Okay, so I ended up having to put the audio into a video format and post it on YouTube, but it's just me speaking as a VoiceOver to the photo! But! Here it is!! The first chapter of Hotel California read by me with little tidbits added here and there. I really hope you enjoy and I hope it's not too unbearable lol
Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff
Word count: 22.4k
Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him
AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you
Masterlist
“I’m not doing it.”
The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.
“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”
You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.
“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”
“Enough.”
Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.
“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”
You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”
It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.
“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”
You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.
“Kang Yeosang.”
The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.
“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.
Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”
Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.
“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”
For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.
It didn’t.
Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.
His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”
You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.
You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.
“I hate you,” you breathed.
But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.
“I can live with that.”
Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”
It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.
University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.
Your father barely reacted.
“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.
You stared at him. “After?”
“Yes. You’ll still attend.”
But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”
It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.
And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.
The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.
“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”
Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.
“It is now.”
Simple. Unforgiving. Final.
You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.
You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.
Come to the house.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”
It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.
By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.
His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.
“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.
“You said now.”
His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”
There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.
Then—
“There’s going to be a wedding.”
Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”
His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”
Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”
His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”
Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”
“This isn’t a text conversation.”
“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.
“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”
Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”
“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”
“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”
“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”
Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.
He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”
“Y/L/N’s daughter.”
Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”
“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”
Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.
“You’ve met her?” he asked.
“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”
“Great.”
His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”
His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”
Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”
As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”
“I know.”
And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.
Marriage. Arranged.
He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?
Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.
No, that wasn’t happening.
Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.
He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.
Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.
And the name—YN.
It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.
The kind that smiled with their teeth.
He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.
Alright.
If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.
Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.
He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.
Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.
By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.
University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.
She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.
Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.
The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.
She was just… boring.
Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.
Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.
Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.
But that was fine.
Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.
The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.
She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”
Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.
She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.
What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.
Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.
He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.
Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.
Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.
He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.
Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.
She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.
Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.
That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.
Cute.
He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.
This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.
Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.
For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.
Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.
And when that time came—
He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.
The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.
Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.
Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.
“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”
Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”
Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”
Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.
Didn’t matter.
He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.
Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.
Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.
Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.
Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.
His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.
“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”
Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”
He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.
Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.
“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.
Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”
He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”
He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”
Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.
She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.
He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.
Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.
“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”
The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”
“On?”
She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.
And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.
Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.
After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.
“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”
The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.
“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.
He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.
Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.
“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”
Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.
“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.
She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.
And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?
Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.
It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.
And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.
But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.
Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.
Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—
She was no ordinary girl.
No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.
Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.
But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.
And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.
Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.
And she looked cute annoyed.
Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.
He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.
And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.
Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.
She really didn’t want to go.
Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.
But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.
Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’
Better. Whatever that meant.
So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.
And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.
That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.
And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.
She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.
She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.
She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.
There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—
—and there he was.
Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.
Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.
He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.
You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.
“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.
Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."
You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.
Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.
You froze.
What the hell?
You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.
“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.
Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."
You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.
Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.
The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.
But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?
You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.
The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.
Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.
And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.
Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.
But then—
The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?
You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?
You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.
It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.
You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.
Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.
Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.
He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.
He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.
And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.
He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.
He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.
He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.
And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.
The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.
What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.
With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.
You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”
You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”
He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.
“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”
Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”
“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.
You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.
Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.
You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:
1. This was going to be a long day.
2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.
But you had no intention of making this easy for him.
So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.
If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.
Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.
You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.
The hell was that supposed to mean?
Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”
“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”
You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”
You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.
But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.
Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.
The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.
Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.
Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.
But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.
You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?
It felt natural.
You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.
Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.
He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’
Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.
You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.
And you did.
He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.
Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.
You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.
You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.
He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”
It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.
All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.
So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.
His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”
You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”
“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”
The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.
Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…
That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.
You didn’t know how to read menus.
Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.
Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.
“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.
For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”
And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.
“Do you want red sauce or white?”
“Chicken or beef?”
“Want dessert or not?”
Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.
And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.
Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.
It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.
He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.
While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.
Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.
It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.
And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.
It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.
But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.
“You make that?”
You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”
“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”
You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”
A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”
That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.
Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.
He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.
But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?
That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.
But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.
And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.
And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.
He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.
God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.
“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.
You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.
The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”
Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.
“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”
Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”
“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”
Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You’re the one that set me up with her.”
His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”
“She didn’t even blink.”
That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.
“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”
“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”
Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”
“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”
“Why?”
Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”
“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”
“…Soft.”
His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”
Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”
“Shut up.”
You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?
What the actual hell was wrong with him?
It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.
And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?
You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.
You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.
“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.
“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”
And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.
Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.
The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”
“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.
“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”
“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.
The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.
You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”
“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.
Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.
And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.
Yeosang noticed.
Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.
He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.
But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.
An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.
Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”
You snapped your head to him. “What?”
“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”
“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”
“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Ring size.”
“I—I don’t know!”
His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.
Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.
You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.
And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.
You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.
But Yeosang saw it. All of it.
The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.
To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.
He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”
You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”
But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.
Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”
You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.
“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.
He didn’t like that. Not one bit.
Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”
Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”
Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”
“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.
You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.
You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.
But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?
You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.
But of course he did.
Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.
You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.
You hated how warm your ears felt.
“I don’t—”
“I said pick.”
His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”
“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”
You swore your knees nearly gave out.
“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”
God help you—you almost said yes.
The wedding was hectic.
Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.
After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.
Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”
It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.
Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.
Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.
It was… knowing.
Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.
You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.
The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.
And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.
By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.
It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—
Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.
It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.
It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.
You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”
Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.
Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.
You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.
Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”
He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…
Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”
He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”
You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”
“It is now.”
God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.
“You’re annoying.”
“You married me.”
“We were arranged.”
“Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.
If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.
You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.
Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”
You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”
You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”
He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would.”
It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.
You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.
Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.
“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”
You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.
“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”
Silence.
You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”
You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”
You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.
So you did.
“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”
“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”
You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.
“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”
Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.
But nothing came.
Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?
He was having a crisis.
“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”
You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.
“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.
Fine. FINE.
You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.
Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.
You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.
Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.
It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.
And the worst part?
You didn’t even know.
Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.
Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.
Perfect.
Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.
You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.
Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.
What the actual—
You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.
Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.
Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.
“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.
Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.
What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?
He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.
He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.
Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.
He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.
And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.
He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.
You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.
And there he was. Still in bed.
Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.
With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.
Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”
No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.
Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”
You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.
You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”
“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.
You blinked. “What?”
“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”
You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”
He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”
You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”
“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”
You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”
Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.
He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.
And beside it… her pink one.
Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.
He loved it.
Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.
He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?
Apparently, him.
He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.
It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.
He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.
And then—that smell hit him.
Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)
Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.
He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.
Until her.
Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.
How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.
Definitely her.
He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”
He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.
When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?
The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.
But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.
“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”
She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”
They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.
Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”
That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.
She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”
Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.
But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—
He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.
So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.
“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”
Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?
He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”
Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.
You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.
Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.
But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.
Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.
And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.
But here?
Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.
And you didn’t even know it yet.
Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.
The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.
But then there were nights like this.
Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.
Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’
He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.
He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.
You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—
Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.
Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.
The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.
He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.
You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.
But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.
“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.
Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.
“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.
His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.
It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.
With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.
You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.
And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.
As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.
“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.
He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”
You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.
But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.
“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”
“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”
And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—
He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.
You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.
But this? This was a whole new experience.
You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”
“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.
“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.
“No.”
That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.
You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.
He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.
You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.
Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”
“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”
That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.
So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.
And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.
Just… sleep.
You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.
You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.
Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.
You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.
By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.
He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.
“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”
You blinked. “Why?”
“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.
“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.
Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.
A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.
But then…
His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.
And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.
Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.
The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.
You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.
You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.
Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”
And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.
You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.
“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”
Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.
What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.
A name and a dot. That’s all it took.
Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.
He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..
"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?
He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.
The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.
But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.
And he was losing it.
Internally.
Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.
But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.
It was after.
Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.
You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.
So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.
“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”
His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.
And then—he laughed.
That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.
“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”
Liar. Absolute liar.
And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.
Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.
It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.
It wasn’t fair.
And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.
pairing: campdirector!johnny x campcounselor!f!reader ft.nct127
genre: slow burn, summer camp AU, there was only one tent, smut.
wc: 5k
warnings: cursing, smoking, oral (f receiving) cunninglingus, Johnny is lowkey a yearner.
synopsis: For the past few years, you’ve had a bunch of summer flings: sneaking out of your house to smoke, getting drunk, making out on the beach at night… you name it. But you’ve never taken any of them seriously or fallen hard for anyone. It was all just for fun.
So when your friend Mark invited you to be a counselor with him at a summer camp, you nearly laughed in his face. But boredom had been creeping in lately, and you were desperate for something different.
Now here you are—looking after kids and doing activities you never imagined yourself signing up for. People there were nice, sure, but this summer? No more flings. At least, that’s what you promised yourself.
01 A new counselor
It was 8 am, and the morning breeze made you shiver. You looked out the car window, admiring the camp. You hadn't expected it to be this nice, which made you feel better about your decision.
When you parked outside the gate, you saw a familiar face. As soon as you stepped out of the car, Mark was there, grinning as he pulled you into a hug. "y/n, you made it!" he said. You rolled your eyes, as you couldn't believe you'd actually signed up for this.
"Tell me you don't have any regrets" he teased. You both laughed, but the sound quickly faded as two tall figures approached. The first one smiled as he shook your hand, Jungwoo, he was really pretty.
But the second guy? There was something about him that made you feel intimidated, maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was just how imposing he was. He just gave you a quick nod and shook your hand with a firm grip. His hands were massive, just like his whole figure. When he introduced himself, you barely registered his name.
They took the baggage out of the car and left it in one quick motion. As you walked in with Mark, he started explaining how "Johnny" apparently that was the other guy's name-was more of a camp director in the summer, following in his dad's footsteps.
You nodded along as he said more, though you couldn't quite tell what he was saying as you were zoning out, tired from the trip. Eventually, Mark showed you your bunk, and after that, he left you with three other girls.
The morning went by quickly. The girls were nice and immediately made you feel comfortable. By the time 10:30 am struck, you were already helping them carry huge amounts of boxes in and out of the bunks. There, you met more people-apparently all from Mark's friend group, since the others were busy in the cafeteria.
As you helped one of them, Taeyong, bring boxes to the wood hut, you saw Johnny again.
He was cutting up some logs. When he heard footsteps approaching, he gave a dry "hey" and wiped the sweat from his neck. Taeyong, being the nice guy he is, tried to bring you into the conversation he and Johnny were having.
You just stood there listening, unsure what they were even talking about. You told Taeyong you'd join them later, using the boxes as an excuse.
You weren't awkward-just not really into it.
You rarely felt intimidated by people, and honestly, despite the way he looks, Johnny didn't really seem that mean when he's with others.
As you left, you didn't think much of it until you suddenly heard a voice behind you: "Don't leave the boxes on the ground-they're gonna get dirty." Johnny had finally spoken to you, just to correct you.
He lifted the boxes with such ease that you wondered if you had accidentally switched yours with an empty one. "I'll take care of it. You go ahead." he said, basically dismissing you without waiting for a response. You nodded and left, trying to hide how annoyed you were at his attitude. But he was the director, after all.
After that one sided conversation with Johnny, you didn't talk much with him for the rest of the day -not that you cared to talk to him... or stare at him while he effortlessly chopped wood with his strong arms and- Jesus Christ.
You snapped out of it, glancing around the table and hoping no one had the power to hear your thoughts. That's when Yuta casually asked you about yourself. You looked at Mark, then back at the redhead, unsure of what to say. You hated those kinds of questions, so you went with the safe answer:
"I'm studying at the moment" you said, hoping he wouldn't press further. You were too tired after the long day for small talk. He smiled widely, and you couldn't help but smile back.
"So if you're normally busy, why'd you come here?" he asked innocently, moving around the food on his plate. You locked eyes with Mark. The last thing you wanted to admit at a table full of counselors— and a director —was that you were bored and had nothing better to do than get paid to enjoy the summer "vibes."
"—Her uncle used to take her on mountain trips, made her shoot deer and whatnot" Mark said casually, still focused on his plate. He wasn't wrong, you did use to do that. But it wasn't exactly the same as taking care of kids. Yuta and Haechan raised their eyebrows, clearly not expecting that.
"I wouldn't say I shot deer, I mostly just... tracked them" you tried to play it off, not wanting to seem like a psychopath who kills wild animals for fun. Because that would be your uncle. Not you.
Haechan leaned forward, fork in hand. "Wait, but like... were you crawling through the woods in camo with war paint on, or just following footprints?" Jaehyun gave him a look, subtly signaling him to cut it out, probably thinking the conversation was starting to sound more like an interrogation.
You chuckled, "No war paint" you said, scratching your forehead and glancing down, trying to remember the last time you'd even gone. "Most of the time, we never even saw anything."
Johnny, who had been unusually quiet at the end of the table, looked up from his plate. "Still takes patience. Most people can't sit still for more than ten minutes.” You didn't expect him to join the conversation, especially since it was about you. A small part of you wondered if that was meant as a compliment.
Yuta nodded, "Well, that's gonna come in handy when the kids inevitably try to start a forest fire." he then took a sip from his cup. "I'll just track them down in the woods like the wild animals they are." you said as you leaned back to glance toward the kids being loud.
The table laughed, and you couldn't help but notice Johnny cracked a small smirk, though he didn't say anything else.
Still, deep down, it felt oddly satisfying to have his approval in some way.
02 Light it up
Days have passed since the deer conversation, and you feel much more at ease with the camp. Everything is going smoothly. The morning light glitters over the water, and you're drawn to spend your free time by the lake.
You lazily sit on a bench, cross your legs, and light a cigarette. It's a bad habit you've recently picked up again, and you're not even sure if smoking is allowed here, but it's too late now, you think as you exhale deeply.
Suddenly, you hear rustling behind you. Before you can turn around, a familiar voice says, "Got a spare?". You glance over and meet the camp director's gaze. Without saying a word, you pull out another cigarette as he sits next to you, and you start to wonder why he always sneaks up at people like that.
You light up his cigarette quietly, then, with it's between his lips, Johnny's muffled "thank you" breaks the stillness.
The mood shifts, and you feel a little awkward. "Late morning," he says, you look at him and can't help but notice the sculpted lines of his face. "We're heading out on a trip into the woods. I'll need two or three counselors to help bring the kids." His eyes are tired, but they never break contact with yours.
"Should we pack torches, along with the rest, in case it gets dark?" You ask furrowing your eyebrows, thinking of the worst that could happen.
He puts out the cigarette against the bench and looks at you. "Sure, but no rifles." As he gets up, you chuckle, then meet his gaze once again. It's clear he's waiting for you to get up, signaling it's time to head back together.
Since you settled in with the camp, the moments you spend with him are still brief, and you both tend to stay quiet, simply helping each other with the tasks of the day. There's a mutual respect between you, but when you're alone together, like now, walking side by side along the lake, you can't shake the tension.
Your arms brush occasionally, and the proximity is almost unbearable. But you don't want to risk ruining the connection you've been building over the past week. You get the feeling Johnny has different plans for this summer. Ones that don’t have to do with a random friend of Mark.
03 Trip to the pines
“Doyoung, catch it!” Johnny shouted, tossing all the bags out of the bus. Ryunjin was busy counting the kids, making sure they hadn't lost anyone already, while you stood there, staring at the view and thinking about all the walking ahead. “So…” Johnny clapped his hands. “We’ll just circle around the lake and get back here before it gets dark. If a kid gets hurt, you know the drill.” He pointed at the walkie-talkies you couldn’t believe still existed, but you took him seriously since the others all nodded.
“Me and Doyoung will lead, then.” Ryunjin said, brushing past you and slinging a backpack over her shoulders, ready to start the hike. That left you and Johnny behind, tasked with keeping an eye on the kids. You took the opportunity to actually get to know him, what he did for a living, his hobbies, if he had a girlfriend…You wondered a lot while staring at your feet, carefully placing each step as the path grew steeper.
“Do you do this as your main thing, or is it like…your summer activity?” you asked, squinting slightly as the sun blinded you. “No, I own a bar back in the city” he said, voice soft but deep. “But my dad used to be a camp director, so I decided to take his place after he retired.” “That's great. I mean, do you enjoy your time here, or—”
“It’s nice,” he cut in. “It's like a break from the noise and chaos of the city. Plus, I get to be more active.” Oh I'm sure you’re active…you thought as he kept talking while still scanning the group, making sure no one tried anything dumb. That’s when Doyoung suddenly disappeared from view.
