy. “I bet this is what you wanted—fuck—to piss me off. Huh?”

 “N-no — I just wanted you.” You mumble in your delirious state, and of course, it goes straight to his head.

His eyes focus on the way his cock slips in and out of your sopping hole. A white ring of slick has already formed at his base and he’s afraid he might finish sooner than expected.

 So he buries himself to the hilt to take a much needed moment. His head dips back in ecstasy, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he tries his best to compose himself and when he looks back down, your droopy eyes are already on him, neck twisted as you stare over your shoulder, face half-hidden.

 You look nothing short of ethereal. Your skin glowing in sweat, back still arched beautifully, eyes glistening with want and unshed tears as they roll back briefly the second Mark experimentally grinds a little too deep.

 “Mark?” Your voice is broken, his name sounding like a prayer.

 “Hm?” He leans down, nose nuzzling against yous jaw as he keeps grinding his hips slowly, relishing in the mewls you let out.

 “Want you close.” You whisper into the pillow, a little whimper adorning the end of your sentence. Your desperation breaks him.

 “I’m here.” He reassures you with a sweet kiss on your cheek. “D’you wanna change positions?”

 Your tiny nod pulls at his heartstrings in a way that’s foreign to him. He’s always been gentle by nature, soft spoken, sensitive. But this is untouched territory.

 “Alright,” He leaves a kiss on your shoulder as he pulls out. Gentle hand patting your thigh. "C’mon, turn around."

 With rushed movements, you eagerly flop on your back and his hips find home between your parted legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs dragging against his sides, making him shudder as he slowly slips back into you with a choked moan.

 “You can still be rough. Just wanted to touch you.” You admit bashfully, eyes blinking up at him, eyebrows tensing as he bottoms out with a loud squelch.

 Your hand delicately brushes the hair off his drenched forehead, your fingers threading through the strands and the clenching and unclenching of your velvety walls cause his eyes to flutter closed —the intense feeling of contentment clogging his brain up.

It’s unholy. The effect you have on him. It’s fucked. It makes no sense to him. He barely knows you, yet he welcomes everything you give him. Gives into everything you ask for, like it’s some sort of ritual. Something predetermined. A done deal with the universe. Like he’d burn in hell if he resisted.

 “Do you actually want me to be rough?” He searches your face for a sign, but he only finds conflict.

 “I dunno. I’m confused.”

 “About what?” He carefully settles his weight on top of you, arm by your head, free hand caressing your ribs delicately, barely cupping the underside of your breast.

 “I um—I liked it just now. How you were. But I kind of just—“ You sigh in frustration, hips slowly raising for some friction.

 “Want it slow?” He matches your rhythm, grinding into you, going as deep as he can as he awaits for a verbal response. He doesn’t need it. Your bent legs spreading even further is enough confirmation, but he wants to hear it anyway. “You know I don’t mind vanilla.”

 His joke lands. Your breathy laugh, hard to ignore as it hits warm on his shoulder.

 “Don’t make jokes right now.” You scold with a little whine.

 “Why not?” He gives you a chaste kiss before setting a slow pace; deep languid thrusts, his fingers fisting the pillow by your head as he tries to hold back from giving into the sensation of your warm, gummy walls enveloping his sensitive cock.

 “You’re literally balls deep inside me.” Your hands pull his face closer, connecting your lips again, small pants mingling as you kiss him as slow as he’s fucking you.

 “Whatever.” He mumbles dreamily in your mouth, palm finally engulfing your boob, gently squeezing the soft flesh and he involuntarily delivers a harsher thrust. “Shit, sorry.”

 It’s not his fault. Your pussy tightening every time he does something new, has him reeling, losing the little control he’s got over his actions.

 “No, keep going, it feels good.” You kiss him harder, holding both of his cheeks desperately as he quickens his movements a little, hips lightly slapping against yours, the lewd, squelching sounds of sex, loud enough to echo alongside your wet kisses and intense breathing. “Fuck—Mark—you—oh shit—right there.”

 “Yeah?” He pants, unrestrained.

 It’s pathetic. Beyond pitiful how your incoherent but praiseful words turn him into a whiny mess. He feels dizzy, and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling on your lips as his jaw goes slack, tongue slipping out a tiny bit, attempting to taste you in the hazy mess. His eyes roll back in raw bliss as your nails scratch down his back, arms trembling on either side of your head.

 He feels helpless.

Your legs lock around his hips, only allowing him to pull a tiny fraction of his cock out before thrusting back in; quick short pumps seeming to do the trick for you both.

 “Shit. You gonna cum?” He asks in awe. Your suffocating walls and trembling breaths a clear sign, but he still asks, needing to hear you as he looks down, taking in your flushed body. Your bouncing tits, a sight for sore eyes.

 “Mhm.” You nod quickly, eyebrows tensing in a cute frown before your face nestles in his shoulder, your hot breath hitting his damp skin as he starts scattering a dewy mess of kisses up and down your neck. “Oh my god, I'm-”

 “I know, I know.” He gasps as he puts extra effort in keeping up the same rhythm as your cunt squeezes him, his impending orgasm clouding his brain.

 You go completely quiet for a few moments, before becoming a trembling mess beneath him and he knows you’ve reached your peak. He relentlessly pushes past the tight grip your walls have around him, desperate to keep your pleasure going as he starts fucking you harder through it, the cry you let out against his shoulder, a reward to his efforts.

 “Shit—I’m close.” He feels lightheaded, breathing laboured as he tries to hold on for a little longer.

 “You have to pull out.” You utter in panic, a thread of sensibility still holding onto one of you at least.

 “Yeah, I will.” He rasps, hand grabbing onto your thigh, fingers digging. “If you fucking let me.”

 “Shit, sorry.” You mumble in realisation.

 You quickly unwrap your legs from his waist, the tremble in them still noticeable as he sits up a little, delivering three more stuttering pumps before dragging his sensitive cock out with a grunt, his release immediately spilling all over your pussy, a spurt landing on your inner thigh, a few on your tummy, while some of it drips on the comforter. He pumps himself empty, until he’s got nothing more to give.

 You hold him close when he collapses on top of you with a tired huff, not even caring about the mess between your bodies.

 It’s quiet for a few moments. Just muffled music and heavy breathing. Just your hands combing through his damp hair. Just his cheek squished up against your chest. Just his fingers tracing random patterns on your ribcage.

 It’s only when his index accidentally brushes against your sensitive nipple that you whine, breaking the silence and causing him to breathe out a small laugh.

 “My bad.”

 “You’re good.” You pet his head gently. “Dude.”

 He snorts at your mocking tone. A little surprised at how not awkward this feels.

 “My guy.” He says casually, still a little out of breath, but joining the silly joking session regardless, and your chest vibrates under him in a giggle that makes him feel giddy.

 “You got a really peachy ass you know.” Your unexpected comment makes him raise his head to look at you in question.

 “Thanks, I guess?” His eyebrows furrow in a funny expression as his hand sneaks beneath your weight, playfully squeezing your asscheek, forcing a cute screech out of you. “I prefer yours.”

 “Ah, of course. An ass man.” You state with a playful roll of your eyes. He likes it.

 “Hmm, I dunno. I like your boobs just as much.” He drops his gaze to your chest in a very unsubtle manner. Intentional. An action which, of course, earns him whack in the head. “Yo, that hurt!”

 “Stop being a guy.”

 “I am a guy!”

 “And for that, you’re suffering.” Your tone is sweet and so is your smile, but there’s an edge hidden.

 “I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” He retorts, making sure to add some smugness in his voice, though, it’s become abundantly clear that you’re not one to back down. Your free hand sneaks down his back, nails harshly digging into the muscle of his ass, making him yelp in pain. “Ow! Watch it with the claws.”

 “I’m actually having a pretty good time right now.” You imitate his tone, mocking him.

 “What kind of twisted way of flirting is this?” He hides his face between your boobs, nuzzling against the soft skin of your sternum as he allows his arms to circle around you, the gentle thump of your heart easing his nerves.

 “Who says I’m flirting?”

 Mark is aware of how oblivious he can be when it comes to girls, but he also knows a thing or two. And it’s the way your fingers scratch the back of his scalp soothingly that betrays you. Maybe even the goosebumps on your chest, just under the spot he kissed a few seconds ago. Or maybe it’s your legs tightening around him, holding him right where he wants to be. Could be the slight twitch of your hips under him as he moves to get more comfortable. Can it be the whimper you accidentally let slip when his lips start kissing across your chest?

 “My bad, my bad.” He murmurs as he presses a wet smooch just millimetres off your clearly hardened nipple. “I must be losing the plot.” He continues, sarcasm intentional, and so is the light flick of his tongue against the erect bud. “You’re not flirting.” His words sound mindless, but he’s definitely aware of what he’s doing to you. And he’s loving your cute little squirms as his release from earlier smears between your lower halves. “You’re just being a brat, as per.”

 “Don’t remember you being this annoying.” You complain breathlessly, back arching as you chase his tongue when he pulls back a little.

 “Mm, things change.” He feels himself getting hard again, but he ignores it. He’s got other plans. Teasing you seems to have become his priority and you don’t seem to mind either. “I don’t remember you being this needy.”

 “Fuck you.” There’s not an ounce of a malice laced with your tone.

 A deep moan escapes your chest the second his lips wrap around your wet nipple, sucking lazily as his tongue licks obscenely. He releases it with a lewd pop before letting the tip of his wet muscle flick, forcing louder sounds out of you.

 He hopes the remaining people in Chenle’s living room can hear you, discretion the last thing on his mind.

 He lifts his body a little, creating space for his hand to slip between your legs. The wet mess even worse now, but perfect nonetheless, and he doesn’t hover this time. Two of his digits find your clit in no time, circling the same way his tongue circles your abused nipple. Slow. Gentle.

 He can tell you’re still sensitive, overstimulated. But he wants more. Needs more. So he takes it. And you give it.

 It’s sloppy, the mixture of both your essences making everything slippery and he feels the subtle pulse of your bud under the pads of his fingers as he rubs with a little more precision; your laboured breaths nothing but an encouragement. His mouth hangs open against your chest, lips dragging aimlessly, your skin covered in his spit and he can’t help but moan lowly when you tug at his hair a little too hard.

 He really needs to feel you unravel again. The desire might as well be engraved in him by now.

 “Can I go down on you?” He looks up, gauging your reaction and you’re nothing but hooded eyes and flushed cheeks.

 “If you feel like tasting your own cum, go for it.” You respond casually, a lazy smirk forming on your lips.

 “I’m an introvert, Y/N, not a fucking prude.” He mumbles carelessly as he descends kisses down your body, no hesitation behind his actions when he reaches parts painted in his release. He just licks it all up, like he’s done it a million times. And Mark realises he actually never has. Sure, he’s kissed girls right after they’ve given him head, but eating his own cum off someone’s skin is something he’s never explored before.

 He greedily makes out with your pussy the second he settles between your thighs, tongue gliding gently up and down your slit, dipping a little when it reaches your entrance, your taste combined with his own, intoxicating him. The more he teases, the whinier you get.

 You get so restless he has no choice but to wrap his arms around your thighs to hold you down — one hand splaying just above your pubic bone to ground you, the other just settling for your thigh — and when his fingers pull the hood of your clip up, just a tiny bit, revealing the cute but, he sucks. Hard. Then he flicks. Mercilessly. And he keeps interchanging between the two, letting your sounds guide him. Hard sucks and vigorous flicks just where you ache the most. He doesn’t need to do much more.

 Within a few minutes—maybe two, maybe three—he feels the quaking of your legs, hears the intensifying cries, relishes in the hard tugs on his hair and when you’re cumming on his tongue, just like he wanted you to, he’s moaning with you, helping you ride the high for as long as possible.

 “Fuck, s—stop.” You beg helplessly when it gets too much and he delivers one last kiss on your swollen bud before climbing up your body again.

 Your tongue is in his mouth, tangling with his before he can process what’s just happened, arms wrapping securely around his neck, as though he would escape otherwise. You flagrantly lick in his mouth, tasting everything like you need it. And maybe you do. He doubts you need it as much as he does though.

 You don’t seem to have a care in the world that his chin is smearing your combines fluids on yours. It’s dirty. Filthier than anything he’s ever experienced. And he feels corrupt. You simply have corrupted him. Ruined him without even trying, like it’s some daily routine of yours. And he’s gobbling it all up like a much needed fix.

 He needs air. Needs to breathe. But all he seems to be able to do is kiss you again and again and again, until you release him.

 “Do you think we’ll have to wash the bed covers?” You ask with a sincere look of curiosity, albeit out of breath.

 It takes a second for the random question to register due to his hazy state, but when it does, Mark can’t help but let out a weak laugh.

 “I think we might have to buy new ones.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──  

It takes you a second to realise why you feel so warm when you wake up. At first, you assume it’s the sun slipping through the curtains and hitting the skin of your back where the covers have fallen off.

 But then you shift slightly. Your eyes flutter open, looking for the real source of heat.

 Mark.

 He’s on his side, facing you, his face tucked gently against your bare chest like he drifted there without thinking. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, heavy and warm, hand resting at the small of your back. Not gripping. Just there. Like holding you is something he does without effort — even unconscious. Like even in a deep slumber he’s decided you’re something to hold onto.

 You stay still. Still taking it all in.

 He looks unfair like this.

 Sleep has softened every sharp edge he usually carries. His brows, normally expressive and quick to knit together, are smooth now. His lashes rest against his cheeks — longer than they have any right to be — casting faint shadows in the morning light. His lips are slightly parted, relaxed, the corners tilted just enough to make him look younger. Gentler.

 Pretty.

 The word slips into your mind before you can stop it.

 There’s something almost innocent about him like this. No teasing smirk. No knowing glances. Just warm skin and steady breathing and a boy who trusted you enough to fall asleep pressed this close.

 The faint stubble along his chin brushes against you when he shifts, softer than it looks. You trace it lightly with your fingertips, watching the way his mouth moves in response — a tiny unconscious reaction. His nose nudges closer, breath fanning against your skin. It tickles a little.

 Your heart speeds up.

 You hate that it does. Why would it?

 You hate that it isn’t just physical. That it isn’t just leftover heat from last night. It’s something else. Something quieter and far more dangerous. It’s odd. The way your chest feels tight just looking at him. The way you’re memorising the exact shape of his lips, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek in the sunlight.

 He’s too handsome first thing in the morning. Too warm. Too real.

 Your pulse thuds harder than you’d like, and you swallow, trying to steady yourself.

 This isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s too simple for it to feel like this. You’ve slept with the guy twice over the course of two years for crying out loud.

 His fingers flex faintly on your skin, tightening for a brief second before settling again. Even asleep, he pulls you a fraction closer, like he’s afraid you might slip away. Just like you did last time.

 Your heart betrays you again.

 You brush his hair back gently, letting your fingers linger in the softness. He stirs at the touch, lashes fluttering before slowly lifting. His gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep, and then it lands on you.

 He freezes.

 You watch awareness dawn in real time — the slight widening of his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. A faint flush creeps up his neck.

 “Hi,” he murmurs, voice rough and small in the quiet room.

 It’s so shy, it almost doesn’t sound like the guy from last night.

 You don’t answer. You just keep looking at him, taking in the softness that hasn’t fully faded yet.

 His lips press together briefly before he adds, quieter, almost unsure, “Still here?”

 The way he says it makes something in you constrict.

 Before you can respond, he ducks his face back into your chest, hiding like he regrets letting you see that vulnerable edge. His arm slides a little tighter around your waist, pulling you in closer. You feel the warmth of his cheek against you — and then, softly, almost absentmindedly, he presses a small kiss on the skin between your breasts before settling there again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 You should say something. Make a lighthearted comment. A joke. Something. Anything.

 You don’t.

 Instead, you tilt his face up gently, fingers brushing along his jaw. He looks startled for a split second, brows lifting slightly.

 And then you do something that you shouldn’t feel that comfortable doing. You kiss him.

 It’s soft. Slow. Not teasing. Just your lips pressing against his like you couldn’t not do it.

 He makes the tiniest sound of surprise against your mouth — a quiet, breathy little noise that’s so embarrassingly cute. His hand flexes at your waist like he forgot what to do with it.

 But he kisses you back.

 Careful at first. Shy. Still waking up into it. Then a little surer, lips moving softly against yours, warm and unhurried.

 When you pull back just enough to breathe, he’s looking at you differently. Still flushed. Still flustered.

 Still holding you close.

 “You can’t just do that,” he mumbles, even though his thumb is tracing absent patterns against your waist now.

 And your heart, traitor that it is, keeps beating too fast.

 “Do what?” you whisper back, close enough that your lips almost brush his when you speak.

 He hesitates. You feel it — the flicker of nerves beneath the warmth. His gaze drops to your mouth like he’s debating something with himself.

 It doesn’t take him too long to decide, it seems. His lips are on yours in not time again.

 Not shy this time. Not startled.

 Just slow. Sensual.

 His hand tightens slightly at your waist, fingertips pressing into your skin as if to anchor himself. It all starts soft — just the gentle press of his lips to yours — but there’s intention behind it now. A quiet hunger that wasn’t there seconds ago.

 You feel the shift immediately. The undeniable throbbing between your legs. Your breathing matching his quickened one.

 His mouth moves more deliberately, head tilting to deepen the kiss, nose brushing lightly against your cheek as his tongue grazes your bottom lip, asking for permission you instantly give. Mouth parting for him without a thought, too excited to taste him. The faint rasp of his stubble grazes your skin when he adjusts closer, and you can’t help the small inhale that slips out of you.

 He hears it, of course. You feel the corner of his mouth lift against yours before he kisses you deeper.

 Your fingers slide into his hair again, nails barely grazing his scalp, and he exhales into your mouth — warm, shaky, almost reverent. His arm around your waist pulls you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, the warmth of him suddenly impossible to ignore when his skin drags against your sensitive and already wet cunt.

 The sound of it — soft breaths, fabric shifting, the quiet press of skin on skin — fills the room and it all feels… different compared to last night. Unrushed.

 Like he’s not trying to impress you. Not trying to prove anything.

 Just kissing you because he wants to.

 Your heart pounds harder than you like. Harder than it makes sense. You barely know him outside of dim lights and late-night tension and shared heat — and yet the way he’s touching you now, feels careful. Thoughtful. Like he’s memorising the shape of you through his hands.

 No one’s kissed you like this.

 Not like they could do it for hours. Not like it could become routine.

 His hand slides slightly higher along your spine, slow enough to make you aware of every inch it travels. Your body reacts before your brain can catch up, leaning into him, hips shifting unconsciously closer, grinding, looking for release against the muscle of his thigh.

 He makes that soft sound again — the small, surprised hum you’re starting to recognise — but this time it’s deeper. Less startled. More affected.

 The kiss grows wetter, heavier, until breathing becomes necessary. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, lips parted, eyes darker now as they take in your lips. You can only imagine what they look like, judging from his swollen, glistening ones.

 The innocence of it all has disappeared as his hand travels down your back, settling when it’s reached your ass, kneading softly. Once. Twice. And then just resting there. Intentional and comfortable.

 Dangerously comfortable.

 You realise, with a slow creeping clarity, how easy this would be. To wake up like this again.

 To fall back into this again. Into him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──  

Next time you sleep with Mark, it’s in your bed. The one after that, is in his bed. And the one after that, in your bed again. And the one after that is memorable because he makes you cum in any position you can think of. The time after that, he’s rougher than he’s ever been; manhandling you like it’s his job, fucking you so hard, pain mixing with pleasure, your tears blinding you, your cries deafening you, until his hand is around your throat, shutting you up.

 It gets to a point where the nights (and mornings) you’ve spent together, blur into one. It all easily becomes a habit. Calling him, texting him, meeting with him between classes. It’s all normal. Like it would be with a close friend.

 For you at least. You’re not really sure how he feels, but the fact that he’s never complained, comforts you in a way. Other times, it makes you doubt everything. You try not to dwell on those thoughts.

 Random hang-out sessions, that turn into lazy movie nights, become a frequent occurrence between the two of you.

 Much like right now.

 “What the hell?” You exclaim all aggravated, sitting up a little from your lying position on the sofa. Your feet shift on Mark’s lap and you can’t see his hand under the blanket, but you feel its warmth around your calf, through the cotton of your sock. It’s comforting. “Is that it?”

 Mark chuckles lightly.

 “I mean, yeah.” He shrugs casually as he pops a piece of pop corn in his mouth. “Thoughts?”

 “I’m fucking sad.”

 “Aww, dude, why?” He sits up a little too, getting more comfortable so he can look at you better as the credits keep rolling. “They said they’ll meet again.”

 “Yeah, but we don’t actually see that.” You complain loudly, making him chuckle again. At least one of you is entertained.

 “That’s the whole point.” He squeezes your calf once. “It all ends before sunrise for them, hence the title, but they get to experience so much in just one night that they don’t really need to know if they’ll actually meet again.”

 “Is that why it’s your favourite movie? You’re into the whole soppy, enigmatic love trope?” You tease with a smirk, loving his flustered reactions a little too much.

 The cute roll of his eyes makes you smile wider, without realising.

 “I guess we’re not watching the second one then.” He says with a playful pout and you can’t help the excited yelp you let out.

 “There’s a second one?”

 His eyes widen a little at your excitement, tiny amused smile taking place on his face. “And a third one. But I’ve never seen it.”

 “Well, we have to watch them.” You catch yourself moving closer. His hand slips higher on your leg, just below your knee, the warmth seeping through your comfy sweatpants.

 “Oh, we have to?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, making your heart skip a beat at his subtle way of teasing you.

 “Yes, we.” You say stubbornly, refusing to let him have his way. “You’re the one who suggested this ridiculously sad shit.”

 He stares at you for a moment, in thought as he spreads his legs a little, letting your own dangle between them, bent knees hooked over his thigh. You instinctively move even closer, one of your arms stretching behind his shoulders, against the back of the sofa, as your free hand starts playing with one of his hoodie strings.

 The familiar scent of his after shave mixed with a hint of detergent engulfs you. It’s distinct. The kind that could traumatise you if things ever went south with him.

 “Did you not like it then?” His voice comes out quite this time.

 You purposely avoid eye contact, though, you can feel his gaze on you, and you have to actively force yourself to not focus on the way his hand caresses your inner thigh. It’s nothing but innocent, but that does something to you. It feels domestic. Absentminded.

 “No, I did.” Your eyes are still on your finger twirling the string on his chest. “Just hoped for a happier ending is all.”

 “Hmm, you can’t always have a happy ending, though.” He says skeptically and for some reason the words sit heavy in your chest.

 You ignore the unpleasant feeling and force your eyes onto his. “When did you become so wise?”

 “Tsk, I’ve always been wise.” His cute nose scrunches a tiny bit as his eyes narrow in a challenge.

 You try your best to mirror his expression as you tickle his chin with your index finger. “Sure, you have.”

 Your teasing gets interrupted quickly. A giggle erupts from you as he playfully tries to bite your finger off. His pearly whites making an appearance; a silly imitation of a cat making you act all giddy.

 He’s too cute for his own good.

 And so you give into the urge to drop a very sweet kiss on his cheek. Your hand cradles his jaw as he tries to pretend an escape.

 When you pull away, you have to bite your lip to hide your smile, your cheeks hurting.

 He looks away, attempting to hide his own smile from you, tongue poking the inside of the cheek you just smooched a little too loudly.

 “You’re still so shy with me.” You observe quietly and his frown makes you let out another giggle.

 “No, I’m not.” He pouts adorably.

 “It’s okay.” You lean closer as he sulks. Another kiss on his cheek, this time a tiny bit closer to the corner of his lips. “I like it.”

 “Do you really think I’m shy with you?” He searches for a reaction in your eyes as he wraps a hand around your wrist, urging you to wrap your arms around his neck.

 You give in too easily. It’s too difficult not to with his face so close to yours.

 “Not always.” You admit, as you start playing with the hair at his nape. “You’re shy, like, maybe fifty percent of the time.”

 “Fifty?!” He shrieks with an offended tone. “Dude, that’s still high.”

 “And I still like it.” You scold, arms tightening slightly around him as his hands rest on your thighs, still draped across his lap.

 “You just like being a pain in my ass.” He states with a knowing smirk, and you can’t even deny it.

 “See? You’re not shy now.” You deflect, enjoying the back and forth dynamic you have going on with him.

 “Stop flirting.” He scolds, hand squeezing your thigh softly.

 “Mm, no.” You cradle the back of his neck gently with one hand as your other arm drapes casually around his shoulders.

 “No?”

 “No.”

 “Just like that?”

 You simply nod. “Just like that.”

 He nods back with an approving pout. “Fair.”

 The second he leans in for a kiss, a dull pain in your lower abdomen reminds you of your state and you panic.

 “You can’t stay tonight.” You blurt out. The surprise evident on his face as he pulls back.

 “Umm, okay?” His confusion pulls at the strings in your heart. “Is something wrong? Like, did I—“

 “No.” You interrupt him, before he can make things even more awkward. Arm still around him. “I’m just on my period. So, we can’t…you know.”

 Realisation downs on him. Eyebrows raising slightly, lips parting. “Oh.” He nods once. “Right.”

 “Mmhm.” You give him an awkward, tight smile.

 You could have cancelled tonight. Should have. But you hadn’t seen him in almost a week due to a stupid essay you had to focus on. And you hate to admit it even to yourself, but you missed him. A little more than you a friend misses a friend. But that’s another story.

 “Are you feeling okay?” He asks a little too casually, but still concerned.

 The way he sneaks an arm around your middle, is too smooth. It’s with effort that you manage to maintain your composure as he pulls you closer into his side, his hand resting on your lower back. Gentle and reassuring.

 Your heart does something weird at the intimate gesture. “Yeah, I’m good. It’s the third day, so, it’s not too bad.”

 He nods understandingly. “Okay, well…I don’t know if I’m being too slow, but why exactly can’t I stay?”

 The question definitely catches you off guard, but you manage to stay grounded. “I mean, you can. You’re welcome to. We’re just not having sex.”

 “Yeah, fuck that, I’m off.” He moves to playfully shrug you off, but laughs at the way you childishly whine, refusing to move, stubbornly clinging onto him. He settles back with a huff and you bashfully hide your face in his shoulder. “Y/N, I obviously don’t care. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

 His voice is too soft. Too sweet.

 You exhale loudly, feigning annoyance. “Fine. Stay then.”

 “Ugh. Fine, I will.” You feel the delicate nudge of his nose against your forehead and, inevitably, you look up at him, still tucked safely in his side with your legs comfortably resting on top of his spread ones. “So, like, is kissing out of the question too?”

 You snort at the silly question. “No. Kissing’s allowed.”

 You’ve realised over time that you have a soft spot for his cheeky side. It’s rare that Mark Lee drops his serious stance, but you’ve managed to break through a few times now and each one of those has felt like a special reward.

 His lips find yours for the first time tonight. The hand cradling your jaw shouldn’t feel that good on your skin and the arm around your waist shouldn’t feel as safe as it does. But you savour everything, matching his slow pace.

 The kiss becomes less innocent with each drag of his lips against yours, but you can’t bring your self to pull away. Blame the raging hormones, blame the way he’s holding you so close, blame the universe.

 You need him to keep kissing you.

 The whiny sound you unintentionally let out, betrays said need, but Mark doesn’t seem phased at all. If anything, he deepens the kiss. More intent behind his touches.

 “Come here.” He mumbles against your lips as he tries to manoeuvre you, and you quickly oblige, throwing a leg over him, straddling his thighs without a second thought.

 He doesn’t seem to approve of your hovering as he shamelessly pushes you down by the hips, encouraging you to properly sit on him. And you do.

 He lets out a delicious sound, which you hungrily swallow as your crotch meets his. Hard length familiarly nestling between your thighs, nudging against your needy clit, and you’re glad you opted for a tampon instead of a pad earlier.

 “Are you comfortable?” He asks, pulling away slightly, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

 “Yeah.” You nod as you allow your hands to rest on either side of his neck.

 “Is there anywhere I’m not allowed to touch?”

 You smile at the cryptic question. He’s clearly testing the waters, while trying to be respectful of any boundaries. You can see right through him.

 “My boobs are a little sore still, so be gentle.”

 He nods. “Anything else?”

 Your breath hitches as his fingers sneakily slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, eyes silently asking for permission.

 You give him a chaste kiss. “You can’t finger me, if that’s what you mean.”

 “Not exactly what I meant, no.” He murmurs as his hands completely slip inside your bottoms, cupping your ass over your underwear, deliberately urging you to drag your hips against his, fingers slightly digging into the flesh of your bum.

 He devours your lips in another kiss. Heated, but lazy. Slower than ever.

 Your tongues gliding languidly makes you unintentionally grind a little harder, allowing your sensitive clit to drag against his clothed cock and you feel your underwear slipping between your folds messily. He’s got you all wet and needy when he really shouldn’t.

 “Fuck, I really want you naked.” He whispers in your mouth, hands travelling up your back, taking the hem of your baggy t-shirt with them.

 There’s nothing else to do other than give him what he wants. So you reluctantly break the kiss, letting him remove your top before you rush to do the same for him.

 Your sports bra is gone in no time, both your top and his hoodie are somewhere on the living room floor and the second your tits are free, he’s got both his arms tightly wrapped around your middle, biceps flexing deliciously. Your nipples feel extra sensitive as they rub on his skin; breasts squished against his warm chest, the sensation comforting and arousing at the same time, you can’t help the sigh you let out against his lips.

 “Don’t really know where we’re going with this.” You speak all muffled as he eagerly tries to lick into your mouth, lips a little uncoordinated but you love it.

 You’re more than aware of the double meaning your words carry, and the hesitation in his eyes when he pulls away, tells you he is too. You both seem to ignore the complicated side of the statement.

 “I can still make you feel good, no?” His fingers splay in between your shoulder blades as his eyes inspect your face, lingering on your spit-kissed lips for a little too long.

 He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls you by the back of your neck, his mouth finding yours in another wet kiss, lips parted wide as tastes you with a quiet hum, and you feel more wetness seeping out of you, drenching your panties.

 A buck of your hips forces a moan out of both of you as your hands bury in his hair, gripping tight, searching for an anchor. You lean your head back with a soft exhale when he starts leaving wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. He licks, sucks, bites your flushed skin, tongue swirling on each mark he leaves behind, turning you on more than ever.

 This is so fucking inconvenient.

 He takes you by surprise when he licks a stripe from between your tits to your collarbones, painting your skin with his saliva.

 “Ah, shit.” You tighten your hold on his hair and he lets out a little grunt that vibrates against your sternum, his quick breaths hitting your damp skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your nipples harden uncomfortably, asking for attention and he must notice as his hand cups one of your breasts, gently massaging the underside.

His lips find the raised peak, kissing around it, teasing you, forcing needy sounds out of you, and when he softly sucks it in his mouth, tongue swirling, you can’t help but grind down harder with a loud whine.

 “Careful.” You whisper weakly when his tongue flicks a little too hard, making you jolt.

 “Sorry.” He apologises with a sweet kiss between the space of your tits, and for a few moments, he gives all his attention to your slightly swollen mounds. Licking and sucking, carefully massaging them in his palms until you pull a little too hard at his hair, singling that it’s too much for you.

 You force him to lean back as you trap him between your body and the back of the sofa. The sound he makes when you wrap a hand around his throat, exhilarates you, and you give into another make out session as you let your fingers lightly press on his pulse points, loving the effect you have on him.

 You’re completely lost in his kisses and the way his firm chest feels on yours. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time and you really just don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just try to relax on top of him, arms loosely wrapping around his neck as you relish in the wet smacking sounds of your lips.

