fics, recs, and random thoughts

lu ~ she/her ~ 22 requests open

[junrenjun]

welcome :)

me: lu, 21, she/her

about: i mainly write about kpop boy groups. currently, i write for NCT (all units), Seventeen, Stray Kids, Riize, ZB1, and &Team (this excludes any minors, if you send a request for a minor you will be blocked).

requests: i will take requests for the above groups for a short amount of time. however, i will not guarantee that your request is written, since my writing motivation/inspiration changes constantly. i will take requests for member x fem!reader or poly!members x fem!reader.

content warnings: I do reblog 18+ content and write some suggestive/smutty scenarios, so therefore if you are not over 18, I ask that you do not engage with my blog.

masterlist below the cut

SEVENTEEN

OT13

Understand Series ABO Dynamics Idol!SVT x Non-Idol!Reader See "#understand series" for more

CHWE VERNON

Love and Lacrosse Jackets Teacher AU

Wake Up Call ABO Dynamics Alpha!Vernon x Omega!Reader

72 Hours ABO Dynamics Alpha!Vernon x Omega!Reader

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL

but even after this, you're still everything to me F1 AU, Enemies to Lovers

NCT 127

MARK LEE

hopelessly devoted - a social media au SMAU, College AU, One Sided Love

after hours (markhyuck x reader) Frat AU, Smut

LEE HAECHAN

11:21 am Timestamp Drabble, Fluff, Suggestive Dad!Haechan

after hours (markhyuck x reader) Frat AU, Smut

KIM JUNGWOO

Pretty Drabble, Staff Reader

NCT DREAM

MARK LEE

*see NCT 127

LEE HAECHAN

*see NCT 127

LEE JENO

8:13 pm Timestamp Drabble, Fluff

NA JAEMIN

10:51 pm Timestamp Drabble, Fluff

2:53 pm Timestamp Drabble, Fluff

&TEAM

BYUN EUIJOO

circadian ABO Dynamics, alpha!ej x beta!reader x omega!nicholas

WANG NICHOLAS

circadian ABO Dynamics, alpha!ej x beta!reader x omega!nicholas

[doyoueverthinkofrose]

I’m not too knowledgeable in omegaverse stuff by any means, but I do feel for whoever is designated as a Beta. They seem very.. underrated in this type of universe. I feel that also applies to the dynamics betas have with Alphas/Omegas..? More love for Betas!

All that to say, an oblivious Beta!Reader with a down bad, slightly possessive (“slightly” is a bit of an understatement) Alpha!Maki (or whoever fits best) who’s attempting to court them would be so entertaining to see, imo. He’s being so PAINFULLY obvious that the guys are face-palming and rubbing their temples every time they’re in a room together— Meanwhile, reader’s just looking around like, “Hmm.. No, he must mean my Omega friend instead 🙂‍↔️”

Haven't I Made it Clear?

...Or, Maki has been trying to court you for quite some time. Unfortunately, you're the most oblivious beta he's ever met. ✩ Alpha!Riki Mauss x Beta!Fem!Reader ─── Omegaverse AU | Fluff and angst | And they were ROOMMATES | Yearner!Maki | A/N: Sorry that this one took so long to get to...I cry-laughed reading the ask and knew it had to be a full-length imagine. Enjoy!

On top of your dining room table sits a stack of notebooks that weren't there previously. One's got a print of The Great Wave off Kanagawa on the cover; another has van Gogh's Irises — all of the greats, in terms of famous art. You'd seen them at a bookstore a few weeks ago, but you'd shrugged them off in search of a cheaper alternative.

You squint at them, eyebrows furrowing. "Where did these come from?"

From the corner, Riki raises hand in a half-wave. "You said you liked them. I thought you should have them."

For a second, you stare at him incredulously. The single ones weren't even that cheap, but combined? They probably amounted to a price you would never be willing to pay for notebooks.

"I—Thank you," you manage, cheeks heating a tad. "They're beautiful. What have I said about buying me things, though?"

The alpha arches a brow, glancing up from his phone at the challenge. "What?" he asks. "Am I not allowed to spend my money?"

You know he means nothing by it — he's seriously too nice for that — but the casual dominance in his tone, the kind that tells you that he's aware of his own power, sends a chill down your spine.

"I didn't say that," you assure him, your faint scent shifting into something gentler, more soothing. "I just get worried sometimes, you know? You should be saving your money, not spoiling your friends."

"Though," you add hastily, "I do appreciate it. You're sweet."

Riki shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Some people are worth spoiling," he says, like it's a fact. "I like doing it. You can't stop me."

You trace over the linework of The Great Wave with a fingernail. It really is beautiful…and that's what scares you.

"Thanks," you murmur, sweeping them off the table and turning on one heel. "You really are a mind reader, Riki."

He watches you go, the smile fading from his face the same way your scent fades from the room. It'll always be faint — you're a beta, after all. Your scent of pine and brandy doesn't carry quite the same presence as an alpha or an omega.

Riki doesn't give a shit. Alpha, beta, omega — he's already yours. You just need to tell him that you're his, too.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

This is far from the first time that Riki has done something like this for you, especially within the last few months. You're not really sure where it started; he's a generous man, and he loves to provide his time and energy to his friends. Sometimes, though, he can be a bit…excessive.

You're not even sure when it started feeling weird for the first time. Riki is a friend, but also your roommate, so you both have always kept each other in mind. Could it have been the peach tea from the store down the road — the kind you kept running out of and subsequently complained about? Was it the time he offered to take the couch so you could sleep in his bed, after water damage had marred your room? Or, possibly, the time he'd sat and gently bandaged your wrist after you fell and sprained it?

Honestly, you're probably overthinking it. That's just him being a good friend.

Right?

Your other friends seem to think otherwise. "Courting," they call it, pointing to the alpha with a disgruntled expression. "How can you not see it? He's so obvious."

You agree to disagree. You do the same things for him all the time: Making extra food so he can take it to work for lunch, buying icepacks for his muscle cramps, blending your scent so that he doesn't get too irritated in his pre-ruts. It's just what good friends do!

To go beyond that idea is pure stupidity. Riki is the kind of alpha that every omega dreams of — tall, strong, and endlessly sweet. Your omega friends would kill to have a guy like him in their lives. And you…you're a beta. It's not wrong for alphas and betas to be together in the big '26, but for someone like Riki to want someone like you…

You can't consider the notion. No use in developing a thing for him when nothing will ever truly become of it.

But, God — you wish it would. You really do.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Riki, on the other hand, is dying inside.

How long has it been since he started his attempts at courting you? Three? Four? The young alpha can barely even keep track, at this point.

He knows he's affectionate to all of his friends; that's just his nature. Riki likes to think, however, that he's more than obvious with you. Not everyone would go out of their way to find pillows that retain scents better so that your scent will actually stick around in the living room. There's not another alpha in your circle who knows your favorite flavor of tea, or that you like to have a blanket draped over your shoulders while you study, or that your favorite art piece is The Great Wave off Kanagawa.

So what is he missing, he wonders? Is it not enough? Have your parents raised you with pretentiously ancient courting standards? Is he just…not good enough for you, and you're trying to let him down easy?

A pained whine starts in his chest. That can't be it. You're too good for that — too honest, too kind. 

So, fuck. Are you really just that oblivious?

The thought sends his fingers dancing over his keyboard and clicking onto Reddit. There must be someone else who's dealt with this, someone who can give him a single piece of advice on how to move forward. That's just how Riki is — relentless, always in motion. There's nowhere to move but ahead.

He scrolls for a while, eyes heavy with exhaustion yet filled with determination regardless. It takes a while, because the r/courting tag is filled with all sorts of shit, but he straightens the moment he reads the title of a particular post:

Ideas for courting when the person you're interested in is completely oblivious?

Riki doesn't even bother reading the original post, instead clicking into the comments and reaching for a pad of sticky notes by the corner of his desk.

katkafe:

My omega, affectionately, can be dumb as rocks sometimes. It wasn't until I directly asked to scent him that he got the memo.

downinahol3:

Someone asked if we were mated in hopes that I'd say no, so that he could try to court her. I said yes. We've been mated for almost eleven years.

hakslefteyebrow:

My husband thought I hated him because I got too quiet and tense (his words) around him. It's just about communication. Tell them directly so that they can't get the wrong idea. Alphas are so avoidant these days smh

It's all solid advice, really, but these don't really apply to you, in Riki's opinion. You know he doesn't hate you, and he scents you all the time. He's just about to shut his laptop with a defeated sigh when his gaze snags on one last reply with barely any upvotes:

sakura_toast:

I tried to court my beta for months until I realized that she thought I was only attracted to omegas. I really started playing into beta-stuff after that: Finding candles that would be easy on her nose, letting her borrow my jackets so she could feel safe around my scent, finding light blankets that won't weigh down her nest since betas tend to like high places. Sometimes, it's just a matter of showing how much you pay attention, but also communication. They'll never know you're interested unless you straight up tell them.

Riki frowns. Is that it? Do you think he's only attracted to omegas? Come to think of it, he has only dated omegan men and women since you got to know each other. He dated a beta a few years ago, but that was before you even met.

Holy shit, he thinks. I'm such an idiot.

He gives the last reply an upvote, scribbles it down, and stares at it like it's the Holy Grail.

He might just have a shot with you, after all.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Autumn comes faster than anyone would expect it to, which sends you and your roommate to the woods at the edge of the city. It's only natural for betas to seek the wilderness when the weather changes — it's something that goes back further than language, when humanity was all instinct and less logic.

Technically, Riki doesn't need to be here. You usually wander out in the middle of the night for these things, but he'd caught you while in a bout of insomnia and pleaded with you to wait until the morning with him.

"It's safer in the daylight," he'd reasoned. "Let me come with you, just to watch your back."

Initially, you'd thought to refuse. But you were already so tired, and his scent had shifted into something so warm and soft that you collapsed beside him on the couch instantly.

Now, you're awake. Alert. Alive.

Alphas and omegas are at their most primal during ruts and heats. Betas don't deal with those — just the seasonal changes. Every smell has been intensified, as have the light and the chill of the morning. You crouch on crackling fallen leaves, inhaling their scent like it's necessary for life. Scratch-marks are scored into the earth below your nails, and though your hands are messy with dirt and grit, you've never felt more at home.

From the distance, Riki stares at you like he's seeing something divine.

He's never gotten to see you like this before — primal, in-tune with your hindbrain and beta instincts. You look like you belong permanently in nature, with the sun blazing down your face and the wind running through your hair. Someone like you doesn't belong in the city, in the chaos of noise pollution and population density.

He'd build you a home here, if he could, just so you'd never have to leave.

Even your scent is intensified. In the quiet of the woods, the pine and brandy wafts off you in waves that send warmth coiling through Riki's gut; the innocent kind, at least — that fondness that hits him whenever he gets to see you unfiltered and honest. It makes him track you closely, if only to see every little detail that he might miss if he blinks for just a second.

There's one, suddenly: Your shoulders draw up for a moment before your arms begin to tremble gently. A small shiver, barely noticeable.

Riki is padding silently beside you almost instantly, shrugging his hoodie off and draping it over your shoulders. 

Your head snaps up in surprise. "Wha— Riki—"

He shrugs and takes a step back. "It's 64 degrees, and you're in shortsleeves."

You frown. Your pupils, he can see from above, have condensed more into slits than circles. "But you'll get cold."

"I run warm," is his reply. Suddenly, he crouches next to you. "Besides, you look good in my clothes."

Heat flickers in your face. You'd argue with him — truly, you would — but how can you when he's right? His hoodie is so warm, and it smells just like him: vanilla and sandalwood. His scent permeates through your senses, calming your heart from its pounding into something quieter.

You slide your arms through it and sink into the fabric with a satisfied purr. Riki's heart stutters at the sound—

—and stops completely when your head nuzzles into the collar as you drink in his scent.

Oh. My. God.

He's going to die from the cuteness. He's going to explode. His lungs are about to collapse—

"Thank you," you hum, peering up at him with eyes so soft that Riki needs to remind himself to breathe. "You always know how to take care of me."

Then, to yourself, you chuckle. "This feels like some kind of courting ritual."

Riki almost chokes, and before he can stop himself:

"That's because it is."

The silence in your brain shatters.

What the fuck does he mean, "it is?"

Your jaw unhinges, but no sounds make it out besides soft stammering, like your brain is choosing words to say and then declining to go through with them. You know you look like a fool. Hell, you feel like a fool.

Finally, you manage a stuttered, "Pardon?"

Riki blinks and tilts his head curiously. So…his intentions really weren't that obvious?

You're that oblivious?

"Oh," he says with a small laugh. "I thought I was being straightforward. I guess not."

You stare at him with wide eyes, your eyebrows practically shooting to your hairline. Words refuse to take root in your mouth through both the shock and the seasonal change, but you fight through it regardless.

Eventually, you manage to force out, "Since when?"

Riki winces. "About five months."

Your nails dig back into the soil to ground you, the wet smell of moss doing almost nothing to drown out the overwhelming vanilla and sandalwood. "But…I'm a beta!"

"So?" He arches a brow. "And I'm an alpha. What's your point?"

This doesn't make sense. It'll never make sense. He's never done anything remotely courtship-like, except for this scent-marking.

…And letting you fall asleep on him last night.

…And keeping you safe out here, while you're at your most vulnerable.

…And remembering the peach tea. And him offering you his bed. And gifting you those artsy notebooks.

The realization dawns on your face like a sunset after a storm, cutting through your confusion and settling into something more like embarrassment.

"Oh, my God," you manage, dropping your head to face the soil. "I am such a fucking idiot."

"Hey." Warm fingers grasp your chin, raising your head gently to face him. "None of that."

"Five months?" you repeat, wide eyes searching your roommate's steady gaze for any ounce of humor, some kind of indication that he's just messing with you.

There's none to be found.

"I guess I should've been more direct," Riki starts, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "But, yeah. If you'd let me, I'd like to officially court you. I've wanted to be your alpha for a long time."

The quiet of your hindbrain erupts into static. This isn't real. This can't be real, can it? Aren't you just dreaming?

"But…all those guys I've seen before. Why didn't you say anything then?"

A pang of jealousy slides through him, leftover from all of the times other men have attempted to court you over the years. At first, he chalked it up to just being an overprotective alpha. Sometime between his last breakup and one of your own, he'd finally identified it properly; he didn't want another man in your life because he wanted to be the man in your life.

His scent shifts, a tad sourly. "I didn't want to be an asshole. You were genuinely interested in them."

A frown mars your face, almost wounded. In response, your own scent shifts into something more soothing, as if to put the alpha at peace. "What changed?"

"You stopped seeing them," Riki replies, his pulse slowing at the change in pheromones. "I figured I was in the clear."

"But you never said anything."

"And that was my mistake." He nods. "I thought I was being obvious and didn't communicate that, so I'm doing it now."

You stare at each other — him expectantly, and you, shellshocked. Are you really so blind that you couldn't tell that your roommate was genuinely interested in you?

You bite your tongue for a moment before you carefully ask, "Five months?"

Riki nods. "Five months."

Slowly, you breathe in and attempt to ground yourself back to the woods — to the smell of chilled morning air, damp moss, and vanilla. "I think…I think you've waited long enough."

The hand that's been hovering over your back completely freezes in place.

You lift your gaze back to his. "That's unfair. You can just ask me out, you know."

Riki's eyes look like they're about to pop straight out of his skull, a dimple flashing deep from his cheek. "Y-You mean that?"

A tiny smile tugs at your mouth. "I do."

Before you can register the movement, you've been pulled into a warm grasp, strong arms encircling your form.

It feels safe. Homely. Right.

"Finally," he breathes, burying his face into the crown of your hair. "Finally."

[vernonverse]

THE DICTIONARY OF BRUISED PETALS ✶ Chwe Vernon

SYNOPSIS. You’re devastated to discover that your flower shop’s latest high-profile wedding booking belongs to Hansol’s family, your first love and deepest heartbreak. Believing he’s the groom, you silently endure designing the perfect romantic day, only interacting with the bride and the planner to protect your own heart.

PARING. Vernon x F!Reader

GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non idol!au, exes to lovers, second chance, comedy, angst, smut.

WC. 25k

RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).

WARNINGS. HEAVY miscommunication, the names Hannah, Angela, Leonor and Poppy are being used, small (tiny even) car accident, swearing, panic attack symptoms, mentions of parkinson's disease, light alcohol use, jealousy/mild possessive behavior, lots of making out, brief dry humping, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f. receiving), fingering, eating out, soft dom!hansol, body worship, hair pulling, multiple positions (only two but).

AN. 1. I chose to ignore the fact that Hansol has a pollen allergy. 2. I loved writing this. There's a lot of my personal life in this story, and I'm honestly really proud of how it turned out, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 3. The meanings of the flowers mentioned in this comes from a very, very old magazine that belongs to my great aunt (we're talking 2003), so credits to Editora Abril (i guess). 4. I'd also like to say that this is very late lol, but I'm happy it's finally here.

🎧 SOUNDTRACK. moving along - 5 seconds of summer, minto pra quem perguntar - anavitoria, love me again - v, a couple minutes - olivia dean, if you leave me - seventeen, i'm scared i’ll never sleep again - 5 seconds of summer, still - niall horan, come back to me - rm, lover of mine - 5 seconds of summer.

— This is written for @svthub' First Blooms Collab ! Thank you so much for hosting the collab and for letting me be a part of it!

Blue violets — melancholy of lost love and the pain of being forgotten.

The sheer, unadulterated irony of life is that it doesn't just kick you when you're down. It waits until you're wearing your favorite blouse, gives you a dazzling smile, and then shoves your face into a puddle of mud. Or, in your case, a puddle of very expensive imported white hydrangeas.

You're sitting on the edge of your office desk, starting down at a piece of paper that feels less like a financial lifeline and more like a beautifully calligraphed nightmare: a retainer check.

How can a retainer check be a nightmare, you ask?

Well, the number written on it is large enough to cover your shop's rent for the next nine months, pay your employees for the rest of the year, replace the temperamental walk-in cooler that has been threatening to freeze your hydrangeas to death since October, and still leave enough to tackle the thousand other expensive problems lurking in both your business and personal life.

But it's the last name signed in the bottom right corner that's making the room spin.

Chwe.

You see, New York City has over eight million people. It spans five massive boroughs, boasts thousands of blocks, and houses hundreds of high-end floral designers who would gladly sacrifice their firstborn child for a wedding budget this astronomical. If you want a floral arch in Manhattan, you're spoiled for choice.

Yet, out of every flower shop on the island, the universe decided to guide this specific bride right through the glass doors of Poppy's Garden.

It's hilarious, really. If you don't laugh, you're probably going to throw up.

"Y/N, sweetie, are you still with us?" Angela's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

As one of Manhattan's most sought-after wedding planners, she's known for two things: flawless events and a bun the size of a pear, pulled so tight it could double as a facelift. It isn't the first wedding you've worked with her, and judging by her ever-growing client list, it certainly won't be the last.

"Yes! Sorry," you say, blinking yourself back to the present as you quickly force your lips into a bright, professional smile. A few quick blinks bring the two women seated across from your desk back into focus. "Just… marveling at the scope of this. It's an incredible vision, Hannah."

Hannah — the bride to be — beams at you. She is quite literally a walking angel. With glossy, shoulder length hair, a soft laugh, and eyes that crinkle at the corners whenever she talks about her upcoming wedding. She's impossible to hate. Over the last forty-five minutes of your consultation, she hasn't made a single bridezilla demand. She even brought you a latte from the café down the street because she remembered you mentioning it in your initial email thread.

She is lovely. She is kind. And you're currently fighting the deeply irrational urge to bolt out the back door because you're almost certain she's marrying the love of your life.

"I know it's a lot," Hannah ventures, leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees. A massive diamond ring nearly blinds you for a split second. "But the moment I saw your portfolio online, I told Angela this is it. Your style is so romantic, so organic. I don't want traditional arrangements. I want something that feels alive."

The corners of your mouth lift. "You came to the right place."

"And when I told my in-laws about you, they insisted we book you immediately. They said my fiancé and I deserved nothing but the absolute best."

Your stomach lurches violently. Yep, you might actually throw up.

When the initial inquiry form landed in your inbox two weeks ago, signed simply by Hannah's Events, you'd noticed the groom's last name buried in the details: Chwe & Yang. A knot of suspicion had settled in your gut right then. Hansol's last name wasn't exactly rare, but it wasn't particularly common in New York high society either.

Of course, you had brushed it off. Don't be ridiculous, you told yourself. You're just projecting. You hadn't seen or spoken to him in four years, and now you were convinced every Chwe in the tri-state area was him.

But seeing his father's full name printed right there on the memo line of the check was no coincidence. It was simply all the confirmation you needed.

You stare down at the signature again. The man who used to grill burgers for you on the rare weekends you and Hansol managed to escape your university schedules and visit his family home. The same man who had looked at you with concern during your final semester, knowing—just as you and Hansol had known—that the two of you were about to be pulled in opposite directions.

Did they know the shop belonged to you now? Would they have sent Hannah there on purpose?