“Shit—” he muttered under his breath as his leg got stuck in a small ditch. Johnny immediately dropped what he was carrying and rushed over. The kids looked between you and Ryunjin as you lifted your shoulders in unison. “Man, I told you to be careful” Johnny groaned.
“You told me to look after the kids!” Doyoung snapped back, trying to pull his leg out. “That’s not gonna do anything…” Ryunjin called from a distance, the kids watching like he was about to die or something.
While Johnny and Ryunjin tried to free him, you rummaged through your bag for something useful. “You know you could help us out, right?” Ryunjin grunted, struggling to balance her strength with Johnny’s. You stood up holding a tube of vaseline. Doyoung narrowed his eyes but said nothing—he was too busy being stuck.
“Don’t ask” you said, kneeling down. You slathered the cream over his trapped leg, and as the others realized what you were doing, they lifted him one last time. Finally, he was free. Oiled up, yes—but free. You cleared your throat. “We good?” Ryunjin burst out laughing while Doyoung tried to shake the vaseline off his leg. “First of all, gross” he said, looking at you. “Second of all, thank you.” You patted his shoulder as he returned to the front.
“Do you carry a 500ml bottle of vaseline with you everywhere, or was this, like, a one time thing?” Johnny asked, raising a brow. As soon as you laughed, he smirked, clearly trying to contain his own laughter. He loved to tease and be sarcastic, but when it came to you, he tried to be a little less “silly”. He didn’t know exactly why—but you made him nervous.
He was great with "chicks" as Mark liked to say, and never worried about embarrassing himself. He was confident, and you knew that. What you didn’t know was that he tried his best to make a good impression on you. Not because you were different, or particularly funny—but because you were unpredictable.
He was still trying to understand your personality after a week. And trust, he was looking. Watching you while you laughed with Mark’s group. He knew he could join in, and he knew he could make you laugh too. But instead, he chose to just watch, analyze, and get to know you, from a different perspective.
As soon as you reached the spot, everyone dropped their stuff near the small hut and took a moment to admire the view of the lake from the hilltop. “Careful, careful” Johnny kept warning the kids. He could be a great father, you thought—then immediately brushed it off, cringing at your own delusions.
The weather seemed nice at first, but after about half an hour of hanging around while the kids played, a massive cloud started forming overhead. “There’s definitely going to be a thunderstorm” Doyoung said, squinting at the sky.
“And it’s getting dark already…” you added, scratching your head. “Listen, we can’t leave now” Ryunjin began, already stressed. “If the rain pours too hard, it’ll make the path too slippery, and—” she started pacing back and forth, “—And let’s not forget the kids could get sick, and like—”
“We got it” Johnny said, gently leaning down to her level and brushing the stress off her shoulders.
“Two of us can always go back to camp so the bus isn’t left unmonitored” Johnny said, hands on his hips. “The other two can stay, set up the tents, and spend the night with the kids.” He looked over his shoulder at them. “There’s no way we’re making it back before it gets too dark.”
“No way, bro” Doyoung said, shaking his head. “I’m not spending the night in a tent while it pours.” Johnny rolled his eyes.
“Also, me and Doyoung have to organize the Pine Party for tomorrow night. We have to go back.” Ryunjin added, arms crossed in disapproval. “I can stay” you offered, trying to hide your nervousness. “But we need to set up the tents now before it starts to pour. You two better head back to the bus.”
The weight of responsibility over the kids was heavy on your shoulders. As much as you wanted to be the one going back to camp, you couldn’t risk disappointing the director—not as the newbie. “Fine” Johnny said through clenched teeth, clearly annoyed with the other two. “But if something happens along the path, come back here. You never know.” The two of them nodded and left like they’d just been grounded.
That’s when it hit you: you were spending the night with a bunch of kids… and Johnny.
You tried not to make it weird. Ryunjin and Doyoung hadn’t teased you or said anything, but as soon as they turned around, they exchanged a look, eyebrows raised like they knew something. “Are we gonna sleep all in one tent…?” a kid asked, confused. And honestly, it wasn’t a dumb question. There were six kids, and eight of you in total. You opened the hut, searching for the tents—and found only three. You called Johnny over and explained the situation.
“The kids can’t sleep with adults, that’s one thing” he said, scratching his head. It was definitely a problem. “Well…I can always sleep in the hut. It’s—” you said, but Johnny shook his head. “This hut that leaks and has holes in it?” he said, smacking the wall, which looked like it could fall apart any second. You lifted your shoulders in a helpless shrug and kept them up. “I don’t know.”
The air got awkward again, as it always did between you two. You knew what the best outcome was—sharing a tent with Johnny, and letting the kids have the other two. But saying it out loud felt impossible. If it were Mark, you wouldn’t care, though you knew he snored. But Johnny? He’d definitely take up space, and you didn’t even know each other that well. The idea of sleeping that close to him felt like you might explode.
“I mean… are you okay with— I can sleep in the hut, it’s not a big deal—” Johnny realized it sounded like he was making you uncomfortable.
“No, no! Are you crazy? Like you said, this hut’s full of holes. The wind could wreck your throat. No. No way.” You both sighed. “It’s fine with me” you said, looking up at him. “Okay…if it’s not a problem, then let’s just…” Johnny cleared his throat, awkward again, and started pulling the three tents out of the hut you’d been spending way too much time in. The kids stared, clearly confused.
“Alright…let’s set up the tents, guys” Johnny said, trying to sound casual, but his voice cracked a little with tension.
The sun dipped lower behind the hills as everyone scrambled to set up the tents. You ended up helping two kids try to figure out which pole went where, while Johnny fought with the wind and a stubborn zipper. “C’mon–get up” he muttered, wrestling with the fabric. You smirked. “Maybe it’s trying to tell you something.”
He shot you a look. “Like what?” “That you shouldn’t have volunteered to stay?” you leaned on the pole. He let go of the zipper and wiped his forehead dramatically. “Trust me, I didn’t. Those two little shits would do anything but help an old man out.” you rolled your eyes, as he was acting like he was 70 years old.
You two tried to be playful as much as you could, you didn’t want to make this more awkward than it already was.
04 The night
Once the tents were finally up and the kids had been assigned their sleeping spots, the air settled into a quiet tension you were all too familiar with. You and Johnny stood near the hut, watching the sky grow darker by the minute. He pulled something out of his pocket—a fresh pack of cigarettes.
You glanced at him, pretending to be offended. “You’re gonna smoke near the kids? Aren’t you ash—give me one.” You dropped the act halfway through, holding out your hand. His lips curled into the tiniest smirk, as he passed you a cigarette without a word, then lit it for you. This time, it wasn’t awkward, but your heart still beat faster than usual. You caught him staring at your lips as you inhaled near the flame.
Trying to cut through the tension, you gave him a thumbs up, like it was no big deal. Just him lighting up a cigarette for you, looking at you like he wanted to be the cigarette between your lips. Nothing serious.
You met his dreamy half lidded eyes, and neither of you looked away, not even for a second. Then a sudden raindrop landed right on your cheek. Then another. Then even more. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You wiped your face just as the sky let loose. “Come here” Johnny grabbed your wrist without thinking, and the two of you ran toward the tent for cover, both of you cursing as the rain hit full force.
You barely managed to unzip it in time, but once you finally got in, you sat back against the tent wall, trying to catch your breath. Johnny sat across from you, wet hair sticking to his forehead, his wet shirt clinging to his shoulders. You couldn’t help but stare, it felt like looking at a Renaissance sculpture, where the chiseled muscles were somehow even more defined under the thinnest veil.
He tried to play it cool, taking a sip from his water bottle. “Do you think Ryunjin and Doyoung got back by now?”
“Well, Jesus, let’s hope” he replied, glancing up at the tent that was holding strong. He started moving toward you, and you froze. He picked up a torch.
“I’m gonna check on the kids. They could’ve all flown away by now.” You nodded, and as he left, you sighed deeply. Taking the opportunity, you changed. Once you were dry, you sat back down, waiting. There was a soft glow from the tent’s fabric that made everything feel dreamlike.
Then you heard the zipper unzip, and a tall figure struggled to squeeze inside. Even though he’d left only briefly, you couldn’t help but notice how much space he took up. You scooted over to make room. You had to admit, it was cozy—and he smelled really nice.
As you looked at him more clearly, you noticed he’d changed clothes, probably back at the hut. His hair was still a little damp, but it suited him.
“The kids? They all disappeared. I swear I saw them floating near the lake. Shit’s crazy out there...” You chuckled at his stupid joke. He’d made you worry for the first few seconds. You hit his arm playfully, though he probably only felt a small breeze on his huge bicep, which was decorated with pretty tattoos. “Want a picture? It lasts longer.”
“Corny” you rolled over as he smirked. You didn’t know why, but you both found yourselves whispering, as if you didn’t want the kids in the other tents to overhear you.
He laid down carefully, trying not to tug on your hair. You were close, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Your knees brushed together, and you shifted slightly, your breath catching as your eyes met his. His gaze was heavy and tired. “It’ll be fine, right?” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Yeah... of course” you breathed back, heart pounding.
You weren’t exactly sure what he meant by fine, the kids? the storm? the camp? …or this? Whatever this was. While your thoughts raced, he reached out and gently brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than they needed to. The touch sent a warmth straight down between your legs.
You swallowed. His weight rested on one bicep, and he was practically hovering over you, staring down. This time, his eyes were more intense. You didn’t know what to do, so you just laid your hand over his.
His skin was warm beneath your palm. Outside, the rain kept pouring, your eyes glittered in the dim light, neither of you said anything. You didn’t want to.
His thumb shifted slightly under your hand, brushing against your lower lip. The touch was small, but your whole body reacted. His face was close now, his gorgeous lips parted like he wanted to say something but changed his mind. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop it. But you didn’t. When his lips met yours, it was soft. But the second your hand moved to his neck, pulling him just slightly closer, something shifted.
As the kiss deepened, you got needier, you wanted to feel his body so close you’d have to get under his skin, your kiss became sloppier and more intense, he moved his hand down, reaching your sensitive neck. His hands weren't soft, but they were warm and trailed down your waist, then your hip. You moved your hand up to his hair, gently grabbing it, letting him know you wanted more.
As he met your gaze once again, he shifted lower near your stomach, he gently started to kiss it, looking up from time to time. The dim light made his honey brown eyes glow, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe. Outside the rain was pouring faster, and harder.
He then got even lower, he had both of his hands on your hips now, he gently took your shorts off your thighs, and then halted, he got back up to kiss you once more, meeting your eyes, like he was waiting for your permission to make you feel good. You blinked at him lightly, he was back down, this time he took off your panties, faster, more desperate. Your hips clenched as a response, as you heatedly waited.
“Ease up, I’m not going anywhere.” he teased, looking up at you, making your stomach flip. He started to caress your core and you tried to listen to him, but when he dipped his jaw between your tights you blurted out a small whimper. He started to run his fingers over your thighs, then on your ass, lifting up your hips for a better control over you.
You couldn’t believe you were actually doing this with him, here, of all places. It felt like the world outside had disappeared, like the only thing that existed was the space between you two.
Flicking his tongue between the folds, he reached the spot, desperately seeking for that feeling, you pleaded “—right there”, he kept going until you frantically arched your hips, keeping his head close between your thighs. As you looked down at him you could only see his closed eyes and the messy hair sticking on his forehead. His big arms were keeping your hips in place, as he hungrily went down on you.
“Fuck, keep going—” you grunted, trying to keep your voice low by covering your mouth with the back of your hand. As you were about to reach your orgasm, he started to apply more pressure on your clit, then he delved his tongue in your slit, parting your lips gently. As you reached your climax, you tensed up whimpering desperately, your core pulsing at the hot touch of his lips, you exhaled, finally dissolving into pleasure.
He kissed your inner thigh and then looked up at you, as soon as he got closer to your face you kissed him passionately, like a reward. His cheeks were flushed and his chin was coated by a sheer layer of your juice and his saliva, his lips swollen. He shifted slightly, as he growled, his breath tickling your ear, “c’mon baby” he murmured, you could hear he was smiling. You were good at being quiet, although he would have loved hearing your moans better. There was no worry in it, because somehow, you both knew this wouldn’t be your last time.
As your body began to cool, he pulled you closer into his strong arms, wrapping you in the warmth of his embrace. His broad frame was solid around you. And as the rain softened, falling in a quieter rhythm, all you could hear was the steady comfort of his breathing. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and the two of you drifted off, no longer worrying about the tent being crowded.
update: check out my new post :3
a/n: Ok so its been so long since i actually wrote a fan fiction. I hope you enjoyed my first time writing smut too…ToT
summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven
warnings: explicit smut (multiple scenes), dom/sub dynamics, power play, breeding kink, degradation praise, spanking, explicit dirty talk, creampie, possessiveness, worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, public display of dominance, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, death of a sibling (mentioned), grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity (organized crime themes), arranged marriage (turned consensual), emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles (challenged), parenthood, tattoos/irezumi (traditional), symbolic death/rebirth, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.
not smaller, not quieter — just fuller. the halls that once echoed with tension now hummed with the sounds of daily life: children’s footsteps chasing one another down the engawa, the murmur of a radio left on in the kitchen, the rustle of sliding doors pulled open and shut by hands that had never known violence. it was the same house, the same bones, the same garden just outside — now blooming again with early summer peonies and camellias — but something had shifted permanently. there was warmth where once there had only been steel.
yuta had changed too.
not softened — never that. he still ruled with precision, still carried the weight of his name and history with that quiet, dangerous grace that made men straighten their spines when he entered a room. but he had grown into something more. not just the oyabun of a clan that had expanded and stabilized under his leadership, but a man who no longer ran from his past — a man who returned to the shrine every year on the same date, with a boy at his side whose hand fit almost perfectly in his own.
shotaro was seven now.
sharp-eyed, quiet like his father, though he laughed easier, with a crooked grin he hadn’t inherited from either of you. he asked questions constantly — about honor, about names, about the tattoos he was not yet old enough to understand. yuta answered them all, never speaking down to him, never sugarcoating. and when he’d asked last winter, in the soft hush of snowfall outside, why he was named after someone in the ground, yuta had knelt, placed a hand on his shoulder, and simply said, “because the man you’re named after taught me what it means to protect something. and now that name belongs to you.”
and then there was tsubaki.
your daughter had arrived two springs ago, born under the bloom of the tree you had planted after your wedding. her name meant “camellia,” a flower symbolic of strength, love, and resilience — one that thrived even in cold seasons, blooming when others withered. and she lived up to every syllable of it. bright, fearless, stubborn as rain — with your eyes and your temper, and yuta’s impossible ability to control a room without speaking. she had already declared, at the age of two, that she would marry no one unless they brought her three swords and a horse, which shotaro immediately promised to steal for her. neither of you corrected them.
riku still came by every sunday.
he had changed the most — at least on the surface. now living in a glass-and-gold penthouse high above namba, he had risen through the clan ranks with that same street-born cunning and loyalty that had once earned him the right to drive your car in silence. he wore imported suits now, changed women like watches, and arrived smelling of expensive cologne and nights without sleep. but he never missed a visit to his mother, never missed a birthday, never looked at your children without that same big-brother warmth that had once shielded you both from the world outside.
the clan had grown too.
under yuta’s leadership, it had evolved — not sanitized, never clean, but refined. operations were quieter now, more surgical, layered with strategy and diplomacy that reached far beyond osaka. territories were protected, alliances kept in balance, and his name no longer needed to be shouted to be known. in meetings, he still sat in silence more than he spoke, but when he did, the room fell still. and you — you were still at his side. not as a shadow, but as his reflection. you handled affairs that didn’t touch violence directly: the security of the women, the education of the next generation, the negotiation of small conflicts before they became large ones. sometimes your word alone was enough to prevent bloodshed. you had learned how to wield power without raising your voice.
tonight, the house was quiet again, the kind of quiet that only came after everyone had gone to sleep. the children had been tucked in hours ago, shotaro with his wooden sword beside the futon, tsubaki curled up with her face in your old wedding kimono — the red silk wrapped around her like a dragon’s embrace. you had lingered a moment longer in their room, brushing her hair back from her forehead, listening to the way yuta’s footsteps slowed outside the door before continuing on.
now, he waited for you in the bedroom, already half-undressed, the soft glow of paper lanterns casting long shadows across his back. the tattoos were still vivid, still beautiful, age only adding depth to the black and gray lines that curled over his shoulder blades like the memory of fire. his robe hung loose around his waist, his hands resting in his lap. when you entered, he looked up and smiled — not the smirk he gave the world, not the careful calm he used with the clan, but something smaller. reserved only for you.