 It’s his hand that sneaks between your crotches that urges you to pull away, but he holds you there, his other hand on the back of your head.

 “Can I try something?” He mutters as his fingers slowly start undoing the knot at the front of your waistband. “Stop me if it’s weird.”

 Fuck Mark lee and his persuasiveness. “Okay.”

 You probably shouldn’t. It’s too intimate. Too vulnerable. And you normally wouldn’t let anyone else, but when Mark slips his hand past the front of your waistband, you let him.

 He’s careful. No rushed movements as he holds you close, lips brushing yours as he gauges your reaction and your mouth parts against his when you feel the warmth of his palm, engulfing the seat of your underwear. He rubs lightly over the drenched fabric until his fingers find your clit, pressing a little harder, evoking a half desperate half surprised sound out of you.

 You self-consciously wonder if he felt the thin string of your tampon when his fingers brushed past your entrance, but whether he did or not, he doesn’t really let on.

 He starts rubbing you in slow tiny circles, the gentle friction making you breathe harder, fingers shaking in his messy strands.

 “Can I touch you properly or is that a bit too far?” He must sense your contemplation as his fingers come to a brief halt. “I’ll stay here.” His fingers press on your clit, signalling what he means. “Won’t go anywhere else.”

 You pull back a smidge, the need to look at his face getting the better of you. His pleading eyes, full of adoration, overwhelm you and you cowardly hide your face in his neck, arms wrapping tighter around his shoulders.

 “What if I bleed all over your hand?” You whine dramatically. The thought of that actually happening, too embarrassing.

 He breathes out an amused laugh. “I’ll live.”

 “Yeah, well, I won’t.” You joke halfheartedly, but inhale sharply when he presses against the swollen bud again.

 “At least you’ll die happy.” He giggles at the warning bite you leave on his shoulder, playfully shrugging you away, but his arm around your middle holds you close. “You wanna cum. I wanna help. So let me.”

 “Fuck sake.” You sigh in defeat, forehead dropping against his shoulder. “If you touch anywhere other than—“

 “I won’t. Promise.” He seals it with an intimate kiss on your shoulder, making you shiver.

 “Okay.”

 He slips his hand inside the front of your cotton panties, quickly finding your pulsing bud and you instantly melt against him with a relieved whimper, the skin on skin contact already feeling a million times better. His two fingers send you reeling, making you moan in his neck, your jaw slackening when he speeds up a little, rubbing harder, more precise circles on the bundle of nerves. His hold around you tightens when you start slightly shaking on his lap and you feel dizzy when he starts flicking from side to side, bringing you closer and closer to a dangerous high.

 It’s addictive. The way he touches you, holds you, breathes on you like he’s the one being pleasured. It’s all out of this world. Too good. Too mind-numbing.

 “Mmph—f-fuck—right there.” You beg, all out of breath and flustered. His fingers keep brushing a spot on your clit, too sensitive, the pleasure so intense, you can barely handle it.

 “Yeah? Feels good?” His breathy tone adds to the hot sensation between your legs, your toes and fingers tingling as your eyes inevitably roll back.

 “So good, Markie.”

 He grunts when your nails dig into the flesh of his shoulder. “Fuck, baby. Wanna see you cum.”

 “Oh my god.” You whisper with a tremble, mouth ajar against his shoulder, your saliva smearing on his skin as you struggle to breathe, to keep a little bit of your sanity intact. “Mark. Ffffuck.”

 Your release crashes into you with force.  A muffled shriek erupts from your throat, resonating in the silence of the living room. You sound broken as he keeps rubbing fast and hard. Until your whole body shakes in ecstasy. Until the overstimulation is too much to endure.

 Your walls are spasming so hard you’re worried they might accidentally squeeze the tampon out, and you have to grab his wrist in panic, forcing him to stop his torturous ministrations on your abused clit.

 You slump forward. Body completely spent. Weight dropping on him in surrender as your brain floats somewhere unknown.

 The gentle scratch of his blunt nails against your scalp, helps bring you somewhat back to the surface.

 “Fuck, that felt—” You pant, struggling to form anything coherent. Your throat feels dry when you swallow.

 “Intense?” He finishes your incomplete thought for you.

 He has a tendency of doing that. Understanding you better than you can understand yourself sometimes. Unveiling thoughts and feelings you didn’t know you were capable of carrying.

 You don’t like it. The grip he has on you — you feel it most when he's not even touching you. When he's not even with you.

And it’s too intimate. More than you can handle.

 You often feel scrutinised under his gaze. Especially in raw, unfiltered moments like this. It never feels transactional. Whatever you have with Mark. It’s never just about fleeting pleasure. There’s always something underlying but undeniable at the same time.

 Something undoubtedly there, but difficult to define in your head.

 Something you wonder if his complex mind has been able to translate into words you always fail to find.

 ©neogotmycookie

[4linos]

eighteen and everything after 1

hwang hyunjin x f!reader

synopsis: you build a life too young and watch it fall apart just as you start finding yourself. as you navigate single motherhood and a demanding new career, someone unexpected becomes a steady presence, while the man you never stopped loving learns what it truly means to lose you.

warnings: angst, emotional infidelity, (slightly) suggestive, emotional distress, separation.

wc: 11,878

part 2

You were eighteen when the world tilted on its axis, when a thin plastic stick rewrote the rest of your life in two unforgiving lines.

You remember the bathroom being too quiet. The hum of the vent sounded louder than your own breathing, like it was mocking you for standing there frozen, test in hand, heart pounding so hard you thought you might throw up. Your reflection looked the same, the same tired eyes, same messy hair pulled into a bun but you knew, deep in your chest, that nothing would ever be the same again.

You sat down on the cold tile floor, your back against the bathtub, and stared at the test like it might change its mind if you waited long enough.

It didn’t. You cried then. Not loud or dramatic sobs just silent tears slipping down your cheeks, one after another, soaking into the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from Hyunjin months ago. You loved him. He was gentle, attentive, the kind of boy who listened when you talked and remembered the little things. But love didn’t magically make you ready for this. Love didn’t suddenly turn you into an adult with a plan.

You were eighteen. You were supposed to be thinking about college, friends, what kind of person you wanted to become, not how to tell your boyfriend you were pregnant.

When you finally told him, your hands were shaking so badly you had to clasp them together in your lap. You sat across from him on his bed, knees pulled to your chest, watching his face as you spoke.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words landed heavy between you. Hyunjin didn’t say anything at first. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His brows pulled together, confusion giving way to shock, then something like fear. You hated that you were the one who put that look there.

“Are you… are you sure?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “I took three tests.”

He leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair. He looked young then. Younger than he’d ever looked before. Just a boy pretending to be a man, just like you were pretending to be okay.

You waited for him to say something.. anything. Anger, reassurance, panic. But all he did was sit there, staring at the wall, jaw tight.

“I love you,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in desperation. “I’m not trying to trap you or anything, I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to tell anyone else before you.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes dark and unreadable. “I know,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

There was comfort in that, at least. He trusted you but trust didn’t mean certainty. The weeks that followed were a blur of whispered conversations, sleepless nights, and growing dread.

Telling your parents was worse than you imagined. Your mother cried. Your father went quiet in that terrifying way that meant disappointment ran deeper than anger.

“You’re a child,” your mother said, her voice shaking. “How could you be so careless?”

You had no answer that would make it better.

They told you your options in voices that pretended to be gentle but carried the weight of finality. You could keep the baby, but only if you did things “the right way.” That meant stability. That meant marriage.

“You can’t raise a child alone at your age,” your father said. “And we’re not doing this halfway.”

You didn’t know whether you wanted to scream or disappear.

Hyunjin’s parents reacted differently, but the message was the same. His mother was stern, lips pressed into a thin line as she looked at him like he’d failed some invisible test.

“You’re responsible for this,” she told him. “So you will step up.”

He nodded, shoulders tense, saying all the right things. He said he’d take responsibility. He said he cared about you. He said he’d do whatever it took but late at night, when it was just the two of you, lying side by side in the dark, you felt the distance in the silence. You felt the questions he didn’t ask, the doubts he didn’t voice.

“Do you want this?” you asked him once, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head to look at you, his face soft in the dim light. “I want you,” he said honestly. “I just… I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

Neither did you. You got married when you were nineteen, five months pregnant, your belly no longer something you could hide with baggy clothes and excuses. The ceremony was small, rushed, more practical than romantic. You wore a simple dress that had to be altered twice to accommodate your growing body. Hyunjin wore a suit that didn’t quite fit right, his tie crooked because his hands were shaking.

When you said your vows, your voice wavered. You meant the words but they felt heavier than they should have. Promises about forever felt terrifying when you’d barely figured out who you were.

After the wedding, you moved in together almost immediately. The apartment wasn’t big, but it was clean and new and yours. Hyunjin insisted you choose everything. The couch, the curtains, the color of the walls.

“What do you like?” he asked, holding up paint samples, smiling at you like this was some normal, happy beginning.

You chose soft colors. Calm ones. Like you were trying to convince yourself this life wouldn’t swallow you whole.

When it came to the nursery, he went all out. He built the crib himself, spending hours sanding the wood until his hands were sore because he said he wanted it to be perfect. He let you pick the theme, the stuffed animals, the tiny clothes you folded with trembling hands.

“This one’s cute,” he said once, holding up a tiny pair of socks. “She’s going to be so small.”

You froze. “She?”

He smiled softly. “I don’t know. Just feels right.”

Something in your chest cracked open then.

Pregnancy was hard. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. You were tired all the time, nauseous, emotional in ways you couldn’t control but Hyunjin was there for everything. He learned your cravings, rubbed your back when you were sick, held you when you cried for reasons you couldn’t explain.

He talked to your belly when he thought you were asleep. He’d press his hand there, murmuring nonsense, telling her about the world like she could already understand him.

“I’m going to protect you,” he whispered once. “Both of you.”

You believed him.

When Aerin was born, everything else faded into the background. The fear, the resentment, the what ifs, they all shrank in the face of her tiny fingers wrapping around yours. Hyunjin cried when he held her for the first time, tears streaming down his face as he laughed softly, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“She’s perfect,” he said, voice breaking. “You did so good.”

Those first years were exhausting but full. Hyunjin took time off work, learned how to change diapers, how to warm bottles just right. He was protective to a fault, reminding everyone to wash their hands, hovering whenever someone held her too close.

You watched him become a father, watched the way he softened around her, the way his entire world seemed to revolve around the two of you. You told yourself this was enough. That love could grow into something steady, something lasting.

And for a while, it did but time moved forward, whether you were ready or not.

Aerin grew from a baby into a toddler, then into a little girl with opinions and endless questions. She started preschool, her backpack almost too big for her small frame, waving at you excitedly every morning as she ran toward her classroom.

And suddenly, your days were too quiet.

You cleaned the apartment that was already clean. You cooked meals hours before Hyunjin got home. You scrolled on your phone, watching people your age live lives that felt impossibly distant. College campuses. Study groups. Late night coffee runs. Laughing with friends, free and unburdened. You loved Aerin more than anything. You didn’t regret her. But sometimes, standing alone in the grocery store, you felt something sharp twist in your chest.

Girls your age passed by you, giggling, throwing makeup into their carts, talking about parties and plans. You pushed your cart slowly, Aerin sitting in the seat, pointing at toys she wanted, her voice bright and innocent.

“Mommy, look!”

You smiled for her. Always for her but inside, you mourned a version of yourself that never got the chance to exist.

That’s when the idea started forming, quiet at first, like a guilty thought you tried to push away. School. Doing something that was just yours.

When you brought it up to Hyunjin, you tried to sound casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like your heart wasn’t racing.

“I was thinking,” you said one evening, setting plates on the table. “Now that Aerin’s in school… maybe I could go back too. Take some classes.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “Why?”

The word stung more than it should have.

“I just—” you hesitated. “I want to do something. For me.”

He finally looked at you then, expression firm. “You don’t need to.”

You swallowed. “I know we’re okay financially. This isn’t about that.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I make enough for all of us. I want you to focus on Aerin.”

“I can do both,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “She’s in school most of the day. I’m home alone.”

He shook his head. “No.”

The finality in his tone made your stomach drop.

“I don’t want to have this conversation again,” he said, standing up. He leaned down, kissed your forehead like a peace offering, like that was supposed to smooth everything over. “I’ll take care of everything. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, because that was easier than fighting. Because he was already grabbing his keys, already late, already gone.

But something inside you didn’t settle.

That night, after Aerin was asleep and Hyunjin was snoring softly beside you, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Your mind buzzed with possibilities, fears, excitement you hadn’t felt in years. You picked up your phone and searched anyway. Programs. Class schedules. Opportunities. Nursing catches your eye.

Your heart raced as you read, imagining a future that wasn’t confined to the walls of your apartment. You felt guilty. You felt selfish. You felt alive. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t know which feeling scared you more.

You tell yourself it’s harmless at first.

Just looking. Just reading. Just imagining.

It becomes a routine you don’t admit out loud. After Aerin goes to bed, after the dishes are done and the apartment is quiet again, you curl onto your side of the bed with your phone turned low, brightness dimmed like you’re hiding something shameful. You scroll through program requirements, application deadlines, testimonials from students who look like they have their whole lives ahead of them.

You imagine yourself in scrubs. You imagine studying late, tired but fulfilled. You imagine being more than just someone’s wife, someone’s mother. And then guilt crashes over you like cold water.

Because Hyunjin works hard. Because he provides. Because he’s never once made you feel unloved or unsafe. Because he stepped up when everything went wrong.

So why does it feel like you’re suffocating?

The days blur together. You wake Aerin up, pack her lunch, braid her hair. You smile at other parents at drop off, all of them older than you, all of them looking at you like you belong here like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

At home, the silence waits for you.

You try filling it. You reorganize closets. You redecorate the living room twice. You bake things you don’t even want to eat. Nothing sticks. Nothing quiets the restless buzzing in your chest.

When Hyunjin comes home, you’re careful. You’re softer than usual, quieter. You laugh at his jokes, ask about his day, listen as he talks about work stress and promotions and plans. You nod along, supportive, grateful. You don’t bring up school again but the resentment doesn’t disappear just because you don’t name it.

It seeps in slowly. In the way you flinch when he says, “You don’t have to worry about that.” In the way your jaw tightens when he hands you money instead of asking if you want to go with him. In the way he talks about your life like it’s already decided.

One afternoon, you sit on a bench outside Aerin’s preschool, watching kids spill out of the building, laughter echoing in the air. A girl from your graduating class walks past you with a group of friends, textbooks tucked under her arm, complaining about exams and dorm food.

She looks older. Confident and free. She doesn’t recognize you. You don’t know whether that hurts or helps.

That night, you apply. Your finger hovers over the screen for a long time before you press submit. Your heart pounds so loudly you swear Hyunjin will hear it from the living room. When the confirmation email comes through, your hands start shaking. You’ve never done something this big without asking him first.

You tell yourself you’ll explain later. That once he sees how serious you are, how important this is to you, he’ll understand. That love means compromise. That marriage isn’t ownership but deep down, you already know it won’t be that simple.

The acceptance email comes two weeks later.

You read it three times, pressing a hand to your mouth to keep from crying out loud. Your chest feels too tight, too full. Excitement and fear coil together until you can’t tell them apart.

You don’t tell him right away. You wait for the right moment or what you convince yourself will be the right moment. You wait for a good day. A calm evening. A time when he isn’t stressed or tired or distracted. That moment never comes.

Instead, he finds out by accident.

He comes home early one afternoon, earlier than usual, and you don’t hear the door open over the sound of Aerin’s cartoon. Your laptop is open on the kitchen table, emails pulled up, course schedules glowing on the screen.

“What’s this?”

His voice is calm.

You freeze, your stomach dropping like you’ve missed a step going downstairs. You turn slowly, your heart already racing.

“I—” Your mouth goes dry. “I was going to tell you.”

He looks between you and the screen, jaw tightening. “You applied?”

You nod, throat burning. “I got accepted.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Aerin laughs from the living room, unaware, blissfully safe in her little world.

“You went behind my back,” he says finally.

The words hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly. “I just needed to do this. I need something that’s mine.”

“I told you no.” His voice hardens. “I was clear.”

“And I told you I wasn’t asking for permission,” you snap before you can stop yourself. The words hang in the air, sharp and dangerous.

His eyes darken. “Then what were you doing?”

You feel tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to keep going. “I’m not just a mom. I’m not just your wife. I’m still me.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the kitchen. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How this feels?”

“How it feels?” you repeat bitterly. “You make decisions for all of us without asking me how it feels.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “Everything I do is for you and Aerin.”

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m grateful. But I’m disappearing.”

That makes him stop.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in years, really seeing you. The dark circles under your eyes. The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re clutching your hands together like you’re holding yourself upright.

“You’re not disappearing,” he says, but there’s doubt in his voice now. “You’re our family.”

“And who am I when she grows up?” you ask softly. “Who am I when she doesn’t need me every second?”

He doesn’t answer. The argument doesn’t explode. It fractures. It leaves cracks in places you didn’t know were fragile. He tells you it’s too much. Too sudden. That you should have talked to him. That you’re risking stability for something unnecessary.

You tell him you feel trapped. That you feel like your life ended at eighteen while everyone else’s kept going. Neither of you really listens.

That night, he sleeps on the couch. Aerin asks why Daddy isn’t in bed with you, and you lie through your teeth with a smile that hurts your face.

“Just a long day, baby.”

But when you’re alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling again, you realize something terrifying.

For the first time since you got married, you don’t feel like you’re on the same side anymore.

And no matter how much you love him, you’re no longer sure love alone is enough to fix what’s breaking between you.

The next morning feels wrong before you even open your eyes. The bed is too empty on his side, the sheets cold where his warmth should be. For a second, you pretend nothing happened, that you just woke up early, that he’s in the shower or already in the kitchen making coffee the way he does on weekends.

Then reality settles in your chest like a weight.

You get up quietly, padding down the hallway so you don’t wake Aerin. Hyunjin is already dressed, standing at the counter with his back to you, scrolling on his phone. There’s a mug in his hand, untouched.

“Morning,” you say carefully.

He glances at you, nods once. “Morning.”

That’s it. No kiss. No smile. No hand on your waist as he passes by. The absence of those small habits hurts more than shouting ever could.

You busy yourself with breakfast, movements automatic. You crack eggs, toast bread, pack Aerin’s lunch. Your hands know what to do even while your mind spirals. You wonder if this is how it starts, two people who used to share everything now moving around each other like strangers.

When Aerin wakes up, everything shifts. Hyunjin softens immediately, crouching down to her level, letting her climb into his arms like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Daddy!” she chirps, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says, kissing her cheek. His voice is warm, normal. It almost makes you angry. You watch them from the kitchen, heart aching at how easily he slips back into that role. How natural fatherhood is for him. How hard it feels to exist anywhere outside of it.

The drive to preschool is quiet. Aerin hums to herself in the backseat, swinging her legs. Hyunjin keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

You want to say something. Anything. But the words get stuck in your throat.

After drop off, he turns to you in the parking lot. “We’ll talk later,” he says. Not a question. Not a promise. Just a statement. You nod.

The rest of the day crawls. You check your email obsessively, rereading the acceptance letter like it might disappear if you look away for too long. You imagine orientation day. You imagine telling Aerin one day that her mom went back to school, that she didn’t give up on herself. Then you imagine Hyunjin’s face when you say you’re not backing out.

That night, he comes home late. Later than usual. You hear the door open, then close softly. He doesn’t call your name. You sit on the couch, hands folded in your lap, heart pounding.

He finally speaks first. “I talked to my mom.”

Your stomach twists. “About…?”

“About you going back to school.”

The way he says it, flat, controlled makes your chest tighten.

“And?” you ask.

“She thinks it’s irresponsible,” he says. “She thinks Aerin needs you home. That I work too much already.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course she does.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “I’m trying to understand, okay? But you blindsided me.”

“I’ve been telling you I was unhappy,” you say quietly. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why did you decide for me?” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Why did you get to say no like my life is something you own?”

That makes him look at you sharply. “I don’t own you.”

“Then why do I feel like I need permission to exist outside this apartment?”

Silence again. It’s becoming a pattern.

He sits down across from you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “I’m scared,” he admits finally. “I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t plan to be married at nineteen. I didn’t plan to be responsible for a family before I figured myself out.”

Your chest tightens. “Neither did I.”

“But I did it,” he continues. “I gave up things too.”

You nod slowly. “I know and I appreciate that. But you got to replace those things with a career. With growth. I replaced mine with staying still.”

“That’s not fair,” he says again, weaker this time.

“Isn’t it?”

The question hangs between you.

He looks at you and you see something crack in his expression.

“I’m scared that if you start building a life without me,” he says quietly, “you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore.”

The honesty knocks the air out of you.

You move closer, sitting beside him. “This isn’t about leaving you,” you say softly. “It’s about not losing myself.”

He swallows hard. “And what if I lose you anyway?”

You don’t have an answer that will soothe him. You wish you did.

When he finally agrees, reluctantly, painfully it feels less like a victory and more like a fragile ceasefire. He tells you he’ll help with Aerin. That you’ll figure out schedules. That he needs time.

You tell him thank you, even though something in his tone tells you this isn’t over. That night, lying beside him again, you stare at the ceiling, heart racing with equal parts excitement and dread.

You’re stepping into something unknown. Something risky.

And deep down, you know that no matter how this turns out, your life has already started changing in difficult ways neither of you can control anymore.

—

You’re right, it is difficult. Exhausting, even. But there’s something about it that feels almost… natural, like your body and mind have been waiting for this rhythm all along.

Your first week starts months after that conversation, after schedules have been argued over and rewritten, after doubts have settled into something quieter but still present. You don’t sleep much the night before your first day. You lie awake next to Hyunjin, listening to his breathing, staring into the dark with your heart racing, not with fear, but anticipation.

Morning comes too quickly. You wake up before your alarm, before the sun is fully up. The apartment is still, wrapped in that soft silence that only exists before the world wakes. For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting it sink in.

This is real. You’re really doing this.

You move carefully, slipping out of bed so you don’t wake Hyunjin. You shower quickly, dress in clothes that feel both unfamiliar and exciting simple, comfortable, but chosen for you, not just for practicality. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize the woman staring back. She looks tired, yes, but there’s something else there too. Purpose.

You make breakfast next, moving quietly but efficiently. You pack Aerin’s lunch with the same care you always have, cutting her fruit just the way she likes, slipping a tiny note into her lunchbox like you always do. You promised yourself nothing would change for her. No rushed mornings. No chaos. She didn’t choose this, you did.

When it’s time, you wake her gently, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Good morning, baby.”

She groans softly, curling closer to you. “Five more minutes.”

You smile, kissing her forehead. “We don’t have five more minutes.”

She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes, and when she looks at you, her face brightens immediately. “Mommy.”

That single word grounds you. Hyunjin comes out while you’re eating breakfast together, hair still messy, sleeves of his shirt pushed up. He pauses when he sees you dressed, bag by the door.

“Today’s the day,” he says.

You nod, suddenly nervous all over again. “Yeah.”

He steps closer, presses a kiss to your temple. “You’ll do great.”

It’s simple and quiet but it means more than he knows.

Breakfast feels normal, Aerin chatting endlessly, Hyunjin teasing her, the three of you laughing like you always have. That comforts you more than anything. Proof that this doesn’t have to destroy what you’ve built.

You drive Aerin to preschool like always. She sings along to the radio, swinging her feet, completely unaware that your life has shifted on its axis. When you drop her off, she hugs you tight, just a little longer than usual.

“Pick me up later,” she says seriously.

“I will,” you promise. “Always.”

And then, you don’t go home like usual.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel as you pull out of the parking lot, heart pounding as the campus comes into view. It’s bigger than you expected. Louder. Full of people who look so young it almost hurts. You park, grab your bag, and for a moment, you just sit there, breathing.

You’re terrified.

You walk into your first class feeling like an imposter. Like someone’s going to tap you on the shoulder and tell you don’t belong here, that you missed your chance, that you’re too late. But no one does. You sit down, take notes, listen, absorb. And something clicks.

Your brain wakes up in a way it hasn’t in years. You’re tired, but you’re focused. Engaged. You ask questions. You write things down like they matter because they do.

When class ends, you don’t linger. You go straight to the library, finish what you can, checking the time every few minutes. Responsibility still anchors you. Motherhood still comes first. That hasn’t changed. You pick Aerin up right on time.

The afternoons blur into a pattern after that. Dinner prep. Homework at the kitchen table, Aerin beside you with crayons and paper, narrating her drawings while you study anatomy terms. Sometimes she asks what you’re doing.

“I’m learning,” you tell her.

“Like me?” she asks.

“Just like you.”

When Hyunjin comes home, it’s always the same. The door opens. Aerin lights up.
“Daddy!”

He scoops her up, kisses her cheek, then comes to you. A kiss on the lips. One on your forehead. Routine, steady, grounding.

“How was school?” he asks.

You answer honestly. “Hard. Good.”

And somehow, every day since you started school goes exactly like that. It’s tiring. You fall into bed some nights barely able to keep your eyes open. There are moments when guilt creeps in, moments when you wonder if you’re asking for too much, if balance like this can really last.

But when you sit there at the table, textbooks open, your daughter humming beside you, your husband’s presence warm and familiar behind you, you realize something quietly profound.

For the first time in years, you’re not just surviving. You’re living and you’re happy.

—

The cracks don’t show up all at once.

At first, everything holds together so neatly that you almost believe this is the version of life people talk about when they say it all works out. You’re tired, yes but it’s the good kind of tired. The earned kind. The kind that makes sleep come fast and deep.

Weeks pass. Then months.You learn how to move through your days like muscle memory. Wake up early. Coffee first.. always. Pack Aerin’s lunch. Lay out her clothes. Wake her gently. Smile even when your eyes burn from lack of sleep. Drive. Drop off. Campus. Notes. Exams. Rush back. Pick her up. Dinner. Homework. Wait for Hyunjin.

Repeat.

And most days, it really does feel easy.

Not because it is easy but because it feels right.

You start to notice changes in yourself before anyone else does. You stand a little straighter. You talk with more confidence. You catch yourself explaining something medical related to Hyunjin one night, hands moving as you speak, eyes bright, and he just watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time again.

“You like this,” he says.

You nod. “I really do.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You tell yourself not to read into it.

Midterms hit hard. You start staying up later, studying after Aerin goes to sleep, your notes blurring together as the clock creeps toward midnight. Hyunjin tells you to rest, tells you he’s got it under control, tells you not to push yourself so hard. You thank him. You keep going anyway.

Sometimes you forget small things. A permission slip. A load of laundry. A text you meant to send. Nothing catastrophic, just enough to make you feel like you’re failing at everything all at once.

One night, Aerin falls asleep on the couch waiting for Hyunjin. Her head lolls against your arm, warm and heavy, her breathing slow. Your laptop is open in front of you, unfinished notes staring back accusingly. Hyunjin comes home late.

You look up when the door opens, exhaustion flooding through you all at once. He smiles when he sees Aerin asleep on you, but there’s tension in his shoulders as he shrugs off his jacket.

“You didn’t wake her?” he asks quietly.

“She wanted to wait for you,” you say softly. “I didn’t have the heart.”

He nods, lifts her carefully, carries her to bed. You watch from the doorway, chest tight with love and guilt all tangled together.

Later, when the apartment is quiet again, he sits beside you on the couch.

“You forgot to sign her form today,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops. “I did?”

“She told her teacher you’d do it tonight.”

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I’m not mad.”

But there’s something in his voice. Something restrained.

“I just worry,” he continues. “You’re doing a lot.”

“So are you,” you reply. “We both are.”

He exhales slowly, leaning back. “Yeah. We are.”

The distance doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels subtle. Like a door that isn’t fully closed but isn’t fully open either.

You start noticing how often he watches the clock when you study late. How he hesitates before asking you things. How he doesn’t talk about his own stress as much anymore.

And still every morning, he kisses your cheek and says “Good luck.”

Every night, he asks, “How was school?”

So you keep going.

Then one afternoon, something small finally tips the balance.

Your class runs late. Just twenty minutes. You text Hyunjin.

You: Running late, can you pick up Aerin?

Assuming it’ll be fine.

He doesn’t reply.

Your heart starts racing halfway through the drive. You grip the steering wheel, mentally calculating time, imagining Aerin waiting, confused, watching other kids get picked up while she looks for you or Hyunjin.

When you arrive, she’s sitting on the bench outside, feet swinging, Hyunjin beside her.

Relief hits so hard your knees feel weak.

She runs to you immediately. “Mommy!”

You drop your bag, kneel, pull her into your arms. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here.”

Hyunjin stands behind her, arms crossed.

“You said you’d pick her up,” he says quietly.

“I know. Class went late, I texted—”

“I didn’t see it,” he replies. “I had to leave work early.”

Guilt floods you instantly. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

He nods, jaw tight. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Your chest tightens. “Doing what?”

“Pretending nothing’s changing,” he says. “Because it is.”

The drive home is silent.

That night, after Aerin is asleep, the conversation you’ve been avoiding finally happens.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” he admits, voice low. “Like there’s this whole world you’re building, and I’m standing outside of it.”

You sit across from him, hands wrapped around a mug gone cold. “I’m still here.”

“I know you are physically,” he says. “But you’re always tired. Always studying. Always somewhere else.”

You swallow hard. “I warned you this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I thought I was prepared,” he says honestly. “I wasn’t.”

Silence stretches between you again but this time, it’s heavier.

You think about the girl you were at eighteen.

You think about the woman you are now. Growing. Reaching. Refusing to disappear.

“I don’t want to choose,” you say quietly. “I don’t want this to be you or me.”

He looks at you for a long time. Then he nods slowly.

“Neither do I,” he says. “But something has to give.”

That night, you lie awake again but this time, the fear feels different.

Because for the first time, you realize that growth doesn’t just change you. It tests everything you grew from.

-

You really do believe things are getting better.

You start talking more. You stop swallowing things just to keep the peace. When you’re tired, you say it out loud instead of pretending you’re fine. When school overwhelms you, you tell Hyunjin instead of hiding behind a smile. You really try to bridge whatever invisible gap has opened between you but he doesn’t meet you halfway.

At first, you tell yourself it’s normal. He’s stressed. He works long hours. Maybe he just needs time to adjust, the same way you did. Maybe he feels neglected. Guilty thoughts pile up quickly, easily.

So you decide to prove, to him and to yourself that you can still choose them.

The exam is looming, heavy and unavoidable, but you push it aside. You tell yourself one night off won’t ruin everything. Family matters more. Marriage matters more. You’ll make it up later.

When Hyunjin comes home that evening, you’re already dressed, keys in hand, Aerin bouncing excitedly beside you.

“Hey,” you say lightly. “How about ice cream before dinner? Like a little family thing.”

Aerin’s face lights up instantly. “Ice cream? Daddy, please!”

She tugs at his arm, small hands wrapped around his sleeve, eyes bright with hope.

Hyunjin barely looks at her.

“I’m tired,” he says, voice flat. “I’m going to bed.”

You blink. “I can drive. You don’t have to do anything.”

He shakes his head. “Just eat the ice cream we already have.”

You watch it happen in real time, the way Aerin’s excitement drains from her face, the way her shoulders slump just slightly. It’s subtle, but it hits you like a punch to the chest.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

Something twists inside you.

“Come on,” you say gently, forcing a smile. “We’ll go anyway. Just us.”

She brightens again, but not all the way. In the car, she chatters, legs swinging, eyes glued to the window. But every few minutes,

“Daddy come too?”