You want to believe—and hope—not. There's no way they could have known. You changed the shop's name when you took over, renovated the whole space. Besides, Hansol's parents had never been unpleasant or cruel to you. If anything, they loved you like a daughter throughout your entire relationship.

"So…" Angela pulls you back as she taps her pen against her iPad screen, eyes narrowing slightly, clocking your sudden drop of energy. "The budget covers the rehearsal dinner, the full ceremony installation, the reception, bouquets for the bride and bridesmaids, boutonnieres, twenty-five grand in table centerpieces, and so much more. We need a firm commitment today, Y/N.”

Angela had never been one to beat around the bush. Time was money, and you knew that better than anyone, because it was for you too.

“So, if your shop can't handle a production this size, I have three other florists on standby."

Say no, your brain screams. Tell her you're fully booked. Tell her you have a sudden rose allergy. Tell her you're closing the shop and moving.

You look past Angela's shoulder, out in front window of your shop. A couple walks by, laughing, as they duck from a sudden drizzle. Inside, the shelves are beautifully curated, filled with imported vases, delicate terrariums, and the fragrant scent of eucalyptus and fresh-cut roses. This shop is everything you have sacrificed over the last four years.

When university ended, you knew Hansol was going to Los Angeles to chase his dreams in music. You had every intention of following him, hoping to land a position at a prestigious botanical conservatory, a future your degree in botany had made possible, and one you'd been working toward for years.

Then the bomb dropped, and just like that, the choice to take over the shop was made for you.

You loved each other fiercely. You had tried the long-distance thing, the late-night calls, the clashing time zones, counting down the hours just to hear his voice. But love, in the end, hadn't been enough to bridge the gap between you.

And the thing is… if you reject this contract, you might not be able to pay rent next month. The landlord has already sent his second warning. If you walk away to protect your bruised, fragile little heart from watching your first love marry someone as lovely and adorable as Hannah, you lose the very business you broke up with him to keep.

Talk about a cosmic joke.

"Y/N?" Hannah's voice pulls you back to the present yet again, her brows furrowing with genuine concern. "Are you okay? You look a little pale. We can totally scale back the thousand peonies if it's too much for your team—"

"No!" you blurt out, voice a little too high, a little too desperate. You quickly smooth down your apron, fingers pressing the fabric flat, and paste a reassuring smile back onto your face. "No, Hannah, I'm so sorry. I was just mentally calculating the flower orders."

Guilt needles at you for lying to someone so nice as her. But what else can you do? Tell her the truth? Yeah, absolutely not.

You swallow hard, then press on. "Summer is a busy season the Dutch auctions, and I want to make sure we secure the best batches for you. The thousand peonies are entirely doable." You manage another smile, somehow steadier this time. "It's going to be breathtaking."

Hannah lets out an audible and visible sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping. "Oh, thank goodness. You really scared me for a second. I've been dreaming about this since I was a little girl."

Another wave of guilt settles into your chest. Looking at Hannah, you feel like a monster. She's sitting there, entirely innocent, sharing her dream wedding with a florist who used to blow her fiancé under the table when he was working from home. She doesn't know. To her, you're just a vendor helping build her fairytale. To you, she's the woman living the life with Hansol that you had to let go of.

And you can't ask about him. You seriously cannot bring yourself to say his name out loud in this context. Where he is the groom and you're not the bride.

Angela claps her hands together once, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening inside your head. "Excellent!" She slides a thick, leather-bound contract across the table toward you. "If you'll just sign on the dotted line, we can lock in the timeline. We'll be handling all communication through my office, of course. Hannah is very busy with dress fitting, and the groom is currently out of state, so you won't have to worry about coordinating with him at all. It'll just be us."

He's out of state right now. Of course he is. You'd bet you even know the address.

"Perfect!" Your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up the pen. In your ears, your voice seems to belong to someone else. "That sounds perfectly fine."

You don't look at Hannah as you press the pen to the paper. You don't think about Hansol's laughter, or the way his brown hair looked when you ran your fingers through it, or the promises you made in a cramped dorm room, ones that neither of you could keep. You just focus on the blue ink flowing onto the page, binding you to the biggest contract of your shop, and the absolute worst nightmare of your life.

Pink eglantines — a wound that will not heal.

Nothing says out-of-body experience quite like standing in your ex-boyfriend's parent's backyard, clipboard in hand, discussing the placement of fifty thousand dollars' worth of imported white hydrangeas for his wedding to another woman. Forget roller coasters. If someone asked you for a guaranteed adrenaline rush, you'd recommend this instead.

You didn't even have so much as the luxury of a warning. One minute you were plugging the address into your GPS, convincing yourself it was just another private estate in Scarsdale, and then next, your beat-up delivery van was rolling past a set of wrought-iron gates you had driven through a thousand times before.

Your feet automatically steer around the loose stone on the third step of the grand patio as you walk in, guided by nothing more than muscle memory. You know better than stepping on it. Hansol used to trip over it every single time you were here, despite knowing it was there. You know they've probably fixed it by now, but your body avoids it instinctively.

Beyond the patio, the massive, rolling insanely green backyard stretches out before you, looking exactly as it did in your memories. Only now, it's being measured for Hansol's wedding.

Considering everything, you're not surprised your heart is currently performing a full Olympic gymnastics floor routine inside your ribcage instead of simply skipping a few beats.

On the bright side, Angela and Hannah had both mentioned that Hansol was out of state, which meant he didn't have time to be here. And really, that was the only thing keeping you from climbing back into your van and driving to literally any other state instead of heading back into the city.

"Y/N, look at this space." Hannah's voice bubbles with pure excitement as she sweeps her arm toward the perfectly manicured lawn.  "We're thinking the main floral arch should go right between those two ancient oak trees. What do you think?"

You swallow the dry lump in your throat the size of a golf ball. You were there for a topographical venue preview, florist speak for scoping out exactly how much rigging you'd need to suspend thousands of dollars' worth of foliage around the space and turn it into something out of a fairytale

"It's… it's beautiful, Hannah," you manage to squeak out, your throat drier than the dehydrated fern on your left.

You grip your clipboard a little tighter, holding it like a shield against the ghosts of your own past trying to hunt you down.

You know exactly how the light hits those oak trees at sunset. You know that because Hansol kissed you breathless against the trunk of the left one the first time he brought you here, exactly at sunset. So yes, professionally speaking, it's a perfect location. Every photograph taken beneath it will be breathtaking.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force the memory away as you pretend it's just the sunlight bothering them.

Professional. You are a professional. Look at the perimeter. Measure the archway. Leave.

Before you can spiral any further, you take a deep breath, raise your laser measuring tape, and aim it at the lower branches of the oak tree.

You're focused on measuring and writing everything down when, a few minutes later, the distinct scent of a jasmine perfume drifts through the small boxwood hedges. Every survival instinct you own kicks into overdrive. You know that perfume very well because it belongs to Hansol's mother. It's the same one that used to linger on the hugs she'd pull you into whenever you arrived for Sunday dinners. You know it by heart.

"Hannah, dear, you have to see the caterer's mock-up for the champagne tower!"

Her voice slices through the air, sweet and melodic as ever. Your entire body locks up, pencil freezes against the paper, blood draining from your face so fast you actually feel dizzy.

Hannah waves happily toward the veranda. "Oh, there's my mother-in-law! Eomeonim, this is—"

You don't think. You just act.

"You know what?" you cut her off. "I need to go measure the clearance on the side gate really quickly. I just want to make sure our delivery carts can fit."

The lie slips out effortlessly, punctuated by nervous laughter, your feet already carrying you backward.

"I'll just be a minute!"

Without waiting for Angela or Hannah to reply, you duck behind a massive, towering trellis covered in ivy, pressing your back against the wooden slats. You hold your breath, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. Through the gaps in the leaves, you watch Mrs. Chwe glide down the stone steps, looking immaculate in a polka-dot dress.

She's gesturing toward the very spot you were standing thirty seconds ago as she speaks, "It's going to be placed right over there, near the rose garden," Mrs. Chwe explains to someone you can't see.

"It's perfect, eomeonim," Hannah says, her voice carrying genuine excitement. "You've been so incredibly helpful. I know how much this must be."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Chwe replies, stopping just a few feet away from your hiding spot. You hold your breath for what feels like the hundredth time since you got here, terrified that the erratic thumping of your heart might give you away. "It is my absolute pleasure."

You watch her gently stroke Hannah's arm, and something pinches in your chest. You can't stop thinking that you've stood in that exact spot in her life before.

Mrs. Chwe continues, turning her attention to Angela. "Our family has hosted many events here, but this one is different. It has to be flawless."

"It will be," Angela answers smoothly. If she's intimidated, she doesn't show it. "That's why we assembled the best team possible."

She nods once, satisfied. "It is my son’s big day, after all." Her gaze sweeps across the lawn, taking in the measurements, the sketches, the carefully marked plans. A smile softens her features. "He deserves nothing but absolute perfection."

My son's big day.

You brain desperately claws for an alternative—any alternative—but your own memories immediately slam the door shut.

It couldn't be his brother. It simply couldn't.

You vividly remember sitting at their family dinner table, listening as Seungcheol raised his glass and toasted to his freedom after his latest brutal breakup. He'd declared, loud enough for the entire family to hear, that he was going to remain a bachelor for life and leave Hansol and — ironically — you to carry on with the family name.

In your memories, Seungcheol was a cynical and independent corporate workaholic who viewed marriage as nothing more than a bad business merger. Hansol was the romantic one, even if he had his own, very particular, way of showing it. So, if a Chwe son was finally standing beneath a floral arch in the backyard, the math pointed to only one devastating conclusion.

You cannot stay here. You cannot spend another second scouting this property without throwing up your breakfast all over their perfect lawn.

You wait through agonizingly five long minutes until Mrs. Chwe links her arm through Hannah's and guides her back toward the sweeping doors of the sunroom. The moment the doors click shut behind them, you practically sprint toward the front of the house, this time tripping on the third step of the grand patio but barely registering it.

You throw yourself into the driver's seat of your cargo van at record speed, slamming the door shut behind you, hands shaking so violently you drop the keys twice before finally jamming them into the ignition. You put the van into reverse, back out of the side lot, and start down the long driveway, making a mental note to text Angela and apologize for the sudden escape.

You just want to get back to the safety of your flower shop. To bury yourself in your flowers and customer invoices and pretend none of this is happening.

You don't even realize you're crying until you feel the wet streak on your cheek, your vision starting to blur with frustrated tears, mind a swirling tornado of grief and panic. You press your foot harder on the gas, reversing the van far too fast down the gravel path, so consumed by the panic that you barely register what happens next until it's already a disaster.

See, the house has a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, thick-trunked oak trees—just like the ones in the garden—forming a blind curve near the iron gates at the entrance. On the drive out, the only thought in your mind is that you just need to reach the street, back to the safety of city asphalt.

You even check your rear-view mirror for a fraction of a second, clearing the blind curve. But apparently, whoever is watching over you isn't on your side today.

BAM.

It isn't a tap, much less a gentle bump. It's a bone rattling, deafening crunch of metal on metal that throws you forward against your seatbelt, the strap locking painfully across your collarbone. The van lurches to a violent halt shattered plastic, screeching tires, then the sickening hiss of a damaged radiator.

"Oh my god," you gasp in horror, the wind completely knocked out of you. "No, no, no, no."

Great. Perfect. Just what your terrible, horrible day needed: some rich delivery driver—or a catering scout, whatever—rear-ending your bumper. Rage, hot and bubbling and fueled entirely by heartbreak, surges in to replace your panic.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" you yell at the empty cabin.

One of your hands flies to your face, rubbing your temples as a shockwave of adrenaline floods your system. You throw the van into park, your legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti as you shove your door open and step out onto the gravel driveway, ready to absolutely lose your shit on whoever hit you.

Directly behind your delivery van, its front bumper aggressively crumpled against your rear doors, is a sleek, dark, expensive-looking SUV. Smoke, or maybe steam, curls lazily from the cracked grille of the black car.

It doesn't take a genius to realize the accident might have been your fault after all. Of course it has.

You let out a small whine, an incredulous sigh escaping you.

"I am so sorry!" Your voice crackles as you rush toward the driver's side of the SUV. "I was backing up too fast, I didn't see you coming around the—"

The driver's door swings open, and within seconds it takes the person to step out of the car, your breath hitches so sharply you choke on the crisp air.

Hansol.

He's much taller now. How is he possibly taller? Aren't people supposed to stop growing at a certain age?

Even though years have gone by, he still looks as boyish as ever, complemented by the sharp angles of his jaw and his naturally relaxed shoulders. His eyes are exactly the same kind of brown, only even more beautiful under the sunlight, currently widening in absolute, unadulterated shock as they lock onto your face.

His hair is shorter than you remember, still graced by the most perfect shade of brown you’ve ever seen, and goddammit, how did the hell get more handsome?

The silence that settles between you bothers you more than you care to admit. The universe seems to pause somehow, and for a second, you think even the birds stop singing. Even the hissing radiator seems to hold its breath.

You stare at each other across the three feet of gravel separating you, neither blinking, nor entirely convinced the other is real and not just a stress-induced hallucination.

God, you're going to throw up.

"Y/N?"

His voice is deeper than you remember. A rough, gravelly sound that sends a shockwave straight down your spine.

"Hansol…" you breathe out, unsure whether you didn't pass out minutes ago and are now hallucinating.

You wrap your arms around your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of your dirt-stained slacks and the messy ponytail piled on top of your head.

He stares at you like he's seeing a ghost, eyes scanning your face as if trying to confirm you’re actually standing on his parent's driveway. "What… what are you doing here?"

You swallow against the dry sand in your throat, forcing your spine completely straight as you point a trembling finger toward your vehicle.

Do not cry, you scold yourself.

Hansol's eyes quickly dart from your face to the massive vinyl logo plastered across the side of your battered van, and then up toward the sprawling estate behind you. A look of deep confusion still washes over his features, his eyebrows pulling together.

"I, um. My shop. We're… I'm doing the wedding. The flowers."

He blinks once, then twice, the confusion slowly melting away and being replaced by something else. You might be hallucinating, but you swear you see the faintest trace of a proud smile tug at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remain clouded with something you can't quite read.

"Oh. So… things are going great for you, then."

"Yeah," you lie, voice tight and brittle. "It's going great. Really great."

"That's… that's amazing, Y/N. Truly. I always knew you'd make it happen."

He keeps nodding slowly, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. He rocks back on his heels, gaze sweeping over you enough to make your skin burn. He doesn't mention Hannah. He doesn't mention the wedding. He doesn't bring up the fact that his family home is being transformed into a bridal wonderland, and you certainly aren't going to congratulate him on finding your replacement.

You just want to run.

"Your hair," he murmurs, eyes lifting to your long messy ponytail and the stray pieces framing your face. For a second, you almost think he's going to touch it by the way he pulls his hands from his pockets. But he doesn't. "It's long now."

Your hand twitches, a desperate urge to reach up and touch your hair, to hide behind it.

When you were dating, your hair never fell past your shoulders. You liked keeping it short enough that it never got in the way, especially considering your hands were constantly buried in soil and plants. But after the breakup, you barely had time for a haircut, so you simply let it grow, cutting the ends whenever they started getting too long, and—

Why is he looking at you like that?

"It grew," you say stupidly, your brain unable to form a reasonable thought with him staring at you. You take a step back, gesturing frantically toward the smashed bumpers of your cars. "Look, Hansol, I am so sorry about the car. It was completely my fault, I was distracted. But I really, really have to go."

More like you really, really need to run and hide.

Hansol frowns, finally glancing down at the wreckage as if he'd completely forgotten the reason you were standing here in the first place.

"You can't just drive off. The bumper is completely caved in. We need to exchange insurance information. I need to get this fixed for you—"

"It's fine, Hansol, really. It's a work van. It already had a few dings," you rush to assure him, backing up toward the driver's side door. The urge to escape becomes almost overwhelming.

You had rehearsed this moment in your head countless times. Different versions where you would meet again, realize the breakup had been stupid, and decide you should spend the rest of your lives together, growing old and gray-haired side by side.

None of them involved a wedding to someone else, and definitely not a wrecked bumper.

"Y/N, please. Don't be stubborn," he insists, stepping closer. The proximity is dizzying. "I—"

"No, no, it's fine!" you interrupt, panic rising in your chest again. You can't be here. You can no longer stand three feet away from him, smelling his cologne underneath the strong scent of crushed radiator fluid.

"At least give me your number. Or your contact info. I'll have my insurance handle it, or I'll just write you a check directly. Please."

Realizing he isn't going to let you leave until he has a way to resolve it, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you pull out a pink business card. You hold it out, careful not to let your fingers brush when he takes it. You're sure you'd melt right there if they did, and you've already had enough emotions for a day.

"Here. This is the shop’s card," you stammer, hesitant, because you don't really want to give him access to you, especially not now that he's tying the knot with your most expensive client. "My cell phone number is on the back. Just… send me the bill for your car. Whatever the mechanic says, I'll pay it. I have insurance."

He looks down at the card, his thumb tracing over the name printed in gold. "Poppy's Garden," he reads quietly.

You just nod.

"I really have to go," you blurt out, frantically checking your bare wrist as if you're wearing a watch. "I'm on a super tight schedule. I'm supposed to pick up Poppy from school, and if I'm late, she'll never let me hear the end of it."

"How's Poppy?" Hansol looks up, a genuine spark of curiosity breaking through his expression.  "Wow. She must be, what, fourteen now. Tell her I said hi."

You ignore what him correctly guessing your sister's age makes you feel inside. "I will," you lie, knowing there's no way on earth you're going to tell your little sister that you've run into the guy who broke your heart and hers.

You grab the handle of your van door and pull it open, ready to climb back into your safe, insulated bubble. But as you set one foot on the running board, the crushing weight of the situation catches up to you.

The unfairness of it all twists in your gut.

You stop, knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the car door, turning your head to look back at Hansol—who is still standing in the same spot where you left him, looking like he saw a ghost—over your shoulder. The sun filters through the trees, casting shadows across his face.

Your eyes burn, but you force yourself to hold his gaze.

"I didn’t know, Hansol," you say. A half-truth. A half-lie. Your voice cracks just a little, betraying the tough exterior you've tried so hard to hold up. "I didn't know this wedding was for your family. If I had known, I would have said no."

Hansol stands frozen on the gravel, your business card caught in his hand so tightly it's starting to bend. The wind rustles the leaves of the old oak trees behind him, pushing strands of his hair across his face.

He stares at you for a moment too long. Finally, his shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, sadness washing over his beautiful features, making you want to do something—anything—to take it away from him. Only to realize that it is not your job anymore.

He doesn't argue, though. He just swallows and gives you a small, gentle nod. "It's fine, Y/N," he finally says, stepping back from the van. "Drive safe."

You pull the door shut, shift the van into drive, and pull away, leaving Hansol standing in the small wreckage of your brief collision, utterly oblivious to the fact that he's breaking your heart all over again.

Lilac — the magic of first love and youthful innocence.

The university greenhouse smelled strongly of damp potting soil and fertilizer. You sat on the edge of a metal workstation; your high Converse braced against a bag of perlite. Across your lap a battered, leather-bound copy of The Dictionary of Flowers.

It wasn't assigned reading for the botany peer tutoring session you were supposed to be running, but it was a Tuesday evening, and no one had walked through the doors in the last forty minutes—which wasn't unusual. Botany wasn't exactly a popular subject, and most people weren't interested in spending their free time studying plants.

Well... except you.

You flipped to the section on purple hyacinths, tracing a finger down the yellowed page. Sorrow. Please forgive me. It was a contrast to the bright, cheerful marigolds on the previous page, which apparently symbolized grief and cruelty despite looking like little bursts of sunshine. The book was ridiculous, highly unscientific, and entirely captivating.

A metallic screech echoed through the greenhouse as the heavy glass door was shoved open.

You looked up quickly, closing the book over your thumb to keep your place.

A guy stepped into the humid room, stopping past the threshold. He was wearing an oversized grey hoodie with the university logo faded across the front and carrying a single, battered-looking notebook under his arm. His hair was a bit messy, falling into his eyes as he looked around the rows of hanging ferns and tables covered in starter pots. He didn't look like the typical biology majors who came in to whine about memorizing the Krebs cycle; he just looked completely out of place.

"Is this the botany tutoring thing?" he asked. His voice was so calm and unhurried it seems to bounce off the glass walls.

"If you're here because you're trying not to fail your midterm, you're in the right place," you said, hopping down from the workstation. Your sneakers hit the floor with a dull thud. "I'm Y/N."

"Hansol," he replied, walking over with an unhurried stride.

He didn't seem stressed about the fact that the exam was in forty-eight hours at all. He stopped on the other side of the metal table, dropping his notebook onto the zinc surface.

"My advisor said if I don't pass this elective, I'll lose my studio hours next semester. Apparently, music production majors still need to know how photosynthesis works."

"A very important subject for sonography." You smiled at him sympathetically, pulling a stary piece of dried eucalyptus out of your hair and tossing it toward the trash can. "Okay, Hansol. What are we struggling with? Plant anatomy? Taxonomy?"