“they asleep?” he asked.
you nodded, untying your robe.
“both,” you said. “though tsubaki was threatening to lead a coup if we didn’t let her sleep in our bed again.”
he laughed under his breath, eyes following the silk as it slipped from your shoulders.
“she gets that from you.”
“i get the blame for everything.”
“you get the credit, too,” he said, rising, crossing the room toward you. “for this house. for the way i survived myself. for both of them.”
he stopped in front of you, hands coming to your hips, mouth brushing your jaw.
“for making me want more than survival.”
you leaned into him, pressing your palms against his bare chest.
“and what do you want now, nakamoto?”
he didn’t answer with words.
he pushed you gently back onto the bed, his body following yours, one knee parting your thighs as his lips dragged across your collarbone, slow and unhurried. he worshipped you as he had that very first night — with a hunger honed by time, shaped by memory. his hands roamed the map of your body like it was the territory he had built everything on, his tongue tracing the edge of your tattoo before sinking lower.
“mine,” he whispered, voice low, rough. “still. always.”
you gasped as he filled you — deep and claiming — his pace slow but punishing, each thrust purposeful, each breath a promise. he didn’t have to ask permission anymore. you gave him everything long ago. but tonight, he still earned it, inch by inch, word by word.
“i’ll fill you up again,” he growled against your neck. “mark you from the inside this time. want to see it drip from you, want to watch it take.”
you whimpered, the sound lost between kisses and heat, your body arching as he pressed harder, faster, claiming you like only he could.
“gonna make you beg,” he hissed, grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. “show you who you belong to.”
“you,” you gasped. “only you.”
he smiled — dark, triumphant, adoring — and fucked you harder, deeper, until your cries turned into broken syllables and your body trembled beneath his. when you came, it was with his name on your tongue, and when he followed, spilling into you with a low growl, it was with his hands cradling your face like you were the only thing still holding him to the earth.
afterward, he didn’t move from you for a long time.
just held you, your legs tangled, your breathing slow, your bodies sticky and warm and still joined.
“we made something beautiful,” he murmured, his hand on your stomach, your heart, your life.
“we did,” you whispered back, lips brushing his.
and outside the window, beneath the stars, the camellia tree swayed — blooming, still, after all these years.
you had left modeling the year after the ceremony.
not the wedding — that had been for politics, for tradition, for the sake of appearances. but the second one, the real one, the one held in the temple courtyard with your hand in yuta’s and the clan kneeling before you in reverent silence — that was when everything shifted. after that, the camera no longer felt like a doorway to your future. it felt like a relic. a different skin you had already shed.
there were reasons, of course. you were now the wife of an oyabun, a woman of weight and presence in a house watched by too many eyes. the responsibilities were real, and heavy, and sometimes they left little room for dreams you once chased across magazine pages and studio lights. you stepped down without bitterness. not because the dream had died — but because it had simply evolved. power, after all, had many forms. and now yours wore silk, moved quietly, and negotiated the survival of families with a single glance across a tatami room.
still, from time to time, the itch returned — subtle, low beneath your skin. so every few seasons, you would indulge it. a private session. a camera. sometimes a friend from your past came to shoot, someone who understood that this wasn’t for publications, for fame, for the market. these photos weren’t meant for the world. they were for you. and for him.
you posed in lace, in silk, in shadows. sometimes wearing only his haori, your tattoos catching the light in deliberate contrast to the softness of your skin. you never smiled in those pictures. only stared into the lens like you were daring it to forget who you had become.
yuta never watched you shoot. he always let you have that space — but he waited outside the room like a man expecting something sacred. and later, once the photos were printed and arranged in the quiet privacy of your study, he kept them. not hidden. just protected. a lacquered album on the highest shelf, filled with his wife — his woman — arching across bedsheets, eyes half-lidded with power, with pride. he opened it on long nights sometimes, when the house was quiet and the city below dared to forget who ruled it. he’d look through the pages slowly, fingers brushing each image like a prayer.
“mine,” he would whisper. “mine forever.”
in the summer of that year, shotaro turned eight.
he asked to visit the shrine again.
this time, you let him go alone with yuta. you stayed behind with tsubaki, brushing her hair on the veranda, the scent of roasted barley tea drifting from the kitchen. she sat still for once, curious eyes turned toward the mountain path that had taken her brother and father out of sight.
at the shrine, yuta let shotaro walk ahead.
the boy moved with quiet steps, his hands respectfully tucked into the sleeves of his light jinbei, the dragon-embroidered sandals scraping softly against the stone. he carried a single flower — a white camellia, picked from the tree you had planted years ago. he had asked why it mattered. you had told him, “because it blooms even in the cold, and some names are meant to live forever.”
when they reached the grave, yuta didn’t speak. he watched as his son knelt before the stone, bowed deeply, and placed the flower carefully at the base.
“thank you,” the boy said quietly. “for my name. for my father.”
he bowed again.
and somewhere, just behind the trees, the wind moved like a breath held and released.
that fall, you watched tsubaki from the doorway of the meeting hall.
she was barefoot, small but composed, standing at the edge of the gathering like she belonged to it. she didn’t speak. didn’t fidget. just stood with her arms behind her back, head tilted slightly — listening.
the men watched her, but no one dared correct her presence.
not with you in the room.
not with yuta at the head of the table, his eyes flickering to his daughter only once before returning to the conversation about territory, expansion, diplomacy.
afterwards, she ran to you.
“they listen to you,” she said with a child’s solemnity. “and they listen to papa. so one day, they’ll listen to me.”
you smiled faintly and knelt beside her.
“and what will you say when they do?”
she considered the question, frowning slightly.
“i’ll say that peace doesn’t mean softness. it means knowing where to place your blade.”
you didn’t laugh. only kissed the top of her head.
“good girl.”
years from now, perhaps it would all change. perhaps shotaro would take over the clan or tsubaki would carve her own empire from the bones of your name. perhaps the city would grow beyond your reach. but for now, in the golden hush of late afternoon, your legacy was safe. not in money. not in territory. but in the way your son placed his hand on his sister’s shoulder when she spoke. in the way yuta looked at you like nothing else had ever made sense before you. in the way your story — once marked by silence and fire and fear — now unfolded in softness, in laughter, in roots that stretched deeper than any wound.
one night, when the children were asleep and the world outside was too loud to hear, yuta pulled you into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. he didn’t speak. just kissed you slow. deep. hands finding the familiar path of your hips, your breasts, the soft bend of your knees.
he made love to you the way a man remembers — every scar, every sound, every place you had once trembled. and when he came inside you, forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like an incantation, he didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness.
he simply said:
“thank you for staying. thank you for becoming everything i never knew how to ask for.”
and you smiled, the weight of time and joy and sorrow pooled between your bodies, and answered:
“thank you for giving me a name worth carrying.”
outside, the wind moved through the camellia tree again — still blooming.
summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven
warnings: explicit smut (multiple scenes), dom/sub dynamics, power play, breeding kink, degradation praise, spanking, explicit dirty talk, oral (f receiving), creampie, possessiveness, choking (consensual), worship kink, rough sex, emotionally charged sex, soft aftercare, virginity loss (detailed), fingering, public display of dominance, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, death of a sibling (mentioned), grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity (organized crime themes), arranged marriage (turned consensual), emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles (challenged), tattoos/irezumi (traditional), canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension.
wc: 12,6k
notes: hi! here’s the second part of yuta’s story 🫶 i noticed a lot of people were interested in it and the response was really sweet, which made me super happy! someone asked me how i write so fast 🤣 the thing is, with this story (and most of them tbh), i usually write and prepare everything in advance when i have free time. i don’t publish them right away though, because i usually plan them in parts. so i keep them in my drafts, then i write the next parts, revise everything, adjust the flow, and once i feel like the timing is right, i post them lol.
it’s kind of like "scheduling" my fics for delivery hahaha. alsooo i was kinda waiting for the anon to reply so i could tag them, but they never did 😭 if they’re reading this, please reach out to me 😭 jsjsjjs
part i. epilogue
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the steam clung to your skin like silk as you stepped out of the ofuro, towel wrapped loosely around your body, the faint scent of hinoki wood still clinging to your damp hair. the house was quiet—too quiet. you had grown used to the soft murmur of voices, the distant shuffling of feet as the men moved throughout the property, but tonight, silence held the hallways in a tight, heavy grip.
you dried yourself slowly, slipping into a soft ivory nightgown that barely brushed your thighs. it wasn’t intentional—just the first thing your hands grabbed in the dimness of your closet. you weren’t trying to look a certain way. you weren’t trying to think of him.
you tied your hair up in a loose bun and padded barefoot to your room. the warmth of the ofuro had relaxed you, almost lulled you into sleep already… until you heard it.
a sound—wet, harsh. a sharp exhale. a broken word.
you froze.
then came the strangled gasp. a thud. and finally, a shout.
“no—!”
you bolted down the hallway before your mind could process it, your feet silent on the wooden floor. you didn’t knock. you slid the door open sharply and found him tangled in his futon, drenched in sweat, breathing like he’d run miles barefoot through a battlefield. the moonlight spilling through the shoji window cut pale angles across his face, highlighting the way his brows furrowed in panic, lips parted in a grimace, chest heaving.
"yuta," you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him. “yuta—wake up, it’s just a dream—”
his hand shot out, blindly reaching. you caught it, squeezed it tight.
“hey. you’re okay. i’m here.” your other hand cupped his cheek, brushing away the sheen of sweat with your thumb.
his eyes finally opened, unfocused and wild, then slowly zeroed in on your face. his lips parted but no words came out. just another heavy breath, a tremor, and then—without a word—he leaned forward and collapsed against you.
you sucked in a quiet breath as the full weight of his upper body rested against your chest. your nightgown stuck to your damp skin, thin cotton against bare muscle. he was burning hot, trembling, but you didn’t pull away. your hands found their way into his hair, gently combing through the messy strands as his breaths began to slow.
“it’s okay,” you whispered again. “you’re safe.”
his arms didn’t wrap around you, but his head tilted just enough that his cheek pressed against the curve of your breast, and you felt his lashes flutter with each exhale.
after several long minutes, he finally spoke. voice hoarse, barely a breath.
“i saw you bleeding.”
your hands froze in his hair. he continued, still not looking at you.
“in the dream… you were lying on the floor. screaming my name. i couldn’t get to you. there was blood. so much fucking blood.”
you swallowed the knot rising in your throat.
“but it wasn’t real,” you said softly. “i’m here. see?” you took his hand and pressed it flat against your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. “no blood.”
he let out a shaky breath. “i thought i was going to lose you.”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t.
then, after a beat—
“stay,” he said.
your heart kicked up a notch. “here?”
he lifted his head slightly to meet your eyes. “just tonight.”
your mouth opened to answer, but nothing came out. your cheeks were already burning. the word hung between you like a secret.
you nodded.
he eased back onto the futon with a quiet wince, making space. you slipped under the blanket beside him, heart pounding, unsure where to place your arms, unsure of everything. it felt like you were intruding.
you turned your back to him at first, unsure if it would make things less tense. but before long, you felt the warmth of his body draw closer. not touching—just near.
"you’re tense," he murmured behind you.
you tensed more. “no i’m not.”
he chuckled, voice low, still slightly raspy. “i won’t do anything you don’t want.”
you spun to face him, cheeks aflame. “i wasn’t thinking that!”
his brows rose, amused. “sure you weren’t.”
you smacked his arm gently, earning another soft laugh from him—warm this time. honest. he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.
“you look pretty when you’re mad.”
you scowled, even as your heart twisted into a knot.
you stared at each other for a long second, breaths mingling in the dark.
"does it still hurt?" you asked finally, nodding at the faded bandages on his side.
"only when i breathe," he joked, then sighed. "i’ll be fine."
you hesitated, then reached out and placed your hand gently over his abdomen. he tensed—but didn’t stop you. the heat of his skin under your palm made your fingers tremble.
"you're warm," you whispered.
"so are you." his eyes dropped to your lips.
you should’ve pulled away. should’ve turned back and faced the wall again. but you didn’t. neither of you did.
"this is weird, isn’t it?" you said softly. "we’re married and this is the first night we share a bed."
"we should’ve done it earlier," he said.
you looked up at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable. somewhere between a smile and a storm.
"why didn’t we?" you asked, more to yourself than him.
he tilted your chin up slightly, his thumb brushing your jaw. “because maybe now it means something.”
you felt your breath catch.
you didn’t kiss. not yet. but your faces stayed close, breath to breath, until sleep finally claimed you both—your fingers still tangled in his shirt, his hand resting protectively over your hip.
you didn’t dream that night.
but if you had, it would’ve been about him.
meanwhile, the world outside moved on without you.
the studio lights were too bright. the camera flashes too cold. you smiled on cue, tilted your head just so, changed outfits and pretended to care when the makeup artist fixed your lip gloss for the fifth time.
hitoshi didn’t speak much anymore. not unless it was absolutely necessary. not unless someone was watching.
you wanted to ask him if it was because of yuta.
you didn’t.
outside, everything felt disconnected. like you were walking through someone else’s life. fake laughter. fake perfume. fake nails. fake smiles.
but inside the walls of yuta’s house, something real was happening.
something warm. dangerous. inevitable.
that night, as you returned home past sunset, the hallway lights dimmed low and the scent of jasmine still lingering from the garden, you saw him standing at the end of the corridor—shoulders relaxed, arms crossed loosely, watching you with that look again.
not hungry.
not gentle.
just... aware.
you stopped walking.
he didn’t say anything.
neither did you.
but the glance lasted longer than it should have. held heavier than it ought to. like both of you were waiting for something to snap.
and you looked at each other.
not in the way married people are supposed to look at each other.
not with comfort. not with affection.
with need.
the kind that simmers in silence. the kind that thickens the air between two people until it’s unbearable.
he took one slow step toward you.
you didn’t move back. you couldn’t. your knees felt like they were made of glass and breath was suddenly a conscious effort. his gaze flicked down your body once—just once—but it was enough to make your pulse trip over itself.
“come here,” he said.
not commanding. not tender. just… hoarse. low. like the words had scraped their way out of his throat.
you didn’t answer.
you stepped forward.
one step. then another.
you could see the strain in his posture. the tightness in his jaw. he was trying to control it, whatever it was burning under his skin. trying not to ruin this moment. but his fingers flexed at his sides, and you knew he was one breath away from snapping.
you stopped right in front of him.
your eyes met, closer now—so close you could see the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, the way his mouth parted like he was going to speak and then thought better of it.
“this…” he began, but didn’t finish.
you shook your head slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “don’t ruin it with words.”
he didn’t.
instead, he reached.
a hand at your waist first—careful, grounding, his thumb pressing into the silk of your robe. your breath hitched. he exhaled shakily. then the other hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck. he didn’t pull—he just held. like anchoring you there, like making sure this wasn’t a dream he’d wake from.
“i don’t know what this is,” you murmured. “but i feel it.”
his brow furrowed like the words hurt. like they exposed something he wasn’t ready to admit.
“i do too,” he said, voice barely audible. “i’ve been trying not to.”