“Daddy coming later?”

“Daddy likes chocolate, right?”

You answer softly every time, making excuses that taste bitter in your mouth. When you get the ice cream, she eats happily enough, but you notice how she saves some, insisting on bringing it home “for Daddy.”

That night, after you tuck her in, you stand alone in the hallway longer than necessary, staring at her closed door, your chest aching with a quiet dread you can’t name yet. You tell yourself it’s just a rough week.

The second moment comes quietly, late at night.

You’re exhausted, stretched thin, but you miss him. You miss the closeness you used to share without thinking. You curl into his side, press a kiss to his jaw, your hand sliding down his stomach like it’s always done a thousand times before.

He stiffens immediately.

“Not tonight,” he says, grabbing your wrist. His grip isn’t rough but it’s firm enough to stop you. “I’m tired.”

“Oh,” you whisper. Embarrassment burns your face. “Okay.”

He rolls onto his side, turning his back to you, the distance between your bodies suddenly unbearable. You lie there staring at his shoulder blades, replaying the moment over and over, wondering what you did wrong. He’s been tired before. That’s never stopped him from wanting you. You don’t sleep much that night.

The third moment, the one you can’t explain away comes on a random afternoon while you’re doing laundry.

It’s mundane. Ordinary. You’re folding clothes automatically, mind half on flashcards, half on dinner plans. You lift one of his work shirts and freeze. Makeup on the collar. Not yours.

A faint smudge of foundation, darker than your shade. A streak of mascara. And there, almost mocking you a light dusting of glitter that catches under the kitchen light. Your hands start shaking so badly you have to set the shirt down.

You tell yourself there has to be an explanation. A coworker hugged him. A party at work. Something harmless. Something innocent but your stomach churns, instinct screaming louder than logic.

You wait until that night, until Aerin is asleep and the apartment is quiet. You hold the shirt in your hands like evidence you don’t want to believe exists.

“Hyunjin,” you say carefully. “Can you explain this?”

He looks at the shirt, then at you. His expression changes instantly hardening, defensive.

“What are you implying?” he snaps.

“I’m not implying anything,” you say, heart racing. “I just want to understand.”

“Understand what?” he says sharply. “That I work in an office? That people exist around me?”

“There’s makeup,” you say quietly. “And glitter.”

“So?” he scoffs. “What, now you’re checking my clothes?”

The way he turns it on you makes your chest ache.

“I just asked a question,” you say, voice trembling despite your effort to stay calm.

“You’re being paranoid,” he says flatly. “You’re stressed. You’re tired. You’re imagining things.”

The word hits hard. Imagining.

“You’re making me feel like I’m crazy,” you whisper.

He throws his hands up. “I’m not doing this. You’re seeing things because you want to.”

He walks away, leaving you standing there with the shirt clutched in your hands, your reality suddenly feeling unstable beneath your feet.

That night, you lie awake again but this time, the fear is sharp and undeniable. Because it’s not just distance anymore. It’s secrecy. Deflection. A coldness that doesn’t match the man you married, the father who once couldn’t wait to come home to you both.

And for the first time, a thought slips into your mind that you don’t want to name. Something is wrong. And no matter how much you want to fix it, you’re no longer sure you’re the one breaking things.

—

It doesn’t happen all at once.

You don’t wake up one morning and decide to fall apart.

It’s quieter than that. Slower. More humiliating.

You miss an alarm one day. Just one. Aerin still gets to school on time, but breakfast is rushed and you forget the little note you always slip into her lunchbox. The next day, you forget to move the laundry from the washer. Then you forget an assignment deadline. Then you stop opening your textbooks altogether, because every time you do, your chest tightens so badly you feel like you can’t breathe.

Your routines unravel the same way your thoughts do silently, privately, while everyone else assumes you’re still holding it together.

You’re not.

You sit in lectures and stare at the board without absorbing anything. Words blur together. Your pen stays still while everyone else scribbles notes. You reread the same sentence ten times and still don’t know what it says. Your mind is always somewhere else on Hyunjin’s distance, on that makeup stained collar, on the way he no longer reaches for you without thinking.

You start dreading coming home just as much as you dread leaving.

Hyunjin notices you’re quieter, but he doesn’t ask why. Aerin notices too, curling closer to you on the couch, small arms wrapping around your waist like she’s trying to anchor you in place.

“Mommy sad?” she asks one night, eyes big and worried.

You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. “Just tired, baby.”

You hate lying to her.

The guilt eats at you. Guilt for slacking in school after fighting so hard to get there. Guilt for not being present enough. Guilt for being too present, too watchful, too desperate for signs that you’re wrong about him.

Eventually, the pressure becomes unbearable.

You choose a day when Aerin is at school. When the apartment is quiet and there are no distractions, no excuses. Hyunjin is home, working a late shift that evening, still in casual clothes, sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through his phone. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Hyunjin,” you say.

He looks up, distracted. “Yeah?”

“We need to talk.”

Something in your tone must tip him off, because he straightens slightly. “About what?”

You sit across from him, hands clasped tightly in your lap. Your fingers feel numb.

“I can’t concentrate anymore,” you say. “I can’t sleep. I can barely think. And it’s because I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

He sighs, already defensive. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because I’m falling apart,” you say quietly. “And I need the truth.”

He scoffs softly, shaking his head. “Why the hell are you bringing this up now?”

“Because I feel like I’m losing my mind,” you snap, voice breaking. “Because I found makeup on your clothes. Because you won’t touch me. Because you won’t look at me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says sharply.

“Then tell me that,” you plead. “Tell me you’re not seeing someone else.”

The words hang between you.

He doesn’t answer.

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him, waiting. Seconds stretch into something unbearable. He looks away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the table.

“Hyunjin,” you say again, more desperately now. “Please.”

He closes his eyes.

“You’ve been distant,” he says finally. “Ever since you started school. You barely look at me anymore.”

The words feel like a slap.

“Are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, disbelief flooding your voice. “After everything I’ve done to try and keep us together?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Who is it?” you interrupt. Your voice is shaking now. “Just tell me who it is.”

“No one,” he says quickly. “I didn’t cheat.”

You laugh weakly, because the alternative is screaming. “You’re still lying.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, voice rising. “I didn’t cheat.”

“Then why are you acting so guilty?” you say, tears burning behind your eyes. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He opens his mouth to respond and stops.

That’s when he notices.

Your vision is blurred. Your chest hurts. Something hot slides down your cheek, then another. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you lift a hand and feel wetness on your skin.

Hyunjin freezes.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You’re crying.”

That makes it worse.

“I didn’t cheat,” he says again, slower this time. “I swear.”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now. “Something happened. I know it did. I just need you to be honest with me.”

He swallows hard.

“I went out for drinks,” he admits. “With coworkers.”

Your heart sinks, but you stay silent.

“One of them.. Chaein, she got handsy,” he continues, voice tight. “And I didn’t stop her.”

Your chest caves in.

“She kissed me,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t pull away. That’s it. I swear.”

You knew something had happened. You did. But hearing it, hearing it said out loud hurts twice as much. Like confirmation makes the pain real in a way suspicion never could.

You stare at him, tears streaming down your face, hands shaking.

“Are you still seeing her?” you ask.

He hesitates. Just for a second but it’s enough.

He opens his mouth, probably ready to lie again, and something in you snaps.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Don’t lie to me again. Please.”

He looks at you like he’s cornered.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “But it’s not physical. I promise. We just… talk.”

The words feel sharp, slicing straight through you.

“She listens,” he adds, almost defensively. “And you and I—we don’t do that anymore.”

Your heart doesn’t just break, It shatters.

You sit there in silence, staring at the man you married at nineteen, the man who once built a crib with his own hands, the man who promised to protect you. You feel like the ground has disappeared beneath your feet.

“I talk to you,” you whisper.

“Not like before,” he says, regret flickering across his face now. “You’re always tired. Always busy. Always somewhere else.”

You press a hand to your mouth, a sob escaping despite your effort to stay quiet.

“I fought so hard not to lose myself,” you say through tears. “And you let me lose us instead.”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t.

You realize then sitting in that kitchen, crying so hard your chest aches that the hardest part isn’t the kiss. It’s the fact that when he felt lonely, he didn’t come to you.

And suddenly, everything you’ve been holding together school, marriage, identity feels like it’s slipping through your fingers all at once.

The silence after his confession is unbearable. You can’t even look at him anymore. Your hands are clenched so tightly in your lap they ache, nails biting into your skin, grounding you in the only way you know how. Your chest feels hollow, like something vital has been scooped out and you’re still expected to function as if nothing happened.

“So,” you whisper finally. Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. “You didn’t cheat… but you’re emotionally with someone else.”

He flinches at the wording.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says quickly. “It just—”

“It just did,” you finish for him, bitter. “Like everything else in my life.”

He reaches out, instinctively, like he wants to touch you. You pull back before his hand can even reach your arm. The rejection flashes across his face, and for once, you don’t soften it. You can’t.

“How long?” you ask.

He hesitates again.

Your stomach twists. “How long, Hyunjin.”

“A few weeks,” he admits. “Maybe a month.”

A month. A month of distance. A month of late nights. A month of him turning away from you in bed. A month of you crying quietly, convincing yourself you were paranoid.

“Does she know about me?” you ask.

He nods. “She knows I’m married. She knows about Aerin.”

Something inside you breaks at that.

“And she still listens?” you murmur. “Still talks to you. Still lets you complain about your wife while knowing you have a child at home?”

He looks ashamed now. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I never complained about you,” he says. “Not like that.”

“But you talked about us,” you say. “About what we don’t do anymore.”

He doesn’t deny it. You push back your chair and stand, legs shaky. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too tight, like the walls are closing in.

“I gave up everything for this family,” you say, voice trembling despite your effort to stay composed. “I gave up my youth. My freedom. My choices. And when I finally tried to take one thing back for myself, you replaced me.”

“That’s not what I did,” he says urgently, standing too. “I never replaced you.”

“Then why am I the one standing here alone?” you snap, tears spilling over again. “Why does she get the version of you that talks and listens while I get whatever scraps you have left?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it. His shoulders slump.

“I felt invisible,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it without sounding selfish.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Invisible? I built my entire life around making sure you and Aerin were okay.”

“I know,” he says. “And that’s the problem. Everything changed.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “It did. And instead of growing with me, you stepped outside of us.”

The realization settles heavy in your chest. this didn’t happen because you went to school. It happened because neither of you knew how to survive change without losing each other.

“I need space,” you say suddenly.

His head snaps up. “What?”

“I can’t look at you right now,” you say honestly. “I can’t pretend this didn’t happen and then go pick up our daughter and smile like everything’s fine.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice. “Are you leaving?”

You shake your head weakly. “I don’t know. I just know I can’t do this today.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Aerin—”

“I know,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t you dare use her to keep me from breathing.”

That shuts him up. You grab your bag, your keys, your movements mechanical. At the door, you pause, not because you want to look back, but because your body remembers years of turning toward him automatically.

“Are you still talking to her?” you ask quietly.

He swallows. “I can stop.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

Your heart cracks open all over again.

“Then stop,” you say, voice flat. “If you want even a chance at fixing this, you stop. Now. Not later. Not gradually.”

He nods quickly. “I will. I swear.”

You don’t say I believe you. Because right now, you don’t know if you can.

The drive to pick up Aerin is a blur. You grip the steering wheel so hard your hands hurt, focusing on the road because if you don’t, you might break down completely. When you see her running toward you at pickup, backpack bouncing, smile wide and trusting, it almost undoes you.

“Mommy!” she calls.

You crouch down, open your arms, let her crash into you. You bury your face in her hair and breathe her in like oxygen.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Did you have a good day?”

She nods enthusiastically, completely unaware that her world is shifting in ways she can’t see.

At home, you go through the motions. Dinner. Bath. Storytime. You laugh at the right moments. You tuck her in, kiss her forehead, hold her hand until she drifts off to sleep. And then, finally, you allow yourself to fall apart.

You curl up on your side of the bed, clutching a pillow to your chest, sobbing silently into the fabric so no one hears you. Your mind replays everything the kiss, the conversations, the way he chose someone else to listen to him.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You don’t know if your marriage will survive this. All you know is that loving him used to feel like safety. And now, it feels like standing on broken glass, wondering how much more you can bleed before there’s nothing left.

You wake up to sounds that don’t belong to him.

At least, not like this. There’s the quiet clink of dishes, the low hum of the kettle, the soft rustle of lunch bags being opened and closed. For a moment, still half asleep, your body reacts on instinct. You think I need to get up, think I’m late, think Aerin. Then you remember. Everything comes rushing back all at once, heavy and suffocating. Your chest tightens before you even open your eyes. When you do, Hyunjin’s side of the bed is empty. Cold.

You sit up slowly, your head pounding, your throat raw from crying the night before. The apartment smells like toast and coffee. Normal. Domestic. Like nothing is wrong.That almost makes it worse.

You drag yourself out of bed and move down the hallway, feet quiet against the floor. Hyunjin is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp like he showered early. He’s packing Aerin’s lunch, cutting fruit the way you always do, folding the napkin just so.

For a split second, a sharp, bitter thought flashes through your mind.

He knows exactly how to do this. He’s always known.

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him. You turn away before he can catch your eye and go straight to Aerin’s room.

“Good morning, baby,” you say softly, sitting on the edge of her bed.

She groans, rolling onto her stomach. “Morning…”

You brush her hair back gently, focusing on the familiar rhythm of caring for her. This is safe. This you can do without thinking.

Hyunjin lingers in the doorway, watching. You can feel his presence like pressure against your back, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You talk to Aerin instead about her day, about what she wants to wear, about how she slept. You laugh when she makes a silly face, even though it feels forced.

You keep your world very small. Very contained.

By the time Aerin is dressed and brushing her teeth, you’re out of distractions. Hyunjin steps closer. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple before you can dodge it.

Your body goes stiff immediately.

“I made breakfast,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of startling you. He sets a plate in front of you at the table fruit, toast, eggs.

“I’m not hungry,” you say flatly.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he replies. “You have a long day. Please.”

The word please hits differently now. It doesn’t soften you. It just reminds you how late it is.

You sit down anyway, more out of obligation than desire. You poke at the fruit with your fork, moving pieces around without actually eating them. Your stomach twists, not with hunger, but with resentment.

Aerin finishes her breakfast and hops down from her chair. “Mommy, I’m done!”

You look up at her immediately. “Okay, baby. Grab your backpack.”

Hyunjin reaches for your hand then slow, hesitant, like he knows you might pull away.

You do. Instantly. Your hand snaps back into your lap like you’ve been burned. The hurt flashes across his face, quick and unguarded. For once, you don’t feel guilty about it.

You clear your throat, standing. “I have to go drop off Aerin.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I can drive—”

“I’ve got it,” you say, firmer than you mean to, but you don’t take it back.

You help Aerin with her shoes, grab the keys, your movements efficient and distant. At the door, Hyunjin speaks again.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly.

You pause but you don’t turn around.

“I see that,” you reply just as quietly. “But this isn’t something you fix by waking up early and packing lunches.”

The words hang there, heavy and final.

Aerin grabs your hand, warm and trusting. You squeeze back gently and step outside, the door clicking shut behind you.

In the car, Aerin hums along to the radio like she always does. The morning sun filters through the windshield, casting everything in a soft, ordinary light. And you realize something that makes your chest ache even more. You can still do this. You can still be her mom. You can still keep moving. But forgiving him? That’s not something you know how to wake up and do.

-

You dread the drive home the entire way back from campus. Your hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, mind spiraling in circles you can’t seem to break out of. Part of you wants to keep driving, past your exit, past familiar streets, anywhere that isn’t that apartment filled with memories and half truths. You imagine circling the city until it’s time to pick up Aerin, pretending this pause means nothing, pretending you don’t feel like your chest is caving in But you go home anyway because this is still your life. Because running won’t fix what’s already broken.

The apartment is quiet when you walk in, too quiet. Your bag slides off your shoulder and lands softly by the door. You barely have time to breathe before Hyunjin appears from the hallway like he’s been waiting, like he’s been counting seconds.

“There you are,” he says, relief flickering across his face.

It makes something ugly twist in your stomach. He walks toward you immediately, hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to touch you anymore. You step back before he gets close enough.

“I have schoolwork to do,” you say, already turning away.

“Can we just—” He reaches out, then stops himself. “Can we talk for one moment?”

You sigh, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “About what, Hyunjin?”

He swallows. “About… us. About what happens now.”

You stop walking. You turn slowly to face him, your expression empty. “What should happen now is that you blocked her yesterday.”

His breath hitches. The silence that follows is answer enough.

You stare at him, something cold spreading through your chest. “You didn’t.”

“I was going to,” he says quickly. “I just—”

“Just what?” you ask, incredulous. “Forgot? Got distracted? Decided it could wait?”

He doesn’t answer. That’s when something inside you finally settles not with peace, but with clarity.

“There’s no point,” you say quietly. “There’s no point in us pretending anymore.”

His eyes widen. “What are you saying?”

You step past him and sit down at the table, suddenly very calm. “You should go.”

He freezes. “Go… where?”

“Anywhere but here,” you reply. “Because I can’t live like this. I can’t wake up next to you and wonder if you’re still choosing her every time I turn my back.”

He watches you stand again, panic creeping into his features. “I love you,” he says quickly, desperately. “I love you so much it hurts.”

You spin around instantly, the words slicing through whatever restraint you had left.

“If you really loved me,” you say, voice sharp and shaking, “you would’ve pushed her away the second she touched you. You would’ve stopped this before it ever got here. You didn’t.”

He opens his mouth and closes it.

You take a step closer, tears burning but not falling. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now. Not when you chose to let someone else in.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes glassy. He looks like he’s drowning, like he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers.

“But you did,” you say. “And you’re still doing it.”

You turn away again, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “I want you to leave.”

He follows you a step. “I’m not leaving Aerin.”

You face him again, exhausted. “You’re not. You’re welcome to come see her every day. You can pick her up, take her out, be her dad. I would never take that from her.”

He looks relieved for half a second, until you keep going.

“But continuing like this,” you say, gesturing around the apartment, “sleeping under the same roof, acting like yesterday didn’t shatter everything? It makes me sick. I can’t do it.”

The words feel final as they leave your mouth.

“I won’t pretend for comfort,” you add. “Not anymore.”

He swallows hard, throat bobbing. His shoulders sag like the weight of it all is finally pressing down on him.

“Please,” he says softly. “Just… give me time.”

“I gave you time,” you reply. “And you used it to stay connected to her.”

Silence settles between you again, thick and irreversible. He looks around the apartment, at the couch where you once sat together, at the hallway leading to Aerin’s room, at the life you built too young and tried too hard to save.

Then he nods once. Slowly.

“I’ll pack a bag,” he says hoarsely.

You don’t answer. Because if you do, you might beg him to stay for all the wrong reasons.

-

Hyunjin leaves that day. The door closes softly behind him, no shouting, no slammed walls just the quiet finality of a choice that can’t be undone. The sound echoes through the apartment long after he’s gone, settling into the corners like a ghost you can’t chase away. You cry the entire day.

Not the kind of crying that comes in waves and then eases, but the kind that hollows you out from the inside. You cry in the shower with the water scalding your skin. You cry on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled to your chest. You cry into a pillow so Aerin won’t hear you when she comes home. And when she does come home, you wipe your face, steady your voice, and become someone else.

You smile. You ask about her day. You make dinner. You pretend.

Everyone around you thinks you’re handling it well. They say you’re strong. Resilient. Brave. You nod and thank them, because correcting them would require energy you don’t have.

Inside, you’re breaking in places no one can see.

Somehow, impossibly, you finish school.

There are days you don’t remember how you made it through, only that you did. You sit exams with your heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the material. You write papers with tears blurring the screen. You walk across campus feeling like a shadow of the woman who once felt so alive there.

But you finish. And when you do, you don’t celebrate. You don’t feel triumphant. You just feel relieved like you’ve been holding your breath for months and can finally let it out.

You get a job almost immediately after. Flexible hours. Kind management. Close to Aerin’s school, like the universe is throwing you a lifeline just when you’re too tired to ask for one.

You’re good at it. Better than you expect to be.

Life settles into something new, not easy, but manageable.

Hyunjin lives on his own now. A small place. Quiet but he shows up. He always shows up for Aerin. School pickups when you can’t make it. Parent events. Performances. Meetings. You two communicate politely, efficiently. Almost like coworkers who share the most important project of their lives. You never talk about us.

And yet, you still love him.

You hate that part of yourself. You wish it would shut up, disappear, harden the way everyone says it eventually does. But part of you truly believes you’ll never move on. That first love, the kind forged in fear and youth and shared responsibility doesn’t just vanish.

He still loves you too. You see it in the way his eyes linger. In the way his voice softens when he talks to you. In the way he never crosses certain lines, never brings anyone around Aerin.

You think maybe… maybe this is just how it will be. Broken, but respectful. Painful, but survivable.

Then you find out about her. You weren’t supposed to.

You would never normally go to his place. You know where he lives, of course, but you’ve kept that boundary firm. For your own sanity. For your dignity. You don’t need to see how he lives without you.

But it’s your first day at work. Your shift runs late. Hyunjin is picking up Aerin from school so she can stay the night at his place, and you need to drop off her overnight bag. Just a quick stop. In and out.

You stand outside his door for a moment longer than necessary, adjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder, steadying yourself. You knock.

The door opens.

And it’s not Hyunjin. It’s a woman.

She’s pretty, effortlessly so. Slim, soft features, hair loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing nothing but one of his shirts, oversized on her frame, the hem brushing her bare thighs. Her expression shifts from confusion to something curious as she looks at you.

Your heart drops so hard you feel dizzy.

“I—” You step back immediately, instinct screaming at you to leave. “Sorry. Wrong—”

Behind her, you hear his voice.

“Who is it?”

And then he sees you. His face drains of color.

“Wait,” he says urgently, already moving past her. “Hey—wait.”

You don’t. You shove Aerin’s bag toward him when he reaches you, the movement sharp and unsteady. He grabs it automatically, panic flooding his features.

“She’s just a friend,” he blurts out. “It’s not—”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “What friend wears nothing but your clothes?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You feel something cold settle in your chest not shock, not even anger anymore just confirmation.

“I hope,” you say quietly, voice shaking despite your effort to stay composed, “that she hasn’t met Aerin.”

His eyes widen. “She hasn’t. I swear. I would never—”

“Good,” you cut in. “Because I don’t want her to.”

The words come out harsher than you mean, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. This is the one boundary you refuse to let blur.

You take a step back, already turning away. Your hands are trembling now, your throat burning.

“Good luck,” you say flatly, not looking at him. “I really hope this… whatever you think this is… doesn’t hurt her too.”

And then you walk away. You don’t look back. You don’t give him the chance to explain, to soften it, to make excuses that will only sink deeper into your skin.

You get into your car, close the door, and sit there gripping the steering wheel while your chest caves in all over again.

Because seeing her, that her does something you didn’t expect. It doesn’t just hurt. It makes you realize that loving him was never the problem.

Trusting him was.

And no matter how much part of you still aches for the boy you married at nineteen, the man who once built a crib with his own hands, that version of him is gone. And you finally understand that moving on isn’t about stopping yourself from loving him. It’s about choosing yourself anyway.

You can’t even think about how nervous you are.

Your mind won’t let you.

It’s still back there, standing in a hallway that isn’t yours anymore, staring at a woman wearing his shirt like it belongs to her. Every thought feels scrambled, layered over each other until you can’t separate what hurts from what scares you. Your hands won’t stop trembling. Even breathing feels uneven, like your body forgot how to do it smoothly.

You were good. You were.

You remind yourself of that as you sit in your car for a moment longer than necessary, fingers gripping the steering wheel. You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t. You were the one who told him to leave. You were the one who drew the line. He’s allowed to move on, even if it feels impossibly fast, even if seeing proof of it makes your stomach churn.

Still, something about her standing there, barefoot and comfortable in his space, makes you feel sick in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Your eyes burn. Your throat tightens.

You could cry. You want to cry. Let it all spill out until there’s nothing left inside you. But instead, you open the car door.

You straighten your shoulders. You wipe under your eyes. You remind yourself this job is yours. You earned it. You fought for this future while everything else was falling apart.

You don’t get to lose it on day one.

Inside, the hospital is busy, bright lights, overlapping voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic and coffee. It’s overwhelming in a way that has nothing to do with school. This is real now. This is responsibility with faces and names and consequences. You try to smile. It doesn’t last.

It turns into that practiced, hollow version you’ve perfected over the past year, the one that looks fine if no one looks too closely. You introduce yourself at the desk, your voice steady even though your chest feels like it’s vibrating.

“I’m supposed to be training today,” you say. “With… Seungmin?”

One of the nurses barely looks up and cocks her head. “He’s around. Ask Mina.”

You turn and spot her immediately moving fast, hair pulled back, clipboard tucked under one arm as she weaves between rooms like she knows this place by heart. You hesitate, then approach.

“Hi,” you say softly. “I’m looking for Seungmin.”

She stops, looks you over, and smiles warm, genuine. “You must be the new nurse.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m—”

Before you can finish, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “Just so you know—Seungmin can be… a lot.”

Your stomach tightens. She gives you a quick, reassuring look. “I’m not saying that to scare you. He’s good at what he does. Just tense. Really high standards. People have quit because of him before.”

Your heart sinks a little.

“But,” she adds quickly, squeezing your arm lightly, “don’t let it get to you. If you need help, you come to me. Okay?”

You nod, grateful for the kindness more than you can express. “Thank you. I’m y/n.”

“Mina,” she replies. “You’ll fit right in.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the noise.

“Where the hell is the new nurse I’m supposed to be training?”

You freeze. The voice is sharp, impatient, already annoyed. Mina turns calmly and points straight at you. “Right here.”

Your throat goes dry.

You force yourself to smile as he approaches tall, brisk, eyes already scanning you like you’re another task on his list. He looks tired. Wound tight. The kind of person who doesn’t slow down for anyone.

He sighs when he reaches you, glancing at the clock. “You’re late.”

“I—” You swallow. “I’m not. I checked in—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts in. “Follow me.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away.

No introduction. No welcome. No explanation.

You scramble to keep up, heart racing as you fall into step behind him. His pace is relentless. He talks while walking, rattling off information like you’re supposed to absorb it all at once.

“Supply room’s down there. Med cart keys stay on you at all times. Crash cart’s here—don’t touch it unless you know exactly what you’re doing. Break room’s useless if you actually want to sit down.”

You try to keep up, nodding, mentally repeating everything so it doesn’t disappear the second he moves on to the next thing. But your head is still foggy, emotions lagging behind you like dead weight.

Your feet ache already. Your chest feels tight. You miss half of what he says and hate yourself for it.

“This isn’t school,” he says abruptly, glancing back at you. “You mess up here, people don’t get second chances. Understand?”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “I understand.”

He studies you for a split second, then turns away again. “Good.”

You trail after him, struggling to match his pace, realizing with a sinking feeling that today isn’t just going to be rough.

It’s going to test everything you have left.

And as you follow him down another long hallway, heart pounding, you think bitterly that maybe this is exactly what you deserve, a day so demanding you don’t have time to think about the man who broke your heart before you even clocked in.

//

masterlist.

a/n: it’s been a while..? 😅 sorry for anyone who has been waiting for empty words. this fic will replace empty words.

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @euphysia @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon @geni-627 @enhacolor @lunaspov @a2dkive @jisuperboard @hyujim @linogatinho @puppymsworld @blablamerra @alondra6011 @you-dont-know-my-name @rylea08 @luvbangchan @chezzeballs300 @luvbangchan @astrophia13 @bemyaehiweloveskz @luvvvivi @mrsbbg @moon-1307 @chaoticancer @iwannabang-chan @kaybeerrosa @elenas-kaleidoscope @nightmarenyxx @pinklasagna04 @minnieewon @rianzysworld @seungminimpossible @imnota-bot-iswear @smiileflower @imelteverytimeihearminniesing @hyunnnieeeeee @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @sillylittlecat1 @maddy24207 @inmyfelixera @senaenabear lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[humpster35]

This is what me and @nickssidewitch were talking about.

Matt truly is(in my own opinion) the most dominant triplet.

-He’s very assertive and clear on what needs to be done

-I think his hits are the hardest out of all of his brothers, I mean it’s been many clips and talks of how hard Matt hits

-His tone of voice. That’s what always gets people in the end, just bc he’s using a more softer and alluring voice does not mean that Matt is docile. In fact it’s quite the opposite—sort of like a predator luring its prey(pls i’m sorry if that’s cringe)

-He is the middle man. I literally used this as a nickname for him on my tiktok but Matthew is in the middle so it is his job to keep the youngest and oldest in line

-If Matt wants you to hurt(in a good way) you’ll hurt.

tag list🛌

@bernardmatthews @beardedbernard @bluestriips @billieslittlecumslut @bernardsbendystraws @passionfruitchris @fawnquette @delilahsturniolo @definitelynotdomanique @pair-of-pantaloons @heartsonlyforchris @hannahsturniolo @chrissonnyangel @chrissleftshoe @chrisbratt333 @chrisowenmuncher @mattsgirl23 @matthewssangel @mattsweethart @mattsweethart @mattsweethrt @mattspillowprincess @eeyoresturnz @ellbowmacaroni @sturnblrwhore @salaciousxsturniolo @seeing-stars-today @stvni0l0 @sturnsbambi @sturniolofruitloop @sturnslutz @carsonspepsi

[angelicsharkavenue]

Love Me Dead — Masterlist

Jock!Wooyoung x Mean Girl!Reader x Yandere!Soobin

Synopsis : Soobin, a victim of your bullying, becomes absolutely infatuated with you and your sporty boyfriend

Content & Trigger Warnings : Yandere & stalker themes (Invasion of privacy, typical voyeurism, future violence and gore described, stolen items, overall obsessive tendencies, etc) Mature themes & dark content in general (Smut scenes, vulgar language, etc) Bullying (Reader bullies others) Eventual polyamorous relationship, internalized homophobia (On Soobin’s end) Probably inaccurate college experience because I haven’t gone

Proofreaders : @last-words-ofashootingstar @kg-reeves (Love you guys so much)

Chapter 1 (Not released yet, estimated release date is dec 20th)

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

CHRISTMAS IS COMING EARLY HHNGHGBDHHABS 😖😖

you guys soobin is such a pathetic pervert and wooyoung is soooooo wooyoung, and reader has so many layers to her character- (i am dragged away with a bag over my head so i don't spoil everything)

[hnykiss]

Pink Löded Diper

w lee donghyuck ! ｡𖦹‧₊˚✩彡

ballerina regina george reader x rodrick heffley haechan. basically they have some history... it's tense, mean, and borderline offensive.... until one of them breaks down pt. 1 of ? (this is for my 👽 anon ily pooks)

⋆˚࿔

[jwimura]

Within Us - N.RK & P. JS [teaser]

casting :: ni-ki x reader x jisung

synopsis :: trying to uncover the strange deaths happening in your city but all leads take you to the one place you swore you would never go back to again, will you finally unfold the mystery or will you be forced to make a choice.

tags :: reader is a journalist, murder mystery, thriller, gore, graphic descriptions of violence, reader is a skeptic, everyone is unhinged and needs therapy, riki has tattoos and piercings (alt baddie), jisung is a detective, crude humor, angst,

A/N: This idea has been brewing (rotting) in my brain for months and I am finally attempting to do it (pray for me), plot is subject to minor changes but otherwise I am determined to make this work (can you tell I am a perfectionist freak?). I will try my best to get this done before 2026 because the world (me) needs more jwimura!! Until then pls enjoy the suspense of waiting LOL (sorryyyy).