He sighed, leaning his hip against the table and shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "All of it." He wasn't frantic or embarrassed; he was just stating a fact. Then, his eyes drifted down to the leather-bound book you were still clutching. "Damn, is that a book just about plants?"

From the calm, even way he spoke, you couldn't tell whether he was making fun of you or not. You hoped he wasn't.

"Ah… not really. It's a Victorian flower dictionary," you said, feeling a sudden, slight flush of embarrassment. You set it down on the table, the cover flaking a tiny bit of leather onto the metal. "It assigns emotions and messages to different plants. It's completely useless for your test."

Hansol tilted his head, looking at the ornate, gold-foiled scrip on the cover. He reached out with two fingers and flipped the book open to a random page. His eyes scanned the text for a second.

"Geraniums. Gentility?" He looked up, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. "People actually used to send these to each other instead of texting?"

You giggled. "Yep," you said, pulling the biology textbook from your backpack to get down to business. "If you sent someone a yellow carnation, it meant you disdained them. Total rejection. It was the original left on read."

Hansol lets out a quiet laugh, the sound genuine enough to make you wonder whether he was actually interested or simply being polite. He didn’t immediately turn his attention to the textbook. Instead, his eyes lingered on your face, watching the way you animatedly explained the ridiculous historical trivial. There was a calm, observant stillness about him, a total lack of the usual frantic energy most college students carried.

You didn't know it then, but Hansol found the whole thing mildly entertaining. More importantly, he found you interesting.

"What about those? " he asked, nodding toward a tray of bruised, slightly wilted purple flowers sitting in the corner of your workstation. They had clearly been discarded from a lab session earlier in the day, their petals torn and dark at the edges.

You glanced over at the sad little pile. "Those are cyclamen. In the dictionary, they usually mean resignation or goodbye. Like something that's already broken."

Hansol looked at the bruised petals, then backed up at you. His expression didn't turn overly sentimental; he just nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

"Cruel," he murmured smoothly, finally pulling his notebook toward him and clicking open a pen. "Alright, teach. Show me the stuff that's actually on the test so I can keep my studio space."

For the first forty minutes of the session, you helped Hansol with everything he needed to know for tomorrow's exam, giving him practice exercises along the way. Surprisingly, he breezed through every single one of them. His eyes stayed fixed on you as you explained each concept, following every word with attentiveness that made you think he really wanted his studio time back—which could only meant he really needed a good grade.

"Damn, you're really into plants, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question. It was an observation, delivered as he leaned back against the stool with an amused smile.

You gave him a small, sheepish shrug. "Are you making fun of me?"

Most people usually did.

His eyes went impossibly wide, and for the first time, Hansol looked genuinely shaken, as though the idea that you might think he'd make fun of you genuinely bothered him.

“No, no—God, no,” he rushed out, his voice suddenly frantic as a stream of frantic no's tumbled from his mouth.

He dragged a hand through his brown hair, the tips of his ears turning an unexpected shade of pink. It was the absolute first crack in his cool, unbothered facade.

"I wasn't making fun of you," he clarified, his voice back to its usual low pitch, though there was a sudden earnestness there. "I think it's cool. You actually care about this stuff."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, the defensive tension completely draining from your shoulders. "Oh. Well... thanks."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat and picked up his pen. "Now, show me how these plant cells work so I don't fail."

The rest of the session went smoothly. By the time the clock hit nine, he had aced the practice midterm. You started zipping up your backpack, fully expecting him to grab his notebook and bolt back to his dorm like every other student would do.

Instead, Hansol slid his notebook into his bag and casually started helping you close. He grabbed a broom to sweep up some spilled potting soil while you wiped down the zinc tables. He even helped you heave the heavy bag of perlite back into the storage closet, completely unfazed by the white dust getting on his hoodie.

"You didn't have to stay to do that," you told him as you locked the glass doors of the greenhouse.

"I know." He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Which way is your dorm?"

He walked you back across campus. The walk was quiet, but it wasn't the awkward kind of silence you usually had to fill with small talk. It was just easy. You pointed out a stray campus cat sleeping on a retaining wall; he told you a little bit about the bassline he was trying to fix in his latest mixtape. By the time the bricks of your dorm building came into view, you realized you didn't actually want him to leave yet.

You stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps, turning to face him under the overly bright yellow porch light.

"Well, thanks for the help cleaning up." You smiled at him, shifting your backpack onto your shoulder. "Good luck on the midterm tomorrow. I think you're gonna ace it."

"Thanks to you."

He didn't immediately turn around to leave. Instead, Hansol rocked back on his heels, his eyes studying your face in the dim light. There was that calm, observant stillness again.

"So," he began, his tone becoming something incredibly casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "It's probably too soon for me to ask you out. Like, logically."

Your mouth snapped open. You stared at him, your hand freezing halfway to the handle.

Usually, guys spend three weeks hovering around the tutoring desk, making terrible jokes, or sliding into your DMs at 2 AM before making a move. They didn't just lay their cards face-up after exactly one study session.

"I—what?" you stammered.

Hansol didn't even blink. He didn't look embarrassed or flustered by your obvious shock; he just offered a small, thoroughly amused shrug.

"I'm just being efficient." He gives another easy shrug, a small grin following close behind. "Saving us both some time. I know I want to take you out, so there's no real point in waiting three weeks to say it." He pulled one hand out of his pocket, gesturing slightly toward the building. "So. Coffee tomorrow after my exam?"

The unfiltered honesty of it gave you mental whiplash. He wasn't playing a game. He wasn't trying to be overly smooth or intensely romantic. He just liked you, knew what he wanted, and figured there was no logical reason to wait around.

You would later learn that this was simply how Hansol moved through life. He never beat around the bush. When he wanted something, he said so. He didn't believe in games. It was one of the many, many things you liked about him.

You looked at him standing there under the bad lighting with his messy hair and his calm eyes, and you couldn't stop the genuine smile that broke across your face.

"Coffee," you repeated, your voice finally steady.

"Coffee," Hansol confirmed, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He took a step back, melting into the shadows of the sidewalk. "I'll text you. Have a good night, Y/N."

Bleeding hearts — my heart is open and unguarded.

The three weeks leading up to the wedding become a masterclass in sleep deprivation and manual labor. Your fingers are perpetually stained a faint, grassy green from stripping rose thorns, your cuticles are destroyed, and you’re certain your bloodstream is now composed of roughly seventy percent caffeine.

Sleep deprivation, of course, has less to do with the flowers and more to do with the fact that you're reliving the biggest heartbreak of your life, crying yourself to sleep whenever the weight of it all becomes too much to bear.

Seungkwan and Seokmin—your two employees, who also happen to be your best friends—at times, and practically on their knees, begged you to walk away from this wedding, while insisting you were torturing and driving yourself crazy.

They weren't wrong, but you couldn't back out. You're not a twenty-two-year-old college girl anymore. You don't have the luxury of making business decisions based on your feelings. And even if you lied to them and told them you were over Hansol, he was still just a memory from a different lifetime. This shouldn't matter.

Which is why you channel every single ounce of your heartbreak, regret, and resentment straight into the foliage. If you keep your hands busy, your brain won't have the bandwidth to spiral.

That is the theory, anyway.

"Y/N, seriously, look at this texture. It's like holding a cloud."

Hannah's voice is bright as she stands by the main display table, brushing her fingertips against a plush cluster of white peonies. She looks effortlessly chic, her diamond ring catching the shop's warm pendant lights a little too eagerly. Standing right beside her is a tall woman, introduced to you twenty minutes ago as Leonor, the maid of honor from LA.

You force your lips into your practiced smile of professional vendor.

"They really are perfect, Hannah," you say, stepping out from behind the counter with a bundle of silk ribbons over your arm. "They're imported from Holland, so they'll be at maximum bloom right when you walk down the aisle. For your bridesmaids, I was thinking we tie them with this muted sage ribbon to match their dresses."

Hannah gasps, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I love that." She turns to Leonor, her eyes practically sparkling. "Didn't I tell you she was a genius? Look at how it brings out all the undertones in the fabric."

Leonor nods in agreement, making a quick note on her iPad. "It's stunning, Hannah. Your man is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you walking toward him with these."

"Ugh, don't make me cry," Hannah laughs, leaning her shoulder against Leonor's. A tender expression washes over her face. "Honestly, he's so stressed with work right now, but every time I bring up the wedding details, he just smiles and tells me to get whatever makes me happy. He's just… he's so perfect."

Hannah continues talking about how he stayed up until midnight helping her assemble the welcome baskets for the guests, even though he had a call meeting at six this morning, how he keeps telling her he just wants the day to be exactly what she's always dreamed of.

You let it wash over you, only half listening. And then you tune it out completely.

The last thing you want is to hear how good Hansol is at being someone else's perfect fiancé. It doesn't matter how kind Hannah is, or how happy she sounds; you still don't have the emotional bandwidth for that particular kind of detail.

"Stop, you're making me nauseous," you hear Leonor teasing, smiling warmly at her friend. "The man is obsessed with you. We get it."

Yep, you certainly do.

"Anyway!" Hannah turns back to you, completely oblivious to the emotional devastation she's casually causing you. "I have my final dress fitting in fifteen minutes, so we have to run. But the bouquet mock-ups look absolutely incredible, Y/N. Thank you so much."

"Of course," you manage to say, your voice steady through sheer, desperate willpower. "Have fun. I'll see you Saturday."

You watch them gather their bags, exchanging bright goodbyes as the bell above the shop door chimes softly behind them. The moment the door clicks shut, the silence of the shop rushes back in and swallows you whole.

You let out a long, shuddering exhale, your shoulders dropping as you lean your weight against the wooden counter, and look down at the beautiful white peonies, suddenly feeling incredibly small.

You grab a pair of shears and aggressively clip the end of a rogue stem, trying to shake the heavy weight from your limbs. You need a distraction. You need to wash out the plastic buckets in the back. You need to do anything that doesn't involve thinking about Hansol's midnight basket-tying sessions.

The bell above the front door chimes again.

"We're actually closing for lunch in ten minutes," you call out without looking up, your focus fixed entirely on slicing through a stubborn branch of eucalyptus. "But feel free to browse the front display if you're just looking for a quick—"

"I'm not looking for a quick bouquet, Y/N."

The shears slip from your fingers, clattering loudly against the tabletop. Your heart does a violent back flip. You raise your head slowly, eyes widening as they lock onto the figure standing just inside your doorway.

Hansol.

He's standing there looking very layered for a summer day, and far too cute for your own good. Rugged yet relaxed, he looks so achingly familiar that your chest tightens with an emotion you can't bring yourself to name. So much that, for one terrifying split second, you forget you aren't twenty-two anymore.

"Oh…" Your voice comes out breathy. You quickly wipe your damp hands against your apron, trying to ground yourself. "You… you just missed Hannah. She left literally two minutes ago. If you run toward the corner, you can probably catch her—"

"I didn't come here looking for Hannah," Hansol interrupts quietly, looking rather confused.

He doesn’t move from his spot by the door. His eyes sweep over the front of the shop, taking in the exposed brick walls, the dangling fairy lights, and the floor-to-ceiling shelving stacked with geometric ceramic pots and lush, thriving monsteras.

"The place looks great," he murmurs, voice low. He finally takes a few slow steps forward, stepping deeper into the shop. "A lot different than when your parents ran it."

Your fingers grip the edge of the zinc counter tightly. "We did some renovations when I took over." You don't know why you feel the urge to update him on this, but you do. "It… it took a lot of work."

The shop hasn't always been Poppy's Garden. For twenty-five years, it had been a neighborhood staple run by your parents. Your dad was the business brain, and your mom was the visionary, the heart of it, her hands constantly covered in dirt. You had grown up hiding under these prep tables, watching them build a life from the soil up.

But life, as you were rapidly learned, didn't care about your plans.

Right around the time Hansol was packing his bags to move back across the country, the tremors started. At first, your mom just thought she was tired. Then she started dropping vases. Then came the doctor's appointments, the sterile waiting rooms, and the devastating diagnosis. Parkinson's.

It moved faster than any of you anticipated. Within a year, your dad—a man who had never missed a day of work in his life—had to step away from the shop entirely just to become her full-time caretaker. The medical bills piled up within months. The physical therapy, the home modifications, the specialized medications, it was a financial avalanche.

The shop started drowning. They were weeks away from selling the business to a commercial developer who wanted to get the building and turn it into a trendy vape lounge when you stepped in. You took the degree you had just earned, swallowed the bright, shiny dreams you had of working in California, and anchored yourself to this shop.

The bright side is that you don't regret the decision you made, and at the end of the day, you're happy and love working here.

"It suits you."

Hansol reaches out, his long fingers casually tracing the rim of a vintage terracotta vase sitting on the display table. He runs his hand over the textured surface with a slow pace, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again to lock onto your face.

From where you stand, the air feels charged with a suffocating tension that makes it hard to draw a full breath. He's standing in your shop again, the shop he knows you stayed in New York for. The shop that had essentially acted as the final barrier between your relationship four years ago.

"What are you doing here, Hansol?" you ask, dropping the vendor tone entirely. Your voice is a little defensive, a little raw. Whatever reason brought him, it certainly wasn't to catch up or talk about the place.

He let his hand drop from the vase, sliding both hands into the pockets of his jeans. He shrugs one shoulder. "I came because of the van."

Of course.

"I tried calling, but it kept going straight to voicemail, so I figured the line was just busy since things are going so well."

The shop's phone is not a particularly busy line. Seokmin does a great job handing online and phone orders. But here's the thing: Hansol hasn't changed his number in the last four years, and when it started popping up on your screen—dozens of times, at least—you chose to ignore every single call, telling, or rather ordering, Seokmin to do the same.

You let out a dismissive breath, crossing your arms over your chest. You really don't want to go over this again, so you lie. "I told you, it's fine." Never mind that your van isn't currently working and you had to bike across the city to make a delivery earlier. "I already handled it. The damage is completely taken care of."

Hansol stares at you, his expression flatlining into a deadpan look that you recognize instantly. It's the exact face he used to make whenever you tried to convince him that your social battery hadn't run out and that he didn't need to leave the gathering early on your account, both of you knowing you were already halfway to exhaustion.

He slowly turns his head, looking out at the large glass front window of the shop. Directly across the street, parked perfectly in a loading zone, is your delivery van. The rear bumper is still aggressively caved in, a massive, jagged silver dent gleaming proudly in the afternoon sun, looking exactly like it had three weeks ago.

Hansol turns his gaze back at you, raising a single eyebrow. "Right." He drags the word out slowly. "Taken care of. Is that a new avant-garde design choice for the bumper, or are you just waiting for it to magically heal itself?"

A stubborn flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck. You lift your chin, refusing to back down. "The mechanic is backed up, okay?" you say, harsher than you intend. "The parts are on back order from Germany. It takes time."

"Y/N, it's a delivery van. The parts are made in—I don't know—Buffalo?" he counters, taking a step toward the counter. "I know you're trying to avoid sending me the bill because you don't want to owe me anything."

"Well, I don't owe you anything!" you argue, your voice rising a fraction. "I was the one who backed into you! If anything, I should be paying for your smashed SUV grill."

Knowing Hansol, there's no way he'll let you pay for it. But there's also no way you'll let him pay for anything, either. You don't want your ex-boyfriend and first love—who will soon be a married man—doing you any favors.

"My insurance covered it," he says evenly, his tone completely unflappable against your rising panic. "And yours should cover this, but you haven't filed the claim because you know your premiums will skyrocket, and the shop ledger can't handle the hit right now."

You open your mouth to shoot back a fierce, biting lie, but the words die in your throat. He knows you too well. Even four years after the breakup, he can still read through your defenses like a children's book. It's infuriating.

"You don't know anything about my ledger," you mutter, looking down at your green-stained fingers.

"I know you," he simply says.

You like to think he doesn't.

Because despite everything, there are things he doesn't know. He doesn't know that your father called you yesterday because your mom's physical therapist is recommending a new intensive program. He doesn't know it's an extra three days a week, and that it isn't covered by their insurance. He doesn't know your father sounded tired, and that he didn't ask you for money, but he didn't have to, you simply know.

And then there's Poppy, your smart-ass little sister, somehow both annoyingly and brilliantly smart. She's pulling straight A's in honors classes while surviving the absolute nightmare of being a fourteen-year-old girl, all while dealing with the fact that her mom can't even braid her hair anymore.

He doesn't know that your parents' savings are gone. Drained. Every spare dime the shop makes goes into a high-yield savings account for her, and it's still barely a drop in the bucket. Because if Poppy wants to go to Stanford and enroll in their pre-med program, she will. You'll make sure of it.

"No, you don't anymore."

He lets out a humorless laugh. "Yes, I do. I know that you'd rather work yourself to the bone than ask for a single dollar of help. Some things don't change, Y/N."

"A lot of things change," you snap, finally looking up to meet his gaze. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, like you've been running instead of standing still. "People change. We haven't spoken to each other in four years. So don't stand there and act like you still have me figured out."

Hansol's eyes darken, his jaw tightening as though the thought of not knowing you anymore bothers him far more than he'd ever admit. He shifts his weight, his hands clenching inside his pockets. For a moment, he looks like he's about to say something about that, but the words never come.

"I'm just trying to pay for the bumper, Y/N." His voice drops into a careful, measured tone. "It's a standard transaction. You don't have to make it an emotional battlefield."

"Everything with you is an emotional battlefield," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

He takes another half-step forward, closing the distance between you until the clean scent of his cologne completely overwhelmed the fragrance of the sweet-pea bundles on the counter.

Hansol opens his mouth to answer you, but before he can say anything, the shop's front door swings open, the bell chiming loudly overhead.

"Sis! The farmers' market was hell. If you ever make me, go with these two again, I am going to—"

Poppy marches in dressed in her school uniform, two paper bags clutched in her hands, while Seokmin and Seungkwan trail after her, bickering about something you can't quite make out over the noise of the traffic outside.

She stops dead in her tracks, whatever complaint she'd been about to make dying on her lips as her eyes land on the man standing in front of the counter. Her jaw drops, and the bags fall onto the hardwood floor.

"Hansolo!" she shrieks.

Before you can even open your mouth to stop her, Poppy launches herself across the floor. She doesn't walk; she literally runs, skidding to a halt right in front of him and throwing her arms securely around his waist, burying her face into his jacket.

Hansol's eyes widen in brief shock, but a second later, a smile breaks across his face—the first real smile you had seen from him since you parted ways. He pulls his hands from his pockets and wraps his arms around her, lifting her completely off her feet for a second and shaking her slightly.

"Hey, kiddo," he laughs, his voice instantly dropping into a warm, familiar tone that sends a devastating wave of nostalgia straight to your gut. "Look at you. You're huge. What happened to the braces?"

You see, Poppy loved Hansol. Your relationship began when she was very little, and considering how much time she spent around the two of you, it didn't take long for her to consider him an honorary older brother. He let her ride on his shoulders, helped her with her school art projects, even took her to Coney Island, buying her a whole lot of candy and gifts because he simply couldn't say no to her.

When she found out he was getting married, she seemed a little more heartbroken than you, her nose scrunching as she looked genuinely offended. "He's getting married? To someone who isn't you? I liked him. We liked him."

Seungkwan is the first to enter the store after her, his eyes almost popping out as he takes in the scene, and then you. Even from outside, you can hear Seokmin's exaggerated gasp as he follows inside. They're the perfect combination of two people who are anything but discreet, looking between you and Hansol and gesturing like two completely insane men who have just witnessed something they shouldn't have.

You simply sigh, signaling for them to move, and the two head straight to the back with a small nod of greeting to Hansol, who is still wrapped up in a very excited Poppy.

"I got them off last summer!" Poppy beams, stepping back but keeping her hands gripping tightly to his elbows. "Oh my god, you look so old! Why are you here? Are you back in the city? Did you bring me those pink tacos from the truck near your old apartment?"

Hansol lets out a booming laugh, reaching out to playfully ruffle her hair, completely ignoring her squawk of protest. "No pink tacos this time, Pops. And I'm not old, I just have a more distinguished face now."

He pauses, his smile softening as his eyes drift away from Poppy and lock onto yours.

"But yeah. I'm back in the city. Permanently."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"W-what?" The word falls out of your mouth before your brain can filter it. Jerky breaths stutter over your lips, your eyes widening despite your best attempt to hide it. "You're back?"

"Yeah. I moved back last week," he confirms, watching your face closely, eyes searching for a reaction. "The production company is opening an East Coast branch."

Your mind completely goes blank. Nada.

He's back. Here. In your zip code.

A sudden, treacherous spark of hope flares up in the center of your chest. Why now? After all this time, why would he uproot everything to come back to the city? The thought comes uninvited, dangerous that could he have missed—

Hannah.

The spark is violently extinguished, replaced by a cold, heavy dread that settles in the pit of your stomach like a stone.

Of course. Hannah. The beautiful, sweet fiancée who was just standing in this very shop fifteen minutes ago, gushing about the man of her dreams. Hannah, whose family is rooted in New York. Hannah, who has been talking about looking at brownstones and loving the autumn weather.