“me too.”
and then, as if your bodies had grown tired of waiting for permission, you leaned in at the same time.
the kiss wasn’t soft.
it wasn’t rushed either. it lingered, pressed, took. there was no awkward pause, no hesitation—just the raw electricity of mouths meeting after too long, of breath mixing, of hands finally allowed to hold.
his fingers slid deeper into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste more of you, to pull a sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. you clung to him—hands gripping the collar of his shirt, sliding up the back of his neck, curling into the short strands of his hair as if anchoring yourself to him.
his other hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. you could feel the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, how he was still fighting the instinct to take too much too soon. but the tremble in his breath gave him away. this was unraveling him. you were unraveling him.
you kissed like you were trying to understand it. to confirm it. to make sense of this pull between you, the way nothing outside these walls felt real anymore. how everything out there felt empty, cold, meaningless—except this. except him.
his mouth left yours just barely, brushing the corner of your lips, then your jaw. “this wasn’t supposed to happen,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound regretful. he sounded undone.
you swallowed hard, lips brushing his again. “i don’t care.”
he kissed you again—this time slower. not because he was hesitant, but because he wanted to memorize. the shape of your mouth. the sighs you gave when he sucked your lower lip just enough. the way your nails pressed into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. it was indulgent, shameless, intentional.
and it wasn’t like your wedding kiss.
that one had been staged, timed, performed.
this one was the truth.
when he finally pulled back, both of you breathless, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, your forehead pressed to his.
his voice was rough. “if i kiss you again, i won’t stop.”
your pulse pounded in your ears. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
he laughed once—short, bitter, sweet. “because it is.”
your hands slid down his chest, slowing at the center where his heart beat fast beneath your palm. “then don’t.”
for a moment, he didn’t respond.
but his hand at your waist tightened again.
and his lips ghosted your cheek.
and he whispered, “stay with me tonight. just like this. just… stay.”
you nodded.
you didn’t go back to your room. you didn’t need to.
you had crossed a line now. one neither of you would be able to step back from. and even if the world burned down around the two of you, you knew this was real. raw. dangerous.
you didn’t turn the lights on. he didn’t ask why.
something about the dark made it easier to admit this was real.
yuta pulled you toward the futon slowly, not by the wrist or hand—but by placing a gentle touch on your lower back, guiding you like the space beside him was meant for you and had always been. his bed smelled faintly like cedar and something warmer, something him. the sheets were cool, but his body wasn’t.
he laid back first, propped against the pillows.
you hesitated—only for a second—then climbed in beside him, curling on your side. facing him.
he was already watching you. soft. open. like his edges had finally stopped cutting, like this was the only moment he didn’t have to be the heir, the boss, the legend. he was just a man. and for the first time, he looked free.
he reached for you. slowly. deliberately. a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye as if checking you were really there. you leaned into it. eyes fluttering shut.
and then the kiss came again.
it was different this time.
slower. deeper.
not needy—but full.
the kind of kiss that asked questions instead of demanded answers. lips moving with intent, his hand sliding into your hair again as you leaned closer until your chest brushed his, until your breaths tangled and the space between you no longer existed.
he kissed you like this could heal something in him. and maybe, somehow, it did.
your fingers curled lightly at his nape, then trailed down the curve of his shoulder. you rested your forehead against his between kisses. he pressed one to your temple. then your jaw. then your collarbone. nothing rushed. nothing expected. just the hum of electricity, of presence, of him holding you like the world outside could go to hell.
at some point, you settled with your head on his chest.
his arm wrapped around you without hesitation. his thumb moved slowly along your upper arm, a rhythm so tender it made your throat ache. you could feel his heartbeat under your ear—steady, loud, real.
"i forgot what this felt like," he murmured into your hair.
you didn’t ask what he meant.
you just whispered back, “me too.”
he kissed the top of your head. and you kissed the skin at his collarbone.
you didn’t speak again for a while.
not because there was nothing to say—but because silence was finally safe.
and when sleep came for you both, it didn’t feel like surrender.
it felt like belonging.
the steady hum of the car wheels against the gravel-covered road filled the silence as the black sedan made its way through the outskirts of osaka. moonlight filtered through the dense tree line, shadows flickering like ghosts against the windows. yuta sat beside you, calm and composed in his midnight blue kimono embroidered with black cranes that symbolized protection and vigilance. your kimono was a delicate shade of plum, tied tightly at the waist, accentuating the soft curves of your form. your hands rested on your lap, fingers curled in, hiding the tension that had nested in your chest since you left the house.
"are you nervous?" yuta asked without looking at you, eyes scanning the road ahead like a man who had lived too many lives in one.
"should i be?" you replied, your voice even, but not cold.
"always," he said. and that was it.
the meeting with the clan elders was held in a countryside estate hidden among the pines. flickering lanterns lit the stone path leading to the large wooden structure. the air was thick with incense, and the heavy scent of sandalwood made your head feel light. as you entered the main hall, dozens of eyes turned your way. you held your chin high.
yuta introduced you with the calm pride of a man who owned everything in the room. you stood beside him as if born to be there, even if your heartbeat betrayed you. the meeting began as expected, with slow exchanges, nods of agreement, and passing cups of sake.
but it changed in seconds. the loud crack of wood splitting came from behind. yuta’s body tensed before the masked attackers even burst in. everything blurred—yuta grabbing your arm, shielding you behind his body, the clang of steel, the echo of gunfire.
you reached for the small pistol hidden beneath the folds of your obi. you never thought you'd use it. but tonight, you did. your hands shook at first, but when one of them lunged at yuta, instinct won. you pulled the trigger.
the assailants dropped one by one. yuta moved like wind and water—silent, fatal. but one shot grazed him. your scream was lost in the chaos.
once it ended, silence fell heavy. bodies lay sprawled on the polished wooden floor, blood pooling like ink.
in the car, as you both escaped back into the cover of night, you turned to him. "take off the top half of your kimono."
"it’s nothing," he muttered, though his breathing betrayed the sting.
"take it off, yuta."
he obeyed. his chest, usually smooth and unmarred, had a long, thin scratch from a bullet that had barely missed its target. you pulled cloth from the glove compartment, soaked it with the small bottle of water you had, and began to clean him. your fingers worked gently, but your eyes held fire.
yuta didn’t speak. he just watched you. eyes wide, confused, as if no one had ever treated him with such... tenderness.
when you finished, you pressed your palm against the uninjured part of his chest. his hand came up to cover yours.
"thank you," he said, voice low.
"you’d do the same for me."
he didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.
the days after, something shifted. without a word, he started sleeping in your room. not in your bed. just in the same space. but at some point, the futons ended up closer. and at some point, your nightly kisses, born of adrenaline and intimacy, became ritual. nothing more happened—but the heat that bloomed beneath your skin every time his mouth met yours grew.
each night, his hands lingered a little longer on your waist. yours tangled into his hair. his breath warmed your collarbone. it was a slow burn that neither of you seemed ready to extinguish.
then came the whispers.
inside the tatami-lined war room, takuya stood before the clan’s council, arms crossed. yuta was beside him, silent.
"this arrangement is a distraction," takuya said sharply. "she was supposed to serve a purpose, nothing more. you’re losing focus."
yuta's jaw clenched. "say what you really mean."
"i mean," takuya snapped, "that you were supposed to be leading us into negotiations with the osaka-hyogo factions this week. instead, you're sitting at her bedside cleaning wounds and playing husband."
"i am her husband."
the room fell quiet.
takuya laughed. it was hollow. "a husband for six months. that was the deal. we marry her, used her image of being the perfect, respectable woman and move on. this... this is becoming a problem."
"she’s not the problem," yuta said slowly. "you are."
outside the room, you stood hidden behind the shoji screen. the words cut into you like glass. you hadn’t known the full extent of the deal before. six months. and now, takuya wanted to end it early.
you clutched your sleeves tighter. your chest burned—not with anger, but something deeper. pain. disappointment. a foolish part of you had started to hope.
to believe.
yuta had risked everything for you that night—stood in front of you when the bullets flew. defended your presence when his oldest ally called it a mistake. you couldn’t repay him by making him choose.
the clan or you.
so you didn’t say anything. you didn't confront him that night. instead, you kissed him like nothing had changed. like your world wasn’t slowly crumbling beneath your feet.
because if he had to choose, you'd rather he never knew there was a choice to make.
and that was the cruelest love of all.
one you couldn’t name. one you couldn’t keep. but one that lived in every stolen breath, every bruising kiss, every silent night shared under the paper lantern glow.
the garden was quiet.
too quiet.
even the wind seemed to hesitate, brushing past the trees like it didn’t want to disturb what was unraveling beneath the summer sky. soft lanterns flickered along the stone path, their warm light casting long shadows across the grass, but none of it reached you. not really. you were already somewhere else — deep in your own thoughts, drowning in the things you couldn’t say.
yuta stood a few steps away, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff beneath the expensive black jacket he always wore when things felt heavy. he had one hand tucked in his pocket, the other hanging loosely by his side, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something but didn’t know what.
maybe your hand.
maybe your throat.
you had just told him the truth — or part of it. that you weren’t going to stop modeling. that your work mattered to you in ways he could never understand. and he had laughed. not cruelly, not loudly, but with that sharp edge that always cut you when he didn’t know how else to feel.
“if it’s not about money,” he said, his voice low, “then what is it? huh? tell me.”
you blinked. “it’s about my dream, yuta. it always has been. the reason i left my village, the reason i stayed here. i need to feel like i’m building something for myself. like this... this isn’t all there is.”
his eyes narrowed. “and hitoshi? he’s part of that dream too?”
you didn’t answer.
your silence was like a gunshot.
his jaw clenched tighter. “so that’s it, then.”
“that’s not what i said,” you muttered.
but he was already shaking his head. not fast, not dramatic — just slow, like someone accepting the kind of truth they never wanted to hear.
“you didn’t have to say it,” he said. “i see it every time you come home smelling like him.”
you flinched. “i don’t—”
“don’t lie to me,” he snapped.
his voice cracked, and that scared you more than the accusation. because yuta didn’t break. not in front of you. not ever.
he took a step closer, and even in the fading light, you could see the tiredness in his eyes. not just from the long nights or the weight of his title — but from you. from this. from the fact that every time he reached for you lately, you felt a little further away.
“do you ever look at him the way you looked at me?” he asked quietly. “do you think about him when i’m not home?”
“no,” you whispered, barely audible. “never.”
but he didn’t believe you.
and honestly, maybe you didn’t believe yourself either — not because you wanted hitoshi, but because the distance between you and yuta had become a chasm neither of you knew how to cross anymore. it had started slow — missed dinners, hushed calls, unspoken things. then it became routine. avoidance. resentment.
and now here you were, standing in the garden of a man who once held you like you were fragile and holy, now looking at you like you were a betrayal wrapped in lace.
“when this is over,” he said, his voice colder now, controlled, “when the contract ends… will you run to him? will he be your safe place?”
you stared at him.
and said nothing.
because you didn’t know what to say. because even if the answer was no — even if hitoshi was the furthest thing from your heart — you couldn’t find the words fast enough. couldn’t reach him in time.
his eyes dropped for a second. then he turned.
the movement was simple, quiet, deliberate. he was walking away.
and for yuta, that was your answer.
you didn’t chase him.
you stood there, trembling, breath stuck in your chest. you watched his back retreat across the stepping stones, his figure melting into the shadows of the engawa, swallowed by the darkness of the house that had once felt like safety. and something inside you cracked open.
you wanted to run after him. wanted to scream that he was wrong, that he was the only man you had ever truly wanted. that hitoshi could disappear tomorrow and you wouldn’t blink, but if yuta left... if he really left...
you would never recover from it.
but your feet didn’t move. because what was the point?
you both knew how this story ended.
you were a contract bride, a girl wrapped in white silk and political lies. and he was the king of a blood empire, trying to build something clean on top of a foundation soaked in violence. there had never been a version of this where you got to stay.
you pressed a hand to your chest, felt the weight of your own heartbeat, heavy and uneven.
he doesn’t know.
he didn’t know that the thought of hitoshi touching you made your skin crawl.
he didn’t know that the only time you felt beautiful was when yuta looked at you like you were something rare and breakable.
he didn’t know that every time you came home, you searched for his scent first. that your pillow still smelled like his cologne. that you hadn’t thrown out the blood-stained robe from the night he almost died, because it reminded you that you’d saved him.
he didn’t know that you were still in love with him.
you collapsed onto the wooden bench at the edge of the garden, the soft fabric of your skirt folding under you, your hands trembling in your lap. somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rattled. your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry.
not yet.
the moon had started to rise, silver and low, bathing the garden in cold light. the flowers yuta planted last spring were starting to wilt — their petals curled, fragile from the heat. and it hit you then: maybe you were wilting too.
you whispered to the night. not a prayer, not a plea. just his name.
“yuta...”
but he didn’t come back.
he didn’t hear you.
or maybe... maybe he did. and chose not to answer.
you hadn’t spoken in two days.
not really. not more than clipped sentences passed during breakfast or muttered greetings when your paths crossed in the hallway. the silence between you and yuta had settled like fog — dense, stubborn, refusing to lift.
but that night, something cracked.
you couldn’t sleep. not in your room. not with the weight of his absence pulling at your ribs. so you bathed — slow, methodical — letting the heat of the ofuro melt the tension in your limbs. you scrubbed your skin until it felt new. until the scent of steam, jasmine oil, and longing clung to your every pore. then, without thinking, you slipped on a silk robe. pale cream, nearly translucent, tied loose at the waist. nothing underneath.
you didn’t wear perfume. you didn’t need to.
your hair was still damp, falling in soft waves down your back, glistening under the dim lantern light as you padded barefoot across the wooden hallway toward his room.
you had never knocked before.
but tonight, you did.
a soft, uncertain sound — two knuckles against paper and wood.
inside, you heard movement. fabric shifting. then a pause.
“come in,” he said.
your fingers tightened around the knot at your waist.
you slid the door open slowly.
he was sitting on the futon, shirtless, the blanket draped low over his hips. moonlight spilled through the paper panels behind him, cutting his body in shadows — the ink of his tattoos shifting over his arms, his chest, the sharp lines of his abdomen rising with every breath.
his eyes met yours instantly.
he didn’t say anything.
but his gaze moved — slow, deliberate — taking in the new robe, the way it clung to your damp skin. the light shimmer of moisture on your collarbones. the bare soles of your feet. your hair, dripping soft against your shoulder.
you stepped inside. silent. calm. and then you turned, sliding the door shut behind you.
when you faced him again, he hadn’t moved.
he was waiting.
you met his gaze. held it.
then, slowly — with fingers that didn’t tremble — you reached for the tie of your robe.
you pulled.
the silk slipped apart. loose. effortless.
and then it fell.
your robe hit the tatami floor in a whisper.
you stood still — completely nude, your arms resting gently at your sides, your legs pressed close together, breath quiet but deep.
“there’s only one way to show you that i want no one else,” you said, your voice soft, unwavering. “and it’s this.”
yuta didn’t speak.
he didn’t blink.
his eyes dropped — slowly, reverently — trailing down your body like a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud.
he took in everything.
your breasts, soft and full, nipples already taut under his gaze.
the curve of your waist.
the line of your hips, the small patch of skin between your thighs where heat gathered.
your thighs. your knees. the delicate arch of your feet.
you stood there for him. only for him.
and for a long, still second — he said nothing.
then he moved.
fast.
the blanket was gone, flung aside. his body was on you in an instant — heat, hands, hunger. his mouth crashed into yours, open and gasping, desperate like he’d been holding his breath for days. you moaned against him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers diving into his hair.
he lifted you.
you wrapped your legs around his waist, felt the hard press of him already thick and ready between your thighs.
he carried you to the futon like you weighed nothing.
and then he laid you down.
“say it again,” he growled, mouth at your throat, his hand sliding up your side, rough and trembling.
“i want you,” you whispered. “only you.”
he groaned — low, guttural — and kissed you again, his lips bruising yours, his teeth dragging gently over your jaw. one hand cupped your breast, thumb teasing your nipple until you arched beneath him. his other hand slid down — over your stomach, between your thighs — and when he found you wet, bare, aching...
he hissed.
“fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against yours. “you’re already this wet for me?”
you nodded, your voice breaking. “been like this since the garden... since you left.”
his fingers teased you, slow circles that made your thighs twitch.
“you should’ve told me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “should’ve told me you were still mine.”
you spread your legs wider for him.
“i’m telling you now.”
he slid two fingers inside you — thick, slow — and you gasped, hips rising to meet him.