RELEASE DATE: TBA...[soon]

[baby-yongbok]

Between Us

⤷ Pairing - Han Jisung x afab!reader x Lee Minho • MDNI ⤷ WC - 3.3k ⤷ CW - mxm, oral (m rec.), light angst, cum eating, threesome, slight voyeurism

Things have been different since you came into the picture. Han hates it, but he doesn't hate you, right?

⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You're back, Han can hear it. The walls are too thin to keep a secret. Something that he hadn't noticed until Minho started dating you. 

It's been a few months, he didn't think it would last that long, didn't think it was anything more than a fling. But you're here. The sound of skin on skin is loud, almost dramatically so. Minho moans, then you. It's torture, but Han listens. He always does.

It's not that Han dislikes you or anything, he just hates what you took from him. He hates that when he comes home now, he sleeps in his own bed instead of crawling into Minho’s. It's not a secret, the two of them used to fuck. Loud, messy, deceptively platonic.

Then, you happened.

Since then, Han's been doing the only thing he could think of—sleeping around. One fling after another, anything to avoid sleeping in his own cold bed. The thing is, he can't finish. It means how it sounds; he can't fucking come. No matter how hot his hook ups are—girls, guys, rough or not—he can’t finish. Not once. Not unless he’s listening through the walls to you and Minho. That’s the closest he gets, and even then, it’s hollow.

Still, he listens, cock in one hand while the other covers his mouth. His eyes are closed, listening to every one of your moans and imagining it's his. Imagining that he's the one getting fucked through the mattress so good he can't breathe. He can still feel it, the heavy weight of Minho sinking in, the heat of being held down and turned out until he’s numb from pleasure.

Han bites back a moan, cock twitching in his fist. He hears you come, hears Minho grunt something he can't make out, then he comes too. Han finishes with him, hot over his fist and chest. He forgot to lift his shirt up, he doesn't care. 

It's quiet now, there’s a faint ring of laughter next door. Yours, light and airy. Minho's probably holding you, kissing your hair and whispering sweet jokes in your ear. All Han has is a mess to clean up.

Later, you're in the kitchen, helping Minho make dinner. Music low, a pot on low boil and water running. Han came for something to drink, it was supposed to be quick, but he's staring. He can't help it, it's like he burns every time he sees the two of you together, laughing and smiling like you're happy. 

He doesn't hate you. He just hates being miserable. 

“Hungry?” Minho turns to him. A casual look with a hint of a smirk from something you said moments prior. “Felt like being fancy for dinner. It's your favorite.”

Han could curse. He could actually rage from how that makes his heart twirl. He wants to say ‘how sweet’ and ‘how dare you’ in the same breath. 

“Yeah, I'm hungry.” then there's you—shorts on and hair pulled back in a perfect mess. You smile at Han, sneaking him a pinch of food and bringing it to his mouth. 

You whisper, “Don't tell on me. Min is bossy.” Han lets you feed him, let's your fingers brush his bottom lip. He sees you watching his mouth, sees the way your eyes sparkle when you smile. 

“Oh, I'm bossy? But you're the one with the strict onion cutting technique.” Then it's gone. The moment passes, the attention shifts. You're bickering with Minho again like Han isn't there. So he disappears. 

When dinner comes around, Minho texts Han just like he does every night. Han comes out a second later, heading to the kitchen to fix a plate. Just like he does every night.

“Made your plate already.” Minho calls from the corner that the two dare to call a dining room. A round table with four chairs. “Eat with us.”

Han freezes, eyes flicking back and forth. He'd be sitting next to you. You'd be between them. How ironic. 

It takes a moment, but Han sits. Quiet, a bit awkward, but he's here. You and Minho don't speak either. It's comfortable for the two of you, nothing out of place.

“You've been out a lot. Whatcha been up to?” Minho’s the first to break the silence, glancing up at Han for a quick second.

“Uhm, just running errands.” It's a lie. He knows Minho is asking about the hook ups. He wants to know if he's found someone new.

“At three in the morning?” You chuckle, something faint to match Minho’s smile. Han isn't laughing.

“Yeah. Business stuff.” It's quiet again, a beat passes, then Minho's steady voice comes in again. 

“You've been quiet. Distant, I wanted to check on you. We wanted to know if you're alright.”

He should've just hit him. That would've been easier to deal with than hearing Minho switch “I” to “we” in the same breath. Han's eyes flick over to yours, then back to Minho's. 

“I'm fine.” The boys stare at each other, no one's smiling anymore. 

“I know that you're not fine.” Han scoffs, setting his fork down with a dramatic clatter. “We just wanted to check on you.”

“I don't need you to check on me.” He pushes his chair back, the food forgotten, he just wants to get out of here.

“Han, we're just concerned. It's like you've been isolating yourself from us.” It's you. Your voice stops him before he can turn away completely. He looks at you, only at you.

“I especially don't need you to check on me.” Minho stands too, brows furrowed with a mix of anger and confusion. You're still looking at Han, staring like you're putting pieces together.

“Not cool, she's worried about you. What the hell is so wrong with that?”

“I don't need either of you to be worried. I'm not some charity case.” Han moves and Minho follows, three steps behind.

“Since when is caring a crime? Since when do you react like this to a simple question, Han?” It's stupid. It's ridiculous. It's completely and totally ridiculous how one touch from Minho could make Han spill months worth of feelings. 

Minho touches his shoulder, tries to keep him from leaving, tries to get him to talk to him—and he does. 

“Since she happened!” Han's pointing at you, voice raised somewhere close to yelling. “Since she came and we had to stop being us. Do you know how much it tortures me? Do you understand how pathetically thin our walls are? I hear everything. Every day, every night, like you're taunting me. Like you're both dangling this shit in my face.” Minho stands there, stunned, confused. 

“This is about sex?”

“No. No this isn't—fuck, yeah, okay? It is about sex. It's about you fucking the air from her lungs when I can't even—I can't…” it's quiet again, tense around the two of them. You can see it from where you sit, it's like they have a bubble around them. Their own world. You've always seen it but now you recognize it for what it is. 

“You can't what, Han?” Minho steps closer and Han avoids his gaze. He can't look at him and confess. That's too humiliating. 

“I can't finish. I can't come with anyone since we stopped. That's what I'm doing at 3am… coming home from another night of embarrassing sex. Then I hear you two and…”

Minho looks back at you like he wants to know if you heard that. You don't move, just stare back. Han shakes his head, tries to shake away the pressure building behind his eyes. Not tears, but something just as hot. 

“I shouldn't have said anything, I should’ve just…” he stops talking, he doesn't want to anymore. So, Minho picks up for him.

“You're telling me that you haven't been able to come with anyone since the last time we… it's been that long?” he tries to sound soft, almost like he's talking to a scared kitten. He knows Han. He knows that one wrong word, one wrong move, will scare him away. 

Han nods, quiet, eyes cast down in shame or something like it. Neither of them notice you standing now, stepping closer, careful not to pop the bubble. 

“You should've talked to me, man.” Han laughs, looks at Minho with a smile that only reaches his eyes out of petty amusement. 

“What would you have done? Helped me?”

“Yeah.” Minho says it like he's sure, that stops Han before he can even start again. “You don't know us.” Minho gestures towards you. You're just watching Han. 

“What does that…”

“We aren't…neither of us would mind if the other wanted to… branch out.” Minho takes a step closer, and now it feels too close.

“You're speaking in code, what the fuck does that… what're you talking about?” Han's getting frustrated. A different kind now, it's almost refreshing. 

“We aren't strictly monogamous. Not really, if one of us wanted to branch out… lend a helping hand, we'd talk about it.” You cut in, voice gentle. Han looks at you like you intruded but he's considering letting you stay. “I know that I interrupted what you and Minho had. What you still very clearly have, if you need him, I don't mind sharing him.”

The pressures back. It's a pathetic type of confusion this time. The type you feel when you understand something but desperately don't want to. Minho watches him, letting it sink in for a second before stepping a bit closer, then again. 

“I just want to be fair to you.” His voice is soft, Han looks at him.

“I don't want pity.”

“It's not pity.” Minho’s hand comes up, slow, so achingly slow, and cups Han's cheek. “It's just me.”

His breath hitches into something sharp. The touch, as ridiculous as it is, melts him. He's falling into it again. You watch, eyes darting between them, tracking every disappearing inch until finally, they close the distance. 

It's slow at first, like a reunion that pauses time just long enough for you to feel infinite. And then you start to burn. Han fists Minho's shirt at the shoulder. Grabbing to ground himself in what he never thought he'd feel again. 

Minho’s hand moves to the back of Han's neck, his other hand on his waist, pulling him flush like it's natural. 

You move, merging into them. A few slow steps and then your hand is on Minho’s other shoulder. He moans into Han's mouth, the kiss picks up, it's heavy now. Wet and deep, lips smacking and moans exchanged for space. 

Minho breaks it. “I think you should apologize.” he's talking to Han but he glances over at you. “For getting upset with her earlier.”

It's still, silent, a beat passes with you and Han just looking at each other. It's like he's trying to move past how he feels about you. He really doesn't hate you, but if he doesn't feel hate, what is this?

You open your mouth to speak, to say that he doesn't have to, but then he's on you. Han closes the distance, mouth on yours in an open mouth kiss. It's shy and unsure until you kiss him back—then he presses in.

“Fuck.” Minho hisses, letting go of Han enough to let you slip in closer. The kiss heats quickly, his tongue over yours, his chest turned towards yours. 

He's hard, hard as rock kissing his best friend's girlfriend. 

“Let us help you.” Minho whispers, leaning into the cross fire, peppering kisses over Han's jaw then yours. 

You don't know how, but the kiss splits three ways. Tongues tangling, lips wet and smacking anyone that they can touch. 

Your feet are a mess, stumbling back and forward now, moving toward something—the couch, a bedroom. You all make it to the wall.

“Need to hear you agree, Sungie.” Minho makes the younger melt. It's that nickname, the one he used to call him mid stroke just to tease him. “Tell us you want our help.”

He tries, his mouth opens but moans are all he can manage. You're kissing one side of his neck, Minho on the other. His hands are confused, balled into one shirt and grabbing an arm. He can't tell who, doesn't care.

“Let us hear you, Ji.” you whisper, he shudders.

“Yeah, please.” Minho smiles against his neck. “Please, I need to come.”

 “You will, baby.” Clothes are flying now, a horny college student grade montage of undressing. Han's shirt, then Minho's, the clanking of belt buckles. 

“Can I suck you off, Ji?” he shivers, looks at you with shiny eyes. “Don't worry about lasting, we have all night.”

Minho kisses the line of Han's jaw, “Her mouth is ridiculous.” he melts, leans into the touch and nods.

You sink down, taking his length from half undone jeans and stroking. He's hard, unbelievably hard. You twist your fist over the head, follow it with a kiss, he whimpers. Something small and desperate. 

When you slide him over your tongue, his knees buckle. Minho keeps him upright, keeps his mouth on his while you sink every leaky throbbing inch you can down your throat. 

“Isn't she godly?” Minho smiles against Han's mouth, forehead to forehead. He doesn't get an answer out of him, just a moan. 

“Tastes good.” You mumble, coming up for a second then running your tongue slowly up the pulsing vein. His cock jumps, red and angry. 

“Close?” You only get a nod, Minho laughs, sinking down to switch with you. 

“Let's see if I still know what you like.” When Minho's mouth wraps around Han's cock, the younger cries. Practically sobs. His hand is in his hair, hips bucking just once, he knows better. 

You let them have the moment, stripping yourself down to nothing.

“Hyung, h-hyu—ah ah” his face is red, hands balled into fists and hips fighting to stay in place. 

Minho hums around him, sucking him off so naturally that it makes you clench. You've thought about it, them, but you never knew it'd be like this. 

You blink and miss the moment Han breaks. His knees nearly buckle again, his moans turn high pitched and Minho's eyes shut with a sound you've never heard before. 

He's coming. 

Han's hips stutter, his mouth is dry, his ears ring. Minho doesn't stop. Not until he's swallowed every hot sticky drop and has Han squirming and grasping at his hair. He's already half hard again when Minho pulls back. 

“Guess I do.” Han can't breathe, not really. While he's relearning his lungs, Minho looks at you. He smiles, reading you like a book, “Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?”

You laugh, letting him pull you closer and kiss you. You taste Han on his lips, moan into it. “Let's give him another.”

You're shifting again, fast and clumsy, kissing one then the other. Han is dazed but smiling, blissful. 

Minho turns him around, Han's back to his front, slotting him between the two of you. 

“Can I fuck you, Sungie?” Minho nibbles at the youngers ear, kissing over the blooming red. He agrees before the question finishes. 

You and your boyfriend share a look, and then you're leaning forward, sucking his finger until they’re sloppy wet. 

Han moans when Minho spreads him, rims, pushes in.

“Hyung—fuck.” Minho's no better. You see his eyes roll back with the first thrust. 

“Pretty hole still fits me, doesn't it?” You kiss Han before he can moan, before he falls too far apart. "Hold on to the wall, baby." Han’s body follows the instructions quicker than his mind. 

Minho hooks a strong arm under Han's knee and holds it up. Han grips the wall for balance, his neck flushes at how exposed he feels.

“Breathe,” you whisper, peppering kisses down his neck, collarbones, chest. “You'll love it.”

You end up on your knees, kissing over his thighs. 

This is a sight to see—Minho behind a flushed and whiny Han, cock out and leaking. Han's leg up over his hyung’s arm, his cock angry with need. Then there's you, sitting pretty on your knees, cunt dripping and throbbing. 

“Let me in, okay?” Minho whispers, something just for him. Then he's pushing in.

"Ah—holy shit," Minho goes slow, letting Han's body do the work.

“It still remembers me.” Minho smiles against his neck, a broken groan escaping when he feels him clench. 

“Fucking full.” Han's gone, eyes closed. Head lulled back and cock jumping and full. 

When Minho makes it to the hilt, you lean in and take Han just the same, sliding him into your warm wet mouth. You hum, Han cries. A single tear. Maybe from pleasure, joy, some secret third thing. 

Minho moves, slow, letting him get used to feeling so much after months of nothing.

"What the fuck." Han whines, hips bucking once, twice, “what the fuck.what the fuck.what the fuck.”

“Like it?” Minho coos, a smile in his tone. He doesn't expect an answer and he isn't getting one. 

Han's being fucked from both ends. Each snap of Minho's hips fucks his cock further down your tight throat.

Han’s eyes cross, roll back, white out at the edges. He's dizzy, he's hot—he's close.

"That's it, baby." Minho rasps, his rhythm faltering with every clench. He can see you over Han's shoulder, lips stretched pretty over his best friend's cock. “God she's so fucking pretty with her mouth full.”

You moan, hand between slick thighs, rubbing at your swollen clit.

Jisung's legs actually give out this time. Minho's got him, pulling him closer, sinking deeper. 

"Fuckfuckfuck, hyung, hyung—" Han babbles, Minho fucks him harder, deeper, hitting spots that missed him. 

You're jerking him off now, two hands twisting over a full cock.

"Come for me and I'll come for you." Minho purrs, strokes flattering. “Fill this tight ass with everything I've got. Give it to us. Come on my girl.”

His moan is deafening. Practically a scream. Han's back bows, legs wobble. His cock spills hot and heavy over your face and chest, you catch some on your tongue. 

“Ah, that's so fucking—" Minho groans, coming right after. It's a heavy load, a tight fit, it makes Han squirt a little more.

The only sound is shallow breaths and whimpers. You swipe a finger through the mess on your cheek and suck it off, watching them take a moment to come back to earth. 

Minho pulls out slowly, wincing and sensitive. Han nearly collapses. He hasn’t said a word, can't. He just smiles, slow and lazy. 

You break the silence, “My turn?” Han blinks his eyes open, groaning at the sight of you sticky and covered in him. 

It's then that it hits him. He never hated you, never resented you— he wanted you too.

“Maybe Sungie will fuck you.” A beat passes, Minho watches, lets it happen—and then it does.

Han kneels with wobbly knees, his hands are shaking. He feels over your thighs, sides, pinches your tits. 

When he finally looks up, finally looks at you, one hand at the back of your neck—he kisses you. It's hard, deep and messy. He tastes himself and you moan. 

His other hand is between your legs, rubbing, working its way down and inside. You can hear Minho curse under his breath. You can feel Han's cock jump against your knee. 

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then licks over your cheek, tasting himself. He does it again and again, kissing and licking you clean. Sucking your messy pebbled nipples and marking your collar bones. 

It's clear now, every time he heard you two through the walls, he didn't want to be you—He wanted to be between you. 

“Wan’ me to fuck you?” His voice is rough, “Want your boyfriend to share you?”

You smile against Han's lips, licking clean a smear of come he missed. 

“He's our boyfriend now.”

⤷ a/n - I have been writing this on and off since May... MAY. This is like, version 4 of this fic. I hope you enjoyed!

this is a work of fiction and is not meant to reflect the real life relationships of the idols mentioned.

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[jichandesuu]

Warning!Nsfw audio

Seonghwa can’t keep his tongue in his mouth so he use it on you instead ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

ALLURE Masterlist

❥Park Seonghwa x fem reader x Kim Hongjoong

♫Allure Soundtrack♫

(>ᴗ•)♡´･ᴗ･`♡genre: yandere, smut, a/b/o. MINORS DNI.

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: general warnings include: forced soul bonding, werewolf hierarchy, ptsd, mental illness, ect ect

The Main Trilogy

Omega (Y/n) has to deal with the fact that two of the most wanted criminal alphas are a bit... obsessed with her.

Part One: Sunshine

Part Two: Knuckle Velvet

Part Three: Smoke

One-Offs

Scent of You

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

i love watching idols monitor themselves because not only does it show how passionate they are and motivated to give their best preformance-

but also because you're going to look at this and say it's not the same look he'd have while dominating you until you cry ?

[hanjist]

gonna take my clothes off in

3

2

1

[4linos]

ashes under the hood 1

mechanic!han jisung x f!reader

synopsis: years after a messy breakup with jisung, a mechanic who always chose his work and friends over you, you return to your hometown, a single mom to ara, the daughter he doesn’t know exists. you never planned to see him again, but fate has other ideas when your car breaks down outside his shop.

warnings: heavy angst, drama, hidden child, second chance romance, exes-to-lovers, small mentions of a character death.

wc: 18,884

part of nini’s 3k special event (requests closed)

You knew it was coming.
Maybe not tonight, maybe not like this, with your voice shaking in the too-small apartment you’d both called home for nearly two years, but it had been brewing for months. Like smoke curling under a locked door, the warning signs had been there, stifling and suffocating, and you had kept your eyes shut to it. Because loving him had always been easier than imagining a life without him.

But tonight you weren’t blind anymore. Tonight, your chest burned too much, your patience bled out too quickly, and Jisung… Jisung was leaning against the kitchen counter like he had every right to look that calm while your whole world splintered.

“You don’t get it,” you snapped, pacing back and forth because sitting still would mean giving in to the pressure in your chest, and you weren’t ready to fold. “You never get it, Jisung. I’m not asking for diamonds or trips or whatever shit you keep saying you’ll give me when the shop finally ‘takes off.’ I’m asking for you. Just you. For once.”

His jaw worked like he was grinding the words before they even left his mouth. “Don’t start with that again. You know I’m working my ass off. Everything I do is for us—”

“Us?” You barked out a laugh, bitter and sharp, like glass breaking. “There hasn’t been an us in months. There’s your job, your friends, your long nights at the bar after shifts. And then there’s me, waiting around like an idiot hoping you’ll come home before midnight.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t move. He just lit another cigarette from the crumpled pack on the counter, dragging in the smoke like it was a shield between the two of you. You hated it, hated how the smell clung to him, hated how it felt like he was already gone even when he was standing right there.

“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered, exhaling a cloud that blurred the lines of his face for a second.

That broke something in you. “Dramatic? You promised me we’d go to my sister’s engagement dinner last week, and what did you do? You went drinking with Minho and Chan. Again. And you didn’t even call. Do you know how fucking humiliating it was to sit there alone and make excuses for you? To say you were ‘working late’ when I knew damn well where you were?”

He didn’t look at you then. He just dragged his hand through his hair, messy and tired. And you knew that gesture too well, it meant he was walling up, building those invisible barricades he thought you couldn’t see through.

“I needed that night,” he said finally, voice flat. “The shop’s been killing me. Minho offered to buy a round, I—”

“You always ‘need’ those nights,” you cut in, your chest heaving. “And you always promise you’ll make it up to me. That you’ll take me out, that we’ll spend a day together, that you’ll be home early. But you don’t. You never do, Jisung. You break promise after promise and I’m supposed to keep smiling through it, pretending it doesn’t hurt?”

Something in him snapped then, though not in the way you wanted. His head whipped toward you, eyes flashing, and his voice came out louder than it had in weeks.

“What the hell do you want from me? You think it’s easy trying to build a life? You think I don’t feel like shit every time I see the bills pile up? You think I don’t notice the way you look at me like I’m already failing you?”

You froze, the words hitting hard and fast. But anger flared just as quickly. “Failing me? Jisung, I never cared about the money. I never cared that you weren’t rich, or that the shop wasn’t some glamorous job. I cared about being with you. About us actually mattering more than another night wasted on beer and bullshit with your friends. But you don’t even try anymore.”

For a second, you saw it, just the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the hesitation in his clenched fists. But then it was gone, buried under that wall of pride and exhaustion he wore like armor.

“I’m trying the only way I know how,” he said, quieter now but no softer. “I work. I fix cars until my hands bleed. I give everything I have so you don’t have to worry. But I guess that’s not enough for you.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast, because you refused to cry in front of him, not tonight. “No, Jisung. It’s not enough. Because you don’t let me in. You don’t talk to me, you don’t let me carry the weight with you. You’d rather run to them than to me. And maybe I was too blind to admit it before, but you don’t want me the way I want you.”

Silence stretched, heavy and unbearable. The hum of the fridge, the faint crackle of the cigarette, it was all too loud in the absence of his answer.

Finally, he said it, the words that felt like final nails in the coffin.
“Maybe we just want different things.”

You stared at him, waiting, hoping he’d take it back. That he’d reach for you, that he’d fight for what you were both losing. But he didn’t move. He just stubbed out the cigarette and looked away.

And that was it.
That was the moment you knew.

Your voice cracked as you whispered, “Then maybe we shouldn’t want each other at all.”

You grabbed your jacket, your hands shaking as you shoved your keys into your pocket, and walked out before he could see the tears finally spill over.

Behind you, the silence swallowed him whole.

You had left with your jacket, your keys, and your pride barely stitched together. And he hadn’t followed. That was the part that kept circling back, gnawing at you. Jisung didn’t run after you, didn’t call, didn’t even fight to stop you when you closed the door behind you.

If that wasn’t an answer, you didn’t know what was.

The first nights were brutal. You slept on your sister’s couch, staring at the ceiling until your eyes burned, replaying every second of the fight in your head, over and over. Your chest ached in a way that felt physical, like someone had carved you open and scooped everything out, leaving only the hollow sound of your heartbeat to echo in the emptiness.

You didn’t eat much. You didn’t talk much either. When your sister pressed you for details, you brushed her off with muttered excuses. She told you he was never good enough for you anyway, that you deserved better. And maybe she was right. Maybe. But the part of you that still loved him, the part that remembered the boy who used to hold your hand while driving nowhere at midnight, who used to kiss you like you were oxygen, couldn’t reconcile that with the man who let you walk away without a word.

And then came the test.
A small, plastic stick clutched in shaking hands, the bathroom light buzzing overhead.

You sat there on the edge of the tub, your knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the two pink lines that blurred and refocused through your tears. Positive. You’d known, deep down, long before you bought it. The fatigue, the nausea, the late nights crying when your body felt strange in ways you couldn’t explain, it all clicked now.

You pressed your hand against your stomach, breath hitching.
There was a part of him inside you. A part of you and him both, growing without his knowledge.

For one fleeting second, you imagined telling him. You imagined the way his face might soften, the way his hands might tremble as he reached for you. You imagined him changing, imagined him choosing you, choosing this, because he’d always wanted family, even when he didn’t admit it out loud.

But then the memory of that night rushed back. His voice, flat and tired, telling you maybe you just wanted different things. The cigarette stubbed out on the counter. The way he didn’t stop you when you left.

If you told him, it would chain you to him forever. And not the version of him you once loved, but the one who never showed up when it mattered, the one who chose everyone but you when you needed him most.

You weren’t sure which hurt more, the idea of raising a child alone, or the idea of raising it with someone who couldn’t love you the way you needed.

So you made the decision. Quietly, without fanfare. You wouldn’t tell him. You would protect this child from disappointment, from broken promises and lonely nights spent waiting by the door.

You’d protect yourself too, even if it meant carrying the weight of this secret for the rest of your life.

Leaving town wasn’t easy, but staying was impossible. Everywhere you turned, there were ghosts. The greasy smell of the auto shop that drifted down Main Street when the bay doors were open. The cracked sidewalk you’d walked side by side on, arguing about nothing, laughing until your stomach hurt. The tiny diner booth where he’d once slid you an extra fry from his plate like it was a treasure.

You couldn’t breathe there anymore.

So you packed. Slowly, carefully, folding your life into boxes that didn’t feel big enough to contain the weight of your memories. You found an apartment in a city two hours away, big enough for you and the baby you’d never planned for but already loved with a fierceness that frightened you.

When you loaded the last box into your sister’s car, you stood on the curb and looked back at the town you’d grown up in, the place where you’d loved and lost him. The air felt thick with ghosts, but also with finality.

You whispered goodbye, though you weren’t sure who you were saying it to, him, the life you once imagined, or the version of yourself who had believed love could be enough.

And then you got in the car.

In the months that followed, grief and hope wove themselves into your every day. You worked, you saved, you bought tiny clothes in soft colors and tucked them into drawers that still smelled like fresh paint. You learned to breathe again, even when it was hard.

And when your daughter was born, squalling and pink and perfect, you held her against your chest and cried harder than you ever had in your life.

“Ara,” you whispered, the name rolling off your tongue like a prayer. A piece of you. A piece of him. A piece of something new.

In that moment, you swore you’d never let her feel unwanted. You’d never let her doubt she was enough. And if that meant keeping her father’s name buried deep inside you like a wound that would never quite heal, then so be it.

Because this wasn’t about him anymore.
It was about her.

And she was everything.

The city didn’t love you at first.

It was loud, messy, and crowded in a way that felt alien after years of small-town quiet. The streets were always humming with noise, horns, chatter, the metallic groan of subway brakes and you felt like a ghost slipping between strangers who never looked you in the eye.

But anonymity was what you wanted. What you needed. A place where nobody knew your name, where you weren’t just “Jisung’s girl,” where no one could look at you with pitying eyes and whisper about the mechanic who broke your heart.

So you made it work.

The first apartment was tiny, with thin walls and a view of another brick building that blocked the light. But it was yours. Yours and Ara’s. You painted the walls soft cream and put cheap curtains up in pastel colors, trying to turn the boxy rooms into a home. You worked long hours at a bookstore café, breathing in the smell of paper and coffee while saving every extra tip in a jar labeled “tomorrow.”

Tomorrow meant diapers. Formula. Rent. Sometimes tomorrow meant maybe one day a bigger apartment, a yard, a life where Ara wouldn’t know how tight things really were.

Ara was your anchor. From the first moment you held her, with her tiny fists curling against your chest, you had known you could survive anything as long as she was with you. And you did. Through the sleepless nights, through the exhaustion that pressed on your bones, through the ache of missing him when you caught glimpses of fathers holding their daughters’ hands on crowded sidewalks, you survived.

You learned the rhythm of it all. Waking before dawn to feed her, whispering lullabies into the soft darkness while the city outside never truly slept. Rushing to daycare before your shift, juggling grocery bags on the way home, eating ramen at the kitchen table while Ara babbled nonsense words in her high chair.

Some days were harder than others. There were moments when you’d find yourself staring at her face, at the way her lashes brushed her cheeks when she slept, and your chest would tighten because you saw him there. Not fully, not in ways anyone else would notice, but in her half-smile, in the way her brow furrowed even as a toddler when she was concentrating.

And sometimes, when Ara laughed, loud and unrestrained, the kind of sound that filled every corner of the room, you could almost hear him. The echo of Jisung’s laugh in hers, like some cruel reminder that no matter how far you’d run, part of him had followed.

You hated yourself for it. For missing him, for wondering if he would have loved her the way you did. You’d chosen not to tell him, and some nights you questioned that decision, lying awake with Ara asleep beside you, her small hand gripping your shirt as though she knew you needed grounding. Would he have changed, if he knew? Would he have fought for you, for her?

But then you remembered the boy who had chosen his friends over you, the man who hadn’t run after you when you walked away. You remembered the way promises had crumbled in his mouth. And you told yourself you had made the right choice. You had to believe it. For Ara’s sake, if not for your own.

Years passed that way. Slowly, steadily, a rhythm that became routine. Ara grew, and with her, so did you. She learned her first words, her first steps. She went from clumsy toddler to bright-eyed little girl, chasing pigeons across city parks and coloring the walls when you turned your back. She loved stories, especially the ones you made up on the fly, and sometimes she’d fall asleep in your lap with a book half-open in her tiny hands.

On her fifth birthday, you threw her a party in the park. Nothing fancy, just cupcakes, balloons, a handful of kids from daycare, but the way her eyes lit up made every sacrifice worth it.

“You’re the best, Mommy,” she said, hugging you so tightly your chest ached.

In that moment, you believed it.

And yet, no matter how far you’d come, the past lingered. Sometimes in the quiet, when Ara was asleep and the apartment was dark, you’d catch yourself reaching for your phone, tempted to look him up. To see if he was still in town, if he was still fixing cars, if he was still the boy who broke your heart or if time had shaped him into someone else.

But you never pressed send. You never searched. You told yourself you were stronger than that, that you’d built something on your own and you didn’t need him.

It was easier to pretend you’d left him behind completely than to admit the truth: that part of you was still tethered to him, no matter how much distance you put in between.

The city had become a kind of armor for you. Its chaos gave you cover, its size gave you safety. But when the phone call came, when your sister’s voice cracked as she told you your mother was gone, the armor shattered.

Suddenly, you weren’t a stranger in the city anymore, you were a daughter who had to go home.

And with that came the inevitability you’d spent years trying to outrun.

Because home wasn’t just your mother’s house. It wasn’t just grief and inheritance and old memories. Home was where Jisung still lived.

And fate, cruel as ever, was waiting for you both.

-

You hadn’t driven those roads in years.

The highway stretched out before you like a thread leading back to a version of yourself you weren’t sure you wanted to face. Each passing mile felt heavier, like the weight of the past was crawling into the backseat with you, settling between the suitcases and bags stuffed with Ara’s toys.

Ara was humming softly beside you, her small voice weaving through the low music from the car speakers. Her head bobbed as she played with the stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin from years of being loved too hard.

“Are we almost there, Mommy?” she asked, her eyes bright with the innocent curiosity only a child could have.

“Almost,” you said, forcing a smile. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Home. The word sat like a stone in your stomach. It wasn’t just a place, it was everything you had left behind. Your mother’s kitchen, the familiar creak of the staircase, the smell of lilacs that always bloomed by the porch in spring. But it was also him. The town had always been too small, too full of memories, too impossible to avoid people you once loved.