"Wow," you finally manage to say, forcing your rigid facial muscles into a polite, hollow smile. You take a step back, putting the physical barrier of the counter between you and the crushing reality of his new life. "That's... great. I'm sure your family is thrilled."

"Are you moving back to West Village?" Poppy interrupts, completely oblivious. She leans against the counter, looking at Hansol with wide, hopeful eyes. "Because if you are, you still owe me that trip to the Natural History Museum. The one we were supposed to do before you moved."

Hansol stops. He looks at Poppy, then back at you, his eyes catching on the frantic, jerky movements of your hands as you start to scrub the counter surface like your life depends on it. He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"Brooklyn, actually," he tells Poppy, though his gaze never leaves yours. "And yeah. I know still owe you that trip."

That's when Poppy starts rambling about her own life, her face glowing with the same adoration she's had for him since she was a little kid watching him help her build a volcano for the science fair. But then, as if a switch had flipped inside her brain, Poppy's smile suddenly vanishes. Her eyes dart from Hansol, over to your stiff, pale face, and then back to him.

You can see the realization hitting her.

Poppy drops her hands from his arms as if his clothes have suddenly caught fire. She takes a massive step backward, her expression twisting into a fierce, protective scowl. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, mimicking your previous posture exactly.

"Wait." Her voice drops into a dramatic, frosty tone. "I forgot. I am currently mad at you. You are on my banned list."

Hansol blinks, looking entirely amused but trying to hide it, eyebrows rising. "Your banned list?"

"Yes," Poppy declares, lifting her chin with an immense amount of teenage drama. "You broke up with our family, Hansol, which is a major violation of the honorary big-brother protocol. So, I am rescinding my hug. Goodbye."

You slap your forehead, taking a deep breath. "Poppy, back room. Now."

Poppy gives Hansol one last, lingering glare that's slightly ruined by the fact that she still looks like she wants to ask him for help with her arts homework, before she spins on her heel and marches behind the curtain, letting it slam shut behind her.

The silence returns infinitely more awkward than before.

"She... she hasn't changed much," Hansol murmurs, looking at the curtain with a faint, nostalgic smile.

"She has biology homework to do," you say stiffly, hands flat against the counter.

You can't look at him anymore. Seeing him with Poppy—seeing how naturally he could still fit into your life for those brief minutes—is entirely too much to bear.

"Look, Hansol. I appreciate you coming by, but I really am very busy. The wedding is on Saturday, and I have a massive shipment arriving from the auctions. You need to leave."

Hansol stares at you for a long, agonizing moment. You can see Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows hard, his eyes searching yours for something you're determined not to let him see.

He lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. "Fine. I'll leave."

But instead of turning toward the glass door, Hansol takes one step closer to the counter. He reaches inside his denim jacket, pulling out a small, neatly folded rectangular slip of thick blue paper. He doesn't hold it out for you to take. He just slides it across the surface, coming to a stop right next to your discarded floral shears.

He looks up, and it almost shocks you that you can still recognize the exact moment his guard drops completely.

"I didn't just come here to argue about a bumper, Y/N," he says, his voice becoming a whisper only loud enough for you to hear. "I came because I wanted to see you. I just... I needed to see you again."

The air is sucked from your lungs. Before you can formulate a single word—before your brain can even begin to process the confession—, Hansol turns on his heel. The little brass bell chimes wildly against the glass as he pushes the door open and steps out.

You stand entirely frozen, staring at the empty space where he had just been standing. Your chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow gasps before your legs finally move. You walk over to the wicker table near the door, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Slowly, your eyes drop to the counter, your fingers trembling as they reach for the folded paper. You unfold it to find a personal check. The amount printed is astronomical, more than enough to replace the bumper, repaint the van, and probably buy a second transmission just for fun.

On the memo line, in his familiar, messy scrawl, are five simple words: For the van. Please.

"Sis?"

You look up to find Poppy standing in front of the curtain, her voice small and uncertain. You immediately force on a bright smile, swallowing back tears that appeared out of nowhere.

"Yes, honey?"

"If I help you load the delivery van on Saturday, am I allowed to kick him in the shin for breaking up with you, or does that violate the vendor contract?"

You walk over and press a kiss on her forehead. "Pack up your things, Pops," you murmur, grabbing her empty lunchbox from the counter. "I'm buying you tacos for dinner. And no kicking the clients, please. I'm a professional."

"That sucks."

Pink camellias — my longing for you is endless.

Four days later, dead center of Hansol's family back lawn, you're wearing an unbothered, I've-got-this smile for six hours straight, with your cheeks are already starting to hurt.

Underneath the black apron, your spine has been making its best impression of a question mark ever since hour four, while the three layers of concealer working overtime under your eyes are trying their absolute best to hide the fact you're running on two hours of sleep.

That, and the fact that you spent the entire night crying.

You cried into your pillow until the memory foam was soaked. You cried in your perfectly-fixed-bumper delivery van while Seokmin navigated the early morning traffic, pressing your face against the cool glass of the window with him and Seungkwan tactfully pretending the radio news was fascinating, and completely abandoning their usual morning sing-along.

And, most pathetically of all, you cried while assembling the bridal bouquet.

It was supposed to be a joyous task. Instead, standing in the cold walk-in cooler at two in the morning, you had systematically bound together pristine white peonies, trailing sweet peas, and delicate lilies of the valley, while hot, bitter tears slid silently down your cheeks and dripped onto the zinc prep table.

You were making the perfect bouquet for the perfect girl who would walk down the aisle and marry the only guy you ever loved—and he, too, was perfect.

"Y/N, we need eyes on table fourteen!"

Seungkwan's voice snaps you back to the present. You blink rapidly, forcing the stinging heat behind your eyelids to retreat. You plaster on a smile so bright and unbothered it makes your jaw ache. For a moment, you wonder if people are actually buying that smile, or if you just look like a raving lunatic.

"The centerpieces are slightly off axis," you call back, walking swiftly across grass, dodging catering staff carrying towering trays of crystal glassware.

You reach table fourteen and gently rotate the massive, cascading arrangement of white hydrangeas and orchids by two inches. You've done countless weddings. None of them had been as big as this one. And none of them needed to be this perfect either.

"The cascading orchids need to face the entrance, not the head table. We want the guests to feel pulled into the space, not blocked off by the foliage."

"Got it, boss!" Seungkwan salutes as if he were reporting to a general, even though his eyes keep darting over your face with concern. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray leaf off your shoulder. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to either faint or commit a felony."

You shake your head. "I am a vision of zen," you lie, grabbing your clipboard and checking off the reception tables. "I am practically levitating with inner peace. Now, where's Seok?"

"He is finishing the floral aisle for the ceremony. Everything looks incredible, Y/N. You outdid yourself."

You swallow hard, the knot in your throat feeling thicker than a fist. "Good. That's good. Everything has to be perfect."

You take a deep, shaky breath, looking down at the small tray resting on table thirteen. Sitting on the top of the velvet lining are five meticulously crafted boutonnieres, featuring a single white ranunculus blossoms accented with trailing greenery.

"I'm going to run these up to the main house," you announce, voice sounding too hollow for your liking. "If Angela comes looking for me, tell her I am delivering the boutonnieres to the groom's suite and will be back in ten minutes to do the final sweep of the aisle."

Seungkwan opens his mouth to offer to go in your place — you can see the pity forming in his eyes — but you grab the tray before he can formulate the words.

You can't let him do it. If you're going to survive today, you must face the worst of it. You have to look Hansol in the eye on his wedding day and cut the invisible cord that has kept your heart tethered to him for years.

When you walk in, the inside of the house is quiet compared to the bustling chaos of the backyard. The Persian rugs swallow the sound of your sensible flats, creating an eerie silence that only amplifies the frantic, terrified hammering of your heart.

You walk up the staircase toward the second floor, your hands gripping the edges of the tray so tightly your knuckles are stark white. The air up here smells like lemon polish, layered with the familiar scent of the house you used to spend your weekends during your university days.

You mentally rehearse the script in your head, over and over. Congratulations. Have a wonderful wedding. Clean. Professional. Devoid of the fact that you want to scream until your lungs give out.

First, you hand out the groomsmen's boutonnieres one by one, not recognizing a single face among them. It makes you wonder what happened to Hansol's friendship with Minghao and Chan—his two best friends—and whether these men belong to this new chapter of his life, one you are not part of.

They're all nice, of course, and one of them even flirts with you, giving you the certainty that they don't know who you are. The one who introduced himself as Mingyu flashes you with a beautiful smile and asks if he'll be seeing you at the reception later.

Not a single chance. Not even over your dead body.

Finally, you reach the double doors of what used to be his father's study, now converted into the groom's holding room for the day. You raise a trembling hand, preparing to knock. But before your knuckles can even graze the wood, the handle clicks loudly and the door swings open, violently knocking the air straight out of your lungs.

Hansol steps out into the hallway, and your brain immediately flashes the mental equivalent of a TV with no signal.

He isn't just handsome — he's absolutely, devastatingly breathtaking. He's wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo, but the jacket is nowhere to be seen. His crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the long line of his throat. A black silk vest molds perfectly to the expanse of his chest, though it's still unfastened, and a black satin bow tie hangs loose around his neck, completely undone.

He looks flustered, his hair slightly ruffled as though he's been running his hands through it in frustration. "I swear to God, if they put one more safety pin in this collar…" Hansol grumbles to himself, looking down at his cuffs.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes lock onto yours, he freezes.

The silence is absolute as you stare at each other, both of you forgetting, if only for a minute, what you were supposed to be doing.

You force your eyes away from his face, lowering your gaze to the tray holding the only two boutonnieres left in your hands, because if you look at him for one second longer, you're going to fall apart right here against the wainscoting.

Surprise colors his voice as your name leaves his lips. "Y/N."

"I brought the boutonniere," you rush to explain before he even has a chance to ask, the words coming out almost mechanically. "For the groom and the groomsmen. I didn't want to leave them with the caterers' downstairs. They… they need to stay fresh."

Hansol doesn't look at the tray. He looks at your face, his gaze sweeping over your carefully applied makeup, catching on to the subtle, undeniable puffiness around your eyes that the concealer couldn't quite hide. A long exhale slips past his lips as his hands drop from his cuffs to hang at his sides.

"Right. The flowers."

He seems almost disappointed, looking down at his unfastened vest and the tangled silk of his bow tie. A helpless almost boyish look crosses his face—a look you haven't seen since you were nineteen and he was trying to figure out how to fold a fitted sheet in his dorm room.

"My hands are too shaky to do the tie," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. When he looks back up at you, there's a vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't get the knot right. And these fucking buttons on this vest are microscopic."

He hesitates. He doesn't have to say it, you can already see the question in his eyes.

"Could you… do you mind?"

He shouldn't ask. You shouldn't even consider. This is the absolute definition of crossing a line. You're nothing but the florist here, and he's your first love and potentially the love of your life, and he's getting married in an hour. You already know that when you tell your friends about this, they're going to call him anything but pretty for asking you — of all people — to do this.

But the panic in Hansol's eyes overrides every single rational thought in your brain.

You nod once, a jerky movement. You carefully set the tray down on an antique half-moon table sitting flush against the hallway wall. You take a breath, commanding your legs to work and step into his space.

Closing the distance between you is like stepping directly into the blast radius of a bomb. The moment you're inches from him, the scent of his perfume wraps around you. Your hands are trembling so badly you have to clench them into fists for a second before you reach up.

"Turn toward the window," you whisper, your voice barely audible, gesturing to the sunlight streaming in from outside.

He turns lightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breath. You reach out, your fingertips grazing the crisp cotton of his dress shirt. The heat radiating off his skin is impossible to ignore, and it takes the strength of a saint to keep your focus on the tiny black buttons of his vest instead of letting your gaze drift above his collarbone.

You slip the first button through its hole, your knuckles brushing against the firm plane of his stomach. The contact is fleeting, but you feel his muscles instantly contract under your touch.

Show no emotion. You are an unfeeling, emotionless void, you chant in your head.

You move up, fastening the second button, then the third. You see his breath catching just enough that you feel it under your knuckles. Neither of you says a word. Your fingers linger on the fourth button longer than they need to, and his pulse keeps thudding against your wrist.

Damn. Wedding jitters really were a thing, you think, trying to ignore the ache that thought leaves behind.

Once the vest is secured, you reach for the black satin tie draped around his neck.

"Lift your chin," you instruct.

He obeys, tilting his head back slightly. You step even closer, the toes of your flats pressing right against the leather of his dress shoes. You loop the silk around his collar, your wrists hovering just millimeters from the skin of his neck. There you can still feel the rapid, thumping beat of his pulse right beneath his jawline.

It's now racing just as fast as yours.

"You look tired," he declares, with no trace of doubt in his voice.

You shrug slightly. "I've been working," you reply stiffly, pulling the loops of the silk bow taut. You adjust the edges, making sure they are perfectly symmetrical. "Weddings are exhausting."

A quiet scoff escapes him, his mint-scented breath fanning across your face. “Your eyes are red, Y/N,” he says flatly.

You smooth your hands down the lapels of his vest, giving it one final, unnecessary adjustment.

"Allergies. The ranunculus is aggressive this season."

He looks like he wants to say something, but you step back so suddenly it almost startles him, forcing a massive, unbearable distance between you. The sudden loss of his body heat leaves you feeling hollow and inexplicably freezing cold.

"There. You're done. The tie is perfect."

Hansol lowers his chin, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something in your face. If you didn't know better — if you weren't standing here because he was about to get married to someone else — you would think he looks like he wants to grab your hands and pull your right back into his chest from how utterly torn apart he seems.

It's too much. The intimacy, the proximity, the crushing reality that within an hour, he is going to stand under the floral arch you built and pledge his life to someone else. You can't do this anymore. The dam inside you is cracking, and if you don't leave right now, you're going to sob hysterically at his feet.

You turn quickly, grabbing the tray from the table, and picking up the small box containing the most elaborate boutonniere: the one that belongs to the groom. You turn back to him, lifting your chin, forcing every ounce of professional detachment and fake bravery you possess into your posture, and hold the box out to him.

"Here…" You convince yourself your hand is trembling only slightly. "This is for you. The other one is for the best man."

He looks down at the box, making no move to take it.

"Have a wonderful wedding, Hansol," you force the words out, each syllable tasting like ash on your tongue. "I mean it. I want you to be happy. And Hannah is… she is a lovely girl. You guys are going to have a beautiful life together."

Hansol freezes almost comically. The intense gaze he had fixed on you vanishes entirely, replaced by a look of profound, absolute bewilderment. He stares at you like you have just started speaking entirely in a whole new language. He looks at the box in your hand, then back up to your face, his brow furrowing so deeply it creates a crease between his eyes.

"What?"

"I said, have a wonderful wedding," you repeat against your will. You just want him to take the box, so you can flee. "Just take the box, Hansol, please. I have to go back to the yard."

Before you can shove the box into his chest and run, his hand shoots out. His fingers wrap gently but firmly around your wrist, interrupting your movements completely.

"Y/N…" Your name comes out like it costs him something to say it, incredulous, laced with a sudden, dawning realization.

Hansol steps closer, paying no attention to the tray between you or the two boutonnieres resting on it. His eyes search your face frantically, as though it might be the last face he'll ever see.

"It's Seungcheol's wedding."

If your brain had been a TV with no signal, now it's a frozen screen desperately trying to reload.

You don't even blink. You just stare at him in complete astonishment. "What?"

"Seungcheol," Hansol repeats slowly, as if speaking to a deeply confused child. "My brother. It's his wedding. I'm just the best man."

You're pretty sure the hallway does a full three-sixty around you.

You feel stupid. You feel utterly ridiculous. The ground could — and should — open and swallow you whole. Heat floods every inch of your body, your face burning with embarrassment so intensely you can feel spreading through your face in different shades of red.

Hansol's not the groom.

The relief that crashes over you is instantaneous. It feels like a literal boulder has been lifted off your chest. Your lungs expand, drawing in the first full, deep breath you've taken in almost a month.

He isn't marrying Hannah. He isn't marrying anyone.

How deep in denial had you been to dismiss the possibility of Seungcheol getting married the very moment it crossed your mind?

Hansol's eyes flutter shut briefly, and when he opens them again, confusion is written all over his face, brows knit together. "Wait," he breathes, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. "Wait a second. The whole time… you thought I was getting married?"

He steps fully into your space, his grip on your arm shifting as his hand slides down to lightly grasp your fingers. You stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, brain so empty you're completely incapable of forming a coherent lie.

"Yes," you admit, your face burning with a fresh new wave of fiery embarrassment. "Your father's name was on the check. And… and you were at the driveway. And I… I just assumed."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because!" you blurt, sounding distressingly like a child throwing a tantrum. "God, that explains why Minghao and Chan aren't here."

"Why would they be at my brother's wedding?"

"I thought we'd just established that I believed this was your wedding."

Hansol lets out a breathless, stunned sound that is half a laugh and half a gasp of disbelief, shaking his head. "I haven't even spoken to a woman with those intentions in years. And you thought I could plan a wedding? You thought I would not mention my impending nuptials to you, of all people?"

"I don't know, Hansol!" you squeak defensively, taking step back enough so his hands drop to his side, though the loss of his touch instantly makes you crave it again. "You were acting weird! And your mom said something about her son's big day and I just thought—"

"She has two of them!" Hansol cuts you off, running a hand through his hair, looking stressed.

"But Seungcheol said once that he was staying single for the rest of his life!"

"That was before Hannah." He looks at you, his eyes dancing with a chaotic mix of amusement and shock. "God, no wonder you've been looking at me like I peed in your sunflowers. You thought I was making you decorate my wedding to another woman."

You look down at the vintage rug, mortified beyond belief. "It seemed entirely plausible at the time."

Hansol takes a step closer, the amusement in his voice and eyes fading into something intensely serious like you’ve only seen once before—when the two of you broke up. His hands are on your shoulders again.

"Y/N. Look at me."

You don't want to. You want the hardwood floor to open and swallow you. But you slowly lift your chin, meeting his gaze.

"If I was getting married, you wouldn't be just the florist."

Your heart stops. You swear you can feel it flatline right there, lurching from a frantic rhythm to nothing at all before kicking back to life in a wild, panicked sprint.

Before you can even process the magnitude of what he just said, before you can formulate a response, the doors of the master suite down the hall fly open with a violent BANG.

"It's catastrophe! It is an absolute disaster!"

Hansol and you instantly jump apart, the bubble between you popping instantly.

Two seconds later, Angela bursts into the hallway like a one-woman tornado in a tailored pantsuit. Her signature tight pear-bun is beginning to fray, and she's clutching her iPad to her chest as though it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

You're certain you've never seen her like this before.

"Angela, what's wrong?" you ask, feeling Hansol's gaze reluctantly shift from you to her.

"Is it Seungcheol? Did he hyperventilate again?"

Angela gasps, marching down the hallway. "No, the groom is fine. He's with your mother." She stops short in front of you, her wild eyes sweeping over you from head to toe in frantic assessment. "It's Leonor. Her flight was grounded because of a massive freak storm. She's not going to make it."

"Okay…" Hansol says, calm as ever. "That's unfortunate. But I can just walk down the aisle alone, and—"

"You don't understand!" Angela interrupts, her voice shrill. "Hannah is inconsolable. And the symmetry is ruined. I cannot have an uneven bridal party. It's asymmetrical. I do not do asymmetrical weddings!"

Watching her spiral makes you — though unwillingly — step far away from Hansol, slipping back into your role as the florist, and just another professional hired to keep this wedding from falling apart.

"Angela, breathe," you say, resting a reassuring hand on her forearm. "It happens. If you want, I can adjust the floral arch to cover the empty space on the bridesmaids' side—"

"No!" she snaps, pointing a manicured finger directly at your face. "We don't need more flowers. We need a body. And Hannah specifically asked for you."

There's no way you're hearing her correctly. "I'm sorry… what?"

Angela steps directly into your personal space, her eyes so wildly determined that even Hansol takes a step back.

She points a finger squarely at your chest like she's just solved the world's biggest problem. "You. Hannah loves you. And you know the schedule. You're young, you're objectively very good-looking, and more importantly, you look like you can fit in Leonor's dress."

A cold, creeping dread starts to pool in the pit of your stomach.

"Angela, no. I'm the florist. I'm wearing a black apron covered in sap."

"Leonor's dress is in the master suite," Angela barrels on, completely ignoring you. She grabs your arm with an iron-clad grip. "It's a silk slip. It requires zero tailoring. We have the hair and makeup team on standby. They can fix…" she waves a hand vaguely at your face, "whatever happened to your eyes."

"I cannot walk down that aisle!" Your voice comes out in another panicked squeak as you struggle to keep it from turning into a full-blown shout, desperately trying to pry your arm free from her vice-like grip.

You turn to Hansol for help.

"Tell her this madness! Tell her I'm just a vendor!"

Hansol stares at you for a moment before slowly turning to Angela. A dangerously slow grin spreads across his face.