“yuta,” you whimpered. “please...”
he growled softly, pulling his fingers out, licking them clean.
his breath caught, chest rising and falling as he hovered above you, his body flushed with heat, with want, with restraint. your legs trembled beneath him, thighs soft and parted, glistening with your arousal — and yet, your eyes betrayed something else.
uncertainty.
fear.
innocence.
and he remembered.
you were his wife, yes. you had given yourself to him in every way but this. and he had known — from the beginning — that when the moment came, it would have to mean something.
it couldn’t just be hunger.
it had to be reverence.
his hand slid up the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with the gentlest touch.
“look at me,” he said softly.
you did. your lips trembled. your eyes shone with unshed tears.
“this is your first time,” he whispered. not a question. a truth. a weight he would carry with care.
you nodded, your voice caught in your throat.
“i know,” he breathed. “i know, baby.”
he kissed your forehead first. then your cheek. then your mouth — tender, slow, lips moving over yours like he was memorizing the shape of your fear, your surrender. his hands explored your body without pressure — just warmth, just presence — sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs.
“you tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips ghosting along your jaw, “and i will. i mean it.”
“don’t stop,” you whispered. “i want you.”
his heart nearly broke in his chest.
he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance — thick, hot, hard — and brushed the head of his cock slowly through your folds, spreading your slick over himself, teasing your clit just enough to make your hips twitch.
then he paused.
his gaze dropped to where your bodies met.
you were so tight. untouched. the soft pink of your folds glistened with heat and nervous want, trembling slightly under his fingers.
he lined himself up with careful precision, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance, and when he began to push — just barely — he felt your whole body tense.
“breathe,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”
you nodded, clutching his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin.
he eased forward — slow, excruciatingly slow — parting your body inch by inch.
you gasped.
pain bloomed, sharp and full, stretching you in ways you’d never known. your thighs shook, your hands flew to his chest, and your eyes widened, glassy with sudden tears.
“yuta—” you whimpered, voice fragile. “it hurts.”
his heart clenched.
“i know, i know, baby,” he soothed, kissing your jaw, your temple, your trembling lips. “you’re doing so well. so fucking perfect.”
he stopped moving, giving you time. his thumb stroked your cheek, catching one of the tears that had slipped free.
“you’re taking me so good,” he whispered. “you’re the tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. you feel like heaven.”
you whimpered again, your legs instinctively tightening around his hips.
“relax for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “just a little more.”
you tried.
you breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.
he kissed you again.
and then, with a long, gentle press, he sank the rest of the way in — sheathing himself fully inside you.
you cried out softly, overwhelmed. your walls stretched around him, pulsing, resisting, your body struggling to accommodate his size. the pain was there — raw and real — but so was something else.
fullness.
intensity.
connection.
yuta stilled inside you, arms shaking from holding himself back.
“fuck,” he rasped. “you’re mine. all mine.”
his forehead rested against yours as your bodies trembled together.
he didn’t move yet. not until your breathing slowed. not until your nails relaxed against his chest. not until your legs loosened their grip.
“you’re okay?” he asked gently.
you nodded. “still hurts... but not as much.”
he kissed your lips — soft, slow, sacred.
“i’ll make it better,” he promised.
and he did.
he began to move in slow, careful thrusts, pulling out just an inch before sinking back in, watching every flicker of sensation cross your face. his hands cradled your jaw, his mouth praising every breath that left your lips.
“so beautiful,” he whispered. “you’re so beautiful like this.”
you whimpered, your body adjusting, the burn easing into a dull throb — and then something more. something electric.
pleasure.
he moved a little deeper, a little fuller, the stretch still sharp but starting to pulse with warmth, with friction, with heat.
“i can feel you opening up for me,” he murmured, voice husky. “you’re letting me in.”
your mouth fell open in a gasp as his hips rolled against yours, his cock brushing something deeper inside you.
“y-yuta...”
he groaned, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “say it again.”
“yuta... please... don’t stop.”
he lifted himself onto his elbows, looking down at you.
your hair spread like silk across the futon, your cheeks flushed, breasts rising with every breath. the sheen of sweat on your skin made you glow in the moonlight.
“fuck,” he whispered. “you’re a fucking goddess.”
he kissed down your body — your throat, your chest, your breasts — taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, rolling his hips into you with a rhythm that made your toes curl.
you moaned loudly, the pain all but forgotten now.
he worshiped you.
his hands never stopped moving — stroking your hips, your thighs, your stomach. his lips pressed reverent kisses across every inch of skin. and when he fucked you, it was with slow, deliberate strokes that grew deeper, firmer, more intense as you moaned louder beneath him.
“so tight,” he groaned. “so wet for me. you were made for me, weren’t you?”
“yes,” you gasped. “yes, yuta — i’m yours.”
his thrusts quickened, your slick coating him now, your pussy fluttering around his cock as he hit that spot again and again, each thrust pulling a louder cry from your lips.
your legs wrapped around his waist, urging him deeper.
“don’t hold back,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “i can take it.”
and he did.
he fucked you harder, faster, driving into you with a hunger barely leashed, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.
“come for me,” he growled. “come on my cock.”
your body tensed.
the pressure snapped.
your orgasm hit you like a wave — deep and intense, your pussy clenching around him, your cry sharp and breathless. he groaned loudly, thrusting harder as you came, chasing his own high.
“i’m gonna fill you up,” he moaned. “gonna come inside you, baby. is that what you want?”
“yes,” you whimpered. “fill me, yuta — please.”
he grunted, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching inside you.
he spilled into you in hot, thick pulses, his breath ragged, his body trembling over yours.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
his body collapsed slowly over yours, his weight grounding you, comforting you.
his arms wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing the top of your damp hair.
“you’re mine,” he whispered again. “no one else. only me.”
you nodded, your voice soft. “only you.”
and for the first time in weeks, your heart felt full again.
you woke to warmth.
not just the kind that lingered on your skin from shared heat, but the kind that lived deep — quiet and golden and whole. for the first time since you’d entered that house, you didn’t wake alone. no empty sheets. no cold side of the bed. just him.
yuta was still asleep beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his face turned toward yours. soft strands of his red hair fell across his brow, tousled and wild from the night before. he looked younger like this. not the man who ruled osaka in silence and steel — but the boy who whispered your name into your mouth like it meant something sacred.
his breath was slow. deep. steady.
his hand flexed slightly against your skin.
you didn’t move.
you just watched him.
you let yourself memorize every detail in the pale light of morning — the faint scar near his left brow, the small freckle on the side of his neck, the way his lips parted just enough to make your chest ache.
he was beautiful.
but more than that — he was real.
and last night, he had made you feel more than wanted. he had made you feel chosen.
your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing the edge of his jaw, feather-light.
he stirred.
a low hum escaped his throat. his brow furrowed for a moment, then his lashes fluttered open. dark, still a little hazy, but focused on you within seconds.
he blinked once.
then again.
and then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath all night.
“you’re still here,” he murmured, voice raspy, rough with sleep.
you smiled faintly. “where else would i be?”
his hand on your waist tightened. not possessively — just sure.
“wasn’t sure,” he whispered, eyes studying your face like he didn’t want to miss a single second. “after what i said… in the garden. i thought maybe you…”
you shook your head before he could finish.
“i meant what i said last night. i wanted you to know. really know — that it’s only ever been you.”
he was quiet.
his gaze dropped for a second. then returned to yours.
“i didn’t deserve that,” he said. “your honesty. your body. you. not after doubting you.”
your throat tightened.
“you were hurt,” you said gently. “and i didn’t make it easy. i let the silence grow between us.”
he turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you now — the blanket slipping lower on his hips, his chest bare, skin still warm against yours.
“i don’t want silence anymore,” he said. “not with you.”
you reached up, fingers brushing against his chest. “so talk to me, then.”
he hesitated.
his brows drew together slightly — not from anger, but from fear. it was strange, seeing that expression on a man like him.
“i never planned to fall for you,” he admitted. “this started as protection. strategy. and then... you walked into my world like you were born to burn in it. and i couldn’t stop watching. couldn’t stop wanting.”
you bit your lip.
“i wanted to hate you,” you confessed. “wanted to resent this marriage, the way it forced me to pretend. but it never felt like pretending. not with you.”
his hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.
“tell me what this is,” he whispered. “for you.”
you didn’t hesitate.
“it’s home,” you breathed. “it’s terrifying and messy and too much sometimes — but it’s home.”
he closed his eyes briefly, as if your words were too heavy to hold in open air.
then he leaned in and kissed you.
soft. slow. reverent.
not hungry like the night before. not claiming. just... grateful.
his forehead pressed to yours when he pulled away.
“if i lose you,” he murmured, “i’ll burn this entire fucking city down.”
you smiled. sad, soft.
“then don’t give me a reason to leave.”
he nodded, just once, but it felt like a vow.
“from now on,” he said, “you’ll never doubt your place here. in this bed. in my life. in my heart.”
“good,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “because i already gave you everything.”
his mouth found yours again, a little more urgent this time — and just like that, the morning turned into something golden, something sweet.
you stayed wrapped in each other until the sunlight painted your bodies in warmth, until the silence between you was no longer heavy — just peaceful.
and for the first time in weeks, the war was over.
takuya stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the compound like it could offer answers he didn’t already have. yuta was behind him, still barefoot from the room upstairs, wearing only loose black pants, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
the tension was thick. too quiet.
he didn’t greet yuta.
just stood with his arms crossed, eyes unreadable, spine stiff as stone.
“we need to talk,” he said.
yuta didn’t flinch.
“then talk.”
he watched him for a long, long second. then gestured toward the sliding door. “not here.”
yuta followed him into the garden, silent steps on the stone path, the air still carrying the lingering scent of summer rain and night-blooming jasmine. the same place where him had once walked away from you. now you were walking into something else — not heartbreak, but confrontation.
he turned to face him once the path ended.
his jaw was clenched.
“you’ve changed.”
yuta’s gaze didn’t flinch. “good.”
“no. not good. you’re softer. distracted. emotional. you think with your chest now. not your head.”
yuta crushed the cigarette in the tray. stepped forward.
“you think i’m weak because i love her?” he asked, voice deadly calm.
“i think you’re human. and in this world, that’s a liability.”
yuta tilted his head. “she’s not a liability. she’s the only reason i’m still standing.”
takuya didn’t speak. the silence stretched.
yuta took another step, closing the space between them.
“this marriage? it was supposed to be for appearances. a shield. a tool.” his jaw tightened. “but it’s not ending.”
takuya raised an eyebrow. “you sound certain.”
“i am.” yuta’s voice didn’t shake. “she’s loyal. she’s stronger than half the men we command. and she’s mine. i’m not letting her go.”
“she’s not from this world.”
“and yet she’s survived it better than most.”
takuya’s expression hardened. “i’m telling you to think with a cold head.”
yuta stepped close. too close.
“and i’m telling you — this isn’t about control anymore. this is about truth. about grounding. she’s good for me, takuya. not because she makes me soft — but because she makes me still.”
takuya studied him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
then, finally — a nod.
slow. reluctant.
but real.
“then stand by it,” he said. “and make damn sure no one doubts it.”
despite yuta’s firm confrontation with takuya, life didn’t shift all at once. there were no grand gestures, no dramatic changes in tone. just subtle things. quiet things.
a few days later, you returned to his —or maybe now, your room—, room and found it gutted. the futon replaced by a wide, luxurious queen-sized bed, draped in black sheets and lined with down pillows. the floor had been redone, dark polished wood. new lighting. warm, soft. a space not just made for sleeping — but for sharing.
your old room, however, hadn’t been discarded.
instead, it had been transformed into a closet.
an absurdly large, obscenely modern closet — velvet benches, full-length mirrors, recessed lighting, and drawers that slid open at the touch of a finger. racks of high-end clothing lined the walls: silk, cashmere, leather, tailored and imported. you’d lost count of how many designer tags you saw before the nausea hit.
“you used clan money for this?” you asked one night, mouth still agape.
yuta had only shrugged from the bed, shirtless, flipping through a magazine. “technically it’s our money.”
“that’s not how money works, yuta.”
“that’s how my money works.”
you weren’t supposed to find it.
the drawer in yuta’s private study was always locked. it wasn’t forbidden — just quietly off-limits. you never questioned it. never tried. but that night, he’d left in a rush, forgetting to grab his keys. and when you went in to bring him a new set, the drawer was already cracked open.
you told yourself not to look.
but you did.
inside: a black lacquered box, unmarked. inside the box: a bundle of old photos, yellowed with time. beneath those, a sheathed tantō blade — older than the one used in your wedding, its hilt worn, stained. and finally, a letter, folded so many times the edges had nearly fallen apart.
you opened it with trembling fingers.
the handwriting was messy. a mix of japanese and english, written like it had been scrawled during a storm.
“he died because of me. i told him not to take the other road. i said i’d handle it. i was wrong.”
beneath the words: a name. shotaro.
you sat there for a long time. silent. still.
when yuta returned home hours later, his jacket still damp from the rain outside, you were waiting in the study. the letter on your lap. your eyes unreadable.
he stopped in the doorway.
for the first time since you’d known him, he looked afraid.
“where did you find that?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“you left the drawer open,” you said quietly. “i wasn’t searching.”
he closed the door behind him.
slowly.
“shotaro was your brother,” you said. not a question.
his silence was answer enough.
you stood, walking toward him. you placed the letter gently in his hand.
“you’ve never told anyone?”
he shook his head once. “takuya knows some. but not everything.”
“why hide it?”
he exhaled, fingers tightening around the paper. “because i failed him. i told him i’d protect him. and he died for me instead.”
you stepped into his space, palms pressed to his chest, voice steady.
“you carry so much. alone. but you don’t have to anymore.”
he looked down at you — eyes shadowed, face unreadable. but something in him cracked. not loudly. not visibly.
just enough.
his hands came to your hips. gripped tight.
“say it again,” he whispered.
“you don’t have to carry it alone.”
his lips crushed into yours before the words fully left your mouth.
and everything exploded.
he pushed you back against the nearest wall, mouth devouring yours, hands sliding under your clothes, yanking your kimono open like it offended him. his body was hard, heavy, desperate against yours, and when you whimpered, he growled — deep, low.
“strip.”
you obeyed immediately, eyes wide, breath shallow.
he watched you undress, step by step, until you stood naked in the soft light of the study, the shadows of your tattoos dancing across your bare skin. his eyes raked over every inch, jaw clenched, cock already hard and straining against his pants.
“on the desk,” he ordered. “face down. hands flat.”
your heart pounded as you obeyed, the cool wood chilling your skin, your thighs trembling in anticipation. you heard the sound of his belt coming undone, the low hiss of his zipper.
then silence.
“do you even realize what you do to me?” he asked, voice rough.
you opened your mouth to speak, but he grabbed your hips, yanking you back so your ass arched up perfectly.
“don’t answer,” he growled. “just listen.”
his cock slid between your folds — thick, hot, teasing — rubbing through your slick without entering.
“you walk around this house like you don’t know you own me,” he murmured against your spine. “you sit in my meetings like a queen, and you think i don’t see the way they look at you? the way they fear you?”
he pushed the tip in — just barely — and you gasped, fingers curling against the wood.
“but you know who owns you, don’t you?”
“y-yes—”
he slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
your cry echoed through the room.
he didn’t wait. didn’t ease you in. he took you — hard, deep, merciless — one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it burned.
“who fucks you like this?” he growled. “who makes you scream like you’re mine?”
“you, yuta — fuck — only you.”
his pace was relentless, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and obscene.
“that’s right. and you’ll take every drop of my cum like a good little wife. won’t you?”
“yes—please—fill me—”
he bent over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.
“you want me to breed you, don’t you?”
you moaned so loud it broke into a sob.
“say it.”
“i want it. want your cum—inside me—wanna be full, yuta, please—”
he bit down softly on your neck, thrusts growing erratic.