And you had loved him. Once. Maybe still, though you hated yourself for even letting the thought exist.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. To her, “Daddy” was just a word she saw in picture books, a role other kids at daycare had, something abstract and distant. She only asked if she had a dad a few times, never pressed further than you could handle. But you knew the questions would come eventually. And what would you say?

You didn’t let yourself imagine that yet.

The town sign appeared before you realized it, the letters faded but familiar. You felt your throat close. The streets hadn’t changed much, same rows of houses, same diner on the corner, same gas station where you and Jisung used to buy cheap sodas in the summer heat. Time had moved forward everywhere else, but here it seemed to hold its breath.

Your mother’s house was waiting, just as you remembered. Big, with peeling paint on the porch rail and windows that seemed to watch you with tired familiarity. The sight of it knocked the air out of you.

This wasn’t how you wanted to come back. Not carrying grief like a second skin. Not with Ara holding your hand, asking in her sweet little voice if Grandma was really gone.

You knelt down, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “She’s gone, baby,” you said softly, your chest tightening. “But this was her home, and now it’s ours. We’ll take care of it together.”

Ara nodded solemnly, in the way only children could, as if the world’s heaviest truths could be accepted if you explained them simply enough. She pressed the rabbit to her chest and smiled, and in that moment you felt something shift. The ache in your heart didn’t go away, but it dulled under the reminder that you weren’t alone.

-

The funeral was a blur. People you hadn’t seen in years pressed your hands, told you how sorry they were, how beautiful Ara was. You nodded, smiled when you could, kept your eyes down when they lingered too long. You caught whispers, speculation about Ara’s father, about where you’d been all this time, but you pushed them aside.

Not once did you see him. Not once did Jisung appear in the crowd of faces, and a twisted part of you was grateful for it.

But the town was small. You knew it was only a matter of time.

That night, after Ara fell asleep in the big upstairs bedroom that used to be yours, you stood at the window and looked out at the familiar street. The air was still, the kind of quiet you only ever got in places like this. The city never slept, but your hometown did. And in that silence, you could almost hear echoes of the past, laughter, arguments, the slam of a car door, the way he used to call your name from the curb.

Your chest ached. You pressed a hand against the glass and shut your eyes.

You weren’t that girl anymore. You had a daughter now, a life you built from the wreckage. You didn’t need him. You didn’t.

But fate, you knew, had never cared much for what you needed.

The first encounter didn’t come at the funeral, or the grocery store, or the gas station where you caught yourself checking the pumps with a nervous glance.

It came the way fate always worked best: cruel and inconvenient.

Late at night, with Ara asleep in the backseat, the car sputtered as you were turning off the main road.

You cursed under your breath, pulling over.

The car coughed like it had swallowed something it couldn’t handle, and then the engine cut out.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening, as the headlights dimmed and the silence of the small-town road pressed in around you. You tried the ignition again, once, twice, three times, but the engine only groaned like it was mocking you.

“Not now,” you whispered under your breath, panic clawing up your throat. Ara was curled up in the back seat, her cheek pressed against her stuffed rabbit, her chest rising and falling with the soft rhythm of sleep. The thought of her waking up out here, scared, was enough to make your heart race harder.

You killed the headlights and sat back in the driver’s seat, rubbing your forehead. The glow of your phone screen was weak, barely a bar of service. You scrolled through your contacts, debating who you could call. A tow truck, maybe. Another shop in the next town over. Anyone but.. then the smell hit you.
Cigarette smoke.

Your body froze, stomach sinking. Slowly, against every prayer in your chest, you turned your head.

There he was.

Leaning against the front of the auto shop across the street, the faint orange glow of the cigarette burning in his hand. His hair was a little longer now, his shoulders broader, the darkness of night carving deeper lines into his face. For a second, he was just a stranger, a man in coveralls finishing a smoke break.

But you’d know him anywhere.

Han Jisung.

Your lungs locked up. You ducked your head instinctively, as if bowing to fate might undo the impossible cruelty of the moment. You fumbled for your phone again, whispering to yourself, Don’t come over, don’t come over, please don’t come over. You’d call someone else, anyone else, even if it meant waiting hours by the side of the road. He couldn’t see you. He couldn’t know you were back.

And then he moved.

You heard the scrape of his boots against the pavement, the lazy shuffle of someone heading toward a problem they thought they could fix. His voice carried across the space before he was even close, warm and cocky in a way that made your skin crawl with recognition.

“Rough night, huh? You’re lucky—car breaks down right in front of the best shop in town.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course he’d assume you were just another woman stranded at his doorstep. Of course he’d play the part, the helpful mechanic with the flirt tucked into his tone. That used to make you laugh, once upon a time. Now it only made you want to scream.

You didn’t turn at first. You just swallowed hard and forced your voice steady. “I’m fine. I can call someone.”

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle. “Come on, don’t be stubborn. Let me take a look. Won’t even charge you a pretty face fee.”

The words cut sharper than they should’ve, a knife of familiarity in your gut. You turned then, slowly, reluctantly like pulling off a bandage you knew would hurt.

And when your eyes met his, the world stopped.

He froze. Completely, utterly froze. The half-smile on his lips fell away as if someone had knocked the breath from his lungs. The cigarette between his fingers burned dangerously close, forgotten, the ash long and trembling.

“...Y/N.”

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak at first. The sound of your name on his lips, after all these years, carried too much, anger, longing, regret. It was all there in the single syllable.

You forced yourself to scoff, to summon up a brittle armor. “Don’t. Just… don’t. I’ll call someone else.”

He blinked, as if trying to make sense of the reality in front of him. “You’re… you’re back.”

“It’s temporary,” you lied quickly, the words tripping over themselves. Anything to put distance between you and the storm in his eyes. “I don’t need your help.”

But Jisung had never been one to listen when you said no. He rolled his eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world and brushed past you, leaning over the hood of your car. His arm brushed yours briefly, barely there, but enough to send your heart careening into your ribs.

“Pop the hood,” he said, his tone clipped now, stripped of the flirt but not the stubbornness.

“I said I can call someone,” you snapped, but your voice cracked on the edge of it, betraying you.

He glanced at you, and for a moment it wasn’t anger in his eyes but something softer, hurt, maybe, or confusion. But then it was gone, replaced with the same determination he wore when he fixed any machine. He pulled the lever himself, ignoring your protests, and leaned into the car with practiced ease.

You stood there, fists clenched at your sides, pulse racing. Every second he bent over the car felt like a countdown to disaster. Ara shifted in her sleep in the back seat, and you prayed, begged that she wouldn’t wake up just yet.

Because if Jisung saw her…

Your chest tightened. That was the one thing you weren’t ready for. The one truth you had fought to bury, the reason you hadn’t wanted him to see you at all.

He straightened finally, wiping his hands on his coveralls, and looked at you again. The night air between you buzzed with everything unsaid.

“You always were shit at cars,” he muttered, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he couldn’t stop himself.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “And you always were shit at promises.”

The words landed like a slap. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of the cooling engine.

Jisung’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away. Not this time.

And in the backseat, Ara stirred.

The dim streetlight above cast shadows over his shoulders, making him look broader, older, harder than the boy you’d once known.

He poked around for a few moments, muttering under his breath as his hands moved with ease through the mess of wires and bolts. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly around him, mixed with oil and steel. It was dizzying, too familiar, too dangerous.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed so tightly they might as well have been shackles, eyes darting nervously toward the backseat. Ara shifted slightly in her sleep, her rabbit tumbling from her grasp, but she didn’t wake. You exhaled quietly, relief pooling in your lungs.

“Loose belt,” Jisung said finally, straightening and wiping his hands on his coveralls. He nodded toward the engine. “That’s why it shut down on you. Car’s been rattling a while, hasn’t it?”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t want him to sound so casual, like years hadn’t passed, like he had any right to read your car the same way he used to read you.

“I’ll figure it out,” you said flatly, hugging your arms tighter around yourself.

He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? You’re gonna ‘figure it out’ sitting here on the side of the road in the middle of the night?” His tone was sharper than you wanted to admit, sharper than you were ready for. “You never could fix shit like this.”

Your jaw clenched. “Then I’ll call someone else. I don’t need you.”

That hit him, just a little, you saw the flicker in his eyes, but he smirked anyway, slipping back into that irritating calm that always made you want to scream. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the side of your car like he had all the time in the world.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low, mocking but edged with something heavier. “Call whoever you want. There’s only one other shop around here, and it’s over an hour away. Not to mention, they’ve been closed since six.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You’ll be sitting out here ‘til sunrise waiting on a tow truck..if you’re lucky.”

You hated how much you knew he was right. The town hadn’t changed in years, you knew exactly how few options there were, how isolated the roads felt once the sun went down. You hated even more the smug look on his face, like he’d already won.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath, glaring at the ground just to avoid looking at him.

“Unbelievable is you showing back up out of nowhere and acting like you’d rather die than let me help you,” he shot back.

That made your head snap up, anger rising hot and fast in your chest. “Don’t. Don’t you dare make this about me showing up. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted you to be the one standing here right now?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The night air was heavy, thick with all the words you’d swallowed for years. He studied you the way he used to when you argued like he was trying to find the real truth under every syllable.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice softer but no less sharp. “Still mad, huh? After all this time?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it, Jisung. You think one broken-down car is gonna erase the fact that you let me walk away? That you never once tried to fix us the way you fix everything else?”

His mouth opened, then closed again, like the words were there but too jagged to force out. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dark. “You really think I didn’t want to?”

“I think you didn’t,” you snapped, the venom in your voice surprising even you. “Because if you did, we wouldn’t be standing here like strangers, years later, pretending this is just about a car.”

The silence stretched, your breaths harsh in the cool night.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t stand the weight of it all. “Look, you don’t want me here, fine. But the fact is, your car’s not going anywhere without me. So either swallow your pride and let me fix it, or sit here all night proving a point that doesn’t matter anymore.”

You crossed your arms tighter, matching his stance, your glare sharp enough to cut through the dark. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he countered, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, biting back every retort clawing its way up your throat. He always knew how to push, how to needle you until you snapped. And worse, he knew you’d give in because he was right, because the options were limited, because the last thing you wanted was Ara waking up on the side of the road in the dead of night.

“Fine,” you bit out, each letter sharp enough to slice through your teeth. “Five minutes. That’s all you get.”

His smirk deepened, though his eyes were unreadable. “Won’t even take that long.”

You rolled your eyes again, mirroring his posture with your arms crossed, the two of you standing there like a reflection of your younger selves angry, defensive, always circling the same wounds.

But this wasn’t the past anymore. This was now.
And in the backseat, your biggest secret shifted in her sleep, dangerously close to being discovered.

The hood groaned as Jisung propped it open fully, grabbing a flashlight from the side pocket of his coveralls. His movements were sharp, practiced, the kind of motions he could do half-asleep. But every time he shifted, every clang of his tools against the engine, you flinched. Not because of the noise, but because he was here. Because you couldn’t stop yourself from watching the slope of his shoulders, the grease-smudged lines of his hands, the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.

It was like being dropped into a memory you didn’t ask for.

You stood a few feet away with your arms crossed, tapping your foot impatiently just to remind yourself you had the upper hand, even though you didn’t. Every second Ara slept in the back seat was a gift, a fragile layer of protection you prayed wouldn’t crack.

Jisung broke the silence first, voice low but pointed.
“Funny how some things don’t change.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You,” he said simply, shining the flashlight deeper into the engine bay. “Still crossing your arms, still glaring at me like I kicked your dog, when all I’m trying to do is help.”

Your jaw clenched. “Help? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to throw that word around, Jisung.”

He scoffed, leaning further in as if he could hide behind the shadow of the hood. “Right. Because God forbid I do one decent thing without you twisting the knife.”

Your chest burned. The old arguments spilled out as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “You call it twisting the knife, I call it the truth. You were never there when it mattered. Not then, not now.”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on yours across the open hood. “I worked myself into the ground trying to give us a future. Don’t stand there and act like I didn’t care.”

You took a step closer before you could stop yourself, anger sparking hot and fast. “Caring isn’t just paying bills and fixing cars. It’s showing up. It’s keeping your promises. It’s choosing me instead of drowning yourself in work and friends every damn night.”

The words cracked the air between you, sharp enough to sting. His mouth opened, ready with a retort, but before it could land, a soft whimper rose from the back seat.

Both of you froze.

It started small, a muffled sound like a dream breaking. Then Ara’s cry burst louder, fragile and frightened, echoing in the still night.

Your heart lurched. You spun on your heel and rushed to the back door, fumbling it open. She was sitting up in her car seat, cheeks flushed, eyes wet with sleepy tears.

“Shh, baby,” you whispered, unbuckling her quickly and lifting her into your arms. She buried her face into your neck immediately, her little hands clutching at your shirt. Her rabbit tumbled to the seat, forgotten. “It’s okay, I’m here. Just a bad dream, that’s all.”

Her sniffles were soft, pitiful, cutting you open with every sound. You kissed her hair, swaying instinctively the way you had when she was smaller. The warmth of her pressed into you, steadying your heart even as panic clawed at the edges.

Behind you, you felt Jisung’s gaze before you saw it.

When you turned slightly, you caught him standing there, flashlight dangling uselessly in his hand. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they gave him away. A flicker of something raw, sharp, and unspoken. His chest rose and fell heavier than before, as though he’d taken a hit he wasn’t expecting.

Of course he would think it.
Of course he would see your daughter and assume she wasn’t his.

And maybe that was better. Safer.

So you didn’t explain. You just turned back to Ara, murmuring softly until her tears slowed. She nuzzled closer into your neck with a sigh, her small body relaxing, her breath warm against your skin.

Jisung cleared his throat harshly, turning back to the car with a force that felt almost violent. The clang of his wrench against metal echoed louder than necessary. He didn’t say a word.

You muttered under your breath, shifting Ara in your arms. “Taking your sweet time, aren’t you?”

The scoff that left him was bitter, sharp enough to cut. “You don’t like it? Call your boyfriend. Or your husband. Whoever he is.”

The words froze you mid-step. Your pulse jumped to your throat, heat flushing through you.

For a split second, you thought about telling the truth, that there was no one. That Ara was his. But the fear was stronger. Fear of what it would mean, fear of how he’d look at her, at you. Fear of reopening a wound that had never healed.

So you lied.

“He’s at work,” you said, hating how easy the words came out.

There was silence. Then a dry, humorless laugh. He rolled his eyes, turned his attention back to the engine, and muttered a string of curses under his breath.

But the slip in his hand told you more than his words ever could. The wrench slipped, pinching his fingers against the belt, and he hissed sharply, shaking his hand.

You caught the flash of pain in his face, not just from the sting of the metal, but from the words you’d fed him.

The idea that you had moved on. That you belonged to someone else. That you had a life he wasn’t part of.

And though he didn’t say it, you saw it in the way his shoulders hunched, the way his jaw locked tight.

It gutted him.

Jisung kept his head bent over the engine, the beam of the flashlight casting harsh shadows over his face. His knuckles were scuffed and faintly red where the wrench had bitten into them, but he didn’t stop. His hands moved rougher now, less patient, every turn of his wrist sharp enough to sound like anger.

The steady clang and scrape of his tools filled the silence, an ugly soundtrack to the storm brewing inside both of you.

He muttered something under his breath, half to himself, half meant for you to hear. “Almost done. Don’t want to keep your man worrying too long.”

The words landed like a punch to your ribs.

You hugged Ara closer, her small body heavy in your arms as she drifted in and out of sleep, her damp lashes brushing your neck. The lie burned in your chest like fire, spreading through every vein.

He thought you’d moved on. He thought Ara wasn’t his. And maybe that was the safest version of the truth for now. Maybe telling him in the middle of a dark roadside, when you had nowhere else to go, would only blow everything open in ways you couldn’t control.

So you said nothing.

Instead, you shifted Ara higher against your shoulder, pressing your lips to her hair. “It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, your words meant more for yourself than her. “Almost done. We’ll be home soon.”

Jisung’s shoulders tensed at the word home. You saw it in the set of his back, in the slight pause of his wrench. His jaw worked, muscles tightening like he was chewing on something he couldn’t swallow.

“Home,” he repeated under his breath, almost bitter. “Guess that’s not here anymore, huh?”

You froze. The words cut too deep, too exact, pulling you back into the years you’d spent telling yourself leaving was the only way to survive him.

“You don’t get to talk about home,” you said sharply, your voice hushed but venom-laced. “You don’t get to bring that up after everything.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the sound low and broken. “Right. Because I was the only one who messed everything up. Got it.”

The accusation hung there, heavy, dragging you back into every late-night fight, every slammed door, every broken promise.

Your grip on Ara tightened. She stirred, mumbling softly against your neck, and you rocked her instinctively, forcing yourself to calm down. You couldn’t fight with him now, not with her here. Not with the truth sitting between you like a loaded gun.

“Just fix the damn car,” you muttered.

Jisung’s wrench slipped again, clanging against the engine with a harsh metallic snap. He cursed loudly, shaking his hand out with a hiss.

“Damn it.”

You flinched, your heart jumping. But Ara stayed nestled against you, too tired to wake fully this time.

You watched him flex his fingers, the skin reddened and raw. For a moment, it was almost too familiar, the boy who always worked too hard, who never wore gloves, who’d come home with busted knuckles and grease stains and swear he didn’t feel a thing.

But now he wasn’t your boy. He wasn’t anything to you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice cracked slightly under the weight of it, and you weren’t sure if he meant the car, the situation, or himself.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, heart hammering. “Are you—” You stopped yourself. Bit the inside of your cheek. Swallowed the concern before it slipped out. “Forget it.”

He glanced up then, eyes catching yours across the open hood. For a split second, there was something raw in them. A question he wouldn’t ask. A truth you couldn’t say.

And then it was gone.

Jisung ducked his head back down, his voice flat, clipped. “Five more minutes.”

You exhaled shakily, holding Ara tighter, feeling the lie burn deeper in your chest. Because five minutes might’ve been all he needed to fix the car, but it wasn’t nearly enough to fix the wreckage between you.

The last clang of his wrench against the engine cut through the silence like a closing door.

Jisung straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a rag, the muscles in his forearm tense, his jaw locked tight. He didn’t look at you right away. Didn’t say anything until the hood dropped shut with a solid metallic thud that echoed in the night air.

“There,” he muttered, stepping back. His voice was steady, but you caught the edge underneath. “Should run smooth now. But…” He hesitated, dragging the rag across his already bruised knuckles. “You’ve got another issue starting in there. Your… boyfriend should take care of that before it gets worse.”

The word boyfriend came out clipped, deliberate, like he wanted to spit it on the ground instead of say it.

You rolled your eyes, hugging Ara closer against your shoulder. “Noted,” you said dryly.

He didn’t react. He only closed the hood fully, dusting his palms together like he was erasing the whole thing.

You shifted Ara in your arms, her soft breaths brushing your collarbone. “So… can we go now?”

Finally, his eyes met yours. For the first time tonight, there was no smirk, no sharp edge. Just a long, unreadable stare that made your stomach twist. He nodded once. “Yeah.”

The relief that washed through you was immediate, heavy enough to make your knees weak. You turned quickly, pulling the back door open and carefully placing Ara back into her car seat. She murmured a soft protest in her sleep, fingers curling instinctively, but she settled once you tucked the strap across her chest.

Her rabbit slipped from her lap unnoticed, landing on the gravel beside the tire.

You closed the door quietly, forcing your focus on the task, buckling her in, making sure she was safe, doing anything to avoid looking at him again.

When you finally slid into the driver’s seat, the engine turned over smoothly under your hand, just like he’d said.

Jisung lingered near the curb, his figure lit by the glow of the streetlight. He didn’t lean against the car this time. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t argue. He just stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his rag loosely at his side.

“Drive safe,” he said quietly.

The words caught you off guard, not because of what he said, but how he said it. Low, even, stripped of every layer of bitterness. Almost like the boy he used to be.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze forward. “Thanks,” you muttered, the word brittle on your tongue.

And then you pressed down on the gas, the tires crunching against the gravel as you sped off into the dark, desperate to put distance between yourself and everything that had just cracked open.

You didn’t look back. But he did.

Jisung’s eyes followed the car until the red taillights disappeared into the night. A strange emptiness tugged at his chest, something that felt too familiar and too foreign all at once.

That’s when he saw it.

A small shape near the curb, half-hidden in the shadows. He crouched down, reaching for it.

It was soft against his calloused fingers. A bunny. Slightly worn, its fur faded from years of being loved too much. The ears were patterned with little faded florals, the stitching just beginning to fray at the corners.

Jisung froze.

He turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing against the seam where the fabric had thinned. A child’s toy. Clearly treasured, clearly carried everywhere.

And it had fallen out of her car.

His chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain. He stared at the bunny for a long moment, his mind quieter than it had been in years.

“Kid, huh?” he muttered to himself, the words sticking in his throat. He swallowed hard, lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t ask, didn’t think too hard about it. But he didn’t throw the bunny aside, either.

Instead, he stood, walking back toward the shop with the toy in his hand. The door creaked open, the smell of oil and grease rushing out to meet him like an old companion.

He set the bunny on his desk carefully, almost reverently.

It sat there against the clutter of bolts and spare parts, delicate and out of place. But when he stepped back, Jisung felt something strange twist inside him. A smile ghosted across his lips, not the cocky grin he wore when he was trying to get under your skin, but softer. Sadder.

He brushed a thumb across the fabric one last time before sinking into his chair, staring at the bunny like it might have answers he couldn’t reach.

The shop was quiet now.

The hum of the fluorescent light above his desk was the only sound filling the hollow space, a soft buzz that made the silence feel even heavier. The smell of oil and steel clung to the air, the same as it always had, but tonight it felt different like it pressed harder against his lungs, thick and suffocating.

Jisung leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing absently at his bruised knuckles. His eyes weren’t on the scrape, though. They were fixed on the bunny sitting on the desk in front of him.

The toy looked so out of place there, perched between scattered bolts, oil-stained rags, and an unopened pack of cigarettes he hadn’t touched. Its ears flopped sideways, the floral fabric fraying at the edges, the stuffing worn thin in places from years of being held too tight.

It didn’t belong here.

And neither did the memories it dragged out of him.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected this. Hell, he hadn’t expected to see you again ever. He’d told himself you were gone for good, that you’d built a new life somewhere far from this town, somewhere far from him.

For years, his friends had told him the same. “She’s not coming back, Ji. You gotta move on.”

Move on. Like it was simple. Like it was just a switch he could flip.

But he hadn’t. He couldn’t.

Not when every girl he tried to take out to dinner ended up being a pale shadow of you. Not when he found himself staring across a table, hearing their voices fade into static because they didn’t smile like you did, didn’t roll their eyes the way you had, didn’t make his chest ache just by walking into the room.

Every date ended the same, him forcing conversation, pretending to be present, until the night fizzled out and he left with nothing but guilt gnawing at him.

And the hookups? He hated them. Hated the way they were supposed to mean something, supposed to help him forget. They never did. They were shallow, fleeting, skin without soul. He never called them back. Never wanted to. He couldn’t stand to look at them in the morning and pretend they were more than just a distraction.

Because at the end of the day, he always ended up right back here. In this shop. At this desk. Alone.

Thinking about you.

His chest tightened as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. The bunny sat in the glow of the lamp, almost accusing in its silence.

So you had a kid now.

He let the thought roll through him like smoke. He tried to ignore the sting of it, tried to shove it into a corner of his mind where it couldn’t hurt. But it did.

The image replayed over and over, the way you’d held her, the way her tiny hands clutched at your shirt, the way you’d rocked her without even thinking about it. There’d been such tenderness in the movement, such natural love in the way you whispered to her.

Jisung swallowed hard, dragging a hand over his mouth.

You looked like a mother. You looked happy.

And for the first time in years, he realized he hated himself for hoping otherwise.

He had spent so long imagining what it would be like if you came back, if fate was stupid enough to throw you into his path again. He’d thought about it on nights when the shop was too quiet, when the beers went down too easy, when his bed felt too cold. He’d thought maybe, if you ever did come back, it’d be because you missed him too.

But you hadn’t. You’d built something without him. With someone else.

The bunny sat there like proof.

He picked it up again, turning it in his hand, his thumb brushing across the worn fabric on its ear. It was small, too small to belong to anyone but a little kid who loved it fiercely. He wondered how many nights it had been clutched through tears, how many mornings it had been dragged from the bed to the kitchen table.

It wasn’t his. It wasn’t part of him. But holding it made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. Soft. Sad. Almost bitter.

“Lucky kid,” he muttered into the empty room, voice low and rough.

The words sat there, unanswered, bouncing off the walls of the shop like ghosts.

He set the bunny back down, careful this time, almost reverent.

And as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the toy under the dim glow of the lamp, one truth pressed heavier on him than anything else:

He was still hung up on you. Maybe he always would be.

-

The morning began the way it always did.

The sun crept through the curtains in faded gold streaks, painting the kitchen in light. You sat at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, your phone in the other. The quiet was rare, precious, a sliver of time before Ara woke and the day began in earnest.

You scrolled idly, half-reading, half-lost in thought. The house still felt foreign, too big and too quiet after years in the cramped city apartment. Your mother’s presence lingered in every corner, in every piece of furniture you hadn’t yet decided what to do with. It was like moving back into a memory you weren’t sure you wanted to live in again.

You took another sip of coffee, savoring the warmth. Then the sound came.

“Mommy!”

Ara’s voice, sharp with panic, cut through the stillness. Your head shot up instantly, the mug rattling against the table as you set it down too hard.

She stumbled into the kitchen seconds later, hair tangled from sleep, her pajamas wrinkled. Her little face was scrunched with worry, her eyes wide and already glassy with the threat of tears.

“What’s wrong, baby?” you asked quickly, already crouching down to meet her at eye level.

“I can’t find Bunny,” she blurted out, breathless, like the words themselves hurt. Her small hands twisted in the hem of her shirt, fidgeting, restless. “She’s gone. I looked everywhere.”

Your chest tightened.

The bunny. Not just any toy, her toy. The one she never slept without. The one she carried on road trips, to doctor’s visits, to the park. The one that had been tucked under her arm the day you brought her home from the hospital.

The one that meant more than Ara could possibly understand.

Your voice stayed steady, even as panic bloomed hot in your chest. “Okay, let’s not worry yet. We’ll find her. She’s gotta be around here somewhere.”

Ara nodded quickly, her lips trembling, as you brushed a hand over her messy hair.

Together, you searched.

First her room, tearing through blankets, pillows, the space under the bed. Then the hallway, the bathroom, the laundry basket. You checked the couch cushions in the living room, the space behind the curtains where toys sometimes got tangled. Ara trailed behind you, her small voice piping up every time she thought of a new spot.

“Maybe in the closet! Maybe in the kitchen!”

But each time, you came up empty.

Her anxiety grew with each failed attempt, and yours rose with it.

“Okay, maybe she’s in the car,” you said finally, forcing calm into your voice. You grabbed your keys, ushering Ara outside as fast as you could.

The morning air was cool, the street quiet. You opened the car doors and began pulling everything apart, floor mats, seat pockets, glove compartment. Ara climbed into the back, patting the seat beside her, checking under her booster.

Nothing.

You dropped onto the driver’s seat, rubbing a hand over your face. A heaviness settled over your chest.

The bunny wasn’t just Ara’s comfort. It was yours, too.

You could still remember the nurse’s face, the woman who had sat by your side during the hardest night of your life, who had held your hand when you were shaking, who had told you you weren’t alone even when you felt like you were. She’d pressed the toy into your arms after Ara’s first cry, a soft little rabbit with floral ears. “For her,” the nurse had whispered. “Her first friend.”

You had clung to it as much as Ara had over the years. It had become a symbol of everything you had survived. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The choices you’d made. And now it was gone.

You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying to steady yourself before Ara saw. She was kneeling on the seat, looking up at you with wide, damp eyes.

“Where is she, Mommy?” Ara asked softly, voice cracking. “What if she’s gone forever?”

The words shattered you.

You pulled her into your lap, wrapping her tight in your arms. “No, no, baby. We’ll find her. I promise. Bunny’s not gone. She’s just… hiding. She’s waiting for us to find her.”

But even as you said it, you couldn’t remember where you’d last seen the toy.

-

The morning had started like any other at least, it was supposed to.

The shop opened at eight sharp. The first customers trickled in before the coffee had even finished brewing, complaining about their brakes, their batteries, their rattling engines. Normally, Jisung moved through these problems with clockwork precision, his hands steady, his focus razor-sharp. Fixing cars was the one thing in his life that had always made sense. Machines didn’t lie, didn’t leave, didn’t break promises. They just broke down. And he knew how to put them back together.

But today?

Today, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The wrench slipped from his grip twice before he even touched the first engine. He misdiagnosed a transmission issue on the second car, only to get corrected by a younger mechanic he’d been training for six months. By the third, he was so distracted he forgot to refill the coolant he’d drained and the customer came storming back thirty minutes later, livid.

Jisung took it on the chin, gritting his teeth, muttering an apology that barely sounded like one. The words rolled off him like static, his head somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere on a quiet roadside. With you.

With the daughter you’d cradled in your arms like she was your entire world.

His jaw ached from how hard he clenched it every time the memory replayed in his mind. The way you looked back at him with fire in your eyes. The soft sniffles of the little girl against your shoulder. The rabbit toy he’d found on the ground when you drove away.

He couldn’t shake it.

By the time the sun dipped low and the day’s work slowed, his brain felt like it had been grinding in the wrong gear all day. Tools clattered where they shouldn’t. His knuckles were scraped raw from stupid slips. He could practically feel the complaints piling up in his voicemail.

Not that it mattered. It was his shop. His name on the sign. No one could fire him.

But the frustration gnawed at him anyway.

By the time evening settled in, he was sitting slumped at his desk, half-empty coffee cups scattered around, his grease-stained rag abandoned beside the bunny. He hadn’t touched it since last night. Couldn’t bring himself to. But he couldn’t stop looking at it either.

The door swung open then, the bell chiming as familiar voices cut through the stale air.

“Yo,” Minho said, strolling in with a six-pack dangling from one hand. “Shop looks like shit today.”

“Looks like you look,” Chan added, grinning crookedly, though his eyes narrowed when he got a better look at Jisung. “Damn. What’s with the face? You lose a bet or something?”

Jisung let out a low groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Not now.”

But of course, it was always now with his friends.

Minho plopped down on the edge of the desk, cracking open a can. “No, no. You don’t get to sit here sulking like some tragic drama lead and not spill. What’s going on?”

Chan slid into the chair opposite him, popping a tab open with one practiced motion. “You’re off today. Like, really off. Seojin said you yelled at a customer? Ji, you never do that.”

Jisung sighed, snatched one of the cans out of the box, and cracked it open. The first sip burned down his throat, cold and bitter. Exactly what he needed.

For a while, he said nothing. Just let the silence stretch, let the sound of his friends sipping fill the space. His gaze kept drifting to the bunny on the desk, and he caught Minho’s eyes flicking to it too.

Finally, the words clawed their way out.

“I saw her.”

Both Minho and Chan froze mid-sip.

“…Her?” Chan asked carefully.

Jisung nodded, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Y/N.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with disbelief. Minho set his beer down slowly, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait—what? As in… Y/N, Y/N?”

“The only one that matters,” Jisung muttered, taking another swig.

“Holy shit,” Chan breathed, leaning back in his chair. “I thought she was gone. Like gone for good.”

“She was.” Jisung let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Until she wasn’t.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed, studying him. “What happened?”

Jisung hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He felt like the words might choke him if he said them out loud. But the beer loosened his tongue, and the anger underneath shoved the words forward.

“She’s back. And she’s not alone.”