"Well…" he drawls, crossing his arms and leaning into the hallway wall like he has all the time in the world. He looks entirely too relaxed for a guy whose brother's wedding is supposedly imploding. "The symmetry is very important, Y/N. We wouldn't want to ruin Hannah's day."

"I will kill you," you hiss at him.

Angela yanks you forcefully toward the master suite. "C'mon! We have exactly forty-nine minutes before the prelude music starts!"

You stumble after her, your brain desperately trying to catch up with the absurdity of your life. You're about to be forced into a bridesmaid dress for a woman you spent the last three weeks deeply resenting because of a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that, in hindsight, was a spectacular problem of your own making.

You dig your heels into the carpet, forcing Angela to a sudden halt. You twist your body around, looking back down the long stretch of the hallway.

Hansol is still standing exactly where you left him. The tray sits abandoned on the table beside him. The grin is gone. Instead, he's watching you, his brown eyes blazing with that same complicated emotion that had brought your heart to a complete standstill only moments ago.

He raises a hand, adjusting his cuffs, and even from twenty feet away, his voice carries perfectly down the quiet corridor.

"I guess I'll see you at the altar."

Primrose — a sweet bond and young love.

Marriage only came up once during your entire relationship with Hansol.

Not because you didn't want to marry him, or because you thought he didn't want to marry you. It was more like you didn't think he wanted to get married at all.

It wasn't that he didn't love you, you never doubted that he did. It was just that marriage had never seemed like his thing—the idea of legally binding himself to someone for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, you had always seen marriage as little more than a social contract, a legal institution created to interfere in people's private lives and, sometimes, pressure them into bringing more children into the world, as if the planet wasn't already populated enough.

You loved each other deeply, and neither of you believed a piece of paper could strengthen what already existed between you. Love was enough. As long as he was walking through life beside you, you never needed anything else.

But as you watched Chan, the youngest in your friends group, marry the love of his life at barely twenty-one, you couldn't help wondering throughout the ceremony whether Hansol had ever given that possibility any thought.

The reception was very loud, the exact kind of thrown-together party you'd expect from a couple still finishing their sophomore year. Minghao was DJing for the night, blasting early 2010s club anthems alongside an impressive amount of Michael Jackson. The open bar consisted entirely of cheap vodka and aggressively sweet cranberry juice, both of which you were avoiding religiously.

You were leaning against the edge of a sticky high-top table, watching Chan and his new wife attempt to drop it low on the dance floor without tearing her rented tulle dress.

Hansol was standing next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He had already ditched his suit jacket, tossing it over a nearby chair, and had rolled the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt up to his elbows. He looked entirely too good, which unfortunately had your mind wandering straight to the private after-party you definitely weren't supposed to be thinking about.

He was nursing a can of beer, nodding along to the beat of On the Floor.

"I give Chan a lot of credit," Hansol said, tipping his can in the Chan's direction. "He's twenty-one and he just signed away his right to file single on his taxes. That's brave."

You let out a small laugh, peeling the lid off your plastic cup filled with ginger ale. "You think he even knows how to do his taxes yet?"

"Absolutely not." Hansol shakes his head, taking a slow sip.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed, your thumb now tracing the condensation on the cup. You took a breath, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the chaotic dance floor, trying to make your voice sound as casual as humanly possible.

"Have you ever thought about it?" you asked, the words coming out a little too quickly for someone trying to sound nonchalant.

Hansol didn't flinch. He didn't choke on his drink or tense up. He just turned his head, his eyes studying the side of your face. "Thought about Chan's taxes?"

"No," you corrected, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. You bumped your shoulder against his, a defensive little reflex. "Getting married. The whole thing."

He looked at you for a long moment, and your heart rises into your throat, almost making you regret asking the question at all. He didn't look panicked by the loaded question, though. He just looked like he's processing it, turning the thought over in his mind like a piece of information he wants to understand before answering.

"Not really," he finally said, resting his elbows on the table. "Never saw the appeal of paying the government to validate a relationship."

It was exactly the answer you expected. It aligned perfectly with his practical, logic-driven brain, and yet, a tiny, irrational silver of disappointment snagged in your chest.

You nodded, going back to picking at your cup. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."

Hansol shifted his weight, closing the small gap between you. He bumped his shoulder back against yours, his voice dropping slightly so you could hear him clearly over the music.

"But," he added, his tone entirely conversational, "if it was with you, I'd be down."

You froze, your fingernail catching on the edge of the cup. You looked up at him. "You would?"

"Yeah." Hansol nodded, confirming it with a small shrug. He didn't look like he's making some grand, theatrical declaration. He looked like he's stating a completely obvious fact. "I'd do the whole thing. The legal paperwork, the expensive rings, the house with the yard in Westchester. Two kids."

You abandoned your plastic cup on the sticky high-top table, turning to face him completely. Stepping into his space, you reached up, lacing your fingers together behind the nape of his neck.

"Two kids, huh?" you asked, a teasing smile breaking across your face.

His hands settled naturally on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer over the pounding of the music. "Yeah," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "The first one is going to need company."

You let out a genuine, breathless laugh. The image was entirely ridiculous. "Babe, you don't know the first thing about kids. Last week at the grocery store, a toddler waved at you in the cereal aisle, and you froze up and gave him a stiff salute like he was a foreign dignitary."

"I'll figure it out," he stated, completely unfazed by his own total lack of qualifications. He leaned in a little closer, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your hip. "I'm a fast learner. If it's with you, I don't really care about the rest of it. I'm in, babe."

He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just stood there holding you in the middle of the chaotic reception, entirely unfazed by the fact that he had just casually rearranged your entire internal universe.

You stared into his eyes, a ridiculous warmth spreading from your chest all the way to your fingertips. You couldn't stop the huge smile that broke across your face, so you buried it against his chest before he could catch you grinning like an absolute idiot.

Snowdrop — hope and the warmth of a heart waking up.

You're shoved, zipped, and sprayed into a bridesmaid status in precisely forty minutes and twelve seconds. The makeup artist-slash-hairstylist worked like a woman possessed, wielding a canister of strong-hold hairspray in one hand and powder puff in the other, muttering something about miracles under pressure while aggressively taming every flyaway.

The sage green satin slipped over your hips with a satisfying rustle, the fabric molding effortlessly to your figure. The softly gathered sweetheart neckline settles perfectly across your chest, draping exactly as it's meant to, as though the dress had been made for you instead of Leonor.

You barely had time to send a message to the group chat with Seokmin and Seungkwan, telling them you'd explain everything later and that they were okay to leave. They even offered to pick you up afterward, but you turned them down, knowing that would only delay the inevitable conversation waiting for you later.

You're still fastening the strap of your left heel when Angela grabs you by the elbow and practically catapults you out of the room.

You burst into the back hallway just as Hannah is finishing her final veil adjustment. She looks breathtaking, a vision delicately off the shoulder lace, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her glowing face. The moment she sees you, her eyes light up, completely devoid of any panic.

Hannah squeals, entirely ignoring Angela's horrified gasp as she steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around you. "Y/N!"

The scent of her expensive orange blossom perfume surrounds you. She leans back just enough to hold you at arm's length, her expression shifting into a radiant—and conspiratorial—smile.

You can't help but wonder how much she knows about... well, everything.

"Thank you so much for doing this!" Hannah whispers in your ear, her voice bubbling with excitement. "You look so beautiful!"

You smile back at her, tilting your head. "Me? You look like a literal goddess," you say, voice breathy with genuine awe. Your fingertips lightly graze the delicate lace of her sleeve. "You look gorgeous, Hannah."

Hannah smile gets even bigger, a soft, very knowing sparkle dancing in her eyes as she gives your hands another squeeze.

"Thank you. I really hope we can be great friends after today. And, you know…" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Maybe someday sisters."

Your heart breaks into a violent tap dance against your ribs. But before you can process—let alone question—the implication of her words, Angela is already dragging you away again, steering you toward the grand staircase.

"Positions! Now!" Angela hisses.

At the bottom of the staircase, the groomsmen are all lined up. And there, standing at the very front of the line, is Hansol.

The moment your foot touches the bottom step, his eyes find yours. Every trace of his usual relaxed posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden stillness. His gaze follows the line of the sage green silk, lingering at your collarbone before finally returning to your eyes. You hold your breath.

Hansol steps forward, offering you his arm. His black tuxedo jacket is fully buttoned now, his bow tie perfectly straight. You thread your hand through his arm, and even through the fine wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body seeps into your skin, sending a flush creeping across your cheeks.

He clears his throat. "Nice dress," he murmurs, teasing tone in his voice as you both step into queue behind the other couples.

"Don't start, traitor," you grumble, keeping your eyes fixed forward as the double doors leading to the backyard swing open. The warm summer breeze carries in the sound of a string quartet playing what sounds like a cello-and-piano rendition of You're Still the One.

"I'm serious, though. You look beautiful."

You do your best to ignore what his words do to you—how the sound of his voice settles deep in your chest—because, at that very moment, the two of you step out into the ceremony. Hundreds of guests turn their heads, their eyes sweeping over you both as you walk down the aisle towards the massive archway you spent all morning constructing.

"I still can't believe you thought I was the one getting married," Hansol whispers, keeping his stride perfectly in time with yours. There's humor in his voice again.

You wave subtly at distant relatives of Hansol's you recognize. "I don't want to talk about it," you mutter through a frozen smile.

He doesn't seem to care, though. "To Hannah? Really?"

Hansol doesn't sound dismissive of Hannah when he says it—far from it. If anything, he sounds as though the very idea is the most absurd thing in the world.

Then, his shoulders start to vibrate.

You glance sideways to find Hansol biting his lower lip, his jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to maintain his composure. But it's a losing battle. A moment later, a breathless snort escapes him, completely shattering the solemn, elegant atmosphere of the processional.

"Hansol, stop it," you hiss, smile tightening into a grimace. "People are looking."

"You—" he starts, but his voice cracks, and he has to stop, clearing his throat, his chest heaving. He looks up at the sky, trying to blink back tears of amusement. "You actually thought… oh my god, Y/N."

"I had a momentary lapse in judgment!" you whisper-yell, cheeks burning with a heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the burning sun above you.

Another wave of silent laughter hits him, making his shoulders roll, and this time you're laughing with him. A lady in the third row, wearing an enormous, feathered fascinator, gives you a highly disapproving look, Hansol barely notice; he's too busy trying to draw a breath without snickering.

"It completely blows my mind that you actually thought I could ever stand at an altar with anyone else."

Your chest does a funny thing, stomach currently doing a dizzying free-fall.

"Shut up," you breathe, staring straight ahead.

As you pass the front row of chairs, your eyes catch his mother. She is sitting in the place of honor, looking like a queen in her dusty rose gown. Seeing her son recovering from a literal laughing fit while walking you down the aisle, she offers you a smile, raising her eyebrows an inch in a silent, conspiratorial smile that makes your own brows knit together in confusion.

What the hell is going on?

You reach the altar and you release Hansol's arm, stepping to the left to take your place exactly where Leonor was supposed to stand.

As you settle into place, you look up and lock eyes with Seungcheol. He—standing stiffly in his suit—looks at your face, then down at the dress, and then back at your face. His thick brows furrows in absolute, comical bewilderment. He raises a hand gives you a small, incredibly confused wave, his mouth twisting into a silent, What on earth are you doing here? expression.

You offer him a helpless, apologetic little shrug in return.

Hansol steps to the right, taking his place beside his brother, who immediately nudges him with an elbow, whispering what can only be a frantic question that Hansol shuts down with a quick entertained shake of his head.

You stand rigidly, clutching your small bouquet of peonies. You have absolutely no idea what you are doing. You don't know when to hold Hannah's train, you don't know when to take her bouquet, and your mind is entirely consumed by the fact that Hansol is standing directly across from you, his eyes not leaving you for a second, watching your every move.

The music swells. The guests stand. Hannah walks down the aisle, a radiant beam of light, and the ceremony officially begin.

But as the minister starts to speak, the words wash over you in a blur. Your focus is entirely pulled to the guy standing across the floral-draped altar. The space between you feels incredibly small, charged with unsaid words, missed phone calls, and the lingering sting of a sunny July afternoon.

Seungcheol clears his throat, taking Hannah's hands as they prepare to exchange their vows.

You would have thought that, not knowing their story, the vows wouldn't affect you all that much. You are proven wrong the moment Seungcheol opens his mouth.

"I don't promise you a life without hardship," he begins, his voice clearly emotional, not even trying to hide. "I know there will be days when the road is steep, when the answers aren't clear, and when life asks more of us than we think we can give. But what I do promise is that you'll never have to face those days alone."

Across the altar, you can see the exact moment Hansol's expression changes, darkens, even. Any lingering traces of laughter that had been in his gaze moments ago completely disappear, replaced by a raw vulnerability that cuts straight through you.

You wish you didn't know him well enough to understand what was going through his mind. Even if parts of you tried to deny it, your heart already knew. His gaze, his expression, they were telling you the same thing.

Hansol was thinking about you.

"I promise to stand beside you when the world feels too much, to hold your hand when you're afraid, and to remind you of your strength when you've forgotten it yourself. And if distance ever separates us, my love won't. Whether there are miles between us or life pulls us in different directions, I'll keep choosing you, Hannah. I'll always find my way back to you, because home has never been a place for me, it's wherever you are."

Seungcheol's vows shouldn't feel like a brutal mirror, reflecting every single piece of your unresolved wreckage back at you while Hansol and you make unbroken eye contact—but they very much do.

You can't stop the hot, fat tear that spills over your eyelashes, tracing slowly down your cheek. An overwhelming mix of emotions crashing over you all at once. The sudden relief of knowing he isn't marrying someone else tangled with the aching regret for all the years you wasted, sitting in your own separate silences, waiting for the other person to break first.

But most of all, you're feeling hopeful.

Because as you wipe the tear away with a trembling finger, Hansol doesn't look away. He watches you, his own eyes shining with a faint, watery warmth, even if you know he’s not going to cry, his gaze holding something so that fuels that feeling. He is looking at you exactly the way he did before he left—like you're his home, and he is finally ready to walk through the door again.

Forget-Me-Not — true, undying love.

The battery percentage on your screen ticked down to fifteen percent, but you barely notice. Your eyes remain fixed on the digital clock in the top corner of the screen marking 7:42 PM, wondering what acceptable time would be to leave.

The reception in the backyard is a mix of a live jazz band, clinking glasses, and people laughing happily under canopy of warm fairy light strung between the trees. In the last three hours, you watched the newlyweds' first dance, the bouquet toss, and a dozen other wedding traditions, yet you still couldn't find a moment alone with Hansol.

You barely caught glimpses of him through the crowd.

So now you just sit by yourself at a table near the edge of the dance floor, staring at a plate with a half-eaten slice of wedding cake.

It didn't help that a few of Hansol's relatives had already made a point of coming over to speak with you. His great aunt had stopped by your chair to pat your shoulder with an agonizingly happy smile, telling you that she had always known you and Hansol would find your way back to each other. Meanwhile, his older cousin had asked if you were seeing anyone new yet, her eyes scanning your face for any sign of a breakdown.

You had just smiled until your cheeks cramped, nodding through the thinly veiled interrogations while aggressively shredding a paper napkin under the table.

"The cake is actually terrible, isn't it?"

You jump slightly in your chair, startled.

A guy is standing next to your table, and you recognize him immediately. He's the same one that flirted with you earlier while you pinned a white ranunculus boutonniere on his lapel: Mingyu. He's tall, with a really nice smile, and he's already ditched his tuxedo jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and loosened his black bow tie so it hangs casually around his neck.

"Never said it was terrible," you reply, offering a polite smile.

"You didn't have to," Mingyu laughs, pulling out the empty chair next to you and sitting down. He rests his elbows on the table, holding a glass of club soda with lime. "I watched you push that same piece of frosting around for a solid two minutes. It's okay to admit it. Fondant is basically edible plastic." 

"It really is," you admit, relaxing a little. "I think people just buy wedding cakes for the pictures. No one actually expects them to taste good."

"Exactly. I'm hitting up a diner for a real burger the second this is over," Mingyu says, setting his drink down. He leans back in his chair, looking at you with a thoughtful expression. "I thought I wouldn't be seeing you here tonight."

You thought that too. But you don't tell him that. You pick at the edge of your paper napkin, instead, offering a small smile. "Small change of plans."

"Well, it's a really nice thing you did for Hannah." Mingyu gestures toward the dress and the surrounding floral setups with a smile. "Seriously. The flowers look incredible."

"Thanks, Mingyu," you reply, feeling a small wave of relief at his easygoing demeanor.

He gestures toward the centerpieces this time. "Hannah told me you own a shop in the city. Poppy's Garden, right?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"That massive flower arch thing during the ceremony?" Mingyu continues, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "I have no idea how you built that without it falling over on the minister."

He sounds like he means it. He isn't giving you a sleazy line. He’s just a genuinely nice guy making conversation.

"A lot of zip ties and silent prayers," you explain, letting out a real laugh for the first time in hours.

Mingyu smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it down again and looks at you. "So, you've been sitting over here by yourself for the last forty minutes. I know because I've been trying to figure out an excuse to come talk to you."

You blink at least three times, slightly taken aback by how straightforward he is. "Oh. You didn't need an excuse."

"Good to know." He leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward the dance floor. "The band is actually pretty decent. I know you've probably been on your feet all day dealing with the setup, but I was wondering if you’d want to dance."

"W-what?"

"I mean… you're definitely the most beautiful girl here, and it seems like a shame that you're hiding in the corner."

It's a nice compliment. It's polite, it’s flattering, and Mingyu is objectively very handsome. You open your mouth, fully intending to say yes, just to get out of your own head for a few minutes.

Before you can even form the first syllable, a shadow falls over the white linen tablecloth.

"She's actually taking a break right now."

The voice is low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection.

You look up to find Hansol standing right behind Mingyu's chair.

He still has his tuxedo jacket on, though it's unbuttoned. His hands are shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He isn't glaring, and he isn't puffing his chest out. He just looks incredibly, intensely solid—and hot. His eyes fixed on Mingyu, and his jaw is set in a rigid, immovable line.

Mingyu turns around, looking up at Hansol in surprise. "Oh. Hey, man. I was just asking Y/N if she wanted to hit the dance floor."

"I heard." He doesn't move an inch. "She has company, though."

Mingyu blinks, looking back and forth between Hansol and you as he pieces it together. He's smart guy, it only takes him two seconds to reach the tension rolling off Hansol in waves. He let out a short, incredulous laugh, raising an eyebrow at Hansol.

"Wait... I thought you guys broke up."

"We're handling it." Hansol's tone isn't aggressive, but it's final. He doesn't offer an explanation. He just holds Mingyu's gaze, projecting an aura that very clearly says this conversation is over until the message lands loud and clear.

Not even you knew what exactly you were handling, let alone Mingyu.

"Got it," Mingyu finally says, holding his hands up in easy surrender as he stands up from the chair. He picks up his drink, giving you a slightly amused wink. "My bad. I'll leave you two to it. Catch you later, Y/N. Great job on the flowers."

You offer him a small wave. "Thanks, Mingyu."

Mingyu walks away, disappearing into the crowd near the bar.

You sit frozen, staring at Hansol. Your heart is suddenly beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. Seeing him act like this is entirely jarring. In all the time you dated, Hansol was the king of nonchalance. He never got jealous. If a guy ever hit on you, Hansol would just laugh, wrap an arm around your waist, and shrug it off. He was always so ridiculously secure in himself. And most of all, he always trusted you.

But right now? He looks very territorial. And you absolutely hate that the only thing you can think about is how incredibly hot it is.

Hansol watches Mingyu walk away until he is completely out of sight. Then, he pulls his hands out of his pockets. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you, and holds his right hand out to you, palm facing up.

"C'mon."

You stare at his hand. "Come on where?"

"Dance floor," he clarifies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It isn't.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Hansol, you don't dance. The last time we went to a wedding, you literally hid by the buffet table for three hours eating crab cakes so my aunt wouldn't drag you out there."

"I know." He shrugs, not withdrawing his hand. His eyes lock onto yours, completely serious. "But I want to dance with you."

The lack of hesitation in his voice leaves you totally speechless. There is no joke, no sarcastic deflection. He is just standing there, waiting for you.

You reach out and place your hand in his, his fingers closing around yours immediately. His grip is warm, firm, and familiar. He pulls you up from the chair, and the silk of your dress rustles against his trousers as he leads you way from the table, navigating through the maze of guests and empty chairs.

You step onto the dance floor just as the band transitions into a Frank Sinatra song.

Hansol doesn't ask how you want to hold him. He just steps in close, sliding his right hand firmly onto the small of your back, right at the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm seeps instantly through the thin silk of the dress. You rest your left hand flat against his chest, right over his heart, and your joined hands settle comfortably between you.

It leaves you breathless how you fit together exactly the way we did years ago. Your heights match perfectly. The muscle memory is so immediate, so natural, that it actually makes your chest ache in the best way possible.

For the first minute, you just sway. You don't say a word. You move slowly to the song, ignoring the dozens of couples swaying around you. You keep your eyes focused on the knot of his bow tie, acutely aware of his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your spine.