“then take it.”
you felt the heat building in your core, body shaking, his cock pounding your g-spot over and over. your orgasm hit you like lightning — thighs trembling, vision white, a scream ripping from your throat as you clenched around him.
he cursed loud.
and then came.
deep inside you.
hot, thick ropes of cum spilling into your pussy, his grip tightening as he rode out every wave, buried to the hilt, panting against your skin.
you stayed like that — bodies locked, his cum dripping from you slowly, warm down your thighs — until your heart slowed.
he pulled out gently, and you turned, breathless, sweat-slicked, aching in the best ways.
he cupped your face.
kissed your lips.
then rested his forehead to yours.
“you know everything now,” he whispered. “there’s nothing left to hide.”
you smiled faintly.
“good. because i already gave you all of me.”
his lips brushed your ear, voice low and full of reverence.
“and now i’ll never give you back.”
you found riku by the back steps of the house, his phone in hand, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes scanning something you couldn’t quite see. he didn’t hear you approach. or maybe he did and was just pretending not to.
the late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting a warm haze over the garden stones. it smelled faintly of earth and chamomile, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe before breaking the silence.
“we need to talk,” you said gently.
he looked up, startled for a second, then shrugged. “if it’s about the shoes i ordered on your card—”
you gave him a look. “riku.”
he sat up straighter. serious now. “okay. what’s up?”
you sat beside him, folding your hands in your lap, your yukata sleeves pooling at your wrists. you took a breath, choosing your words carefully.
“you need to go back to school.”
he blinked. “what?”
“you heard me. i already spoke to the headmaster. they’re willing to let you re-enroll next term. and you need to talk to your mom. properly. you’ve been avoiding her.”
“she doesn’t need to understand all of this,” you said softly. “but she deserves to know you’re alive. and trying. you think you’re protecting her, but disappearing from her life like this… it’s not fair.”
he didn’t respond at first. his gaze drifted out to the garden wall, and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his silence.
“this life,” you continued, “this world we’re in now — it’s not safe. you know that. and i can’t help worrying that something might happen to you, and she’ll never even know why. i’ve accepted the risks of being here. but i never wanted them for you.”
his shoulders tensed. he stayed quiet, but his eyes looked glossy, like he’d blinked just a second too late.
“you still have a chance to choose,” you whispered. “and i want you to choose something that won’t kill you.”
he finally looked back at you, a long exhale dragging out of his chest.
“i’ll call her,” he said quietly. “and i’ll apologize. properly.”
you smiled, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
but as you did, your eyes caught the edge of something just beneath the sleeve of his jacket — a strip of white gauze wrapped tightly around his forearm. when your fingers brushed it lightly, he flinched.
you pulled the sleeve up.
the bandage had been carelessly wrapped. fresh ink peeked through the gaps — intricate black lines, a dragon’s claw, maybe, or waves, the skin still slightly raised and tender.
your stomach twisted.
“riku…”
he winced. “it’s nothing. i mean… it’s just a little piece. it’s not even done yet.”
you stared at it for a long moment.
“do you have any idea what she’s going to do when she sees this?”
he rubbed the back of his neck. “probably cry. or throw a pan at me.”
“or both.”
“...at the same time.”
you sighed, but your lips twitched into a small smile. still, your chest felt heavy. not angry — just afraid. he was walking deeper into the world you were only now beginning to understand, and it made your role in it feel even more complicated.
you didn’t say anything more. you just wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a sideways hug, holding him there for a few seconds longer than either of you wanted to admit.
that night, after too many glasses of sake and a long evening spent in each other’s arms, the bed was a mess of sweat and tangled sheets.
you were lying on your stomach, your hair stuck to your back, body exhausted and humming. yuta was sprawled on top of you, chest pressed to your spine, his arm tucked under your ribs, his face buried in your neck.
you groaned, voice muffled into the pillow. “you’re heavy.”
“you love it.”
he was right.
he kissed the back of your shoulder, a lazy drag of lips against damp skin.
“you’ve ruined me,” he murmured.
you laughed breathlessly. “you say that like you weren’t already unfixable.”
“i mean it,” he said, shifting slightly so he could look at you. “i didn’t expect this. any of it. you… being here. being mine. and still choosing to stay.”
your eyes softened.
“you’re not an easy man to love, nakamoto.”
he smirked. “but worth it?”
“every headache.”
he leaned over the side of the bed, rummaged through the drawer, and returned with a small velvet box — navy, square, simple.
you blinked. “what’s that?”
he sat up slightly, straddling your thighs, hair messy, chest still flushed. the box opened with a click.
inside was a ring — gold, sleek and bold, with a marquise-cut diamond set sideways, surrounded by a halo of tiny black sapphires. the band was engraved with delicate detailing, traditional japanese patterns etched into the metal like hidden promises.
it gleamed even in the low light. expensive. beautiful. utterly yuta.
you sat up, stunned.
“you’re asking me to marry you right after we’ve had sex?” you asked, laughing.
he shrugged. “i was inspired.”
“you’re unbelievable.”
“you’re naked and gorgeous and mine. i panicked.”
your laughter caught in your throat, replaced with a tightness that swelled in your chest as you stared at the ring. your eyes watered, lips parting, voice shaky.
“is this real?”
he nodded, his voice quiet now. “i don’t want the kind of marriage we started with. i want one that means something. to both of us. no contracts. no politics. just us. in front of the clan. in front of the gods.”
your fingers reached out, barely brushing the edge of the ring.
“i want to do this right,” he whispered. “let me show you.”
you swallowed hard.
and smiled.
“then yes,” you said, voice thick with emotion. “ask me a hundred times and the answer’s always going to be yes.”
his grin broke wide.
and this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t about hunger.
it was about forever.
the second wedding was nothing like the first.
the first had been arranged in cold hallways, behind doors that clicked shut like iron, signed with blood and pressure and the unspoken rules of the underworld. the first had been necessary — a move on a chessboard.
but this one?
this one was chosen.
held in the shrine courtyard of the nakamoto estate, under the quiet watch of ancestors and gods alike, it began with the low beat of taiko drums and the scent of incense curling through the crisp morning air.
you stood at the center of it all.
dressed in a white shiromuku, the traditional bridal kimono of purity and rebirth. its silk trailed the floor, heavy and immaculate, embroidered with phoenixes and cranes in shimmering thread. your tsunokakushi — the white head covering meant to conceal ego — crowned your head, soft and still.
beside you stood yuta.
his posture was straight, proud, the black crested montsuki haori and hakama hanging from his frame like armor. he looked every bit the oyabun — the head of a family — and yet his gaze never left you, like nothing else in the world demanded his attention.
behind you, rows of men and women knelt on tatami mats — the inner circle of the nakamoto clan. some bore tattoos beneath their sleeves, others scarred hands, others cold eyes trained by violence and loyalty. but in this moment, they were still. silent.
they were bearing witness.
the priest began the shinzen kekkon — the wedding before the gods — by purifying the space with shide and sake, then guiding you and yuta to the front of the altar. a sacred tree branch, tamagushi, was placed in your joined hands. together, you offered it to the kami, bowing low.
this was no contract.
this was devotion.
your palms touched. warm. sure.
and then came the san-san-kudo — the sharing of three cups of sake, each one drunk in three sips: first you, then him, then together. nine sips in total. three-three-nine. an old number. a sacred one.
you drank slowly, your lips brushing the rim, the liquid sharp and ancient on your tongue.
when he drank, he didn’t look at the cup.
he looked at you.
as the final sip passed between you, the priest intoned words of binding.
not legally.
spiritually.
eternally.
and then yuta turned to you, voice low but clear.
“i married you once for duty,” he said. “now i marry you for truth.”
your throat tightened.
you bowed your head and replied, voice steady:
“and i vow to walk beside you, not behind.”
there were no claps.
no applause.
just silence.
respectful.
reverent.
a world watching its king choose something sacred.
when you stepped away from the altar, hand in hand, a man approached from the side.
takuya.
he bowed.
deeply.
then, with solemn hands, presented the ceremonial dagger — tantō — wrapped in white silk. a symbol of acceptance into the family. not as a pawn.
but as one of them.
yuta took it, unwrapped it, and turned to you.
“kneel,” he said softly.
you did.
without fear.
he placed the blade across your palms.
“you carry the weight of my name,” he said. “from now on, no one questions your place.”
you bowed low, touching your forehead to the hilt.
when you stood again, your eyes met his — and something ancient passed between you. a vow older than paper. stronger than ink.
hours later, after the feast, after the toasts, after the smoke and laughter and low bows from men who once called you nothing but ‘the girl from the village’...
you were lying on your stomach in the private room upstairs, your white kimono loosened and draped to your waist, exposing the pale skin of your back and arm.
the tattoo artist sat beside you, focused and quiet.
the hum of the needle filled the room.
yuta was there too.
he sat behind you, shirtless, cross-legged on the floor, watching the design bloom across your skin — a dragon and peony motif interlaced with fine black wind bars, each line tying you deeper into their world. the colors were subtle, but fierce.
the design stretched from your shoulder down to the start of your wrist.
a mirror to his.
not identical. not copied.
complementary.
his hand rested on your calf, thumb drawing lazy circles as the artist worked. you winced once, and he leaned forward, kissing your spine.
“almost done,” he murmured.
you nodded, breath steady.
when the final line was inked and the cloth wiped away the last trace of blood, the artist stepped back.
yuta stood.
he offered his hand.
you took it.
the photograph was more than a picture.
it was a statement. a declaration. an immortal moment suspended in monochrome — raw and reverent. in it, you sat with your back to the camera, your legs drawn close, arms resting lightly over your chest, the cropped sarashi wrapping your torso like a ribbon of quiet power. the light caught the shine of your new tattoo: a sweeping sleeve of mythical creatures and chrysanthemum blooms, still fresh, still red at the edges, but already a part of you. you wore it like a second skin, regal and unbothered, your chin slightly lifted, your hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of your neck, strands framing your face. behind you sat yuta, shirtless, composed, his own tattoos a war map of history carved into muscle and bone. he sat in seiza, arms resting on his knees, head turned just slightly toward your shoulder, not in possession — but in respect.
the image held no smiles. no forced emotion. it was calm. deliberate. powerful. and when it was printed, framed, and placed in the tokonoma alcove of the clan’s primary meeting room, no one questioned it. it hung higher than the weapons displayed on the walls, higher than the scrolls of bloodlines and signed treaties — at the very center of the room, commanding the eye.
to those who entered from the outside, it was a symbol of unity between worlds: tradition and transformation. loyalty and love. ink and intention.
but to those who belonged to the nakamoto clan, it meant something more.
it was the moment they stopped seeing you as “the outsider.” the girl in the white dress from a village none of them could name. the contract bride. the quiet one who used to bow too deeply and speak too little.
now, you sat beside yuta during meetings — not in silence, but in observation. not hidden behind him, but at his side. when younger wives or girlfriends were brought into the compound — nervous, uncertain, too afraid to speak — you were the first to greet them. you created rules to protect them. gave them space to breathe. and over time, it wasn’t uncommon for high-ranking members of the clan to glance your way during decisions, silently asking for your read. your word.
sometimes, you gave it. calmly. decisively.
and when you did, yuta never interrupted.
he listened. he agreed. he trusted.
your presence became part of the structure — not ornamental, but foundational. the quiet balance to yuta’s fire. the logic behind his instinct. you were his shadow when it was needed, and his shield when he left himself exposed. and though some still whispered in the dark corners of old ways, they never challenged you. not after the photograph. not after the wedding. not after the way yuta looked at you when he thought no one was watching.
he looked at you like you had saved him.
because you had.
that night, long after the meeting room had emptied and the halls had quieted, you found yourselves in the sanctuary of your shared space — warm lamplight casting soft amber shadows across the tatami mats, the scent of cedar and sandalwood lingering in the air. your yukata was folded neatly on the bench, your body bare beneath the sheets, still warm from the bath, hair damp against your shoulders. you sat cross-legged on the futon, eyes closed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the new lines of your tattooed arm. it ached — not painfully, but as a reminder. of everything you now carried. of everything you had chosen.
yuta entered quietly, still in his black hakama, his haori open at the chest. he watched you for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe. no words. just breath. reverence.
then, slowly, he crossed the room.
he knelt in front of you, hands resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on your face. when you opened your eyes, he was there — so close, so still, as if moving too fast might shatter something fragile between you.
“i see you,” he said quietly, voice low and full. “not just as my wife. not just as my lover. i see the whole of you. and i want you to know… i trust you with everything. with this clan. with my life. with myself.”
your throat tightened, your chest blooming with something deep and unspeakable. you reached for him, cupping his face with your inked hand. his fingers curled around your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold you there.
he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.
then another to your wrist.
and then, slowly, he laid you down.
his body followed, not with urgency, but with worship — every kiss placed like an offering, every touch a vow. he undressed with no rush, peeling away the layers of cloth until only skin remained between you, until he could feel the curve of your thighs against his hips, your breath against his throat.
he kissed the dragon on your shoulder, then the soft underside of your arm, the delicate line of your ribs. when he reached the curve of your waist, he paused, resting his cheek against your stomach.
“i’ve never bowed to anything but blood and blade,” he whispered. “but for you… i kneel willingly.”
you ran your fingers through his hair, the pads of your thumbs brushing over the scars on his back.
“you don’t have to kneel,” you whispered. “just stay.”
he did.
that night, he didn’t take you roughly. he didn’t claim. he shared. his lips traced every new line on your body as if learning them for the first time. he kissed the places where you winced, and moaned softly when you melted beneath him. he held your hands above your head, not to restrain — but to ground. to feel your pulse against his palms, the heartbeat he’d promised to protect.
when he finally pushed into you, the stretch was deep, familiar, perfect. no pain now. no hesitation. only breath. only movement. you gasped his name against his mouth and he shuddered, whispering yours back like a confession.
he moved slow.
steady.
deliberate.
your bodies rocked in time with the sound of distant wind through the paper doors, with the beating of your own hearts. he watched your face the whole time — every arch of your spine, every flutter of your lashes, every whisper that spilled from your lips.
and when you came — trembling, wet, full of him — he followed, murmuring words into your neck, words you couldn’t remember later but felt deep in your bones.
afterward, you lay tangled in silk and sweat, your inked bodies glowing under the flicker of dying lamplight.
he pulled you close.
kissed your forehead.
and whispered into your ear with a voice only meant for you:
“you’re not just the woman i love. you’re the one who made me real.”
and in the silence that followed, you smiled.
because you believed him.
completely.
the journey was quiet.
no guards. no entourage. just you and yuta in the back of a black car, the windows fogged slightly from the spring rain outside. he hadn’t said much since you left the house — just held your hand loosely in his lap, his thumb tracing slow, endless circles against your skin. the route took you far from the city, past rice fields and roadside shrines, into the kind of silence that belonged to memory and ghosts.
when the car finally stopped, you stepped out into a small mountain cemetery — tucked into the hills, moss-covered, serene. the rain had eased into a mist, the scent of wet earth and cedar wrapping around you like incense.
the cemetery was quiet in the way only mountain cemeteries could be — the silence not empty, but full, brimming with memory, with weight, with things that still hovered in the air long after breath and body had left the world. above the hills, the late spring sun filtered through a haze of low clouds, casting a soft, muted light over the moss-covered stones and uneven steps. you walked beside yuta, your fingers lightly wrapped around his, your pace steady and deliberate, each step more a ritual than a motion. the path curved slightly as it climbed, the gravel crunching underfoot, and the scent of pine and damp earth rose in slow, solemn waves around you, the kind of scent that felt ancient, like it had always belonged to places like this.
he didn’t speak as you walked. he hadn’t spoken much all morning, and you hadn’t asked him to. you knew what this day meant. what it carried. what it demanded of him. when he finally stopped, it was without warning, his body going still as if something inside him had met resistance — not fear, not hesitation, but reverence. you followed the direction of his gaze and saw it: the gravestone set slightly apart from the others, modest in size, but so immaculately kept that the stone still gleamed beneath the faded sky. the characters were carved deep into the black granite, bold but elegant:
nakamoto shotaro
1972 — 1989
you stared at the dates for a long time, feeling the years settle into your bones. he had been seventeen when he died. seventeen and full of the kind of impossible plans that only younger brothers had — plans to run, to rebel, to protect someone taller than him with his own small body if it meant taking some of the weight off his shoulders. you didn’t know him, not really, not in voice or laughter or presence. but you felt him now — in the way yuta’s hand tightened around yours, in the way the breeze shifted at your ankles, in the way something unspoken hovered just above the earth.
yuta knelt slowly, his knees pressing into the gravel, the sleeves of his haori brushing the edges of the stone as he reached forward with both hands and gently set down a bundle of fresh white chrysanthemums. he didn’t rush. he adjusted each stem until they sat perfectly balanced, then bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the stone. you stayed behind him, giving him the space to let the moment breathe, your heart tightening in your chest with each passing second.
when he finally lifted his head, he exhaled slowly — a sound that wasn’t just breath, but release, something old and painful and buried long enough that it had become part of his spine. his voice, when it came, was low and quiet, spoken more to the grave than to you.