Chan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She’s got a kid.” The bitterness in his voice cracked like glass. “A daughter. Little thing. Couldn’t be more than four or five. Clung to her like she was her whole damn world.”

Minho’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

Jisung laughed again, sharp and ugly. “Yeah. Guess she moved on after all. Has herself a family now.”

The words burned coming out of his mouth, each syllable soaked in jealousy he couldn’t hide. He drained more of his beer, the metal can crunching slightly under his grip.

Chan leaned forward carefully. “And the guy? Who’s the dad?”

“Don’t know,” Jisung muttered, his tone dripping venom. “Didn’t ask. Didn’t want to. She said he was at work. Probably some white-collar asshole who doesn’t get his hands dirty.”

The bitterness stuck in his throat, choking him even as he took another swig.

But deep down, beneath the anger, beneath the sharp edges of jealousy, he felt something else. Something softer.

That little girl’s face. The way her tiny arms had wrapped around your neck. And it scared the hell out of him.

The night wore on.

Empty beer cans lined the edge of the desk, condensation dripping onto stacks of old invoices Jisung hadn’t bothered to file. The overhead light buzzed softly, too harsh against the dark shop. His hands rested limp in his lap, fingers tapping restless against the denim of his jeans, his leg bouncing as though that nervous energy had nowhere else to go.

But his mind was anything but still.

It was caught, tangled, in the same loop it had been in since last night, your voice, sharp with irritation, the way you’d stood in front of him like he was still the man you hated, the way you’d clutched your daughter like the world would fall apart if you let go. His chest tightened again at the thought. Her daughter. Not his. Not theirs.

Yours. And someone else’s.

The words ran like poison through his head, bitter enough to curdle his stomach.

Chan let out a heavy sigh, dragging him out of his spiral. He leaned back in the creaky chair opposite Jisung, stretching his long legs out like he owned the space. “You gotta let this go, Ji.”

Jisung’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You heard me.” Chan’s tone was calm but firm, the way it always got when he was about to push buttons. “It’s been years. She left. She’s got her own life now. You need to stop… whatever this is. Wallowing. Torturing yourself over someone who clearly moved on.”

The words landed heavy, each one like a punch to the ribs. Jisung’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists.

“She didn’t just move on,” he said quietly, the bitterness lacing his voice. “She replaced me.”

Chan didn’t flinch. “Maybe she did. Maybe she had to. People do what they need to do. And you? You’ve been stuck in the same place this whole time.” He gestured around the messy shop, the empty bottles, the grease-stained rags. “You’ve made this your prison.”

Jisung bristled, leaning forward. “This is my life. My work. Don’t talk like you know—”

“I do know,” Chan cut him off, sharper now. “Because I’ve been watching you for years. You haven’t gone on a real date since her. You don’t try. You shut everyone down before they even have a chance. You don’t even want to move on.”

Minho, quiet until now, nodded in agreement. “He’s right. I’ve offered to set you up with people, remember? A couple girls who would’ve treated you well. And every time, you rolled your eyes and said no.”

“I don’t need you playing matchmaker,” Jisung muttered, leaning back hard against his chair, arms crossing like a shield.

“You don’t need to, or you don’t want to?” Minho asked softly, raising an eyebrow.

Jisung didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat, hot and jagged.

The silence stretched until Chan shifted forward, his gaze flicking to the corner of the desk. “What’s this, then?”

Before Jisung realized what was happening, Chan reached for the bunny.

The soft toy sat in the dim light like it didn’t belong, its floral ears flopped sideways, the fabric worn thin. Chan picked it up between his fingers, brows furrowing. “This yours? Didn’t know you had a thing for—”

“Don’t touch that.”

The words ripped out of Jisung’s mouth before he even thought them. His voice was low, sharp, threaded with a protectiveness that startled even him.

Chan blinked at him, still holding the toy, caught off guard.

In one swift motion, Jisung reached out, snatched the bunny from his hands, and tossed it back onto the desk with more force than necessary. It landed with a soft thud, its ears splayed, as if the poor thing had absorbed the tension bristling in the room.

“Seriously?” Chan asked, eyebrows raised. “It’s a stuffed animal, Ji.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not yours,” Jisung shot back, his tone clipped.

The room went quiet again. Minho studied him carefully, his expression unreadable. Chan just leaned back slowly, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes lingered on Jisung’s clenched jaw and the way his hands trembled slightly as they fell back into his lap.

For Jisung, the air felt thick, suffocating. He stared at the bunny on the desk, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

It wasn’t his. It wasn’t part of him. But the thought of anyone else touching it, of it belonging to someone else felt unbearable.

So he sat there, silent, seething, the weight of denial pressing down like lead.

-

From the moment Ara’s eyes fluttered open that morning, nothing had gone right.

She woke up with a frown, her small body twisting in the sheets as she whined your name. The first words out of her mouth were about Bunny, how she couldn’t find her, how she must be hiding, how maybe someone took her. You tried to soothe her, brushing her hair back, promising you’d find it together, but it didn’t help.

By breakfast, she pushed her plate away, crossing her arms stubbornly.

By midmorning, she was stomping around the living room, tears pooling in her eyes because she didn’t want to play with any of her other toys.

And by noon, she was in full tantrum mode, yelling, crying, refusing to put on her shoes when you suggested going outside for some air.

You had seen her upset before. Kids had bad days. But this? This was different.

It wasn’t just about Bunny. It was about the weight that little stuffed rabbit carried, the comfort and safety it had given her every night of her life. And it wasn’t just her. It was you, too. Every tantrum, every sniffle, scraped against your already frayed nerves because you knew exactly what Bunny meant, and the thought of it being gone for good made your own chest ache.

By the time she finally wore herself out and dozed off on the couch in the early afternoon, you felt drained, bone-deep exhaustion pulling at you as you sank into the armchair across from her.

But you didn’t rest.

You couldn’t.

Your mind whirred, desperate, retracing every step from yesterday.

The grocery store. You could still see Ara with Bunny in the back seat as you loaded bags into the trunk.

The post office. She had clutched it in her lap while you waited in line.

Your sister’s house. You remembered teasing Ara about Bunny “needing a nap” when she tried to bring it to the dinner table.

The park. Clear as day, you remembered watching her run across the grass with Bunny tucked under her arm, her laughter echoing.

Each memory was sharp, vivid. Each ended with Bunny still safe in her grasp.

Which meant the only place left, the only blank spot was that night.

The roadside. The garage. Jisung.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. You muttered a curse under your breath, pressing the heel of your hand against your temple.

Of course. Of course. In your rush to get away from him, in your stubborn desperation not to let him see one more piece of your life, you hadn’t even noticed the toy slipping from Ara’s arms.

And if that was the case, then the bunny, the one thing Ara couldn’t live without, the one piece of comfort you refused to let her lose was most likely sitting in his shop.

You slumped back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. A knot twisted in your stomach, tight and relentless.

The last place you wanted to go was exactly where you had to go.

When Ara stirred awake a little while later, her lashes still damp from crying, you were at her side in an instant. She blinked up at you, her lips trembling.

“Bunny’s still gone,” she whispered, her voice small, shaky.

Your heart cracked. You cupped her cheek, forcing a soft smile you didn’t feel. “I think I know where she is.”

Her eyes widened instantly, hope sparking like sunlight through storm clouds. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding firmly, even as your stomach churned. “When you’re ready, we’ll go find her.”

You didn’t tell her where. Didn’t tell her who you’d have to face to get there.

Because saying it out loud made it real, and real was the last thing you were ready for.

But you had no choice.

You’d do anything for Ara. Even if it meant walking back into the lion’s den you’d sworn to avoid.

-

The drive to the shop felt shorter than it should have.

You had half a mind to take the long way, to circle around the block a few times, to stall until Ara forgot why you were even leaving the house. But she hadn’t. Not even close.

She sat in her booster in the back, her little legs swinging restlessly, face lit up with impatient hope. Every few minutes, she piped up with another question, her voice bright and bubbling in a way that twisted your stomach.

“Do you think Bunny’s really there?”

“Will she be mad that I left her?”

“What if someone else took her? What if she’s all alone?”

Each question tugged at your heart. You forced yourself to answer gently, reassuringly, even while dread coiled tighter and tighter in your chest with every mile closer to Jisung’s garage.

By the time you pulled into the lot, your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached.

The garage looked the same as always, grey brick walls, the wide bay door rolled up, the faint smell of oil and rubber drifting into the warm afternoon air. A couple of cars sat parked out front, and you spotted someone moving inside, hunched over an engine.

You cut the ignition but didn’t move. Just sat there, staring at the building like maybe you could will it into disappearing.

Ara noticed instantly.

“Why aren’t we going in?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat, her small fingers tugging at the strap of her booster. Her voice carried that impatient edge only kids could muster, equal parts excitement and frustration.

You forced a slow inhale, steadying yourself. “Just… give Mommy a second.”

“But Bunny’s in there!” she whined, her bottom lip jutting out. “We have to go get her!”

You closed your eyes briefly, pressing your palms against the wheel. You hated how right she was.

When you finally turned to look at her, her big eyes were round with expectation, shimmering with hope. You couldn’t stall any longer.

With a resigned sigh, you unbuckled her straps and helped her out of the car. Her small hand slipped into yours, warm and trusting, and you held onto it like it was the only thing tethering you in place.

“Alright,” you murmured, more to yourself than to her. “Let’s do this.”

Together, you walked toward the shop.

Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of oil and metal. The hum of a machine whirred somewhere in the back. A young man you didn’t recognize, dark hair, grease smudged across his cheek looked up from under the hood of a car when you stepped inside.

“Hey,” he called, wiping his hands on a rag as he walked over. “You having car trouble?”

You shook your head quickly, nerves sparking under your skin. “No, not exactly. I, um… I was here yesterday. My car broke down outside, and—” You hesitated, fumbling for words that didn’t sound ridiculous. “I think my daughter left something behind. A stuffed toy. A bunny.”

Recognition didn’t cross his face. He just nodded politely. “I’ll check—”

“Get back to work.”

The voice cut through the air, firm and familiar.

Your breath caught before you even looked.

Jisung stood in the doorway at the back of the shop, wiping his hands with a rag. His coveralls were half-zipped, his hair pushed back and slightly damp with sweat. He looked the same, and yet not, the boy you’d once known carved into someone older, wearier.

Your heart stumbled in your chest.

He didn’t look at the younger mechanic again, just gave him a pointed glance until the kid muttered a quick “yes, boss” and went back to the car.

Then his eyes landed on you.

Your throat went dry.

Ara tugged at your sleeve, her voice small but urgent. “Mommy, is Bunny here? Is she really here?”

The words made your stomach twist. You glanced down at her, brushing her hair back, but before you could answer, another voice echoed the word.

“Bunny?”

Jisung’s tone was strange, curious, almost tentative. His gaze flicked from you to Ara and back again, his brow furrowed like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t realized existed.

Ara nodded eagerly, stepping forward a little. “Yeah! Have you seen my Bunny?”

Something flickered across Jisung’s face, unreadable. Without saying anything else, he turned, disappearing into the office at the side of the shop.

You held your breath the entire time he was gone, your pulse thudding in your ears.

And then he came back.

The bunny dangled from his hand, floppy ears brushing against his wrist.

The moment Ara saw it, her entire face lit up.

“Bunny!” she squealed, breaking free of your grasp. She sprinted across the shop floor, her little sneakers slapping against the concrete, and all but launched herself at the toy.

Jisung crouched down to meet her, holding it out carefully. She snatched it up, hugging it tight against her chest like it had been missing for years instead of one night.

“Thank you!” she said brightly, looking up at him with a wide grin. “Thank you for saving her!”

Your heart clenched.

Jisung smiled back at her, soft, genuine, the kind of smile you hadn’t seen in years. He reached out, ruffling her hair gently, his voice warm in a way that made something inside you ache.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Ara beamed, clutching Bunny tight in one arm as she answered proudly, her name ringing out in the shop air like a bell.

And you stood there frozen, your heartstrings pulled taut, because this was the moment you had been terrified of. The first time they met.

Father and daughter. And neither of them had any idea.

Ara clutched Bunny to her chest like she was afraid it might disappear again if she let go. The relief on her face made your heart ache in ways you weren’t ready for. You should’ve been glad, it was what you came for. The one thing she needed most was back in her arms, and now you could leave, put this entire awkward, dangerous encounter behind you.

You cleared your throat, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Alright, baby, we’ve got Bunny. Time to go.”

But Ara didn’t move.

She lingered near Jisung, her wide eyes drifting around the garage, taking in the cars parked in various states of repair. The greasy tools lined neatly along the wall, the tang of oil and gasoline in the air.

“Wow,” she breathed softly, tugging at your arm. “There’s so many cars.”

“Yes,” you said quickly, impatient. “But they’re not for us. Come on.”

Instead of following, Ara tilted her head toward Jisung. “Do you fix all of them?”

Jisung, crouched still at her height, glanced up at you briefly before answering her, his tone soft and easy. “Yeah. Every single one. That’s my job.”

Ara’s eyes lit up, sparkling with interest. “Can I help?”

The question made your stomach clench.

You stepped forward immediately, your voice firmer than you intended. “No. Absolutely not.”

Ara’s face fell. “But—”

“You could get hurt,” you cut her off sharply, more to Jisung than her. “This is not a place for kids.”

Jisung shifted, his gaze flicking between you and Ara, his expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t let that happen,” he said quietly, almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

The words dug under your skin, tightening every muscle in your body. You shook your head, your tone final. “We’re leaving.”

Ara’s lips pressed together, disappointment written all over her small face. Still, she nodded obediently, though her eyes lingered on Jisung with something sad, like she was already missing a friend she hadn’t gotten the chance to make.

“Bye,” she said softly, lifting her little hand to wave.

Jisung returned it with a small smile, crouching back to her level again. “Bye, Ara. Take care of Bunny, yeah?”

Your heart clenched again, but you forced yourself to turn away, to usher her out of the shop before anything else could happen.

Outside, the air felt too heavy.

You buckled Ara into her booster seat, smoothing her hair back as you leaned down to press a kiss to her temple. She clutched Bunny tightly, still pouting a little.

“Don’t be upset,” you whispered softly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Ara looked up at you, her wide eyes softening. She nodded, the disappointment melting into something more understanding. “Okay, Mommy.”

You gave her a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes, before shutting the door and walking around to the driver’s seat.

Relief flooded you as you slid inside, exhaling shakily. You’d gotten through it. Bunny was back. Ara was safe. And you’d managed to pull her away before anything could happen, before Jisung could ask too many questions.

You jammed the key into the ignition, twisting it.

The engine sputtered. Coughed. Died.

You froze.

“No,” you muttered, trying again. The sound repeated, weaker this time. The car shuddered like it wanted to start but couldn’t.

Your stomach sank.

Jisung’s words from the other night came back to you, clear as if he were whispering them right into your ear: “You should get it checked soon. Otherwise, it won’t start on you when you need it.”

You hadn’t listened. You hadn’t wanted to. Too caught up in his smug tone, too desperate to get away, too distracted by the lie that had slipped from your lips about a boyfriend who didn’t exist.

Now the universe was laughing in your face.

Ara leaned forward in her seat, clutching Bunny tighter. “Is everything okay, Mommy?”

You closed your eyes, dropping your forehead against the steering wheel with a groan. “It’s fine, baby. Just… give me a second.”

But it wasn’t fine. Not even close.

Because the car was dead. And the only person who could fix it was the one person you had been trying to avoid since the day you came back.

You stayed like that for a long moment, forehead pressed to the wheel, your pulse thudding in your ears. Every nerve in your body screamed against what you had to do next.

But you didn’t have a choice.

With a shaky exhale, you straightened up and turned to Ara, forcing another soft smile. “Stay here, okay? i just has to… talk to someone real quick.”

Ara nodded, stroking Bunny’s ear absentmindedly.

And with dread pooling in your chest, you climbed out of the car, every step back toward the shop heavy as lead.

You had to ask Jisung for help. Again.

-

The hum of the garage carried into the late afternoon, quieter now that most customers had come and gone. Jisung leaned against the counter in the front office, a rag tucked loosely into his back pocket, his arms crossed casually over his chest.

The woman perched on the other side of the counter was one of his regulars, a customer who didn’t always need work done but somehow always found an excuse to stop by. Her car, her brother’s car, her cousin’s car, he’d lost count of how many vehicles she had “issues” with.

She was pretty, dressed in neat office clothes that clung just right, her perfume faint but noticeable. She twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she giggled at something he’d said, her eyes darting up at him in that way that left no mystery about her intentions.

Jisung smirked faintly, letting the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He leaned a little further over the counter, tossing back some dry remark that made her laugh harder. He knew this game well.

She flirted. He flirted back. Easy. Effortless.

But that’s all it ever was.

Because no matter how close she leaned in, no matter how obvious her hints became, Jisung could never make himself take that next step. He couldn’t ask her out. Couldn’t let himself believe she was anything more than a distraction.

Because when he closed his eyes at night, when his hands weren’t busy, when his chest tightened in ways he couldn’t control, it was still you. Always you. And that was the problem.

He was mid-laugh, shaking his head at something she said, when the sound of the door opening cut through the moment. He glanced over automatically then froze. You stood there.

Shifting awkwardly in the doorway, like you wanted to turn around and bolt but had forced yourself to step inside. His breath caught, the easy smirk falling from his face, his chest tightening instantly.

And just like that, the air changed.

You avoided his eyes, walking quickly past the counter as though you hadn’t even noticed him there. Relief pricked sharp in your chest when you spotted the younger mechanic from earlier, Seojin, his name tag had read, still bent over his tools in the corner.

You went straight for him, your voice a little rushed as you explained, “Hey, um—, my car broke down again just now. It won’t even start. I was hoping maybe you could take a look?”

Seojin blinked, wiping his hands. “Yeah, of course. Did it make any noise? Or completely dead?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand over your face. “Completely dead. Won’t even catch.”

From the corner of his eye, Jisung caught everything. Your voice, hurried and tense, the way you leaned just slightly toward Seojin like you were desperate for him to solve this problem so you didn’t have to deal with anyone else.

But he was still stuck at the counter, the regular woman still giggling, still trying to keep his attention. He heard her laugh, but the sound grated now, pulled thin and meaningless.

His jaw tightened.

Finally, he cut her off mid-sentence, sliding a clipboard across the counter without even glancing at it. “Yeah, uh—give me a day. I’ll get it sorted.”

Her brows lifted. “But I didn’t even—”

“Tomorrow,” he interrupted, his tone clipped. “End of day.”

She blinked, her flirtatious smile faltering just slightly. But she nodded anyway, clearly thrown by the sudden dismissal.

By the time she turned to leave, Jisung had already pushed off the counter, his rag still in hand, striding toward where you and Seojin stood.

Seojin was mid-question when Jisung’s shadow fell over the both of you.

“Get back to work,” Jisung said flatly, his voice carrying that authoritative edge that made it clear he wasn’t asking.

Seojin frowned, glancing up. “But she already explained the issue. I got it, boss.”

“Lunch,” Jisung shot back without missing a beat. “Didn’t you say you needed one?”

“I can take it after—”

“Now.”

The weight in his tone made Seojin pause. He looked between you and Jisung, catching the way Jisung’s eyes hadn’t left you once since walking over. Understanding flickered in his expression, and his shoulders slumped.

“Right,” he muttered, tossing his rag aside. “Lunch.”

You reached out instinctively, your voice sharp. “Wait—no, he can help me. It’s fine. He already knows—”

But Jisung cut you off, his gaze steady, unyielding. “What’s the issue?”

You froze, your stomach flipping. Of course. Of course it had to be him.

You muttered a curse under your breath, low but not quiet enough, and his mouth twitched upward in a half-smirk.

“Not even twenty-four hours,” he said, his voice laced with teasing disbelief. “Couldn’t even make it a full day before you came running back, huh?”

Heat prickled your cheeks, frustration clawing its way through your chest. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong. And that was exactly what made it worse.

The second Jisung’s teasing words slipped out, you felt the heat flare in your chest, your throat tightening with equal parts frustration and dread.

You huffed sharply, shaking your head, and spun on your heel, putting your back to him. “Unbelievable.”

But of course he followed.

His boots echoed on the concrete as he trailed you, his voice low, taunting. “So what, your boyfriend doesn’t like to get his hands dirty? Too busy to bother checking his girl’s car?”

You froze mid-step, whipping around to glare at him. “That is none of your business.”

The words were sharp, bitten out between clenched teeth.

Jisung just scoffed, like he’d expected nothing else. “Right.” His jaw flexed as he crouched beside your car, popping the hood with a practiced tug. He leaned in, hands moving automatically, the scrape of metal against metal filling the silence.

You stood a few steps back, arms crossed tight, your nails digging into your skin as you watched him work. Every second felt like too much.

Finally, his voice cut through, low and even. “Battery’s gone. Starter’s weak. Told you the other night you were pushing it.” He straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes cutting toward you. “You’ll need a replacement, or this thing’s not going anywhere.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because all you could think about was how right he was and how much you hated it.

From the backseat, Ara’s small voice piped up, breaking the heavy silence.

“Hi!” she called brightly, her little hand waving from behind the glass.

Jisung’s expression shifted instantly, his features softening as he looked over and lifted his own hand in return. “Hey, Bunny’s keeper,” he said with a faint grin.

Ara giggled, clutching her stuffed bunny tighter as she waved again, before disappearing into her seat with a squeal.

The sight made your stomach twist.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back into control. “So how long?”

“An hour. Maybe two.” Jisung’s voice was steady, casual, but his eyes lingered on you like he was searching for something beneath the surface.

You nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

Turning to the car, you opened the door and crouched to help Ara out of her booster. She hopped down happily, Bunny tucked under one arm, her eyes wide with curiosity as she took in the garage.

“Ara,” you said softly, brushing her hair back. “We’re stuck here for a few hours, okay? So we’ll just… wait.”

Ara didn’t seem bothered at all. She grinned, already distracted by the rows of tools and cars scattered around. “I don’t mind!” she chirped.

You gave her a faint smile, relieved she wasn’t upset, but dread coiled in your chest again as she toddled away almost immediately, her small sneakers squeaking faintly against the shop floor.

Straight toward Jisung.

“Wow,” she said, eyes wide as she peered up at him. “Do you fix all of these?”

He glanced down at her, a soft laugh escaping before he could stop it. “Every single one.”

Ara gasped, awed, clutching Bunny tighter as she leaned closer. “That’s so cool! How do you do it? Can I see? Can I help?”

You tensed instantly, your lips parting to call her back, but Jisung crouched a little, his rag still in hand, answering her with easy patience.

“Well, you gotta know where to look first. Cars are like puzzles—you just find the broken piece and figure out how to put it back right.”

Ara’s face lit up like it was the best thing she’d ever heard. “That’s amazing!”

And you, standing a few feet away felt your chest tighten so painfully you could barely breathe.

Because watching them together like this, her innocence, his warmth, it was everything you’d wanted and everything you feared.

And he still had no idea.

-

Ara stood on her tiptoes at the side of the car, Bunny clutched under one arm while her free hand hovered in the air, eager to reach out.

Jisung, crouched under the hood, shot her a sideways look. “Not that one,” he said firmly, nudging a tool out of her reach. His tone wasn’t sharp gentle, measured but there was no room for argument either.

Ara scrunched her nose but grinned up at him anyway. “Okay. Which one’s safe?”

He sighed, shaking his head, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch in something dangerously close to a smile. He pointed toward a dull wrench sitting harmlessly at the edge of the worktable. “That one. You can hold it.”

Ara squealed with delight, darting over and grabbing it with both hands like it was a treasure. “Look, Mommy!” she shouted, waving it proudly in the air. “I’m helping!”

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Helping. That was the last thing you wanted her to think she was doing here.

“Careful!” you called, your voice sharper than intended. She flinched, looking down, and your chest immediately ached at her wilted expression.

Jisung straightened from the hood, wiping his hands, his brows furrowed as his gaze flicked from Ara to you. For a brief second, it almost looked like he wanted to say something, maybe even defend her.

You quickly looked away, heat crawling up your neck. You needed to distract yourself, to put some space between you and this scene before it unraveled completely.

That’s when you spotted Seojin.

He was leaning casually against the far wall, sipping from a bottle of water, his shirt clinging to his skin in the heat of the garage. His hair stuck up at odd angles, but somehow it worked for him, and there was an ease in the way he carried himself that made him seem much younger than Jisung, more playful.

When your eyes met his, he grinned.

You felt it immediately, the flutter in your chest, the quick shift of your pulse.

Seojin pushed off the wall and strolled over, his rag draped over his shoulder. “So, you’re the one who’s got him all worked up, huh?” he said lightly, jerking his chin toward Jisung at the car.

Your brows shot up. “What?”

He chuckled. “Boss doesn’t usually look twice at anyone. But you walk in here, and suddenly he’s glaring at me for breathing too close.”

Your face heated. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But I don’t think so.”

The way he looked at you open, easy, curious made something stir inside you, something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time.

Then he said it. Bold. Direct.

“You wanna give me your number?”

Your stomach flipped. The words made your breath catch in your throat. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been asked before, but this was different. Here, now, with Ara in sight and Jisung only feet away, it felt like a test of something you didn’t even understand yet.

You hesitated, fumbling for a response, when—

“Y/N.”

Your head snapped up.

Jisung’s voice cut through the air, firm but casual, like he had perfect timing. He didn’t look at Seojin, didn’t acknowledge him at all. His eyes were fixed squarely on you.

“Come here a second,” he called, one hand resting on the edge of the hood. “Wanna show you something.”

The tone was neutral enough, but something about it felt pointed. Heavy.

Seojin’s brow arched, his lips twitching with amusement. He knew.

You glanced between the two men, your heart racing, and finally muttered something under your breath before walking toward Jisung.

When you reached him, he leaned back against the car, rag in hand, eyes narrowed slightly as if he’d been caught off guard himself. He gestured vaguely toward the exposed engine.

“Just showing you what I’m doing,” he said simply, as though that had always been his intent.

But you weren’t oblivious.

And you were sure, deep down, that this had nothing to do with the engine.

It had everything to do with stopping Seojin.

And that realization sent your heart into a messy, confusing spin you weren’t ready to face.

The sound of clanking tools and Ara’s cheerful chatter blended with the low hum of the shop.

She had parked herself at Jisung’s side, standing on tiptoe to peek into the hood of the car. Every so often she’d ask a question in her curious, sing-song voice, and Jisung, patient despite the smudges of grease on his arms and the sweat at his temples answered each one like it mattered.

You hovered near the counter, too tense to move closer, your eyes darting constantly between Ara and Jisung. Every part of you wanted to pull her away, to tuck her back at your side, but you knew the fight that would cause. And for now, Jisung was careful, keeping her hands far from anything sharp or dangerous.

Still, it felt like your heart was walking a tightrope.

That’s when Seojin reappeared.

He strolled back from his so-called lunch, a bottle of soda in hand, and leaned casually against the counter beside you. His eyes slid to where Jisung bent under the hood, then back to you, and his grin widened.

“Looks like she’s got him wrapped around her finger already,” he said lightly, nodding toward Ara. “Cute kid.”

You stiffened. Your lips pressed tight, but you forced yourself to murmur, “She’s… yeah. She’s a handful sometimes.”

Seojin chuckled. “Bet she gets it from her mom.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. You opened your mouth to deflect, to steer the conversation elsewhere, but he pressed forward.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice a little, “I wasn’t kidding earlier. You should let me take you out sometime. Get a break from… all this.” He gestured vaguely, like the stress of your car trouble was just an appetizer to whatever else you were dealing with.

Your chest tightened. “I don’t think—”

“Come on.” His smile was easy, coaxing. “Dinner, coffee, doesn’t matter. Just you and me. You deserve it.”

For a moment, something inside you fluttered. The words felt good, someone wanting you, openly, without the weight of the past hanging over it. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at you that way.

But before you could even respond, another voice cut in.

“She’s got a boyfriend.”

The words snapped through the space like a whip.

Your head jerked toward Jisung. He was still bent at the hood, rag in hand, but his eyes were on Seojin now, sharp and steady. His jaw worked tight, and though his tone was calm, there was nothing casual about it.

Seojin blinked, thrown off. “Wait—you do?”

Your stomach dropped.

The lie you’d told, too fast, too desperate was circling back around, and now Jisung was weaponizing it right in front of you.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to nod. “Yeah. I do.”

Seojin raised a brow but didn’t back down. He gave a slow shrug, lips curving into a half-smile. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have friends.”

“Friends don’t ask for numbers,” Jisung shot back, his tone colder this time. He straightened fully, standing tall beside the car, grease smeared across his knuckles. The look he leveled at Seojin could’ve cut steel.

The younger mechanic hesitated, his grin faltering under the weight of it. For a moment, silence stretched thick, charged.

And then Seojin lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just asking. No harm done.”

He sauntered back toward the workbench, but not before shooting you a sly little wink that made your face burn.

Jisung’s eyes followed him until he was out of earshot. Then he turned his gaze on you.

The look in his eyes was worse than the teasing, worse than the smugness you’d expected. It was sharper, heavier. Like he wasn’t just reminding you of your lie, he was testing how far you’d go to keep it alive.

You folded your arms over your chest, biting the inside of your cheek. “You didn’t have to say anything,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” Jisung replied, wiping his hands again, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Guess I didn’t.”

But he had. And you both knew why.

Even if he refused to admit it.

The rest of the shop felt different after Seojin’s little stunt.

Jisung moved around with his usual sharp efficiency, but there was an edge to every motion, wrenches dropped harder than they needed to be, drawers slammed instead of closed, his voice clipped when he barked orders at Seojin.

The younger mechanic tried to play it cool, cracking a joke here and there, but each time, Jisung cut him off before the words could even land.

You saw it. Everyone in the shop could see it.

And you hated how much of it was your fault.

Ara, oblivious to the storm brewing under Jisung’s skin, toddled back and forth between you and him, her bunny clutched tightly in her arms now that she’d reclaimed it. She’d peek into the hood of the car, tilt her head, then run back to tug on your sleeve with some new discovery.

“Mommy, he said the car drinks water like I do juice,” she giggled, eyes wide.

You forced a smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

But the knot in your stomach twisted tighter each time she ran back to Jisung. Each time he crouched a little to meet her eye level, answering her questions with more patience than you remembered him having for anyone else. Each time his lips curved into that small, soft smile, the one you hadn’t seen in years.

It was dangerous. All of it.

“Hey, careful with that,” Jisung murmured when Ara leaned a little too close to the open hood. His hand shot out instinctively, steadying her by the shoulder. Gentle. Protective. Like it was second nature.

Your chest tightened painfully at the sight.

“Come on, Ara,” you called, sharper than you meant to. “Give him some space.”

She pouted. “But he said I can help.”

Jisung glanced at you, something unspoken in his eyes. Then he wiped his hands on a rag and crouched fully beside Ara.

“You know what? You’re already helping a lot just by keeping me company,” he said, his tone light but careful. “Mechanics get lonely working by themselves all day.”

Ara’s smile was blinding. She hugged her bunny to her chest and whispered loudly, “Then I’ll stay!”

Jisung chuckled, the sound low, soft. Too soft.

You crossed your arms over your chest and stared hard at the floor, hoping the ground would swallow you.

Seojin chose that exact moment to walk by with a box of tools, his eyes flicking to you again. He gave a lopsided grin, like he hadn’t been shut down earlier. “Need anything, pretty?” he teased, voice low.

Before you could answer, Jisung’s head snapped up.

“She’s fine,” he said flatly, too fast, too sharp.