"You shouldn't have been rude to Mingyu. He was just being nice," you say eventually.

"I wasn't rude," Hansol states, his chin brushing the top of your head. "I just stated a fact. You were busy."

"I was sitting by myself staring at a napkin."

"You were busy," he repeats stubbornly.

You shake your head, looking up at him. "I'm only here because of your sister-in-law, Hansol."

"Mhm." His lips twitch. "Not even a little for me?"

"You're asking that after I spent the last three weeks terrified because I thought you were the one getting married today?"

A laugh escapes him. "I think it's safe to say we had a pretty catastrophic case of miscommunication there."

You glance around the reception, only to find his parents watching from a nearby table, both wearing impossibly—and suspiciously—wide smiles. Across the dance floor, Hannah and Seungcheol wear that very same expression, their attention fixed on the two of you as well.

You tilt your head to the side, meeting Hansol's gaze without breaking your rhythm. “I suspect that was entirely intentional.”

Hansol sighs and looks away toward the band.

"I know." He looks down at you again, as though he's about to confess something. "My mother and Hannah planned all of this behind my back. They purposely booked your shop, so we'd run into each other again."

A corner of his mouth lifts shyly.

"It was all on purpose."

"They actually wanted me to think you were the groom," you gasp, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "They wanted a reaction."

"Did it work?" he asks, one perfectly lined eyebrow arching.

"I threw up in a trash can behind the loading dock this morning," you admit, deciding you don't care about preserving your pride anymore. "What do you think?"

Hansol's jaw clenches, and he stops swaying for a second. His hand tightens against your back, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer, as though the mere thought of having caused you that much pain unsettles him.

"I'm sorry. I never would have agreed to that. It was a stupid, manipulative thing to do."

You shrug, looking away. "It doesn't matter. The wedding is over. You can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine."

"But I told you I'm living in Brooklyn now," Hansol reminds you, his eyes searching yours. "I transferred my contract to the New York division. The rest of my stuff is getting shipped next week."

He sounds hopeful, and against your better judgment, you feel hopeful too.

You nod, the memory of what he told Poppy weeks ago still making your thoughts scramble. Even so, there's one thing you still need to know.

"Since when?"

You don't need to explain. Hansol knows.

"The day I saw you in the driveway."

An incredulous, breathy laugh escapes you. You shake your head, your mind scrambling to make sense of the timeline. “You decided to uproot your entire life and move across the country because we had one awkward conversation?”

"It wasn't just the awkward conversation, Y/N." His voice was losing the casual tone. "You looked at me like you hated me. And it bothered me so much I couldn't sleep for two days."

"But you were fine for four years!" you argue, your voice rising slightly over the music. The frustration is bubbling up, fast and hot. "You were completely fine, Hansol."

"I wasn't fine," he admits bluntly. "I hated it."

You hated it too.

Your break wasn't dramatic. It hadn't been a screaming match over who was right or wrong.

It was a random Tuesday afternoon, and Hansol had come over to your apartment to pick up the last of his winter coats before his flight back to Los Angeles after spending the weekend in New York again. You had been sitting at the kitchen table, buried under a pile of your mother's medical bills and past-due notices for the flower shop. You were exhausted, hair a mess, and you hadn't slept in three days.

When he sat down beside you, you both just looked at the paper mountain between you. There wasn't any fight left in either of you over whether you were going to Los Angeles anymore. You both already knew the answer; you were staying in New York. So, you looked each other in the eye and mutually agreed that pulling the plug was the only logical thing to do.

He had been so calm. So logical. You laid it out together like a business transaction, like two partners analyzing a bad contract and agreeing to walk away. Neither of you cried. Neither of you begged. You hugged goodbye, he picked up his bag pack and walked out the door. It was the absolute, shared coldness of it—the silent agreement to just give up—that had broken you.

Hansol lets out a sharp exhale. He drops his hand from yours, bringing it up to rub the back of his neck, looking incredibly frustrated. "I went along with the breakup because I felt completely useless, Y/N. I didn't push back because I knew I had nothing to offer you."

You frown. "What?"

"I was standing in your kitchen," he continues looking at you intently, "and you were drowning. Your mom was sick, you were working twelve hours a week, and you were stressed out of your mind. And I was leaving again. I couldn't pay your bills. I couldn't fix your mom. I couldn't do a single thing to actually help you."

He drops his hand, stepping closer to you again, forcing you to look up at him.

"I'm a practical guy, baby," he says, lifting his shoulder. "I couldn't fix your life, and I wanted to. So bad. When you suggested maybe we should end it, I went along with it because I knew if we stayed together, I would just be one more thing you had to worry about. One more person you had to text, one more schedule you had to manage. I thought letting us both walk away was doing you a favor."

Meanwhile, you believed you were doing him a favor by lifting the burden of your life off his shoulders with the breakup. And then you hated yourself for feeling hurt—for feeling almost hypocritical—that he hadn't fought against it.

You stare at him, your chest aching. "That is the stupidest logic I have ever heard."

"I know." He nods, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his mouth. "It was stupid. I was twenty-two, and I was an idiot. I thought we were being realistic. I didn't realize that being practical doesn't matter when you're miserable."

You stare up at him, the fairy lights blurring slightly as his words settle over you. For four years, you had convinced yourself that he walked way without a fight because it was the easiest thing to do. To hear him admit that he had been just as miserable—that he had broken his own heart out of some misguided attempt to protect yours—shifts the foundation of your memories.

"Have you dated anyone?" you ask, the question finally pushing its way out of your throat before anything else. You feel a little silly, yes, but you need to know.

"I went on a few dates," he answers, because of course he must be factually accurate. As always. "They sucked. All I could think about was how much I wished it was you instead. I couldn't do it." He gives the smallest shake of his head. "So, I just stopped trying."

The simplicity of his confession is staggering. There are no grand declarations, or poetic metaphors about stars and fate. It's just Hansol. The same you've always known. The same you've always loved.

"Why come back now?" you ask, your voice trembling. "My life is still messy, Hansol. The shop is doing objectively better, but everything is still the same. I still work crazy hours. None of the logistics have actually changed."

"I changed," he says simply.  

He reaches out, resting both of his hands on your waist. His thumbs press against the silk of the dress, right over your ribs.

"Forget about logistics. I have a stable job. I have a car. I can drive your mom to her physical therapy appointments. I can come to the shop and carry the heavy buckets when you have a massive order. I don't need to fix your life, Y/N. I just want to be in it. I want to carry everything with you."

The tears you've been fighting back since the ceremony ended finally spill over, tracking down your cheeks and ruining whatever setting spray the makeup artist used.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Hansol asks, his thumbs brushing against your sides. "Tell me the truth."

You shake your head. "No."

He breathes out a sigh, and you can see the tension completely drained out of his shoulders. The rigid posture is quickly replaced by the relaxed, comfortable Hansol you know. "Thank God. I really don't want to have to fight another groomsman tonight."

A wet laugh escapes you. "You are an idiot."

"Yeah. I really am."

The next second, Hansol is closing the final few inches between you, and when he kisses you, it's like you've been trapped in a coma for four years.

A soft, involuntary moan escapes you, almost more of a gasp than a sound. He swallows as your hands slide up his chest and curl around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck and holding on to him as though your next breath depends on it. Hansol's arms tighten around your waist, pulling you squarely against his chest so there's no space left between you.

His mouth moves against yours with grounding pressure, almost as though he's been waiting for this for years and has no intention of rushing it. You kiss him back just as hard, parting your lips just enough to meet him halfway, catching the cool taste of peppermint and the lingering hint of whatever he'd been drinking earlier mixed on his tongue.

The jazz band keeps playing, and the other guests keep dancing around you, but you barely notice them or when the music changes to another Frank Sinatra song. You just stand there in the middle of the crowded floor, holding onto him for dear life as though letting go would mean losing him all over again. All while letting him explore your mouth deliberately, sucking and biting deliciously.

For the first time all day, you aren't thinking about the time on your phone, the flower shop, or making a quick exit.

Hansol pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. He is breathing a little heavily, a genuine smile breaking across his face.

"I'll buy you a burger after this," he murmurs against your mouth. "Since you hate the cake."

"Okay," you whisper, smiling back. "Okay."

Except the burger doesn't happen.

Well, not right away.

Because two songs after the kiss on the dance floor, Hansol's hand is fisted in yours and he's pulling you through the crowd of guests, past a slightly tipsy Seungcheol who whistles at the sight of you, past his mother who pretends not to see the urgency her son is dragging you toward her house, past Angela who is too busy directing the sparkler send-off to notice her florist flipping away from the reception with the best man.

You laugh, stumbling over your heels on the stone patio. "Hansol, slow down."

You try to slow him down, but he only tightens his grip on your hand, glancing back at you with hungry eyes.

"Can't," he mutters, tugging you through the doors and into the quiet hush of the house. "I'm not waiting another goddamn minute."

The house is empty, since the staff are all outside handling the reception and the guests are gathered on the lawn. The only sound is the distant thumping of the bass from the band and the click of your heels against the hardwood as Hansol pulls you up the staircase, two steps at a time.

He leads you unhesitatingly to the last door on the left, exactly where you knew he would: his childhood bedroom.

The hallway passes you in a blur before he's pushing the door open and pulling you inside. The room is like a whole new wave of memories. The same navy-blue walls, the framed vinyl records above his old desk, the queen bed against the far wall with its rumpled white duvet. You can see that he probably slept here last night, because there's a duffel bag by the closet and a pair of sneakers kicked off near the desk.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And then Hansol is on you.

His hands cup your face, tilting your chin up, and his mouth crashes down onto yours with none of the careful restraint he'd shown before—if you can even call it that. This kiss is greedy and hungry. His tongue slides against yours, and you're, once again, moaning into his mouth, hands flying up to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.

The way he kisses you— like he's been starving, like you're the only thing he's ever craved—makes your mind spin. You want nothing more than to be devoured by him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the closed door. His hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping the silk of the dress. "Fuck, I forgot. I forgot how good you taste."

"Hansol—"

He kisses you again before you can say another word. One hand slides up the side of your throat to cup your jaw, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. His thumb presses against the corner of your mouth, and you open for him willingly, letting him lick into you with slow, filthy heat that makes your knees go weak.

Your hands are shaking as they push his tuxedo jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thump, and Hansol doesn't even glance at it. He's too busy dragging his mouth down the line of your jaw, the column of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the pulse fluttering wildly under your skin.

"Look at you in this fucking dress," he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your collarbone. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them possessively.

You gasp, arching into him as his teeth assault your throat. "It's not my dress."

He nips at your skin, and you feel it all the way down between your legs. "Don't care. It might as well be made for you."

His mouth is on yours again, and this time his hands start moving more frantic than before. They slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the silk, and you whimper shamelessly, feeling like you could melt right there.

Your head spins as he slowly draws back from your lips again, a fine thread of saliva stretching between them. He rests his forehead against yours for the briefest moment before nuzzling his face into the curve of your cheek, his lips brushing your ear in a teasing bite.

"You have any idea," he groans, breath hot against your ear as his hands skims down over your hip, gathering the silk of the dress in his fists, dragging the hem higher, "how many times I've thought about having you again? Every fucking night. Every fucking night for four years."

"Hansol—" His name breaks on your tongue as his palms slide under the hem of the dress, up the outside of your bare thigh.

"Tell me you thought about it too."

"I did," you whine. "So much."

His fingers trace the elastic of your underwear, and you feel him smile against your throat. "Yeah? Tell me, then. Tell me what you thought about, baby."

You can't. You can barely form words right now. His hands are inching up, thumbs pressing against your hipbone, and you're clinging to his shirt like you'll fall over if you let go.

Hansol seems to take pity on you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, and what he sees there makes his eyes darken to almost full black. A millisecond later he's kissing you again, and moving, and before you fully register what's happening, he's guiding you across the room to his old study desk.

In one smooth motion, he grips your waist and lifts you up onto it. You gasp at the sudden movement and the cool wood pressing against the backs of your thighs where the dress has ridden up. Hansol steps between your knees, forcing them apart with his hips, and cups your face again, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Then he drops to his knees.

Your breath leaves your lugs. He's still in his tuxedo pants and his white dress shirt, sleeves shove up his forearms now, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck—the one you tied for him hours ago—and he's staring up at you like you're something holy.

"Hansol."

"Yeah, baby?"

"I—" You don't know what you're going to say. You just want to say his name again. And again, again, again, again.

He smiles, soft and slow. And then his hands are on your knees, spreading them wilder, pushing the silk dress up higher until it's bunched around your waist and you're bare to him except for the thin cotton of your underwear. For a moment, you wish you were wearing something prettier and nicer for this moment, but those thoughts are soon silenced by his voice.

"Fuck me."

His fingers trace the edge of the fabric where it meets your thigh, and your hips roll forward instinctively at the touch.

"You're already wet, baby. I can see it through your underwear."

You cover your face with your hands. "Oh God."

He immediately catches your wrist, grip gentle as he guides your hand away. "Don't. Don't hide. I want to see you."

Hansol then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and drags it down your legs, slowly, taking his sweet time, his eyes fixed on your core. You lift your hips to help him, and he pulls it off over your heels, then shoves them into his pocket.

"Hansol!"

He grins, and it's so wolfish, so filthy, that more heat floods between your legs. "Mine now."

He plants his hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider. His breath ghosts over you, warm and unbearable, and you shudder.

"Look at that," he murmurs, almost reverent. "Look how pretty. Missed this. Missed you so fucking much, baby."

The first stroke of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips jerking forward, and he immediately clamps a hand down on your hip to hold you in place. Hansol drags his tongue up through your folds, slow and thorough, and you throw your head back so hard it thuds against the wall behind the desk.

"Oh fuck!"

"That's it. Let me hear you," he groans against your core.

Hansol knows exactly what he's doing. Most importantly, he remembers—God, he remembers—that you like it slow at first. Long, flat licks up your center, his tongue soft and unhurried, warming you up. His hand slide under your thighs, hooking your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

You look down at him and almost combust. His head is buried between your legs, his dress shirt rumpled from your grabbing hands, and his eyes flick up to meet yours the exact second you look at him. He holds your gaze while his tongue drags a slow circle around your clit, and the sight of him—your Hansol, one his knees for you—is almost enough to push you over on its own.

A whimper escapes you, certain there's no air left in your lungs. "Baby."

You don't even know how it's possible, but his gaze grows darker. Hansol sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and your back arches off the wall.

"Hansol!"

He hums against you, appreciatively, and the vibration makes your thighs shake around his head. He's making obscene, borderline pornographic noises, wet, filthy sounds that echoes through the room, and he's not slowing down, not letting up, his tongue flicking against your clit in fast, precise strokes that have you climbing embarrassingly fast.

"Oh god, I'm—already, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, you are," he growls, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. "Come on my tongue. Give it to me."

Hansol dives back in, and this time he slides a finger inside you, then a second, curling them up in that perfect way that only he ever figured out how to in all these years. There, you lose it. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight, and you come hard with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly into his mouth.

He works you through it. Slow, gentle laps of his tongues, his fingers sliding out of your and stroking soothingly along your inner thigh. When you finally slump against the wall, boneless and shaking, he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and looks up at you with the most self-satisfied smile you've ever seen.

"There she is."

Your voice is wrecked but you manage to say, "Shut up."

"Missed that face."

"Hansol, I swear to god—"

He stands up, and before you can catch your breath, he's kissing you again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should be too much but instead it makes something hot coil low in your belly all over again. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and he kisses you like he can't help himself.

"Bed," he says against your mouth.

"Please."

He pulls you away from the desk. Your legs are so shaky that you would have stumbled if he hadn't slipped an arm around your waist to steady you. Without letting go, he guides you backward to his old bed, dressed in navy sheets and topped with mismatched pillows, before easing you down onto the mattress as though you're made of glass.

Then he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at you like he can't quite believe you're real.

You're a mess. The dress is bunched around your waist, one strap slipping off your shoulder, your hair coming loose from the chignon. Your legs are bare, spread slightly, and you can feel yourself still throbbing from his mouth. You should be self-conscious, but the way Hansol's looking at you makes it impossible.

"Get up here," you practically beg.

"In a second."

His fingers move to his bow tie, tugging it loose the rest of the way. It drops to the floor. Then the buttons of his vest, one by one—the same vest you buttoned for him hours ago. Then the crisp white shirt, tugged out of his waistband and unbuttoned with maddening slowness.

You can't take it. You sit up, reach for him, and pull him down onto the bed on top of you.

Hansol laughs against your mouth, a real, warm laugh, and then he kisses you slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip. He rolls his body against yours, and you feel his hardness straining against the fabric of his pants, making your hips buck into his.

"Off," you gasp, tugging at his shirt. "Off, off…"

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and then he's shirtless above you, all muscle and warm skin, and you drag your palms down his chest, over his ribs, memorizing him all over again. There's a tattoo on his ribcage, a small line of Korean script, that you don't recognize.

You trace it with your fingers. "What does this say?"

He looks down at you. His eyes are soft. "I'll tell you later."

"Hansol—"

"Later, baby."

He closes the distance between you again, and this time when his hand slides down your body it's to shove the bunched-up silk of the dress up over your head. You lift your arms and let him pull it off, and then you're lying beneath him in nothing but strapless bra and your heels.

He sits back on his heels, taking you in. His pupils are blown wide.

"You," he says, voice rough, "are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

"Body worship later," you reply, breathless. "Pants off now, Chwe."

Hansol laughs, but he obeys. He stands off the bed just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his pants and briefs down together, kicking them off with his shoes and socks in one graceless motion, and then he's back on the bed, back on top of you.

You feel him against your thigh, hot and hard, and you gasp.

"Hansol, please…"

"I know, baby." He reaches down between you, wraps a hand around himself, and drags the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself. "I know. I'll take care of you."

He pauses right at your entrance. His forehead drops to yours.

"I don't have anything," he whispers. "I didn't—unlike my mother, I wasn't planning this."

You giggle briefly. "I'm on the pill. I'm clean, I haven't… it's been a while."

"Me too. It's been a while."

"Then don't stop. Please."

He kisses you as he pushes inside you.

You both moan. His forehead is pressed to yours, and his eyes are squeezed shut, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He sinks into you inch by inch, and it's been so long that it's almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the familiar-unfamiliar feeling of him inside your again.

"Fuck. Holy shit, you feel—"

"Hansol." You cup his face. "Hansol, look at me."

He opens his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper.

His voice cracks. "Hi."

You pull his mouth down to yours, and he starts to move.

Slow—so slow. Long, deep rolls of his hips that push him all the way inside you and drag him back out to the tip, and every stroke he groans against your mouth like it's killing him. His hand slides down to grip the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up higher around his waist, and the new angle makes him hit somewhere inside you that has you gasping into his mouth.

"That's it," he mumbles. "Feel that?"

"Yes!"

"I know. I know, baby. I've got you."

He kisses you again, and again, and again. Between every stroke. His mouth on yours, on your jaw, on the hinge of your neck. His hand slides up from your thigh to your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple through the bra, and you arch up into him with a whimper.

"Take this off," he groans against your throat, tugging at the strapless bra. "Wanna see all of you."

He slips it off your shoulders and tosses it over the side of the bed as though it has personally offended him, and then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple as he continues to fuck into you with those deep rolls that are unraveling you thread by thread.

He's whispering something against your skin, but you can barely make it out, your mind clouded by everything he's making you feel with every stroke.

"Beautiful. Every inch of you. Fucking perfect. Made for me."

"Hansol…"

"Made for me," he repeats, biting down gently at the swell of your breast. "Say it."

"Made for you."

He drags his mouth back up to yours. "Yeah. That's right. That's fucking right, baby."

Hansol picks up the pace just enough that the pleasure that had been slow and unfurling suddenly starts to spark hotter. Your hand slides up his back, nails scraping lightly, and he groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.

"Do that again."

You do. You drag your nails down his back, and he shudders, hips stuttering, and buries his face in your throat.

"Fuck, I'm not gonna last if you—"

"I don't care." You turn your face into his hair. "I don't care, Hansol, I want you to."

"No." He pulls back. Kisses you hard. "No. You come first. You always come first."

He slides a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and starting to circle it in tight, precise little strokes that match the rhythm of his hips, and you feel it building fast, embarrassingly fast, that hot coil low in your belly winding tighter and tighter.

"That's it," he coaxes, watching your face. "I can feel you, you're squeezing me so tight."

You come with a cry, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he fucks you through it with those same slow, deep strokes, his thumb still circling your clit until you're twitching and oversensitive and pushing his hand away.

"Good girl," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "Good girl. Look at you."

You can barely catch your breath before he's rolling you.

You gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, one big warm hand splayed at the small of your back, holding you down. He drags a pillow under your hips, tilting you up, and then he's pushing back inside you from behind and you're moaning into the pillow before he's even fully seated.

"You okay, babe?" His hand slides up your spine, gathering the loose strands of your hair into his fist. He tugs, gently, tilting your head back. "Fuck, this angle."

"Yeah, more. Please."

He drives into you, deeper this time—thanks to the new position—his hand in your hair keeps your head tilted so he can lean down and speak against your ear, and his other hand is gripping your hip so tight you know you'll have marks tomorrow.