“i couldn’t come before,” he said. “i didn’t know how.”
the wind stirred slightly, catching the edge of his hair.
“i ran. i thought if i built something powerful enough, loud enough, cold enough… maybe it would drown the guilt. maybe i wouldn’t see your face every time i closed my eyes.”
he glanced back at you then, and you met his gaze, offering him nothing but presence.
“but i never stopped seeing you,” he continued, turning back to the stone. “and i never stopped thinking — what would you say if you could see me now? if you knew what i’ve become?”
he reached into the inner fold of his robe and pulled out a photograph, carefully wrapped in a cloth. he unfolded it slowly and set it down beside the flowers, weighing it with a smooth black stone.
you recognized the image before you saw it fully.
it was the photo.
the one of you and him — back to back, inked and bare, solemn and unbreakable.
“this is her,” he whispered. “the one who brought me home. my precious wife.”
you stepped forward then, kneeling beside him. you didn’t speak. instead, you pressed your palm to the stone, fingers splayed. it was cool beneath your skin, rough at the edges, and yet it vibrated faintly, as if warmed by something deeper than sunlight. in that moment, you felt him — not just yuta, but shotaro too — and it struck you how alike they must have been. same blood. same defiance. same loyalty.
yuta turned his head toward you, his voice steadier now, softer. “i told you once that i had a sister,” he said. “but i never told you why i stopped speaking to her. it wasn’t just grief. it was shame. she raised us both after our parents passed away, and i failed her. failed him.”
you looked at him, your expression unreadable, your voice gentle.
“but you didn’t fail him, yuta. you survived. and now you’re honoring him in the only way that matters — by living differently. by loving differently.”
his eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were wet.
not broken.
not defeated.
just full.
he took your hand and kissed the back of it slowly, then stood. you rose with him, brushing gravel from your knees. together, you bowed one last time to the stone, deeper than before, not as farewell but as acceptance — of loss, of memory, of love that had changed its shape but never its place.
as you turned to leave, the wind passed again through the trees, rustling the leaves above like a whisper, and you could’ve sworn — just for a second — that the air felt warmer. lighter. forgiven.
summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.
pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader
genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.
warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.
wc: 12,1k
notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷
part ii. epilogue
taglist: special dedication to this anon.
@beestvng @bamtor1sss
osaka, japan — summer, 1995.
the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.
at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.
he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.
his rise had been swift and ruthless.
they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.
but fear didn’t keep the police away.
by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.
the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.
“get married,” takuya said.
his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”
yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”
takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”
“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”
but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”
he hated how logical it sounded.
it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.
he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”
yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.
but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.
he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.
he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.
the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.
“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”
people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.
hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”
you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”
he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.
“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”
you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.
“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”
no one dares to breathe.
fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.
the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.
by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.
he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.
you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.
so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.
you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.
but that night changed everything.
you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?
the knock at your door startled you.
sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.
you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.
riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.
“we need to talk,” he said.
your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.
“what did you do?”
“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”
you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.
“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”
you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”
“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”
your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.
you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.
and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.
not this time.
the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.
takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.
“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”
yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.
he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.
“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”
before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.
“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”
he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.
takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.
“where did you get these?” he asked.
“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”
yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.
his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.
“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.
riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”
“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.
takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.
“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”
yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.
“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.
“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”
yuta tilted his head slightly.
“opportunity,” he repeated.
there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.
outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.
finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.
“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”
he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.
“and tell her to wear white.”
takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.
as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.
he smiled — slow, dangerous.
“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.
the car wasn’t riku’s.
you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.
you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.
“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”
he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.
“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.
“you sound like someone in trouble.”
he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.
the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.
“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.
you shook your head. “no. who are they?”
he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.
“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”
“you’re talking about the mafia.”
“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”
you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.
he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.
the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.
your stomach tightened.
you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.
riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.
“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”
you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”
quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.
especially not him.
your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.
riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.
you blinked. “riku—”
he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.
“kneel,” he whispered.
your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.
the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.
riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”
a pause.
then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.
“enter.”
the doors slid open.
and there he was.
seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.
he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.
he just looked at you.
like you were something being weighed.
and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.
something shift.
like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.
the room was quiet.
no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.
he hadn’t said anything.
yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.
he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.
like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.
and right now, his eyes were on you.
you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.
your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.
and yuta noticed.
his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.
you swallowed hard.
“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”
you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.
“stand,” yuta said.
your breath caught.
he wasn’t talking to riku.
you.
he meant you.
with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.
yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.
when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.
interest.
“turn around,” he said.
your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.
you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.
then:
“enough.”
you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.
“how old are you?” he asked.
“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.
his gaze narrowed slightly.
“virgin?”
your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.
you didn’t answer.
yuta arched a brow.
“i asked you a question.”
you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.
“yes.”
a pause.
yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.
“good,” he murmured.
you didn’t know what that meant.
but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.
“leave us,” he said.
just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.
“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.
riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.
and now you were alone.
alone with nakamoto yuta.
his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.
“come closer,” he said.
and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.
as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.
you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.
he didn’t flinch.
he didn’t apologize either.
he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.
“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”
your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”
“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.
the words hit you like a slap.
you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”
“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”
you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.
like you were already part of the machine.
“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”
you almost flinched again. almost.
he noticed.
“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”
you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.
you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.
you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.
“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”
you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”
his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.
“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”
you stared at him.
“you want to marry me.”
“i need to,” he corrected.
“and you expect me to just—”
before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.
“enter,” yuta called.
the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.
“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”
takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.
“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”
you swallowed.
takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”
he looked you in the eye now.
“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”
your heart skipped a beat.
“you want me to marry him?”
yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.
“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”
your breath caught.
“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”
you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.
your cheeks burned.
“and what do i get?”
“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”
his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”
you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.
you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.
“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”
he finally spoke again.
“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”
you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.
but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.
you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.
you crossed your arms.
“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”
yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.
“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”
“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”
you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”
he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.
“both.”
you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.
“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”
he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.
“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”
your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.
“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”
“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”
you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.
he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.
he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.
“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”
your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.
“wear white again.”
“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.
he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.
“good. you’re learning.”
you didn't sleep the night before.
not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.
riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.
“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”
you pulled the zipper down.
the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.
“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”
“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”
you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.
you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta
you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.
the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.
your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.
you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.
the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.
you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.
he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.
only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.
“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”
the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.
when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.
you turned.
you placed a hand on his chest.
and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.
he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.
you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.
the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.
you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”
you didn’t answer.
but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.
the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.
the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.
you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.
the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.
then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.
you hated that your skin remembered it.
later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.
he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.
“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”
you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”
he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”
you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”
he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.
“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”
that startled you more than anything.
“…seriously?”
“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”
you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.
you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.
after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.
“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”
you looked up at him, surprised.
“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.
his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”
you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.
“…thanks,” you muttered.
he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”
you snorted. “damn right they did.”
he left without another word.
you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.
and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.
you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.
it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.
slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.
you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.
“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”
you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”
he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”
of course he is.
you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.
you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.
yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.
you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.
“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”
he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.
“go ahead.”
you paused. “can i have privacy?”
that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.
as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.
you dialed. it rang twice.
“y/n?”
his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”
you bit your lip. “…i got married.”
silence.
then—
“WHAT?”
you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.
“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”
you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”
“but—why?!”
you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”
he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”
you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”
his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”
you didn’t answer that.
instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”
after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.
then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”
the door slid open slowly.
yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.
his voice was lower this time. unreadable.
“who’s hitoshi?”
you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”
his jaw tightened. “just answer.”
“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”
“you seemed close.”
“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”
he stared at you a moment longer.
and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,
“…you look like you were made for this.”
you didn’t reply.
but you didn’t look away either.
you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.
yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.
you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.
“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.
you only nodded.
the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.
not really.
yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.
you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.
“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.
yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.
“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”
yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.
takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”
yuta’s jaw flexed.
“it’s not that.”
“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”
“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”
takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”
the car pulled away.
inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.
“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.
“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”
the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.
hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.
his expression was pure disbelief.
you sat down without a word.
“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”
“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”
“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”
“you’re overreacting.”
“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”
you met his gaze evenly.
“i’m safe.”
he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”
“hitoshi—”
“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”
your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”
his face froze.
you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.
“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”
he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.
he sat back.
“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”
you smiled faintly.
“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”
he watched you for a long moment.
“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
“i do.”
he nodded.
then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”
you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.
when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.
yuta was waiting when you arrived.
he didn’t speak right away.
but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.
“how was it?” he asked at last.
“expected,” you said.
he didn’t respond.
so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.
“don’t look at me like that.”
his brow lifted. “like what?”
“like you think he’s more than what he is.”
“and what is he?”
you tilted your chin.
“not your problem.”
the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.
he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.
“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”
you met his eyes without flinching.
“then act like it.”
you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.
he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.
the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.
“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.
you nodded. “always.”
it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.
“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.
you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”
he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.
that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.
you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.
a screech of tires shattered the silence.
your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.
“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.
you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”
his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.
“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.
“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.
“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.
you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”
his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.
“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.
you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”
minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”
you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”
your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”
he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”
they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.
you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.
but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.
“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”
you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”
he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”
just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.
“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”
your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.
takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.
your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.
the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.
the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.
when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.
“you don’t fucking listen.”
“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”
he hesitated.
“where is he?” you demanded.
after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.
room 304.
you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.
he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.
“you’re here.”
“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”
his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”
you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.
“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”
he hummed. “i figured.”
you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.
“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“i didn’t.”
“you’re not invincible, yuta.”
his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”
“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”
he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”
you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”
a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.
“come here.”
you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.
“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.
“your blood.”
he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”
“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”
his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.
“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.
“i’m not,” you lied.
he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”
you didn’t deny it.
then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”
it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.
you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”
his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”
and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.
his lips brushed your forehead.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”
the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.
you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.
you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.
on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.
“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”
you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.
“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”
you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”
the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.
it was absurd.
and yet you killed it.
even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.
but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.
isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?
she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...
you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.
when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.
“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.
“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”
you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”
by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.
no one stopped you. they knew you by now.
room 304.
you entered without knocking.
yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.
“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.
you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”
he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”
you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”
“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”
“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”
he smirked. “should’ve been there.”
you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.
“you okay?” you asked softly.
“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”
you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.
“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.
“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”
he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.
“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”
“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.
you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”
he raised an eyebrow.
you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.
“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”
he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.
“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”
“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.
“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”
you felt something catch in your chest.
“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”
he swallowed. “i know.”
you reached for his hand. he let you.
“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”
he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.
“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”
“it was.”
he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.
“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”
you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.
“how did i look at you?” you asked.
“like i was worth saving.”
you swallowed hard.
his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.
“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”
you didn’t reply.
you didn’t need to.
you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.
he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.
the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.
the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.
“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.
one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”
yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.
you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.
you didn’t say anything. neither did he.
you didn’t have to.
he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.
the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.
later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.
“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”
he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”
“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.
on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.
the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.
“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”
their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.
inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.
when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.
“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”
you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”
“but i like this version of you.”
“the barefoot maid version?”
“the worried wife version.”
you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”
he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”
you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.
“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.
you looked over. “really?”
“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”
your voice softened. “was she strict?”
he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”
“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.
he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”
“where did she go?”
“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”
you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.
“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”
“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”
he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”
you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.
you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”
he didn’t flinch.
“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”
you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”
he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”
you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.
you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”
“you could stay.”
you looked over your shoulder.
he wasn’t smiling now.
just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.
“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”
you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.
he didn’t move it.
neither did you.
you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.
Yunho didn’t flinch. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that cocky smirk slowly giving way to something darker. “I want to watch you fuck Mingi.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Yunho pushed off the wall, stepping into the room with slow, deliberate confidence.
“I mean really fuck him, baby,” he added, voice low and teasing. “I want to watch you ruin him with that strap you bought for me.”
That strap, bought during a drunken night filled with jokes and kink quizzes. You’d never used it, not once. It had been a fantasy, half joke, half dare from Wooyoung. But Yunho wasn’t joking now.
You swallowed hard, pulse picking up. “Yunho… are you sure?”
He nodded once. “I want it. I want to see him under you. Want to hear him beg. Want to see your fingers in his mouth while he takes it.” He paused. “He’ll let you. He wants it, too.”
As if summoned, Mingi stepped into the doorway like he’d been waiting outside. His eyes met yours, nervous, but not unsure. His tongue darted across his lips, and god, he looked so pretty when he was nervous.
“So,” Yunho murmured, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, his knees spread wide, “which one of you is gonna undress first?”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Mingi was already flushed before you even touched him.
Stripped down to just his boxers, his broad chest rising and falling with every breath, pupils dilated. You stood in front of him, running your fingers through his hair before gripping it tight, forcing his head back just enough to see Yunho watching from the bed.
“On your knees.”
He dropped instantly. Eager. Beautiful. Filthy.
Yunho groaned quietly behind you, palming himself through his sweats. You could feel his gaze on you like a second touch, watching as you spread Mingi open with lube slicked fingers, coaxing soft moans from him.
“He’s already so fucking needy,” you whispered, tilting your head back enough for Yunho to hear. “He’s been waiting for this, hasn’t he?”
Mingi let out a breathy “yes,” his voice shaking. “Please… I can take it.”
“You better,” you purred. “Because I’m not stopping until Yunho tells me to.”
When you pushed inside, Mingi choked on a moan, half pain, half pleasure, his fingers clawing into the sheets as you filled him, slow and steady.
“Fuck…. oh my god”
Yunho stood now, circling the bed like a predator, dragging two fingers across Mingi’s jaw, then gripping it tight.
“Look at you,” he murmured, watching Mingi’s eyes flutter. “You’re taking her so well. You like having your ass used, huh?”
Mingi nodded weakly, breath stuttering as you pulled back and slammed forward again, harder this time. “I love it…. fuck…. I love it.”
Yunho’s gaze snapped to you, pure hunger. “Go harder.”
And you did.
You fucked Mingi like you owned him, like he was yours to break apart. Every slap of skin echoed through the room, Mingi’s moans climbing higher, filth spilling from your mouth as you leaned forward to bite down on his shoulder, fingers curling around his throat just tight enough to make him whine.
Yunho stood at the edge of the bed, hand wrapped around his dick now, slow strokes timed to your thrusts.
“She’s gonna make you come like this,” he said roughly to Mingi. “Stuffed full and dripping. What would people think if they saw you like this?”
“I don’t care,” Mingi gasped. “I just want her… please… harder…. don’t stop”
You didn’t.
He came with a strangled cry, untouched, as you rutted into him like you were never going to stop. He was shaking, begging, gasping against the sheets, but you weren’t done.
Mingi’s body was twitching beneath you, already wrecked from the first orgasm you’d dragged out of him, but you weren’t finished. You were still grinding deep, still thrusting slow and hard, relishing the way his thighs trembled, the way he whined your name like a prayer and a curse all in one.
You barely noticed Yunho strip.
But the second you felt his chest press to your back and his hand snake between your legs, you sucked in a sharp breath.
“Didn’t say I was just gonna watch, did I?” Yunho rasped into your ear, his dick already sliding through your wetness. “She’s not done with you, Mingi. Not even close.”
Mingi moaned beneath you, his voice all fucked out and slurred. “I can take it. I’ll take anything she gives me.”
“You better,” Yunho said darkly, lining himself up behind you. “Because now I’m gonna take her.”
You were already dripping, already clenching when he pushed into you with one brutal, perfect thrust. You cried out, your body arching forward from the force of it, making the strap drive even deeper into Mingi.