Seojin raised his brows, amused. “Touchy.”

“Get back to work,” Jisung growled.

The tension hung thick, choking. Seojin lingered just long enough to make his point, then shrugged and walked off.

Ara, completely missing the undercurrent, turned to Jisung and asked innocently, “Why’s he always smiling at my mommy?”

The question landed like a stone in your stomach.

You froze.

Jisung, too, went still. His jaw flexed, his eyes darting briefly to you before returning to Ara. For a second, you thought he’d ignore it. But then he spoke, his voice steady but low.

“Some people smile because they want attention.” He stood, tossing the rag onto the workbench with more force than necessary. “Doesn’t mean it’s real.”

Ara blinked up at him, clearly confused, before nodding solemnly like she’d just been given an important piece of wisdom.

You, on the other hand, wanted to sink into the floor.

The lie about your so-called boyfriend was already heavy enough, but with Jisung throwing himself into this strange mix of protectiveness and bitterness, every word felt like it carried a blade.

When Ara returned to your side, you smoothed her hair, trying to keep your voice steady. “We won’t be here much longer,” you murmured.

But deep down, you weren’t sure if you were saying it to her… or to yourself.

By the time Jisung slammed the hood of your car shut, the sun had dipped low enough that the light filtering through the shop windows was a dusky gold. Sweat slicked his temple and ran down the column of his neck, sliding along his collarbone before disappearing beneath the edge of his shirt. His t-shirt clung to him, damp at the back, and when he dragged his rag across his face, streaks of grease smeared darker against his skin.

You tried not to look. Tried not to feel the sudden, uninvited flutter in your stomach. But it was impossible to ignore, the way his forearms flexed when he tossed the rag aside, the line of his jaw tight with concentration, the way his chest rose and fell with sharp, shallow breaths.

Damn him. Damn you for even noticing.

Shaking it off, you cleared your throat, arms crossed protectively over your chest. “So,” you muttered, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “What do I owe you? For last night, for keeping Ara’s bunny safe, and for today.”

It came out clipped, transactional. Business-like. That was all you wanted this to be.

But Jisung’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and you knew instantly he wasn’t going to let you have that distance.

Before he could even answer, Seojin emerged from the back, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “I can give you an estimate,” he said easily, already reaching for the clipboard on the counter. He scribbled quickly, then held it up for you to see. “Parts, labor, and the extra hours—comes to about—”

“Don’t,” Jisung cut in sharply.

Both you and Seojin froze.

Jisung strode over, pulling the clipboard out of Seojin’s hand without so much as a glance. He set it face-down on the counter, then turned to you, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“It’s on me,” he said flatly.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I—”

“I said it’s on me.” His voice was harder this time, brooking no argument.

Seojin frowned. “Hyung, that’s not how it works. She still owes for the work. You can’t just—”

Jisung’s glare cut him off mid-sentence. It was sharp, pointed, and loaded with a warning Seojin seemed to understand instantly. He huffed, muttered something under his breath, and stomped back toward the tool rack, leaving you and Jisung in the thick silence.

You swallowed, shaking your head. “I didn’t ask you for charity, Jisung.”

“It’s not charity.” He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, his voice low and tight. “It’s the least I can do.”

The least he could do.

The words scraped against you, pulling something raw and bitter to the surface.

You exhaled sharply. “Fine. Then consider me even. For everything.”

That, that, made his jaw clench. His lips pressed into a hard line, and for a moment you thought he might let it drop. But then his eyes flicked up, pinning you in place, and his voice dropped lower.

“Does your boyfriend even know you’re here?”

The words cut like a blade.

Your stomach dropped, blood rushing hot to your ears. “Don’t.”

“No, seriously.” He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his voice dripping with a bitterness you hadn’t heard in years. “Does he know you’re running around town, dragging your kid to broken-down shops in the middle of the night, lying awake in some stranger’s garage because your car can’t make it ten miles without choking?”

Your hands curled into fists. “It’s not any of your business.”

“Not my business?” His laugh was humorless, sharp. He shook his head, eyes burning into you. “Then why the hell do I feel like I’m the only one around here giving a damn?”

Your breath hitched. The words stung, not because he was wrong, but because of how close they came to the truth.

You wanted to scream, to throw the truth in his face, to tell him everything. But the risk was too great. The secret you carried was too heavy, too fragile to let spill now, in front of Seojin, in front of Ara.

So you did what you always did. You shut it down.

You swallowed hard, forcing steel into your voice. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, Jisung. You lost the right years ago.”

His expression flickered, just for a second, hurt flashing behind the anger. But then his walls went up again, his smirk cold and sharp.

“Right. Years ago.” He stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets like he needed to stop himself from saying more. “Guess your boyfriend doesn’t mind picking up where I left off.”

The air between you cracked.

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream at him until your throat bled. But instead, you bit your tongue so hard it ached and turned toward Ara, who was watching curiously from the corner, bunny clutched to her chest.

You forced a smile for her. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

Her little hand slid into yours without hesitation.

But as you walked past Jisung, his voice followed you, softer this time, almost broken at the edges.

“Tell him he should check under the hood himself next time.”

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

-

The shop was quieter that evening, though the air still smelled of oil, gasoline, and lingering smoke. The kind of quiet Jisung hated because quiet left room for thoughts. And his thoughts weren’t kind tonight.

Every clang of a tool he picked up felt like it echoed too loud. Every engine hum rang hollow. He found himself staring at the bay door too often, like maybe your car would pull back in. Like maybe Ara’s small voice would carry through the space again.

Instead, there was nothing but silence and the gnawing replay of your words. You lost the right years ago. don’t talk about things you don’t understand.

Jisung threw the wrench down harder than necessary, the metal clattering across the workbench.

“You’re sulking,” a familiar voice announced.

He looked up sharply. Minho leaned against the frame of the open doorway, smirk tugging at his lips, while Chan followed behind him with a six-pack swinging casually in one hand.

Jisung groaned. “Don’t you two have better things to do than annoy me?”

Chan grinned, already setting the beer down on the counter. “Nope. Besides, we heard you’ve been in a mood. Figured we’d check in.”

“More like we were bored,” Minho added dryly, grabbing a bottle for himself. “But hey, same difference.”

Jisung scowled, grabbing a rag to wipe his already filthy hands. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Chan popped open his drink, took a long swig, then leaned an elbow on the counter. “So fine you’re throwing wrenches like they insulted your mother.”

Minho snorted. “What happened? Don’t tell me you actually scared off a customer.”

Jisung’s silence was all the answer they needed.

Chan’s eyebrows shot up, and then, just as quickly, he burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you did. You actually did. What’d you do, glare at them until they ran out?”

Jisung’s scowl deepened. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Minho pressed, his tone sharper but curious. “Because word on the street is, you don’t let anyone walk out without paying and yet rumor has it you comped someone. Whole damn job.”

Chan’s grin widened. “Wait, no. You didn’t.”

When Jisung didn’t answer, Chan laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer. “Oh, you did. You’re so whipped.”

Jisung rolled his eyes and muttered, “Shut up.”

But Minho wasn’t laughing. He set his drink down with a dull thunk, staring hard at him. “Hold on. You make us pay. Full price. For everything. You make your friends cough up cash for oil changes, but her? She gets a free ride?”

“That’s different,” Jisung snapped before he could stop himself.

“Different how?” Minho challenged.

Jisung opened his mouth, but no words came. Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that it wasn’t just about the car? That it was you, you standing in front of him again, the only person who’d ever left him gutted enough to make him a mess five years later.

Chan, recovering from his laughter, tipped his bottle toward Jisung with a knowing smirk. “He’s right, you know. You’re still hung up. You’ve always been hung up.”

Jisung glared at him. “I’m not—”

“Please.” Chan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “We know you, Jisung. Every girl since her? A mess. Either you don’t call them back, or they don’t stick around. And don’t even get me started on your little one night stands.”

Jisung’s jaw flexed, his grip tightening on the rag in his hand. “I’m not talking about this with you two.”

But Chan only smirked wider. “Fine. Let’s talk about her kid then.”

That froze Jisung in place.

Chan’s tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Cute, huh? What’s her name?”

Jisung’s throat worked. “Ara,” he muttered.

“Adorable,” Chan repeated, sipping his beer. “She looks a little like her mom, doesn’t she?”

Something in Jisung’s chest twisted. “She’s not mine,” he said quickly, firmly. Too firmly.

Minho raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

Jisung blinked at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Chan leaned in slightly, his voice low and even. “Think about it. She’s what..four? Maybe five? And how long ago did she leave?”

Jisung froze. The math was too simple. Too clean.

Chan shrugged. “So unless she cheated on you—which, let’s be real, she wouldn’t or she jumped into bed with someone else the second you broke up, there’s a real chance Ara could be yours.”

The rag slipped from Jisung’s hand.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No. She said she’s with someone. A boyfriend. That’s probably Ara’s dad.”

Minho crossed his arms, studying him. “Have you even seen him? A picture? Heard his name?”

Jisung opened his mouth then closed it again. His stomach dropped.

“No,” he admitted finally, his voice rough.

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing.

Chan leaned back, satisfied. “Just saying, Ji. You should think about it. ‘Cause if she is yours, and you’re here acting like she’s someone else’s kid…”

Jisung shoved a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps. His heart hammered against his ribs, his thoughts spiraling.

The image of Ara’s smile flashed in his head. The way she’d clutched her bunny. The way she’d lit up when he crouched down to talk to her.

It tugged at him in a way he couldn’t explain, and now, now Chan’s words lodged in his chest like a knife.

He wanted to dismiss it, to shove it down. But he couldn’t.

Not when the timeline fit too neatly.

Not when, for the first time in years, he let himself wonder:

What if she wasn’t just some kid?

What if she was his?

//

masterlist.

a/n: lol this ended up being way longer than i thought so it’s split into 3(?) parts, if i’m not too busy i will post part 2 tomorrow since it’s alr finished. <3 thank you for waiting, i missed posting.

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @euphysia @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon @geni-627 @enhacolor @lunaspov @sunshinesliife @fadedglitterpunk @jisuperboard @hyujim @blablamerra @alondra6011 @you-dont-know-my-name @chezzeballs300 @bemyaehiweloveskz @luvvvivi @maddy24207 @inmyfelixera @senaenabear lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[mingiatz]

You weren’t supposed to see what you saw that night in the alley.

He wasn’t supposed to let you live.

But somehow, a glance turned into a warning…

A warning into a conversation…

And a conversation into something that neither of you could walk away from.

Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Female Reader

Tropes: Mafia AU, Grumpy x quiet resilience, Witness-to-lovers, He fell first, he fell harder, Overprotective but respectful, “Touch her and I’ll kill you” energy

Genre: Romance, Suspense, Slow Burn, Angst with a (hard-earned) Soft Ending, Smut

Featuring: The entire Ateez gang as loyal, chaotic criminals,  Exes who don’t know when to stay gone

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

The city at night was never truly quiet.

Even this late, the air was alive with distant hums — traffic murmurs two streets over, a muffled bass thumping from some half-empty club, the occasional staccato of heels against wet pavement. But here, on this narrow side street, the sounds were softer, almost hesitant.

I tugged my scarf tighter, my breath clouding in the cold air as I made my way home from the café. My shift had ended just after midnight, leaving my fingers aching from the constant rhythm of brewing coffee, wiping counters, and punching orders into the register. Normally I’d stick to the main road — well-lit, full of late-night stragglers, the safety-in-numbers route.

But tonight… I just wanted to get home. Quickly.

The shortcut wasn’t dangerous, not exactly. It was just quieter. And I didn’t mind quiet.

I turned left down the alley, my boots tapping against slick concrete. The smell of rain lingered, fresh and metallic, though the sky was dry now. My footsteps echoed — too loud in the stillness — and I realized I hadn’t passed anyone in the last block.

Halfway through, the sound reached me.

Low voices.

At first, I thought it was just a couple of drunk friends cutting through to the next street, but as I slowed, the tone sharpened — clipped words, something between an argument and a warning.

I should’ve turned around. I knew I should have.

Instead, I pressed closer to the shadow of a building, following the curve of the alley until it widened slightly into a narrow lot between two brick walls.

That’s when I saw them.

Five men. Four standing in a loose half-circle, and one at the center — his back partially to me, but his posture straight, commanding. Even from here, there was something deliberate in the way he moved — not hurried, not aggressive, just… controlled.

The man facing him was speaking too fast, gesturing with sharp, jerky movements. His voice carried, the words spitting through the cold air: “—you can’t keep cutting us out—”

The central figure — tall, broad-shouldered, a dark coat falling perfectly to his knees — didn’t interrupt. He waited. Let the words die out.

And then, without warning, he stepped forward, closing the space between them. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw the flash of something metallic in the faint light — not a threat, not yet, but enough to make the other man flinch.

The argument wasn’t going to resolve itself.

The smaller man’s hand darted toward his jacket.

It happened fast.

One motion. One muted pop.

The smaller man crumpled like his strings had been cut, the gun he’d been reaching for clattering uselessly to the ground.

I sucked in a sharp breath — too loud, too sudden — and the heel of my boot knocked against something glass. A bottle tipped over with a hollow clink, rolling a few inches before coming to rest.

The man in the coat turned.

The light caught his face for half a second — sharp lines, dark eyes, unreadable expression, the most handsome i had ever seen— and in that frozen moment, our eyes met.

I didn’t think. I ran.

My breath burned by the second corner. The alley dog-legged right, then fed into a narrower cut between a shuttered print shop and a brick wall someone had painted with a mural of cranes and clouds. My boots slid on damp grit; my palm skinned against brick when I caught myself.

Behind me—nothing. No footsteps. No shout. The silence didn’t feel like safety; it felt like someone had pressed pause.

I ducked behind a stack of flattened boxes and held still, counting my heartbeat like it might be loud enough to betray me. A car hissed past on the main road beyond the alley mouth. A distant siren dopplered into somewhere that wasn’t here.

I risked a look back.

The lot where the men had stood was now a stage being struck between scenes. Two of them had vanished into shadow. The other two were moving with the efficiency of people who’d done this before—picking up the fallen gun with a gloved hand, lifting the dead man by elbows and knees, nothing sloppy, nothing wasted. The tall one in the coat—him—stood slightly apart, angled toward where I’d been, head tilted in that listening way predators have when they don’t need to pretend to be anything else.

He didn’t move.

If he’d seen me—if he cared—there was no sign of it in his posture. No jerk of command, no sent-hound. He just watched the mouth of the alley like he had all the time in the world to decide.

A bottle clinked somewhere nearer to me; I flinched. It was just the wind nudging trash. I forced my breathing quieter, counting backward from twenty.

When I looked again, they were gone. The lot was empty except for a scuffed arc of damp where a body had been and a dark bloom that wasn’t rain.

I didn’t wait to see if they came back.

The main street felt almost obnoxiously normal. Neon hummed. A convenience store door dinged cheerfully as someone went in for cigarettes or instant noodles or both. The crosswalk changed without drama.

I walked like I hadn’t been running, which is a skill you don’t realize you have until you need it. Hands in pockets. Shoulders down. Head up. Normal. Fine.

By the time I reached my block, the adrenaline had curdled into something colder. My building rose above the kimbap place like a stack of square jaws. The smell of sesame oil drifted up the stairwell; a comforting detail that made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Up the stairs. Key in. Turn. Inside.

Shoes off, door locked, chain slid, deadbolt turned. I stood with my forehead against the wood and listened.

My apartment breathed back at me—fridge hum, heater cough, the neighbor’s TV murmuring a talk show through the wall. Everything exactly where I’d left it that morning: jacket slumped on the chair, mug in the sink, plant leaning toward the window like hope.

I moved like I was cataloguing evidence: curtains drawn, latch checked, bathroom window locked. It wasn’t fear so much as habit. Fear is messy; habits are clean.

My hands didn’t stop shaking until I was in the shower, water turned up too hot, forehead against tile. The sound of it covered the echo of the shot. The image of him—dark coat, steady hands—kept trying to push itself to the front of my eyelids. I rinsed my hair like I was washing a frame out of a negative.

By the time I toweled off and found clean pajamas, my heartbeat had agreed to stop pretending it was a trapped bird. I boiled water. I stared at the steam without pouring it into anything. I put the kettle back on the unlit burner and laughed once, quietly, because I’d made tea for shock and then forgotten the cup.

“Okay,” I told the kitchen. “Okay.”

On my counter was a pen I’d left next to a grocery list. I wrote milk, eggs, dish soap, and for no reason I could explain, don’t take the alley underneath, like future-me would need the reminder.

The window over the sink looked down on the street. I lifted the curtain an inch. Night had softened the edges of everything into a manageable lie. A couple in matching coats walked their dog. A cyclist glided through a yellow light like he had immunity. A black car idled two doors down where the curb dipped—lights off, engine a low animal.

It could have been any car. It could have been waiting for anyone.

I let the curtain fall.

Sleep wasn’t obedient. It came in fits, like a radio station you could only get when you stood in exactly the right spot and held your breath. Every time I started to drift, his face knifed through—clean lines, a look like math. Not cruel. Not kind. A decision wearing a person.

I told myself what people tell themselves after they’ve seen a thing they shouldn’t: you’re no one, you’re nothing, you don’t matter to that story. It wasn’t reassuring. Not mattering to people like that can be safer. It can also make you easy to erase.

At some point the city thinned down to ist skeleton—garbage trucks, a lone bus, the low chuff of the heater deciding to do ist job. I let go.

I woke just after six, the sky an ugly, earnest gray. My body felt like someone had set me at a slightly wrong angle in my sleep. I did the things you do to convince the day you’re allowed to be in it: wash face, brush teeth, tie hair, check pockets for keys and wallet. The mirror gave me a face that didn’t look like it had watched a man die in a throwaway lot. Good. Useful.

At the door, I hesitated and opened it a crack to listen.

The hallway smelled like detergent and old wood. A flyer for a yoga class had slithered under someone’s door and died there. No footsteps. No breath that wasn’t mine.

By the time I hit the sidewalk, people were already arguing with their mornings—coffee, kids, coats, keys. I folded into the current and let it carry me toward the café like it had any right to decide where I went.

The café existed in that space between trying and not bothering. We had a chalkboard menu and succulents that someone remembered to water every third Tuesday. The machine steamed and hissed like an irritable dragon; tourists took photos of their lattes like they’d never seen milk before. It was honest work. It was also good cover for a brain that, if left alone, would rewind alleys until they were holes.

“Morning,” Tom said, flipping the door sign. “You look like you fought the night and it won.”

“Night cheated,” I said, tying my apron.

Minhee—different Minhee; the universe had at least two—peeked around the pastry case. “Glitter Girl is back. She says the glitter was medicinal.”

“Is it?” I asked, pouring two shots like my hands hadn’t shaken six hours ago.

“Spiritually,” she said solemnly.

The first rush of commuters came and went in a blur of keep-cups and deadlines. The second wave arrived late, ashamed, and tipped to absolve themselves. The third wave was students with laptops and the stamina to order one Americano and stay until our descendants took over the lease.

I found my rhythm the way you find a familiar song on a bad day. Grind. Tamp. Pull. Steam. Wipe. Smile, but not in a way that invited conversation from men who thought their flat white came with your number.

At 10:17, I glanced up from a drip tray that would never love me back and froze.

Across the street, in the seam of two buildings where shadow lingered even when the sun tried, a car I recognized by silhouette alone idled with a kind of polite confidence.

Same deep color. Same quiet posture. Lights off. Nothing about it said look at me, which was exactly what made it visible.

The door opened.

He stepped out like the city had asked him to.

Dark coat.He didn’t head for our door immediately. He stood and looked, not scanning in that sloppy, nervous way, but taking in exits, angles, reflection in glass. Then he crossed, the light catching on him like it would have asked first if it had better manners.

He came in. He did not belong in our chalk dust and croissants, and somehow he didn’t disturb any of it. The bell over the door chimed like it had to.

Tom straightened like his posture had been insulted. Minhee arranged muffins with the fierce concentration of someone who was hyper-aware of graceful danger within ten feet.

The last time I’d seen him, he’d been standing over a body.

Now, he was standing at my counter.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep — the kind you felt in your chest as much as you heard.

“Morning,” I echoed, because apparently my survival instincts wanted to play customer service.

He rested one gloved hand on the counter. “Coffee.”

“What kind?” I asked, reaching automatically for a cup.

“Black. No sugar.”

Of course.

As the espresso machine hissed to life, I couldn’t help stealing glances. In daylight, there was nothing overtly threatening about him. He looked like the kind of man who could own a law firm or a gallery — or both — if you didn’t know what he’d done in the shadows.

When I set the cup down in front of him, he didn’t pick it up right away. Instead, his gaze flicked to my eyes, lingering a second too long.

“Y/N,” he said, as if testing the sound.

Hearing my name in that voice was unsettling in a way I didn’t like. “That’s me.”

“You work here often?”

The question was casual, but there was a precision to it — like each word was placed with intent.

“Often enough,” I said lightly, keeping my tone neutral. “Why? Thinking of becoming a regular?”

His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Maybe.”

I leaned one elbow on the counter, mostly to keep myself from fidgeting. “Well, we open at seven and close at nine. You can have all the black coffee you want in between.”

For a moment, he just looked at me, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t seeing the café at all — just me, like I was some puzzle piece he was deciding whether to keep or toss.

Finally, he picked up the cup, took a sip, and set it down again. “Good coffee.”

“Glad you approve,” I said, reaching for a cloth to wipe a perfectly clean spot on the counter.

He left the cup mostly full, sliding a bill under the saucer before standing. As he turned toward the door, he glanced back at me. “See you around, Y/N.”

The bell over the door chimed as he left, and I stood there staring at the empty spot where he’d been, my pulse a little too quick for comfort.

He knew my name.

But I didn’t remember giving it to him.

The rest of the morning slid by in fragments, each one separated by the hiss of the espresso machine or the scrape of ceramic cups.

Y/N took orders, steamed milk, and smiled where it was expected, but the image of the man in the black coat stayed lodged in her thoughts.

The way he’d said her name without asking for it.

The way he’d barely touched the coffee, as if he hadn’t come for the drink at all.

She caught herself scanning the door more than once, half-expecting him to return before her shift was over.

By midday, Minhee had noticed the difference.

“You’re distracted,” Minhee said, leaning a hip against the counter while the grinder roared in the background.

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied automatically, which only made her coworker’s grin widen.

“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

Y/N didn’t look up from wiping down the counter. “Who?”

“Tall, dark, and expensive coat from this morning,” Minhee said with certainty. “Y/N, that man was hot hot. Not just hot—hot hot. Like ‘owns-a-private-jet-and-a-criminal-record’ hot.”

Y/N nearly choked on her own breath. “Minhee—”

“What? You can’t tell me you didn’t notice. He had that… dangerous thing going on. You know, the kind that makes you wonder if you should run away or ask him to ruin your life a little.”

Y/N snorted, partly to mask the uneasy twist in her stomach about how right she was. “Not my type.”

Minhee narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Didn’t even ask for his name?”

“Didn’t seem like the small talk type,” Y/N said, glancing toward the door again before catching herself.

“Shame,” Minhee said with a sigh, but the bell above the door chimed and pulled her away.

By the time her shift ended, the winter light had thinned into a pale, exhausted gold that stretched shadows long across the pavement.

Y/N wrapped her scarf tight and stepped outside, scanning the street before heading toward home.

Every parked car, every figure crossing in the distance, every shape in the corner of her vision seemed worth watching.

She kept to the main road, ignoring the temptation to cut through quieter streets. Her boots clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that felt louder than it should.

At every alley she passed, she glanced sideways without slowing.

But there was no sign of him.

By the time she reached her building, the street was quiet except for a delivery rider locking up his bike. The normalcy of it all made her almost laugh — as if she’d spent the day imagining a threat that didn’t exist.

She climbed the stairs, her breath clouding faintly in the cooler air of the hallway.

The lock turned without resistance. She stepped inside.

And stopped.

He was there.

Sitting in her armchair as if he’d been invited, one ankle resting over the other knee, a porcelain mug in hand. Steam curled from the tea as though it belonged here.

For a heartbeat, Y/N’s mind refused to make sense of the scene. The man from the alley — in her home — calm, composed, and utterly at ease.

“How—” She had to clear her throat to steady her voice. “How did you get in?”

He took a slow sip before answering. “Your lock isn’t very good.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said.

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he replied, setting the mug on the side table. “You buy decent tea, by the way. Or maybe you just store it well.”

Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. “You broke into my apartment to critique my tea?”

“I came to talk,” he said evenly. “But I thought you’d be more inclined to listen if you weren’t worried about being dragged into another alley.”

“That’s… not making me feel safer.”

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes — amusement, maybe, or the absence of it. “You saw something last night. I need to know what you plan to do about it.”

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “And if I say nothing?”

“Then we’ll both sleep easier,” he said after a pause. “For now.”

The for now sat between them like a second shadow.

Y/N’s mind was running, weighing her options — not for the first time since last night. She could lie. Play it cool. Tell him she hadn’t seen anything.

But he was watching her the way people watch a chessboard — calm, patient, calculating ten moves ahead.

“I told you,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “I didn’t see much.”

One eyebrow lifted the faintest fraction. “That’s not true.”

Her pulse jumped. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“Because people who see nothing don’t spend the day checking over their shoulder.”

The fact that he knew she had done exactly that made the room feel smaller.

She crossed her arms. “If you’re here to scare me into silence, you’re wasting your time.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, as if the conversation amused him. “You think I’m here to threaten you?”

“You broke into my apartment and are currently sitting in my armchair drinking my tea,” she said flatly. “So… yes. Threatening feels like a safe guess.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “If I wanted you gone, you wouldn’t have made it home tonight.”

Her stomach tightened, but she didn’t flinch. “Comforting.”

He gave the faintest hint of a smirk — the kind that wasn’t meant to soften anything, just acknowledge the game being played. “I prefer honest over comforting.”

She took a slow breath, letting the words settle before asking the question that had been pushing against her since the moment she’d seen him in the doorway of the café. “So… who are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up the mug again, took a sip, and set it down with deliberate care. “Someone you shouldn’t have seen.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I got that much.”

A moment of quiet stretched between them. The muted hum of the fridge filled it, too loud in the silence.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said, voice almost casual now. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

She hesitated. “Would it have done any good?”

His mouth curved — just slightly — and she got the sense that she’d given the answer he’d expected.

“You’re smarter than most,” he said. “That’s… useful.”

“I’m not trying to be useful to you.”

“You might not have a choice.”

The words weren’t a threat in tone, but they carried the weight of inevitability.

Y/N stepped toward the door, partly to put distance between them, partly to make it clear the conversation was over. “Are we done?”

“For now,” he said again, rising smoothly to his feet. He was taller than she’d realized in the café, his presence seeming to fill more space than it should.

At the door, he paused and glanced back. “Lock your windows, too. That tea wasn’t the only thing I noticed.”

And then he was gone — as silently as he’d arrived.

Y/N stood in the middle of her living room, the faint scent of tea still in the air, and wondered if she’d just agreed to something without saying a word.

The sound had been small — small enough that most people would have missed it.

A shoe scuff against damp concrete.

Seonghwa didn’t turn his head immediately. That was the trick — never look too soon, never betray that you’ve heard something you shouldn’t have. Instead, he let the conversation in front of him play out, his eyes still on the man who was speaking too fast, moving his hands too much.

Only when the words began to fray into stammering did Seonghwa glance toward the edge of the alley.

There. Just inside the shadow.

A woman.

The distance was enough to blur some detailes, but not enough to hide the way she froze when his gaze brushed her. The faint rise and fall of her shoulders told him her breathing had quickened. She didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She turned and ran. And for a short moment the moonlight lit her features. He had to admit she was pretty.

He could have given the signal. Mingi and San were close enough to intercept her before she reached the street.

But she wasn’t a cop. Not a lookout. Just someone who’d stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time.

More importantly, she had kept her mouth shut.

That alone made her more interesting than most.

Morning light was less forgiving than streetlamps, but when he saw her again hours later, there was no mistaking her.

The café was bright in a way the alley had never been. She stood behind the counter, hair pulled back, moving with the quick efficiency of someone used to being on their feet for hours.

Her eyes flicked toward the door as he stepped inside. The recognition was instant — he saw it in the way her fingers paused for a fraction of a second before continuing whatever task they’d been doing.

He ordered coffee he didn’t need. Watched the way she kept her tone polite but not friendly, professional but not meek. Most people cracked under silence; she seemed to understand ist weight.

Her name tag gave her away — Y/N.

The name suited her.

When she slid the cup toward him, he didn’t drink right away. Instead, he let the pause stretch until she glanced up at him again. Her eyes were steady, but her shoulders had that faint stiffness of someone trying not to react.

It was… intriguing.

He left the cup nearly full, sliding a bill beneath the saucer. As he walked out, he looked back just long enough to say her name.

Breaking into her apartment that evening was almost laughably easy.

The lock on the front door had taken less than fifteen seconds to bypass. The windows would have been even simpler.

He hadn’t touched anything but the armchair. Sat there. Waited.

When she arrived, the shock registered in her eyes, but again — no screaming. Just questions, sharp-edged and quick.

They talked. She pushed back more than most would. There was fear there, yes, but tempered with control. She was measuring him just as carefully as he was measuring her.

By the time he left, he’d decided she wasn’t reckless. But she was unpredictable, and unpredictability was dangerous in ist own way.

The headquarters was quieter than usual when he arrived. The top floors of the old office building smelled faintly of smoke from whatever San had been burning earlier. Maps and ledgers covered one wall; another was lined with locked cabinets.

San noticed him first. “Well, if it isn’t our ghost,” he said, grinning. “Where’ve you been, hyung?”

“Working,” Seonghwa replied, shrugging out of his coat.

Wooyoung glanced up from the couch, swirling a drink in his hand. “Working? Or visiting your little café friend?”

Seonghwa looked at him evenly. “She’s not my friend.”

“That’s not what Mingi said,” San cut in. “He said you let her go. Didn’t even send me after her. I would’ve made it quick.”

“She didn’t need to be chased,” Seonghwa said, his tone final.

Hongjoong emerged from the back, flipping through a folder. “If Seonghwa says she’s not a problem, she’s not a problem. For now.” His gaze lingered just long enough to make the point.

Wooyoung smirked. “So you broke into her apartment—”

“I was making sure she wouldn’t act impulsively,” Seonghwa interrupted, his voice even.

“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said. “Over tea.”

San leaned back in his chair, laughter in his eyes. “Hot tea. Cozy.”

Seonghwa ignored them both, pulling a ledger toward himself. But Mingi, coming in from the balcony, shook his head with a grin. “You’re gonna watch her again, aren’t you? People like that… you don’t just leave them alone.”

Seonghwa closed the ledger. He didn’t answer.

Some things didn’t need confirmation.

He went back the next morning.

It wasn’t planned, at least not in the way most of his movements were planned. He simply found himself walking down the street where the café sat, the pale winter light catching in the glass door, the faint hum of the espresso machine audible even from outside.

She was there.

Her hair was different — tied low this time — but the quick, practiced movements behind the counter were the same. She didn’t startle when she saw him, didn’t stiffen. If anything, there was only the faintest flicker of recognition before she went back to her work.

“Black. No sugar,” he said when he reached the counter.

She gave a small nod and reached for a cup alresdy making it. “Your persistent.“

He let the corner of his mouth shift — not quite a smile. “I tend to.”

She didn’t answer, just set the cup down and moved on to the next customer.

It became a pattern.