"So good," he mumbles. "So fucking good for me. Taking me so well. You feel so goddamn perfect around me. Missed this. Missed you."

You whimper into the pillow.

"Yeah? You like this?" He tugs your hair again. "Talk to me, baby."

"I love it, Hansol, I love it, please don't stop."

His voice cracks. "Never. Never again. I swear to fucking god, never again."

He fucks you like he means it. Even deeper and harder, purposeful strokes that have you gripping the sheets, whimpering with every thrust. His hand releases your hair and slides down under you, finding your clit again, and you nearly sob.

"Hansol— Hansol, I can't— again, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah you are. That's three. Come on. One more."

His fingers work you in tight circles, and his hips don't let up, and you fall apart under him for the third time, your orgasm ripping through you so hard that your whole body shakes. You feel him falter, feel him groan into your hair, and then his fingers tighten on your hip.

"Holy fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Inside." You barely recognize your own voice. "Inside, Hansol, please."

Hansol curses again, and slams into you one more time. And then he's coming with a low, guttural groan against your shoulder, his hips jerking, his forehead pressed to your back, and you feel every pulse of him deep inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His weight is warm and heavy on your back, and his breath is ragged in your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding against your spine.

He kisses your shoulder. The nape of your neck. Behind your ear.

"Babe," he mumbles.

"Hmm?"

"Don't move."

Hansol carefully slides out of you, and you feel him, hot and thick, dripping down your inner thigh, and you make a small, embarrassed sound into the pillow.

"Hansol, oh my god!"

"Shh." His hand slides down between your legs, and you feel his fingers gather what's spilling out. "I've got you."

You feel him drag his fingers back up, pushing it back inside you, and you moan into the pillow.

"There we go. That's mine. All mine."

He does it again one last time, slow, deliberate. Then he turns you gently onto your back, and he's staring down at you with such open, wrecked adoration that your eyes prick with tears.

"Open your mouth, baby."

You do.

Hansol brings his fingers—slick with him, with you—to your lips, and slides them in. You close your mouth around them and taste him, salt and heat, and his eyes go completely black.

He bends down and captures your lips in another kiss, licking into your mouth, chasing his own taste on your tongue. The kiss turns wonderfully deep and messy, leaving you both breathless before he finally pulls back just.

"Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me."

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down against you. He collapses onto his side, gathering you into his chest, one heavy leg thrown over your hips, keeping you pinned to him.

There's a small silence, and you can hear the distant thump of the reception band, still going strong outside. Someone must have started the sparkler send-off; you can hear cheers filtering up through the window.

Hansol traces slow circles on your bare hip.

"The tattoo," he says quietly, after a long moment.

You lift your head from his chest. "Hm?"

"You asked what it said." He looks at you. "It's from that old book you had. The Dictionary of Flowers? The meaning of a forget-me-not."

You feel dizzy.

"I got it after I realized I was never going to feel it again unless I came back to you."

You don't have words. So you kiss him instead. When you pull back, he brushes your hair off your forehead. His eyes are impossibly soft.

"Still want that burger?" he asks.

You laugh. Wet, watery, real.

"Yeah, Hansol."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But maybe in an hour."

"An hour." He grins, slow and wicked, and rolls on top of you again. "And maybe tomorrow we can take Poppy to the Natural History Museum."

"Sounds perfect to me."

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @codeinebelle @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @nerdycheol @christinewithluv @jesauiin @ughokmyg @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv @coupsarchive @imhereonlytoread

© VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[junrenjun]

not gonna lie, I think this is one of the best fanfics I’ve ever read on this site

[jujuville]

pushing it down and praying

pairing: k x reader

summary: koga yudai is the ex that you'll never get over

tropes: ex!k, actor!k, writer!reader, grad school AU, situationship, second chance, angst

word count: 3.1k

warnings: suggestive (mdni), avoidant attachment, anxiety

a/n: god i miss him like he’s my dead wife… also i wish i knew how to write smut it probably would've been so good in this lol

masterlist

"i'm not calling you that," you laugh when he introduces himself on the first day of class. "what's your real name?"

"yudai," he smiles. "but really, nobody calls me that."

"nice to meet you, yudai."

it doesn't take very long for your study dates to turn into real ones.

he confesses first. it happens after the two of you are sitting in the library, discussing the latest script you've had to read for class.

"excuse me," some boy comes up to talk to the two of you. "are you two dating?"

"no," you answer, a bit too quickly for k's liking.

"then can i take you out some time?" the boy asks. you nod politely and give him your phone number.

when he leaves, k is quiet. he's never quiet.

"are you going to go out with that guy?" he finally asks while walking you to your dorm.

"i'm not sure yet," you tell him.

"i don't want you to."

"what?"

"i like you."

"oh."

"i've liked you for a while now."

you replay all of the times that he's picked you up from a party when you're drunk or stayed up late while you finished an assignment.

it's not like you don't like him back. you do, a lot. but you also know how much attention he receives from other girls.

you've always thought it was a bit strange how he liked studying with you so much, but you're good at breaking down scenes and memorizing lines.

it's never occurred to you that out of all of his options, you'd be the one that he chooses. but he's standing here, telling you that he likes you, and you have no choice but to believe him.

so, you let him take you out to dinner. after, the two of you spend the entire night making out and ignoring your homework.

he tells you he loves you after two months of dating. you say it back a few days later.

one night, the two of you are laying in bed and talking about the future.

you confess to him that you've never considered being with someone in the same field as you.

"i think i need stability," you tell him. it's not until he sits up that you realize what you've actually said. i don't see us lasting long term.

he's spent months pouring out his hopes and dreams to you. how he doesn't care about where he ends up and he'll start at the bottom and work his way up if it means that one day it'll all be worth it.

you manage to get him to come back to bed and he holds you until you fall asleep.

in his head, the two of you can make it work. he'll act and you'll write and it'll be okay.

in your head, it's not that simple.

it's not that you don't think he has what it takes to make it big. if anything, k is the most hardworking and talented person that you know.

but you worry about one of you becoming successful before the other, and growing resentful of that. you'd like to think you'd be happy for k. you wonder if he'd be happy for you, too.

things start to unravel when you realize that you can't predict that.

you pull away from him, cancelling dates and making excuses. sometimes, the only time you see each other is during class.

he notices. one day, after you've forgotten that the two of you had plans, he asks you if you still love him.

when you say "i don't know," you swear you can see his heart break.

he nods and suggests that the two of you stop seeing each other, and you agree, and then you go your separate ways.

that night, you cry yourself to sleep.

weeks later, you're still not used to sitting next to someone else in class and pretending like you don't know each other.

the worst part is that your cohort is small. everybody knows. girls start flocking to him again. he lets them.

someone makes up a rumor that he must've cheated on you. you quickly shut it down in front of the entire class one morning.

later that night, he texts you: thank you.

you don't reply.

you convince yourself that you’re not allowed to miss him. that you’re the reason things ended and you deserve to feel guilty about it.

so, when the guy who tried to ask you out in the library all those months ago spots you sitting by yourself, you take his invitation seriously this time.

he’s smart, and nice, and getting his master’s in accounting.

he’s stable.

you still miss k, even at night when your new boyfriend is whispering in your ear about how pretty you are and how good you feel.

every time you see him around campus, he’s with a new girl, and you wonder whether or not you were just holding him back from doing all of the exploring that he wanted to.

you don’t know that he’s never once touched any of them. he just… doesn’t like sitting in his apartment by himself. so, he says yes to every invite he gets, and he gets a lot of them.

you break up with your boyfriend right before the end of the semester, when he asks if you’d like to meet his parents over winter break and the idea of starting a future with him makes you physically ill.

the next few months are spent working on your thesis and going to class. you throw yourself into writing your play, a two-person show about siblings cleaning out the apartment of the brother that they've recently lost to suicide.

you're particularly having trouble casting the twin of the dead sibling, with male actors being in low supply and many already committed to other productions this late into the school year.

you know who'd be perfect for the role. your producer knows too, when she tries to broach the topic towards the end of the audition cycle, after neither of you are impressed by the people you've seen.

"just text him," she tells you gently, but firmly.

"i haven't talked to him in months," you admit.

"he still stares at you in class, you know."

"no he doesn't," you laugh.

"he does. he'd make time for your show if you asked."

"fine. help me draft the text and if he says no, i'm putting you in a wig and sending you onstage."

he replies to you in six minutes flat: send me the script.

a week later, you're introducing him to mina, the undergrad that you've cast as his sister.

"we kind of look alike," he laughs, shaking her hand before looking at you. "was that intentional?"

“i just cast the people i thought did this best during their auditions,” you shrug.

sometimes, you feel useless as a director. it’s not that the actors don’t listen to you—they’re wonderful to work with. it’s just that k has such a way of completely understanding the lines you’ve written that sometimes you have no notes to give, and mina follows suit.

you’re lucky, you think to yourself. but another thought creeps into your head as rehearsals go by: yudai is a much better person than me.

you’ve spent half of the school year ignoring him because you couldn’t make up your mind about how you felt, and he’s so professional that he’s willing to put all of that aside to bring your words to life.

you know now, that if you were still together and you had gotten your big break before he did, he would’ve been really happy for you.

k has never made you question how he feels about you. it’s you that’s the unpredictable one. the reason that it’s never mattered how stable the other person is.

you decide that ultimately it was the best thing for the two of you to break up all those months ago, and that you would’ve just held him back. he shines so much in the role and you’re not sure things would’ve been the same if he were still your boyfriend.

you’re not even sure if this play would exist.

you wonder if when he thinks about how much it hurts to lose someone, if you’re part of the memories that he draws on. you immediately disregard this thought, reminding yourself that losing a twin and ending a three month fling are incomparable.

he stays after rehearsals a lot, to help you reset the classrooms after mina has already gone home.

you move tables and chairs together in silence, clearing off any blocking diagrams you've drawn on the chalkboard.

if it's particularly late, he'll offer to walk you back to your dorm, like old times. you know it's not in the same direction as his apartment, but you let him anyway.

once, while he's saying goodnight, his eyes linger on yours a bit too long before he turns to leave.

"wait," you tell him, grabbing onto his sleeve before he can go. he turns back to you, a flicker of hope on his face.

"yes?"

you stare up at him, your words stuck in your throat.

"do you want me to come up?" he asks softly, as if he's read your mind. his hand is already on your waist.

you nod.

the two of you don't even make it inside your room before he has you pressed up against a wall, his mouth on yours, desperate to make up for lost time.

"tell me you missed me," he sighs, before sucking on your neck, light enough to not leave a mark.

"i missed you so much," you admit in between moans. "so, so much."

he holds you after you finish, just like he used to, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder until you fall asleep.

when you wake up in the morning, he kisses you goodbye, too. sometimes, you walk to class together, although you still make sure to enter separately and sit with other people.

this becomes your routine for the next few weeks. neither of you talk about what it means.

you don't go on dates. you don't touch when you're in public. you just... pick up where you left off when behind closed doors.

there's no "i love you" in the script you've written for yourselves. only "that was nice" or "see you later."

it almost feels easy, not asking for more. at least for you.

for k, he's constantly reminding himself not to repeat the same mistake of smothering you. he'll take what he can get if it means he can have at least some part of you again, no matter how much the lack of certainty hurts.

every day, the play comes together more and more. eventually, it's opening night.

k finds you sitting cross-legged on the stage an hour before the house is set to open, your eyes closed and fingers clasped together.

"i thought you weren't religious," he says, prompting you to open your eyes.

"i'm not," you laugh, standing back up. "just making a wish."

"for the play? you think i'm that bad at acting?" he teases.

"i just get nervous," you admit, crossing your arms. "but i know you're going to do great."

right before he and mina go onto the stage, you hold their hands and tell them how proud and grateful you are for how they've helped shape your ideas into a reality.

k lingers a bit while mina takes her place in the wings, his hand still in yours.

"break a leg," you say, just loud enough for only him to hear. he nods, and then the stage lights come on and he's gone.

the show is better than any full run you've ever done in rehearsals. it goes on for two more nights, each performance becoming stronger as you work through the last-minute kinks.

before you know it, it's over. you're sitting in the theater on a sunday morning, moving furniture onto a truck and packing up costumes and props.

mina goes with your producer to drive the set pieces back to the warehouse, leaving you and k to carry any boxes of smaller things to your dorm.

neither of you talk, knowing that there's no excuse to see each other outside of class anymore.

graduation is in three weeks. you've run out of time.

“you’re headed to chicago, right?” you ask him midway to your building.

“you heard,” he smiles.

“yeah.” you don’t know how to tell him you’re happy for him.

“what about you?”

“i don’t know.” there are those words again. they land heavier than you intend.

“i mean, i don’t have anything lined up,” you clarify. “i applied to a few programs at some theaters but i haven’t heard back from anyone.”

“there’s still time,” he says. he’s always believed in you, even when you’ve felt you didn’t deserve it.

you stop walking and set the box in your arms down on the pavement. k notices and does the same.

“is everything okay?” he asks. his voice is soft, like when he talks to you late at night.

you look at him and do your best not to cry.

“i don’t know anything,” you say, barely above a whisper. “i—i don’t know anything.”

you can’t hold your tears back any longer the second he pulls you into his chest, your sobs coming out muffled.

“i’m sorry,” you tell him, although neither of you are sure what the apology is actually for. “i’m sorry, yudai. i’m sorry. i’m so—”

“shh, it’s okay. you don’t have to apologize. it’s okay.”

“it’s all my fault.”

“what is?”

“us.” and there it is. the guilt that you’ve been carrying for months is finally out in the open.

you feel his grip on your body loosen, as if he’s somehow finally remembered how much you hurt him all that time ago.

“yudai?” you ask, peering up at him through blurry eyes.

he’s quiet, thinking of what he wants to say.

"you never asked me," he finally speaks.

"what?"

"if i still loved you. when we broke up."

you stare at him, your mind blanking on a reply.

"i wanted you to." his voice is steady, his expression calm. it's as if he's practiced these lines before. "i wanted to tell you that i loved you so much, and that i'd wait for you to feel the same way back. but i could tell it wasn't what you wanted to hear, anyway."

"no, it wasn't," you shake your head. "i had already made up my mind."

"you've always been so honest with me," he laughs halfheartedly.

"that's not true."

"it's not?"

"when i told you i didn't know... it wasn't exactly a lie. i had a lot going on inside my head," you explain, pausing to prevent yourself from rambling. "what i'm trying to say is that i realized that same night that i did love you. but i had already hurt you and i was worried i'd do it again and again."

it takes him a second to register your words. you stare at your feet, waiting for him to be mad at you. to tell you how much time you've wasted that you could've spent together.

instead, he wraps his arms back around you. he holds you tight for a long time, long enough for your heart to slow down to match his.

eventually, you both pick up the boxes and continue with your walk.

you don’t invite him to stay after. he doesn’t ask to.

it takes you hours to fall asleep without his touch.

the cast party comes a week later. between how hot it is outside and the school year basically being over, everybody is drinking and you run out of ice much too quickly.

“i’m going to refill the bucket,” you say, lifting it into your arms. it’s big and heavy and k quickly sets his cup down to help steady you.

“i got it,” he says, taking it from you as if it weighs nothing. you haven’t talked to him since that day.

the dorm kitchen isn't far, but every second that passes feels like hours.

you watch as he fills the bucket with ice, careful not to drop a single cube onto the floor.

he looks so pretty in his dress shirt, his hair a little bit messy as if he ran out of his apartment to make sure he wasn't late today.

you know how badly you're going to miss seeing his face around campus.

"do you remember that wish you caught me making?" you ask. "on opening night."

"i do," he answers, looking up at you so you know he's listening.

"it came true. last night. i got an email about being accepted into one of those incubator programs."

he immediately gets up from the ice bucket to hug you, your feet leaving the ground for just a moment before he sets you back down.

"that's amazing," he tells you, his hands still resting on your waist as if that’s where they belong. "where is it?"

"chicago."

you watch as a big smile breaks out across his face.

"it's only for six months," you add. he can hear the apprehension in your voice. "i don't know what i'll do after that."

"you'll figure it out," he reassures you. "you're better at making things work than you give yourself credit for."

you glance over at the bucket. the ice has already started to melt.

there's something about his certainty that shifts something in you, and you realize that this isn't fate. it's a result of all the hard work that both of you have put in to fulfill your dreams.

"i'm scared," you admit. "i don't know if i'll ever stop being scared."

"probably not," he nods. "but i'll be there. whether we're in the same place or not, i'll always be there for you. and we can try to manage it."

he doesn't tell you not to be afraid. he doesn't say that everything's going to be fine. he just... promises to stay.

"yudai?" you ask, hesitant to meet him where he's at, but his expression encourages you to keep going. "do you think you'd know anybody who would want to explore the city with me?"

he laughs, his fingers interlocking with yours. "i think i might."

[junrenjun]

thinking about pink haired Yuma…🚬

[lunenet]

thinkin abt frat teamies ‧ ₊ ♪ ˚ ⊹ ( ⁼̴̶̤̀ω⁼̴̶̤́ )

the big brothers ⋆.˚⊹⁺

k - frat president and golden boy. best dick game by far, considered pretty kind considering hes the captain of squad get ur dick wet. dont expect him to settle down with you though, hes super busy with nightball, dance and of course being the president of the frat. hes not really interested in relationships as hes about to graduate—but he might change his mind if you give him a reason to.

fuma - hottie vice pres !! doesnt speak a lot but can say a wholeeee lot w his eyes ~ not as bad a k when it comes to how much he fucks but when he fucks he fucks mean. he uses his nerdy personality to pull the cutest girls into his bed ! too bad he forgets ur name right after ,, graduates soon so he uses the same excuse as k. but also, may change his mind if you give him a reason to !

nicholas - social chair and flirty party animal !! best fashion, best dick (thats what he likes to say) has the biggest social circle and highest sex drive ~ loves public sex, will fuck u in bathrooms at parties in the frat house or even pull you into empty classrooms for a quickie between classes. absolutely does not commit, dont try to make him—his sex drive is too high for one person, maybe.. tip: if your sex drive is high, he might take you on as a regular

ej - house manager ,, sweet and kind ! really tried to keep things under control … his poor boys have such a bad rep so hes gotta clean up after them, but hes just as bad.. he uses his sweet persona to his advantage ! it gets him hella girls. cute smile whilst having nasty nasty sex w u ~ his soft rejection somehow always goes well, maybe its the pretty smile he flashes whilst he tells girls that hes too busy managing the frat to settle down. but hes a softie at heart, maybe a sweet girl will come along and fuck that fuck boy persona out of sweet ej.

yuma - house whore ! his rep is probably the worst out of the bunch. has a reputation of fucking girls and never speaking to them again. has been slapped on multiple occasions in the quad, frat house and even in classes.. all because he forgot what he said during sex or forgot the girls name. has amazing dick game tho, just try not to get attached ~ tip: how to be a heartbreaker

the younger brothers ⋆.˚⊹⁺

jo - joined the frat because he looks up to k ! was not expecting all the loud sex … is pretty shy but that also gets him girls ! they loveee a cute shy boy that knows how to fuck (thanks to his mentor k ! hes got good dick game~) would definitely settle down, but the others are trying to just make him a fuck boy too ,, i mean someones gotta carry on the legacy !

harua - rua has that pretty boy swag. hes cute, everyone thought he was gay for awhile until rumors started floating around that he fucked a girl so hard that he ruined her sheets and she had to toss them. hes a smooth talker, sweet talker. unless its in bed. go to rua if you need a pretty boy to put you in your place ! he’s still relatively quiet yet still pretty social-able ! thinks nicholas is super cool and joined because of him ~ not interested in relationships, just enjoys getting his dick wet lol. but that fuck boy persona hides the fact rua is a hopeless romantic at heart, you didn’t hear that from me though..

taki - belongs in the dog house, unfortunately living up to the fuck boy reputation ! on accident though,, he didnt mean to forget your name he promises ! its just hes fucked 3 different girls this week and they are all kinda blending together. fucks like a dog ofc ,, thick dick ,, mind blowing head game ! settling down seems cool to him, but maybe in a few years—hes just got so many bitches to fuck rn ! tip: walk him like a dog

maki - prettiest smile, even prettier dick. ropes girls in with the fact hes wasian, who wouldn’t want a pretty wasian boy fucking them dumb? doesnt sleep sleep around that much, has very specific girls he goes to ! u better feel lucky if he chooses you at a party though ~ might be the best dick of your college life , too bad u prob wont have it again. maki never fucks the same girl twice unless its one of his main bitches ~ maybe you’ll become one ? he did remember your name after-all

[muratamame]

on your knees • koga yudai

pairing: frat boy!koga yudai (k) x reader (ft. his wolf)

synopsis: koga yudai was good at fucking everything. top of the class, insanely athletic—not to mention, president of one of the most notorious frats on campus. there wasn't a bone in your body that could stand him. of course, your little rivalry gets derailed when his natural instincts come into play and there's only so much he can do to keep resisting you and convince himself that he hates you ...

tags: smut, college au, enemies to lovers, soulmates, dom!yudai x dom!reader, begging, denial, overstimulation, dirty talk, yudai is quite literally touch starved

word count: 9.7k words

notes: 18+ content (mdni). pls enjoy the product of my ovulation

there’s not a day on campus that goes by that you don’t hear the name koga yudai.

sometimes it’s that he’s the top of the dean’s list at the end of the semester, the picture of academic excellence. other times it’s that him and the alpha delta tau fraternity were able to successfully fundraise and surpass the rest of greek row in their philanthropy efforts. not to mention that he was regularly a champion in regional track and field. he was good at everything and everything seemed to come to him easily, no matter the difficulty.

there was something about him that got under your skin. maybe it was the fact that he rarely had to really try to get anything he wanted, to be everyone’s favorite. or, maybe it was the fact that he knew he was good at just about everything and wasn’t particularly shy about accepting widespread praise.

yudai knew how you felt about him. as biology majors, you were regularly in overlapping classes. not to mention, you’d grown close to a handful of the adt boys and had seen him in passing more times than you needed to. he’d found a game in pushing your buttons, teasing and prodding at you until you’d snap at him and he’d giggle in your face.