Mingi screamed. You gasped. Yunho groaned.
“Fuck,” you whimpered, trying to keep your rhythm, but Yunho wasn’t letting you have control anymore. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging deep, and he pounded into you with a pace that stole your balance. Each thrust shoved you forward into Mingi, harder than before, the strap plunging into him with every motion you couldn’t stop.
You were barely hanging on. Yunho was a machine behind you, relentless, breath hot on your neck, the slap of his hips echoing off the walls. His grip never loosened. He used your body like you were his to fuck, and you were, and the fact that you were still buried inside his best friend only made it more obscene.
“She’s fucking you,” Yunho growled to Mingi. “But I’m fucking her. You feel how deep she is right now? That’s me putting her there.”
Mingi’s legs kicked, helpless.
“Can’t move,” he sobbed. “She’s… fuck…. too deep”
“You’re gonna take it,” Yunho snapped. “You’re gonna take everything she gives you while I fuck it into her.”
Your legs were shaking, arms barely holding you up. Yunho shifted, angling himself deeper, hitting your g spot with every snap of his hips. The pleasure was dizzying, your mouth falling open.
“You’re so full, baby,” he groaned, one hand wrapping around your throat. “Strap in him, dick in you, look at you, fucking made for us.”
You couldn’t even speak. Mingi was babbling into the sheets, you were moaning, crying out with every thrust, and Yunho was rutting into you like he was punishing you for making him wait.
“You close?” he growled.
You nodded frantically, body pulsing around him.
“Then come. Come with me buried in this pussy and him stuffed full of your strap. Come, baby, now.”
And you did.
It tore through you like lightning, and your scream echoed through the room as you collapsed forward, body spasming. Mingi came again underneath you with a broken moan, and Yunho didn’t stop, he fucked you through it, through the shaking, the overstimulation, his own orgasm crashing into you seconds later as he buried himself deep and came with a growl in your ear.
All three of you were trembling by the time it ended. A sticky, panting mess of limbs and sweat and afterglow.
You stayed lying on top of Mingi, both of you whimpering as Yunho slowly pulled out, chuckling breathlessly.
“Well,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “That was better than I imagined.”
Mingi wheezed. “I think I saw god.” He was still breathless, collapsed on the bed beneath you, face flushed and twitching with aftershocks. His lips were parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came.
You were barely upright, your body covered in sweat, trembling from release, but Yunho’s hands on your hips held you steady. His chest pressed to your back. His voice a low growl at your ear.
“Now me,” he said.
You blinked. Turned your head slightly, lips brushing his cheek.
“You sure?”
He exhaled, jaw tight. “I want to feel it too. I want to know what he just felt. I want you inside me.”
That alone almost made you almost come again.
Yunho had never given over control. He never bottomed. Not for you. Not for anyone. He loved control. Loved watching you fall apart. But now, his voice was shaking and low and his body practically buzzed with need.
You pulled out of Mingi gently, both of you gasping. Mingi rolled to the side, eyes barely open but watching, dazed and fascinated. Watching Yunho.
“Come on, then,” you murmured, voice darker now. “On your knees.”
Yunho obeyed.
His muscles rippled as he shifted into position, arms bracing him on the bed, legs parted, ass bare and perfect. He didn’t look back at you, but his breathing was already shallow. Waiting.
You slicked your fingers again, sliding them down the curve of his ass, watching him twitch when you brushed his hole.
“Good boy,” you whispered, and he shuddered.
Mingi let out a shaky breath behind you, still watching everything. “Holy shit…”
You stretched him slow, careful, but firm. You wanted this to be intense. You wanted him to feel what it meant to give himself over to you. Every time your finger slid deeper, Yunho groaned, low, guttural, his thighs tensing.
“You can take more,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his spine.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “Give it to me.”
So you did.
The strap slid in with a slick, slow push, and Yunho grunted, fists tightening in the sheets, hips rocking back to meet you like he needed to be filled to breathe.
“Fuuuck…. baby….”
“That’s it,” you whispered, nails digging into his hips. “You look so fucking hot like this. All mine now, huh?”
“All yours,” he growled, forehead pressed to the bed. “Fuck me. Hard. Don’t hold back.”
You didn’t.
You started slow, dragging the strap out and slamming it back in, each thrust harder than the last until Yunho was gasping, panting, moaning. Mingi had propped himself up against the headboard, still wrecked but wide eyed, stroking himself slowly as he watched you fuck his best friend into submission.
“Look at you,” you snarled, slamming in again. “Fucking whimpering for me. You like this, Yunho? Like me using you?”
“Yes,” he cried out, back arching. “More… harder… don’t stop”
You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his back, your mouth to his ear.
“You’re taking me so well. Being so good for me. Look at Mingi. He’s watching you fall apart. You feel powerless, don’t you?”
Yunho let out a strangled moan, trembling.
You reached down, stroking his dick in time with your thrusts, and it was all over from there.
He came with a growl, loud and raw, hips jerking wildly as he collapsed forward, body wracked with aftershocks. You kept moving through it, dragging every last sound from him until he was shaking, begging, cursing into the mattress.
When you finally pulled out, he rolled onto his back, chest heaving, face flushed and damp with sweat.
You hovered over him, legs shaking, but your eyes burned into his.
Yunho lay flat on his back beside you, his chest still heaving, eyes glazed and lips parted. Mingi had propped himself back on his elbows at the edge of the bed, gaze locked on the slick curve of the strap, your thighs, your breathless smirk.
They were fucked out. Drenched in sweat. But their eyes still followed you like you were the sun itself.
You licked your lips, stretched lazily, and let your fingers trail down your own stomach. Then you smirked.
“My turn,” you said.
Two words. That’s all it took.
Yunho blinked, slowly sitting up with a dazed grin, still flushed and unsteady on his knees. Mingi was already crawling toward you like the obedient, aching mess he was, pupils blown wide.
You sat back on the pillows, legs spread slightly, the harness still in place, glistening. You didn’t move. Didn’t have to.
“What do you want, baby?” Yunho asked, voice hoarse, eager.
“I want to watch you,” you replied. “Both of you. Right here. Right now. Show me how good you can be, for me.”
Their eyes darkened at the same time.
Mingi moved first, of course he did, leaning over to kiss your thigh, then trailing kisses up to your navel, his hands spreading your legs wider. Yunho knelt between your thighs too, eyes never leaving your face as his lips followed the other side, hot breath teasing your skin.
You let your head fall back, watching them both through hooded eyes as they worshipped you together.
Kisses. Tongues. Fingers tracing patterns over your skin.
“God, you’re perfect,” Mingi whispered, nuzzling into your hip.
“She deserves everything,” Yunho added, kissing your inner thigh.
They didn’t rush.
Mingi’s tongue dipped lower, Yunho followed his lead, and then it was both of them—sharing, switching, tasting, teasing, moaning between your legs like they were getting off just from the taste of you. Mingi’s fingers digging into your thighs while Yunho pressed kisses to your clit after they removed the strap, murmuring your name like a mantra.
You tangled your fingers in their hair, tugging tight when it got too good, when the pressure hit just right.
Mingi’s tongue was buried deep inside you now, Yunho’s lips sealed around your clit, and you were right on the edge, ready to fall apart all over their pretty faces. Until you grabbed a fistful of each man’s hair and pulled.
“Stop.”
They both froze.
Yunho looked up at you, breathless and confused, lips glossy. “Did we… did we do something wrong?”
Mingi blinked, still hovering between your thighs. “Do you not want…”
You gave them both a crooked smile, licking your lips, voice like honey and sin.
“That’s not what I meant when I said it was my turn.”
Mingi sat back slowly. “Then… what did you mean?”
You stood, body still flushed and glowing with sweat and circled them like a wolf stalking prey. You leaned in close behind Yunho, whispering low against his neck.
“I want to watch you…” Then your eyes flicked to Mingi, and your voice turned to a purr. “Both of you. Together.”
Silence.
Yunho turned his head, just slightly. “You mean…”
Mingi’s breath caught. “You want me to fuck him?”
You gave a single nod, slow and deliberate. “Or him to fuck you. I don’t care who’s on top. I just want to watch both of you fall apart in front of me.”
The air shifted.
Yunho’s gaze dropped to Mingi, something unspoken passing between them, surprise, hesitation, maybe even curiosity… but not denial.
“You’ve thought about it,” you said quietly, getting back on the bed, backing toward the headboard, reclining like a queen before her performance. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve both thought about it.”
Yunho swallowed. Mingi’s lips parted.
And then Yunho gave a breathless laugh, soft, disbelieving, and turned to Mingi. “She’s right.”
Mingi blinked. “She usually is.”
You smirked. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
Yunho kissed Mingi first. Hesitant at first, almost shy, but it didn’t stay that way. Mingi grabbed Yunho by the neck and pulled him closer, mouths crashing together in a mess of teeth and tongue and groaning breath.
They forgot you were even there for a second, and that was exactly what you wanted.
You moved your hand down, slowly circling your clit as they kissed harder, deeper, bodies sliding together.
“Get on your back,” Yunho finally growled to Mingi.
Mingi obeyed without a word, dick already hard and leaking, lips swollen from kissing. Yunho crawled between his legs, pausing to look back at you, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen.
“You still watching?”
You smiled like the wicked little demon you were. “Every second.”
Yunho leaned down, licking a long stripe up Mingi’s dick before taking it in his mouth.
Mingi shouted, loud and raw and broken.
“Fuck, Yunho… what the fuck”
Yunho sucked him deep, hands pressing into Mingi’s thighs to keep him still, humming low in his throat while Mingi writhed beneath him. Your fingers were rubbing at your clit faster, your free hand gripping the sheets, breath catching with every obscene, wet sound that filled the room.
You watched Yunho devour his best friend, watched Mingi fall apart in real time, grabbing Yunho’s hair, hips twitching.
“Switch,” you commanded suddenly, breathless. “I want Mingi on top. I want him to fuck you.”
They froze.
Yunho lifted his head, lips still glossy. “You serious?”
You raised a brow. “I’ve never been more serious.”
Yunho turned to Mingi, exhaling hard. “You okay with that?”
Mingi nodded, something electric in his eyes. “Only if she keeps watching.”
You leaned back with a grin. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll tell you what to do next.”
Yunho’s lips were still slick from sucking Mingi’s dick, his jaw tight with anticipation as you leaned back, breathless and glowing from everything you’d just done to them both.
Mingi’s eyes snapped to the movement of your fingers rubbing at your clit. “You’re not joining?”
You smirked. “I am. Just… like this.”
Your fingers slid through your folds, slow and teasing, circling your clit as you sank back against the headboard, watching them like a goddamn goddess in the clouds. “I want to watch you fuck each other. I want to see what I do to you both.”
Yunho let out a breath that was more of a groan. Mingi glanced down at him, then back to you, something in his chest rising like he was ready to worship you through Yunho’s body.
And he was.
“On your back,” Mingi said, voice lower now, more commanding. “You heard her.”
Yunho’s eyes flicked to yours, wide and blown. “You sure?”
You gave a soft, dangerous smile as your fingers moved faster over your clit. “Be a good boy, Yunho. Let him make you feel as good as you made me.”
Yunho nodded once. Then slowly laid back, chest rising with each shaky breath, arms spread slightly above his head like he was giving himself up.
Mingi crawled over him, leaning down to kiss him again, deeper this time. There was no hesitation now. Just hunger.
You bit your lip, watching them devour each other’s mouths as your fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance. You were soaked, aching, and every sound, every groan and gasp from their lips made you wetter.
“Use him, Mingi,” you whispered through a moan. “Fuck him like you mean it.”
Mingi reached over for the lube, his hands shaking just slightly as he prepped Yunho, slow fingers, soft kisses, muttered praises you barely heard over the pounding in your ears.
Then he was lined up. Holding Yunho’s legs open. Looking over at you.
“Keep touching yourself,” Mingi said, his voice thick with desire. “Don’t stop.”
You moaned as he pushed in slow, careful, watching Yunho’s eyes roll back and his jaw drop open in a silent cry.
“Fuck… he’s so tight”
Yunho’s back arched. “Holy shit don’t stop… don’t fucking stop”
You were a mess already, fingers stroking furiously as you watched Mingi thrust into him, each snap of his hips rougher, deeper. Yunho took it, moaning loudly, nails dragging down Mingi’s back, head thrown back on the pillows.
They were all sound and sweat and raw movement, your boys, your masterpiece, and you were falling apart to the symphony of their moans.
“Look at her,” Yunho gasped, barely able to get the words out. “She’s fucking herself to this… fuck, I’m gonna come”
“Don’t,” Mingi growled, teeth against Yunho’s throat. “Not yet.”
You were breathless. Wrecked. “Come for me. Both of you. At the same time. I want to see it.”
Mingi’s hand reached down to stroke Yunho’s dick in time with his thrusts, and the moment you said the words, your voice trembling through your orgasm, they both broke.
Yunho came with a shout, body convulsing, and Mingi followed with a grunt, hips jerking deep, burying himself to the hilt as he collapsed onto Yunho’s chest.
You lay there panting, your hand still twitching between your thighs, your thighs soaked, lips parted in awe as they lay tangled together in the aftermath.
Then Mingi looked up at you.
“So,” he breathed, voice rough, “do we get a scorecard?”
Yunho chuckled, barely coherent. “I think we just passed with honors.”
You grinned lazily. “Don’t get cocky. There’s always extra credit.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Yunho walked into the practice room first.
He looked… fine. Too fine. Like a man trying very hard not to limp, not to wince, not to glow. His sweats were low on his hips, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and his hair was still damp from his morning shower.
Mingi followed two minutes later.
He looked…..
Let’s just say walking wasn’t his strong suit this morning. He wore a hoodie, but it was zipped halfway down, like he’d overheated just from making it to the elevator. There were faint bruises on his collarbone that weren’t there yesterday. And he hadn’t stopped smiling.
San spotted it first.
He was mid stretch, arms overhead, when he glanced between the two of them. His arms slowly dropped.
“Huh…”
Wooyoung followed his gaze. Then narrowed his eyes. “Nah. No way. They didn’t.”
Seonghwa, tying his shoelaces, didn’t even look up. “Oh, they absolutely did.”
Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “Did what?”
Jongho, ever the innocent, blinked. “What are you guys talking about?”
“They fucked,” Seonghwa said, cheerfully, standing upright. “Or, more likely, got fucked. Both of them.” He didn’t really need to specify who they got fucked by.
Yunho coughed.
Mingi turned red. “What the hell, Seonghwa?!”
Yunho looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. “It’s not… I mean….”
“Don’t even try,” Wooyoung cut in, stepping closer. “Y’all are literally vibrating. You think we don’t notice the eye contact? The weird spacing? The accidental brush of shoulders every five seconds?”
Mingi groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Can we not do this at dance practice?”
“Oh we’re definitely doing this at dance practice,” San said, grinning like a shark. “Because now I’m wondering, did you just hook up? Or was it a whole…thing?”
Yeosang, who hadn’t said a word until now, finally piped up with surgical precision. “She was there, wasn’t she.”
Silence.
Yunho looked away. Mingi bit his lip.
San’s jaw dropped. Wooyoung howled.
“Oh my GOD, it was a threesome! You guys had a threesome with Y/N?!”
Yunho groaned. Mingi muttered, “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I.”
“No,” Seonghwa said immediately. “Absolutely not. I demand full details over dinner.”
Hongjoong pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we please stretch first before we emotionally interrogate the group sex energy in the room?”
Reminder that this is for pure imagination and is not intended for any other purposes
A/N:: okay so first of as yall know I am HEAVILY yeosang biased like...oof but finding audios for him makes me wanna 😤 it's so difficult. I am also working on Mingi rn per requested by a few ppl but once again finding audios for mingi is harder than my non-existent dick when I watched Coachella
Reminder that this is for pure imagination and is not intended for any other purposes
A/N:: okay so first of as yall know I am HEAVILY yeosang biased like...oof but finding audios for him makes me wanna 😤 it's so difficult. I am also working on Mingi rn per requested by a few ppl but once again finding audios for mingi is harder than my non-existent dick when I watched Coachella
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
gummygunk