Over the next week, he stopped by each morning. Sometimes she was the one to take his order, sometimes Minhee. On the days it was her, she was polite but brisk, her attention split between him and the stream of people coming through the door.

He watched for signs of strain — a glance toward the street after he left, a whisper to her coworker — but there was nothing.

By the fifth day, he started testing the edges.

Leaning a little closer when she passed him his coffee.

Letting his gaze linger a fraction too long.

Dropping small, seemingly harmless remarks.

“You make better coffee than your coworker,” he said once, his tone casual.

She glanced up from the register. “I’ll let her know you said that,” she replied, the faintest thread of dry humor in her voice.

Another day, he asked, “Do you ever take breaks?”

“When I have time,” she said, handing him his cup. “And when customers aren’t asking questions they don’t need the answers to.”

He found himself almost amused.

By the start of the second week, the subtle tension she’d carried that first day was gone. She still watched him, but not with the same wary edge. It was more… observational, as if she were trying to figure him out without letting him know.

Most importantly, she hadn’t gone to the police.

No detectives waiting outside the café. No sudden visits from people who asked too many questions.

Either she’d decided to keep quiet — or she’d already understood that reporting him would accomplish nothing.

He liked that she seemed to understand the latter.

On the twelfth day, the café was quiet enough that there was no one behind him in line.

She handed him his coffee — smooth, practiced, without hesitation now — and moved to turn away.

He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small folded slip of paper, setting it on the counter between them. “In case you ever feel like getting better coffee than this,” he said, voice low enough for only her to hear.

Her eyes flicked to his, then down to the paper. “And why would I need to?”

He let the faintest smirk touch his mouth. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll want to.”

She exhaled through her nose, an almost-laugh that she tried to turn into a scoff. “I think I’ll survive without it.”

But as she pushed the paper closer to her side of the counter, he caught it — the tiniest flush at the tops of her cheeks. She didn’t meet his gaze as she rang up the next order.

It was the first crack in her composure he’d seen.

And though Seonghwa didn’t make a habit of finding people attractive, he could admit — at least to himself — that something about her restraint made him want to test ist limits.

He took his coffee and stepped aside without another word. He didn’t need to look back to know she’d keep the number.

He left the café with the taste of burnt espresso he hadn’t actually drunk and the color in her cheeks lodged, unexpectedly, in his mind.

Not a full blush—she would never give him that. Just a quick, disloyal warmth rising beneath the skin as she slid his number off the counter like it was any customer’s receipt. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed it. But he had been looking. And he didn’t miss things.

Outside, winter light washed the street flat. Seonghwa paused at the corner long enough to watch her silhouette move through the window—efficient, precise, a quick half-smile for an old man who tipped in coins, an arched brow for Minhee when the grinder misbehaved. She’d settled since the first week. The fear was mostly gone. The wariness remained, sharpened into something that looked a lot like discernment.

Good, he thought. Fear makes people stupid. Discernment keeps them alive.

He didn’t pocket the observation as much as place it carefully with the others he’d collected about her: keeps her back to a wall when she can; watches reflections instead of faces; ties her hair differently depending on how little sleep she’s had. Small things that, together, suggested an interior life that wasn’t easily borrowed or broken.

By the time he reached headquarters, the building’s old elevator had decided it would only function if coaxed; he took the stairs instead. The second floor landing smelled faintly of paint thinner and citrus—someone, probably Yeosang, had decided the map wall needed “order.”

San clocked Seonghwa’s expression the instant he stepped into the main room. “Uh-oh,” he said, straightening from a sprawled position on the couch. “He’s got the thinking about a girl face.”

Wooyoung, never one to let a cue die, swung his boots off the table. “Impossible. Park Seonghwa doesn’t think about girls. He thinks about schedules and exits.”

“Sometimes both,” Mingi added, dropping into a chair and pushing a stack of empty takeout boxes toward Wooyoung with his foot. “But today… yeah. You look like you’ve discovered a new species, hyung.”

Seonghwa shrugged out of his coat and hung it carefully. “I look like someone who’s been outside.”

Yeosang didn’t look up from the map, but his mouth twitched. “Outside happens to contain a café. The café happens to contain a barista. The barista happens to have eyes.” He placed a red pin with surgical accuracy. “Cause and effect are fascinating.”

Hongjoong emerged from the back room with a tablet tucked under his arm. “Are we working or are we gossiping?” He looked around, saw Seonghwa, and arched a brow. “Ah. Both.”

Wooyoung propped his chin on his hand, stage-whisper dramatic. “For the record, I think it’s very modern of you to be interested in someone who watched you drop a man in an alley. It’s giving… enemies to lovers. Tragic operetta. Expensive suits and poor choices.”

San snorted. “It’s giving are you insane, actually. She saw him.” He pointed at Seonghwa with the kind of fond disrespect only San could get away with. “You know—” he flattened his hand and let it fall, the universal sign for one shot, done. “—that.”

“She saw a mistake corrected,” Seonghwa said, voice even. “There’s a difference.”

Mingi tipped his chair back two inches past comfort. “There’s also a legal difference. As in: witnesses are bad for business.”

“She isn’t talking,” Seonghwa said. He slid into a chair at the long table and opened a folder, as if the conversation were occurring in another room. “And she won’t.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Hongjoong asked, not unkindly.

“Because she understands cost,” Seonghwa said. “She weighed calling the police and decided it wouldn’t buy her safety. She weighed leaving the city and decided she didn’t want to live like prey. She’s pragmatic.” He glanced up. “Pragmatic people don’t run to institutions that can’t protect them.”

“That almost sounded admiring,” Yeosang murmured, selecting another pin.

Wooyoung grinned. “It almost sounded interested.”

San leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Let me get this straight. You’re curious about a woman who could point at you in a lineup.”

“She won’t,” Seonghwa said. Then, after a beat, with the kind of honesty that always landed heavier because it was rare: “And yes.”

The room did what it always did with admissions: turned them into toys. Wooyoung clutched his chest. “Park Seonghwa, developing feelings—”

“Curiosity,” Seonghwa corrected.

“—for a witness.” Wooyoung finished, triumphant. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

Mingi let the chair legs thump down. “Just keep it clean,” he said, the lightness shading into warning. “Rivals smell leverage like sharks smell blood. If they clock her as something to you—”

“They won’t,” Seonghwa said. “Because she isn’t.”

San’s grin thinned. “You sure?”

Seonghwa considered and chose the narrowest true thing. “I’m sure enough to control it.”

That, finally, satisfied Hongjoong. He tapped the tablet awake. “Good. Because we have other things to control.” He slid a list across to Seonghwa. “Shipments. A meeting on Thursday. And the man who thought he could misplace our money.”

“Already handled,” Seonghwa said, scanning the list. “He won’t misplace anything again.”

Wooyoung sighed theatrically. “Romance and revenge in one morning. You’re really spoiling us.”

“Clean that table,” Yeosang said mildly, pointing at the takeout graveyard.

As the banter ricocheted elsewhere, Seonghwa’s thoughts drifted—untidy, for once. He placed the morning in order: the way she’d ignored his remark until a traitorous flush betrayed her, the way her hand had moved the number without hesitation and without fanfare, like a person who keeps a fire extinguisher not because she plans to use it but because she refuses to burn.

Attraction had never been the point of anything he did. It complicated more than it solved. But there it was, threaded through curiosity like a darker thread in a clean weave. He didn’t need to tug it to know it would hold.

He closed the folder. “I’ll be out this afternoon.”

Hongjoong didn’t look up. “Shadowing our new statistic?”

“Maintaining a pattern,” Seonghwa said.

“Mm.” Hongjoong’s mouth pursed. “Patterns are how we win. They’re also how we die. Don’t make one anyone else can read.”

“I won’t,” Seonghwa said, and meant it.

He shrugged back into his coat and glanced once, briefly, at his phone. No messages. He didn’t expect any.

He was, however, very interested in whether she kept the number in a drawer or her wallet.

That would tell him something, too.

She didn’t look at the paper until she was home. Not really.

At the café she’d palmed it without thinking, slipped it where she kept stray receipts, and pushed through the afternoon rush like a person who hadn’t just been handed a fuse wrapped to look like a calling card. By close, the entire exchange had compacted into a handful of flashes: the way he’d said maybe I’m hoping you’ll want to, the way the air had felt thinner between them for a beat, the way Minhee had very deliberately not elbowed her in the ribs while very obviously wanting to.

Now, in the soft mess of her kitchen—plant reaching toward the window, two mugs by the sink like a failed duet—she unfolded the slip.

No name. Just a number. The handwriting was neat, angular, the kind that avoided flourishes on principle.

She set it on the counter and stared at it like it might change if she showed it too much attention.

Throw it away, said the sensible part of her. Put it in the trash, take the trash out, never think about it again. That was how you starved a problem.

Keep it, said another voice, quieter and more annoying because it wasn’t wrong. Keep it because if something worse than him finds you, this is a faster lifeline than 911. Keep it because the world you accidentally saw doesn’t care about your principles.

She washed the mugs. She wiped the counter. She dried her hands and then dried them again because they didn’t feel dry enough.

The number continued to exist.

She carried it to the bedroom and opened the top drawer of her dresser. The usual jumble: spare hair ties, a pack of travel tissues, a photo strip from three summers ago with people she didn’t see anymore. She hovered over the mess like a person undecided about which life to choose.

Wallet or drawer? That was the question. Wallet meant accessibility. Drawer meant denial dressed as tidiness.

She slid the number into a small, zippered pocket in the wallet she only took out when she needed ID. Not the cash pocket, not the card sleeve—the hidden one. Accessible if she had to dig. Forgettable if she didn’t.

“There,” she told no one. “Compromise.”

Her reflection in the hall mirror looked skeptical but conceded the point.

She ate standing up—toast, apple slices, cheese in unflattering squares—because sitting felt too much like admitting she needed comfort. After, she opened the window just far enough to let in a thin scrape of cold air. The street below was doing ist evening impression of peace: dog-walkers negotiating with beagles, the kimbap place clattering trays, a courier double-parking like a man with a vendetta against lines.

She scanned faces without seeming to. No black coats. No familiar stillness. No car idling with ist lights off the way it had in her head a dozen times.

There was, however, a man she didn’t recognize leaning against the corner mailbox, smoking. He was athletic the way men get when their job is moving other people’s furniture without breaking it. He wasn’t looking at her building. He was looking at nothing with commitment. But when a woman with groceries passed him, he glanced at the reflection in the shop window instead of turning his head.

Reflections. Not faces.

It could be coincidence. Lots of people checked themselves in glass when they thought no one was watching. Lots of people smoked. Lots of people leaned.

Still, her shoulders made a small adjustment—an inch higher, an inch back.

She pulled the window down quietly and let the latch fall into place.

Her phone buzzed on the counter with a message from Minhee: pls confirm your tall dark regular is actually human because I think he blinked wrong followed by a series of catastrophically chosen emojis.

Y/N sent back: he tips in exact change and existential dread and added a photo of a latte-swan gone very wrong. Minhee replied with a stream of crying-laughing faces and a single skull. The ordinary silliness peeled some of the edge off the evening.

She showered, let the hot water stripe the last of the day off her skin, and pulled on soft clothes she would never wear outside. When she came back to the living room, the number was not on the counter where her brain kept putting it in memory. It was in her wallet, in the zippered pocket, not burning a hole in anything.

She turned the TV on to something with cheerful colors and kind people baking. The comfort of rules, she thought. Follow the recipe, get the cake. Do the steps in order, and the thing holds.

Halfway through a segment about butter laminations, her buzzer rasped.

She startled hard enough to slosh tea down her wrist. No one buzzed her without warning. Delivery mistakes happened, sure, but those came with a sheepish voice on the intercom asking for apartment 3B or 5C.

She went to the panel, thumb hovering over talk and then not pressing it. Silence hummed in the wire like a held breath.

Another buzz. Longer this time, less polite.

She pressed talk. “Yes?”

Static. Then a pause, the kind that felt like someone becoming aware of their own breathing. No voice. No explanation.

She didn’t answer the silence. She held hers like a shield.

Whoever was downstairs let the button go. The building returned to ist usual old-bones creak. Somewhere, a door opened and closed. A dog barked twice and then decided it hadn’t been important.

She locked the deadbolt again because ritual calms animals. She was an animal. Calm was the goal.

A few minutes later, she checked the hallway through the peephole. Empty. The bulb at the far end flickered once, theater, then remembered ist job.

At her door, someone had left a flyer: a cheap print for a pizza place she already knew she would never call. She bent to pick it up and saw, beneath it, a narrower slip of paper she hadn’t noticed from the fish-eye warping of the peephole.

No logo. No words. Just a white rectangle with a small black dot, dead center.

Not a chess piece. Not a flower. A mark.

Her mouth went dry. She turned it over. Blank. The paper was good—too good for pizza.

She carried it to the table and set it next to her mug, the two objects domestic and ridiculous together.

Her hand moved before her mind caught up: she unzipped the pocket in her wallet and took out the number. The digits looked exactly the same as they had an hour ago, which was both obvious and annoying.

She stared at the phone. She didn’t dial. She told herself she didn’t because there was no emergency, because calling him would change a line she wasn’t ready to redraw, because she could take care of herself.

All true. Also true: the dot on the paper was a finger on her boundary.

She slid the number back into ist pocket and closed the zip with a small, decisive sound.

Not tonight.

But she moved the wallet from the dresser to the entry table, next to the keys.

And that, she admitted, was a redraw.

When she finally lay down, the room clicked into ist gentle nighttime choreography—pipes clearing their throats, someone’s radio a floor below, a late bus taking a corner too wide.

Sleep didn’t come quickly, but when it did, it was honest.

On the street outside, the mailbox smoker had vanished. Two buildings down, a black coat paused in a doorway, glanced up at a line of windows, and kept walking at the same unremarkable pace as everyone else.

Patterns were forming. Lines were moving.

And tomorrow would be another cup of coffee, another look through the glass, another decision she could pretend was small.

She didn’t knew it yet, but she would soon get a visit from her past.

She woke like someone had pulled a thread straight through her dream and out into the room.

At first it was just shape and sound—darkness, the thin blue of the streetlamp cutting a crooked rectangle across the floor, the hum of the fridge steady as breath. Then the other noise separated out from the background: a low murmur, followed by the soft thud of something bumped against a table.

Voices.

In her living room.

Adrenaline brought everything into focus at once. Y/N eased upright, bare feet finding the floor, and listened with the kind of stillness that turns a person into a sensor. Male voices. Three, maybe. One she knew like a bad song that refuses to leave the radio.

Him.

Her heartbeat tried to make itself known in her throat. She slid open the closet, slow enough that the hanger didn’t clack, and wrapped her fingers around the taped handle of the bat propped in the corner. It grounded her. Weight. Purpose.

The voices came sharper as she approached the bedroom doorway—words punching through walls. She could pick out laughter that wasn’t laughter. A scrape of chair legs across her floor.

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the hall.

The living room lights were on—too bright, like the apartment was trying to pretend this was normal. On her rug, three men stood as if they’d been invited. Two she didn’t know: broad-shouldered, in dark jackets, that loose, coiled way of standing men get when they’re ready to move from talk to something else. The third turned at the sound of her step, smile cutting across his face like it had learned to sharpen itself where charm used to live.

“Y/N,” her ex said, drawing her name out like a taunt. Prison had turned his cheekbones into edges; his eyes were the same—hungry, mean. “Miss me?”

She lifted the bat, bringing it up to a ready line between them. “Get out.”

He laughed, glanced at the other two like she’d made a joke for their benefit. “It’s cute you think you run things now.”

“You broke into my home,” she said, voice steady in a way that felt like holding a plank over a river. “I told you to leave. That means leave.”

One of the men to his left—shaved head, scar across the eyebrow—tilted his chin toward her. “We just have questions. Then we’re gone.”

Her ex’s mouth thinned. “Word is you’ve been seen with people you shouldn’t. Specifically… the ones who dropped Jin-soo in an alley last week.” His gaze flicked over her, searching for the flinch. “You out here cozying up to Ateez now?”

Something cold threaded through her spine. So that was the name they were using for what she’d witnessed—a rival clan’s mess, an account settled. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter in this room.

“I don’t know anything about any of that,” she said. “And I don’t know you anymore.”

He took a step forward, and she adjusted the bat a fraction, enough to remind him of ist presence. The two men behind him shifted, a quiet corralling.

“Come on,” her ex said, smile gone, voice flattening. “You expect me to believe you just happened to be around when someone from us got killed? You think I don’t hear things? Guy in a good coat, looks like money and trouble, keeps showing up where you work.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You fucking a gangster now, Y/N?”

The bat didn’t waver. “Leave.”

“Answer the question.”

“I said—leave.”

His eyes flashed, that old ugly crease appearing between his brows. “You always thought you were better than me.” He moved fast, shoulders bunching, hand lashing out in a practiced grab—wrist, throat, whatever he could get.

She was already moving. Not toward him—past. She sidestepped the reach, the bat coming down in a short, controlled arc that cracked against his forearm. He snarled, recoiling, and the two behind him surged forward with a pair of curses.

Y/N didn’t try to stand the room off. She’d already mapped the apartment; she’d left the entry table where she could reach it. In the instant their weight shifted toward her, she pivoted, drove her shoulder into the nearest man’s chest—just enough to jolt him off his line—and slipped along the wall toward the hallway.

“Get her,” her ex barked, fury tearing through the word.

She didn’t run blind. Two strides and her hand closed over what she’d placed there hours ago because some part of her had known: wallet, phone. Both off the entry table, both into her pocket in a single motion that felt like pulling a ripcord.

Then the bathroom door. She shoved it shut, twisted the lock, and dropped the weight of her body behind it just as a palm slammed into the other side.

“Open the door!” A fist hit hard enough to make the frame shudder. “Open it or I’ll break it down!”

She backed away from the door as another hit landed—this one a boot. The hollow sound vibrated through the tile. They were angry. Angry could be sloppy. Sloppy could be used.

Her hands were steady now. She set the bat against the sink within reach, dragged the small laundry basket in front of the door as a wedge—not much, but weight is weight—and fumbled the phone open. Not 911. She’d made that calculation already and filed it under doesn’t buy safety.

Wallet. Zipper. The number slid out into her palm—neat, angular handwriting that had felt like a dare at the kitchen counter and felt like a lifeline now.

Another kick. The lock held, but wood complained in a language that promised it wouldn’t forever.

She pressed call.

The ring sounded too loud in the small room. She turned the phone to speaker, set it on the counter, and crouched low so her voice wouldn’t carry straight through the door.

One ring. Two.

He answered on the third, voice even as a metronome. “Yes.”

“It’s me,” she whispered. “Y/N. I—”

A thunder of weight against the door cut her off. “Open the fucking door!” Her ex’s voice, too close. “You think a flimsy lock is going to save you?”

She didn’t flinch. “I have company,” she said into the phone, words tight. “Three. One you know.”

Through the speaker came silence so focused it felt like a presence in the room. Then his voice, lower. “Are you hurt?”

“Not yet.”

“Location is the apartment,” he said, not asking. “Bathroom.”

“Yes.”

Another boot to the door. A hairline crack raced down the frame.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the small frosted window above the toilet — the one she normally cursed for letting in cold drafts. Now it looked like an exit.

“Listen,” she said quickly into the phone, already dragging the step stool closer. “I’m not staying in here.”

“What—”

“I’m climbing out the window.”

There was the smallest pause, then his voice dropped into a register that meant he was already moving. “Where will you land?”

“Fire escape, back alley. Leads toward 8th.”

“Go,” he said. “I’ll find you.”

She shoved the window open, the hinges squealing against years of neglect. Cold night air slapped her skin. Another crash against the door jolted her forward — the stool rocked, but she steadied it, gripped the edge, and hauled herself up. Her phone stayed clamped between her shoulder and ear, his breathing steady on the other end.

“Y/N,” he said, low and precise, “don’t stop moving.”

Her feet found the metal grate of the fire escape. She swung down, boots clanging against the ladder’s first rung, and ran.

The alley was half in shadow, littered with broken bottles and the rust smell of wet iron. She didn’t look back until she was halfway to the street. That’s when she heard it — the bathroom door giving way with a splintering crack, followed by her ex’s shout.

“There! She’s out back!”

Her lungs tightened. She hit the street running, the phone still pressed to her ear.

“They’re following,” she said between breaths. “Two behind, one faster than the others.”

“Keep to the left side of the street,” Seonghwa’s voice came, sharper now, threaded with command. “There’s an intersection ahead. Don’t turn until I tell you.”

Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in. Her ex’s voice carried, furious and ragged: “You can’t run from me, Y/N!”

She pushed harder, every muscle screaming, the slap of her shoes against wet pavement marking the seconds between her and their reach.

“Two blocks,” Seonghwa said in her ear, each word a rung on a ladder she could climb. “Don’t look back.”

She didn’t — but she could feel them closing, could hear the raw edge in their breath, could sense the moment the night stopped being quiet and became a hunt.

Her feet pounded the wet pavement, the air cutting into her lungs like glass. The streetlamps blurred into streaks, and behind her, the footsteps grew louder.

„You can’t run from me, Y/N!“

His voice ripped through the night, and suddenly she was eighteen again.

She’d met him on a humid summer evening at a friend’s party — all swagger and easy smiles, the kind of guy who made you feel seen in a room full of louder people. She’d thought that was confidence. Later, she’d understand it was possession wearing charm’s clothes.

Back then, she liked the attention. He liked that she liked it.

“Two blocks,” Seonghwa’s voice said in her ear, grounding her for a second. “Don’t look back.”

She didn’t — but she couldn’t stop the next memory from hitting.

A winter later, the charm had curdled into control. He decided who her friends were, what she wore when they went out, how long she stayed at work. It wasn’t loud. It was subtle — a steady trimming away of her world until he filled all of it.

When she pushed back, his hands got faster than his voice.

The sidewalk tilted into a shallow downhill. Her legs wanted to stumble; she forced them steady, her grip on the phone slick with sweat.

By twenty, he was running with people she didn’t recognize — men with eyes like shut doors and laughter that didn’t match the stories they told. He’d joined a crew that thrived on fear, and the first time she saw a gun in his apartment, he told her not to ask questions if she wanted to keep what they had.

Then came the bank job. The news called it “armed robbery”; she called it murder. She’d seen the blood on his jacket before he stuffed it in a trash bag.

“Left at the next corner,” Seonghwa said. His tone didn’t change, but there was an edge to it now, like he’d shifted from listening to hunting.

The night she told him she was leaving, he laughed. Then he hit her hard enough to leave a mark she couldn’t hide with makeup. That was the night the police came for him — not for what he’d done to her, but for the bank and the body. She’d stood in the doorway as they cuffed him, her cheek aching, and felt something like relief for the first time in months.

She’d told herself he was gone for good. That prison would keep him far from her life.

The present slammed back in with the echo of his boots on the asphalt, closer now, too close. Her breath came in ragged pulls; her thighs burned.

“They’re right behind me,” she panted into the phone.

“I see you,” Seonghwa’s voice came through, low and steady. “Keep going. Thirty more seconds.”

The van rolled through the wet streets like a shadow that knew exactly where it was going. Inside, the air was tense, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty — it was loaded.

Yunho’s hands were steady on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors. San rode shotgun, leaning forward just enough to scan both sidewalks. Wooyoung sat behind him, restless energy contained but ready. Mingi and Jongho flanked the middle seats, both with the stillness of men who could move hard and fast the second they had to.

Seonghwa sat at the back, gaze fixed out the side window, tracking the blur of neon and shadow. His phone was in his palm, unlocked. The line was still open. He could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, every uneven footstep.

“She’s running,” he said quietly.

Yunho didn’t ask how he knew. “Where?”

“Close,” Seonghwa said, already leaning forward.

“Left side, two blocks ahead,” San called, eyes narrowing as he spotted movement under the dim spill of a streetlamp. “That her?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer immediately — he was too busy confirming. Jacket half-zipped, hair loose, phone clamped to her ear. Even from here, he saw the exhaustion in her stride, and beneath it, stubborn will.

“Yes,” he said.

Then his gaze shifted past her. Three men, closing in fast. The one in front had the particular forward lean of a predator who thought the kill was inevitable. The faint gleam of metal in his hand made Seonghwa’s muscles coil.

“Gun,” Seonghwa clipped out.

Mingi was already reaching for the sliding door handle. Wooyoung shifted forward, muscles primed.

Yunho eased the van just enough to match her pace. “We get her in, then deal with them?”

“Exactly,” Seonghwa said. His pulse stayed even, but his focus locked on her — the distance between them shrinking with every stride.

She looked up then — saw the van, saw them — and for a heartbeat, their eyes met through the cold night air. She didn’t hesitate. She pushed harder, every movement now sheer survival.

The man with the gun shouted, raising his arm, but she didn’t look back. The van’s side door slid open in a smooth, practiced motion, Mingi bracing himself at the edge.

She didn’t wait for help. She launched herself inside in one clean leap — and straight into Seonghwa’s chest.

His arms went around her automatically, pulling her in tight, shielding her with his body. He felt the tremor in her frame, the rapid beat of her heart against his ribs.

Outside, the gun’s muzzle flashed — and the rest of the world narrowed down to calculation.

The gun’s flash lit the wet pavement in a quick, ugly burst. Yunho was already moving — jerking the wheel into a sharp swerve that put the van between the shooters and the nearest cover.

“Go,” Seonghwa ordered without looking away from Y/N.

Mingi was out the side door in one smooth drop, boots hitting asphalt with a thud. Wooyoung followed, low and fast, peeling left to cut off their angle. San swung wide to the right, a blur of black coat in the dark.

The three pursuers skidded to a stop as the shapes came for them — not yelling, not wild, just deliberate. The kind of deliberate that makes your stomach remember instincts your brain wants to ignore.

The man with the gun barely had time to reset his grip before Mingi’s hand closed around his wrist, twisting sharply until the weapon clattered to the ground. Mingi kicked it away without breaking stride and shoved him back against the wall, forearm pressing hard enough to make his teeth grit.

One of the others lunged toward Wooyoung. Mistake. Wooyoung sidestepped, caught the man’s arm, and used his own momentum to send him sprawling across the wet street. A knee on his spine kept him there, the sharp hiss of his breath fogging against the asphalt.

The last one — bigger than the rest — tried to make a break for it. San was faster. He intercepted him in three long strides, sweeping his legs out from under him and planting a boot against his chest before he could get up.

Inside the van, Y/N twisted in Seonghwa’s arms, eyes wide. “They—”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, not loosening his hold. “They won’t touch you again.”

Mingi leaned close to the man pinned against the wall, voice low but carrying just enough to reach the others. “You get one chance. This is it. Next time, you don’t walk away.”

Wooyoung’s grip tightened on his own target, adding, “And you don’t run your mouth about who you saw. Not if you like keeping your teeth.”

San didn’t bother speaking. His look alone made the bigger man nod frantically.

Yunho tapped the horn twice — the signal to wrap it. In seconds, Mingi released the gunman with a hard shove, Wooyoung stepped back from his prone man, and San eased his boot off the last one’s chest. None of them needed to be told to run; all three bolted into the dark, disappearing down the nearest alley.

The sliding door slammed shut behind Mingi and Wooyoung as they climbed back in, breath even, movements precise. San slid in last, shaking a few drops of rain from his sleeve.

“They’re not coming back tonight,” Mingi said simply, settling into his seat.

Seonghwa finally loosened his hold on Y/N, just enough to look down at her. “You hurt?”

She shook her head, still catching her breath. “No. Just—”

“Good.” His tone left no room for argument, but his hand lingered a moment at her shoulder before he pulled back.

Yunho eased the van back into motion, melting into the city’s wet streets as if they’d never been there at all.

The van wove through the streets in silence, the hum of the engine the only steady sound. Y/N sat wedged between Seonghwa and the sliding door, knees drawn up, still barefoot. Her pajama pants — light blue with tiny white clouds — looked wildly out of place against the black leather seats and the quiet, dangerous men surrounding her.

She wasn’t shaking anymore. That had stopped two blocks after they’d pulled away. Now it was something else — a jittery edge under her skin, half adrenaline, half the bizarre reality of the situation.

“They could’ve at least let me change,” she muttered.

Seonghwa didn’t look at her. “Didn’t seem like you had time.”

She glanced at him sideways. “So this is normal for you? Scooping half-asleep women off the street?”

Wooyoung snorted from across the van. “Depends on the woman.”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned, without raising his voice.

The van slowed as Yunho took a turn down a narrow alley, the kind of street that made the city’s map look like it was hiding secrets. The tires bumped once over uneven pavement before rolling to a stop.

The back doors opened, and cold air rushed in. They filed out with the same efficient silence as before, Seonghwa motioning for her to follow. She did, partly because she didn’t see an alternative, partly because the idea of walking home alone now felt laughable.

The building looked like nothing from the outside — brick, faded signage from some long-gone business. Inside was a different world. Warm light pooled over worn leather sofas, a long polished table, and the quiet movement of people who belonged there.

It smelled faintly of coffee and gun oil.

She was still taking it in when a man stepped forward from the far end of the room. Shorter than Seonghwa, hair pushed back neatly, eyes sharp but assessing. The kind of presence that didn’t need to raise ist voice to be heard.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said, a note of respect in the way he spoke the name.

So this was their leader.

His gaze skimmed over her — from her mussed hair to the pajama pants — and stopped at her bare feet. “You were in the middle of sleeping?”

“Was,” she said. “Then I got interrupted by some charming company.”

Something almost like amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not hurt?”

“No.” She crossed her arms. “Which is surprising, considering you’re all supposed to be criminals. Why didn’t you just kill me when I saw… whatever I saw?”

The room went quieter, but Hongjoong didn’t bristle. Instead, his expression shifted — softened, in a way she didn’t expect. “Because we don’t like killing innocent people. And you didn’t seem likely to reveal us.”

She blinked at him, caught between disbelief and something she couldn’t quite name. “That’s… oddly noble. For a bunch of guys who apparently carry guns as part of the dress code.”

He let the comment slide, but his next words landed with more weight. “Also… my vice seems to have a soft spot for you.” His eyes slid briefly toward Seonghwa, who remained unreadable beside her. “And I can see why.”

Y/N’s mouth opened — to say what soft spot?, to ask what is that supposed to mean? — but the words tangled. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or worried.”

“Both,” Wooyoung said from somewhere behind her.

She shot him a look, then glanced back at Hongjoong. “Well, since I’m apparently not getting killed tonight, do you mind if I at least get a pair of socks? Or is that considered too much hospitality for a hostage?”

That drew the first genuine smile from him. “We’ll see what we can do.”

It was only then that Seonghwa really looked at her. The cloud-printed pajama pants, the thin cotton shirt clinging to her shoulders, the faint tremor she was trying to hide. She’d been out in the night air, barefoot, for longer than anyone should be. Her hair was damp with the mist still clinging to the streets.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shrugged off his coat — black, heavy, still warm from his body — and settled it over her shoulders before she could protest. The weight of it was immediate, the lining catching her residual shivers and dampening them.

Her feet were another matter. The ache had started as a dull throb during the ride; now that she was standing still, it was sharper, pulsing up through her calves. She must have shifted her weight, because his gaze dropped to her bare toes.

“Come with me,” he said.

She hesitated. “And if I say no?”

“Then you keep standing here shivering while your feet get worse.” His tone left no room for further debate.

He led her down a side hallway to a small, tiled room with a clean, functional shower. “Use this. There’s soap and towels. Leave your clothes outside the door.”

She arched a brow. “Why? So you can burn them?”

“So I can get you something dry to wear.”

Before she could come up with a retort, he was gone.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2