“question,” your bioethics professor says during a friday afternoon class, staring back at the near-thirty of you sat before him, “is genetic enhancement morally sound? or, should we leave outcomes for traits like intelligence, physical abilities, appearance to natural variation?”

yudai doesn’t hesitate to share his thoughts first—then again, when does he—with long legs stretched into the aisle beside him. a strand of hair falls over his face as he leans back into his desk chair. “how different is genetic enhancement than anything else we’ve already done? tutors, physical training, cosmetic procedures. it’s the same, if not just earlier intervention.”

you gawk at him in disbelief as he continues, the professor’s eyes locked on his. “banning genetic mutation doesn’t necessarily stop it from happening. it just makes it more inaccessible than it could have been. natural selection clearly doesn’t benefit some more than others, wouldn’t this even the playing field?”

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you grumble, drawing long, angry strokes across your notebook with your pen absentmindedly. yudai picks up on your disapproval, cocking a brow as he cranes his head towards you.

“care to counter?” he asks, a slight grin lifting the corner of his mouth. you scoff and set your pen down.

“here they go,” jo mutters behind you, his voice soft but still carrying.

“how is it improving humanity if it becomes a pressure to enhance a person rather than allowing their variation to be accepted? who’s deciding who gets access? won’t it be left up to the elite? not everything needs to be optimized.”

“and where’s the issue in being genetically advantaged?” he asks, his smile growing wider and stirring rage deep within your chest. “enhancement is just logical.”

you nearly throw your pen at his head in retaliation. yudai was one of several descendants of an ancestral line of werewolves. as generations passed, their bloodline evolved from the traditional definition of wolves to something more human, just … superior. their instinct lines still ran strong, with heightened senses and more abled bodies. it was no surprise that he’d be in favor of genetically modifying a weaker race to keep up with him.

“oh, fuck off,” you counter with a scowl in his direction. the professor’s gaze shifts towards you in a silent warning at your language before he intervenes.

“as much as this is stimulating debate,” he says with a glance at the clock, “consider this a precursor to your midterm assignment. i’ll upload the instructions to our class portal and you can reach out to me with any questions.”

everyone files out, more than ready to end their day while you pack away your things into your tote bag. your blood was still boiling at yudai’s need to one-up you and only continued to when he leaned over your desk with a palm pressed against the wood.

“did i upset you?” he asks. if it weren’t for knowing his personality, any passer-by would have assumed he was being sincere. you glare up at him, met with wide brown eyes that are narrowed back at you in amusement.

“just peachy,” you scoff, slinging your bag over your shoulder and pushing past him to head into the hall. the sound of his footsteps trailing just behind you follows you out onto the cobblestone path that winds throughout campus. the late afternoon sun beats down on you, making your skin warm and your vision blurred when you glance over your shoulder at him. “can i help you?”

“are you coming tonight?” you know he’s referring to the frat pregame. nicholas had already texted you earlier begging you to put aside your grudges against yudai for a night of good drinks and dancing with him. it became increasingly hard to say no to him over the years—not that you were about to let this man know that.

“why’s it matter?” you ask, something akin to a smile gracing your features. “you haven’t had enough of me yet?”

“oh, never,” he teases, rocking on his heels with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “seriously, though. you should come out.”

“i’ll think about it.”

“you didn’t tell me to fuck off again, so i’ll consider it progress.” he flashes another grin at you, one that you’re sure would have had you swooning if you were any other girl on campus. he waves you off and heads towards greek row, pulled into passing conversation by another group of girls asking him about the very same party.

“that’s not cute.”

“i’m sorry, are you planning to buy me something new on such short notice?” you yell towards your phone propped up on your bedside table as you sift through your dorm’s closet.

“i would if i wasn’t responsible for setting up the house tonight,” nicholas retorts, frowning at you through the screen while he sets out red solo cups and bottles of liquor on the kitchen counter. “show me what you were thinking of earlier.”

“what, this?” you fish through the growing pile on the closet floor until you produce a worn leather jacket paired with a black miniskirt. nicholas peers back up, his eyes alight with approval. he brushes strands of faded pink hair from his line of sight as he nods once and returns to his task.

“that works. much better than the old shirt-and-oversized-cargos combo.”

“i’m sorry,” you mumble as you put away the rejected clothes, “i could have been the most comfortable one at the pregame.”

“well, you’re not going for comfy,” he laughs, finally picking up his phone to look at you properly. “are you not the same one saying that you’re trying to get your shit rocked?”

“i would never say such a thing,” you reply with mock offense at his vulgarity. he rolls his eyes, his smile not leaving his face.

“hey, if all else fails,” he teases, “you know where to find me.”

“funny.”

by the time you make it to the adt house, the moon hangs full and heavy in the sky and the air is chillier than earlier. the smell of overpowering cologne mingled with smoke trails through the front door when you enter, music blasting against the living room walls and the floors already sticky with spilled drinks. some of the guests call out to you in greeting and you wave them off as you drift into the kitchen for a much-needed drink.

“there’s my girl,” nicholas calls out, his words already slurred as he beckons you over from against the counter. a girl you don’t quite recognize stands against his hip between him and euijoo, but you grin at all of them before reaching for a solo cup.

“god, i need this,” you groan before tilting your head back and downing a long, slow sip of your tequila and lemonade concoction. the familiar burn hits the back of your throat and you hum contentedly before turning to the others. “it’s been a long fucking week.”

“what happened?” the girl asks, her head tilted. there’s not a thought behind her eyes and you’re sure she’s already half-gone, but you indulge her anyways.

“and then,” you continue, your drink nearly empty, “fucking yudai tried to go back and forth with me in class earlier. like, i’m ready for the weekend by this point. the last thing i want is to hear that annoying fucking voice of his—”

“—talking about me, baby girl?”

you whip your head around to find yudai towering over you, his brow arched in amusement as he reaches around you for the bottle of whiskey. nicholas stifles a drunken giggle beside you and you silence him with a smack against his stomach. euijoo and the girl slink away onto the patio, followed closely by nicholas until you’re left alone with yudai.

“yes, actually,” you answer coolly, refilling your own drink. “about how insufferable you are.”

“oh, you don’t mean that,” he chides, pouring brown liquor into his own cup. “not when everyone loves me.”

“humble.” you stop yourself from a dramatic eye roll at his words in exchange for returning to the living room where the party was in full swing when you nearly collide with a girl barreling into the kitchen.

“yudai!” she calls through a hiccup. “are you coming to play with us? i need a partner.”

you glance back at yudai, the grin on his face charming as ever as he approaches the girl with an arm looped around her waist. he doesn’t meet her eyes, his gaze fixated on you when he answers. “of course, doll.”

“whatever,” you grumble, drink in hand as you join the rest of the boys to watch the next game of pong. you don’t notice that yudai’s eyes linger on you just a fraction of a second longer than usual.

“dude, i need to get laid.” nicholas’ voice chirps from beside you later into the night, joining you on the couch while you watched the group grinding on one another at the center of the living room floor. his pink hair falls over his eyes as he leans his head against the cushions, his full lips contorted into a pout that you can’t help but laugh at.

“what, the one girl wasn’t interested?” you ask, the scrunch in his nose a sign that it hadn’t.

“she was definitely more into euijoo.” he runs a palm over his face in frustration and you pat his bicep affectionately, the buzz of liquor thrumming along your veins in a dangerous way. nicholas lowers his hand onto your thigh, opening one eye to peer over at you and the wicked smile that spreads across your face.

“hey, we can still have a little fun,” you offer, leaning into him. part of you was joking, while the other was equally as desperate as nicholas was for some kind of release after pent-up tension all week. he stares at you for a moment, a silent attempt to assess whether or not you were messing with him before his gaze lowers to your lips. you feel your heart hammer against your chest in time to the bass blaring against the walls when he sits up to pull you towards him with a hand pressed to the nape of your neck.

his lips collide with yours hungrily as he groans into your mouth and your eyes flutter shut. you were no stranger to making out with nicholas before. it was a complicated friendship. on one hand, you’d never see yourself dating him. on the other, you were never going to deny that you found him otherworldly attractive, as did he when it came to you. it was a fickle arrangement, an opportunity at the end of the night to let out your frustrations when you both struck out.

only this time, you had a spectator.

you don’t notice yudai standing in the corner of the living room, away from the crowd of girls that were prying for him to join them at the center of the dance floor. he takes the chance to catch his own breath, long fingers gripping the plastic of his solo cup as he fails to tear his eyes away from you. he doesn’t even pay attention to nicholas, only you. the way your lips part with pleasure when nicholas dips his head into the crook of your neck, your manicured fingernails raking through his pink waves and along the fabric between his shoulder blades.

he doesn’t know why he doesn’t look away. he should. he shouldn’t be paying attention to the way nicholas’ hand drifts further up your inner thigh, or the way you pull away with your forehead pressed to his with a knowing glint in your eyes. something stirs deep within him that he doesn’t quite recognize when he makes his way to the center of the living room, the crowd welcoming him with a loud cheer that cuts through the tension between you and nicholas.

“bro, c’mon,” he calls out to nicholas, the younger male looking up with him through hazy eyes before he looks at you with a shrug and lifts himself off of the couch. the scowl that grows on your face, evident with sexual frustration is a sight for his sore eyes when he beams at you and circles an arm around the nearest girl to grind against her.

that night, yudai’s head is spinning from the lingering buzz of liquor and the high of entertaining. he’s not entirely sure all who he danced with or the girl that was last in his lap, but he doesn’t care when his head hits the pillow and a blissful sigh leaves his lips. the house is quiet for the most part, save for whichever of the adt brothers had hookups in their rooms for the night and the lingering guests playing a card game mindlessly downstairs on the dining table.

his mind wanders to you, to that little skirt you wore that rode up your thighs and the way you looked up at him through your lashes. not once in the years that he’s known you has he paid such close attention to you at one of their parties, to the way that your body moved and the way your voice sounded when you snapped back at him. ever since he’s met you, it was like oil and water.

so, why the fuck was his cock so hard at the thought of you?

“what’s wrong, baby?”

your voice cuts through his inner turmoil and his eyes shoot open, met with yours as you look at him from the doorframe. his face contorts with confusion, arousal thrumming in his chest as you approach him and fall into his lap with his head propped up against the headboard. you drag a nail over his chest and he gasps from the friction, shifting his hips beneath you so that his growing erection was wedged against your soaked panties. he watches as you grind against him involuntarily, your back arched and your lips parted.

never once in his fucking life had he expected you to be in his lap. yet, here you were, in his room drunk off of liquor and pure need.

“fuck,” he mutters, his eyes fixated on the way your hips grind against his.

“ngh,” you groan in agreement, cupping your breasts through your bra with your head thrown back. “i need you to fuck me, yudai.”

suddenly, his mind goes blank and a gasp slips past his lips as he shoots up beneath the sheets. sunlight pours through the curtains, the frat house otherwise silent beyond the sound of his attempt to steady his breathing. yudai finally realizes what happened and drags a hand over his face with a groan. his hips are tight, blood rushing between his legs until his cock was painfully rigid.

he doesn’t have the time nor the capacity to process that he’d just had a dream about you. you, the same person whose buttons he loved to push and whose irritation filled him with glee. all he can think about is the fact that he needs to satisfy himself, and he needs to do it soon.

with his eyes falling shut again, yudai lowers a hand beneath the sheets and snakes it between his legs. a whimper slips past his lips and he grimaces at the pathetic sound, his fingers prodding past the hem of his boxers so that he can wrap a fist around his length. as much as he didn’t want to consider what could have led him to dreaming of you, he doesn’t care. all he can focus on is how tight his chest feels and how desperately he needed to think of his cock buried in you while you moaned his name.

the image spurs him on with long, languid strokes that cause his chest to rise and fall in staggered breaths. he shoves the sheets aside, suddenly stifled by how warm and restrictive they feel as he falls into a steady rhythm pumping along his length. his hair falls over his eyes and he squeezes them shut with a string of frustrated grunts through bared teeth. no matter the pace nor the pressure, it just wasn’t satisfying enough. it wasn’t you riding him, grinding against his hips and begging for him to fuck you harder.

and even then, why the fuck was he even thinking of that?

he allows himself to succumb to the fantasy—if only for a moment. he thinks about what you’d sound like with your lips over his cock, the way you’d look up at him through your lashes and your brows would be furrowed from him hitting the back of your throat until you nearly gag.

a heavy pant builds up in his throat as he pumps his hand faster, his fist tightening as he feels pressure build in his stomach. he bites down on his free hand in an attempt to stifle the moan that threatens to escape, a few more strokes leading him to cum in thick, white streaks into the palm of his hand.

yudai finally comes to as he cleans himself up, dissolving into mental turmoil as he shakes his head.

“no fucking way.”

just your luck, you see yudai at the house later that day when you choose to join nicholas in his room so that you could work on your respective assignments together. saturday afternoons were typically quiet at the adt house, with half of the brothers dead asleep and hungover and the others out studying before going out for round two the next night. typically, yudai was one of the latter. you were surprised when he peers through nicholas’ doorframe, looking straight at you.

“what are you doing here?” he asks blankly, his expression unreadable.

“what does it look like?” you ask, gesturing to your laptop on nicholas’ sheets before you. the younger man scoffs and shakes his head as he continues flipping through his textbook. “i’m working.”

“mm,” he answers in a hum, a smug smile forming on his lips. “good luck. guess you’ll need it.”

“go away,” you grumble, averting his gaze and refocusing your attention on the articles you’d pulled up. he doesn’t protest, just slinks down the hall back to his own room. nicholas glances up at you with an amused look plastered across his face and you glare at him next. “what?”

“y’know, i’ve never really gotten why you have beef with him,” he says.

“he’s just so—ugh,” you groan, as if the emphasis would answer his question. you throw your hands above your head in exasperation. “there’s just something so cocky about him i can’t stand. he always gets his way. and he’s always trying to get under my skin. not to mention the fucking werewolf shit.” you look over at nicholas. “you’re also a descendant. you don’t act like a total dick.”

“fair,” nicholas concedes. “it also shows up differently in different bloodlines, i think. yudai’s very … intense. competitive. that’s just how he is.”

“so, what’s the catch with you?” you ask, arching a brow with him.

“irresistibly sexy?” he suggests before you throw a pillow at his face. “i’m not kidding! being charming is a big thing in certain bloodlines.”

“well, consider me charmed,” you retort as you laugh under your breath and return to your assignment. you’re barely another paragraph into your paper when he cuts through your thoughts.

“i’m bored. let’s take a break.”

“bro, we literally just sat down not even an hour ago.”

“and we have a pregame to pregame.” nicholas doesn’t wait for you to say another word, instead hurrying back downstairs into the kitchen and returning with a bottle of tequila and a pair of plastic shot glasses. you glance at the time on your phone in disbelief.

“it’s not even six.”

“and?” he pours you a shot that you down quickly before he immediately refills your cup. he shrugs when you gawk at him and says, “look, you’re super tense and it’s no fun. you’re having a good time tonight. i promise we’ll lock ourselves in the library tomorrow.”

“… fine.”

the pair of you dissolve into a fit of laughter, your laptops stowed away and the tequila bottle halfway empty. you lay with your head on nicholas’ chest, scrolling through your social media and commenting when something catches your interest. you don’t know how long you were laying there for before you hear someone clear their throat.

“nicholas.” yudai taps the doorframe. “we need to talk about our next fundraiser.”

you feel him shift beneath you with an apologetic glance in your direction, leaving you to your devices as he follows the older man back to his room. you assume he isn’t returning anytime soon and collect your things so you can get ready in your own dorm and pick out another outfit for the rest of the night.

by the time you return, the pregame is in full swing. the adt boys had set up games across their backyard, coupled with several coolers of jungle juice and at least a dozen different liquor bottles on the kitchen counters. last night was nothing but a precursor to how hard it seemed they were trying to go tonight. there’s more faces you don’t recognize and a thicker crowd to sift through to make it back into the kitchen.

you don’t find nicholas and join some of the younger brothers sat at the dining table with their drinks in hand. they welcome your company with broad smiles, clinking the rim of their glasses against yours and pulling you into conversation. the circle widens gradually with some other guests you vaguely recognize from other frats. one of them in particular, with feline eyes keeps his gaze fixated on you and you can’t help but notice.

“you come here often?” he asks, finally approaching you from his corner of the kitchen. you shrug, a playful smile resting on your features as you take another sip of your drink.

“often enough that i know i haven’t seen you around here before,” you reply as he chuckles at your comeback. he was undeniably attractive and there was something about him that lured you in. with nicholas nowhere in sight, you assumed he was having the same bout of luck as you and let yourself have a bit of fun for the night.

the two of you find yourselves seated on the couch, indulging in conversation as the party rages on around you. it’s not until you hear one of the adt boys climb onto a folding table and the music’s volume do you look up.

“alright, order your ubers and let’s get the fuck out of here!” yuma hollers before jumping back onto the ground. various groups break apart and head out onto the front lawn in an attempt to make their way to the bars for the rest of the night.

“i can call an uber if you want to head downtown,” the guy beside you offers—was his name yeonjun?—before reaching for his phone before he leans in to speak just loudly enough for you to hear. “unless you want to just head back to our house instead.”

you knew it was never a good idea to act on a whim when you were under the influence. the ache between your legs was becoming harder to ignore and the way that yeonjun was looking at you had you near weak in the knees. still, there was something gnawing at you that it wasn’t the best idea to go back to his place with him, especially when you’d only just started talking.

across the room, yudai is about ready to throw every single bottle lined up on the kitchen counter against the wall. he feels as though every nerve ending on his body is on fire, tuned into the conversation between you and yeonjun on the couch. he grits his teeth, fighting through equal parts irritation and confusion at the fact that he was even so focused on what you were doing. over the years, he’d seen you come and go, flirting and giggling along with plenty of guys he could care less about.

but, something about this was different.

there was a rage building in his chest that was quickly spiraling out of control. the way that he suddenly felt drawn towards you was inexplicable, especially with how angry he was becoming with yeonjun’s body so close to yours. the scent of your perfume was overpowering, notes of jasmine and rose engulfing his senses. every last bit of logic was well out of the window by the time nearly everyone was en route to the bars and he was left to listen to yeonjun’s poor attempts at getting you back in his bed.

“i really wanna go downtown,” you say, but there’s an edge to your voice yudai picks up on immediately. without thinking, he saunters over to you with a slow sip of his own drink when he locks eyes with yeonjun.

“what’s up?” he asks, not bothering to look in your direction.

“nothing,” yeonjun shrugs, draping his arm lazily around your waist. “just tryna figure out where to next.”

“she’s riding with us, actually.” yudai glances at you in a silent plea for you to play along. “fuma already called the last uber. you can head out.”

yeonjun picks up on the way that the older man’s body tenses at the sight of his arm around you and pulls you closer with a devilish glint in his eyes. “i’m cool with calling a separate one for just the two of us. y’all can go ahead.”

“i said, she’s riding with us.”

you can’t help but squint at yudai in confusion before you clear your throat and slip out of yeonjun’s grip. the two men don’t even look in your direction as you take a step away and towards the staircase. “i, uh—i’m going to head up to the bathroom and find nicholas.”

their conversation grows muffled between the walls as you stare at your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks flushed as you try to pull yourself together. if you hadn’t known any better, you’d have assumed they were going at it over you. with a sigh, you reapply lip gloss and prepare to find nicholas downstairs when you hear a screaming match coming from the living room.

you barely step one foot into the hallway when you’re met with euijoo and fuma dragging yudai back towards his room. in the split second that you meet his gaze, you swear you see bright specks of gold in his dilated pupils before they’re able to corral him and shut his door behind them. nicholas comes running up the stairs in a huff, panic written across his face before he sees you and swallows nervously.

“you good?” he asks.

“me?” you gesture towards the room where the other three adt boys continued screaming at one another. “what did i miss?”

“don’t worry about it,” nicholas replies, his shoulders sinking with a deep sigh. “you want me to call us an uber? yeonjun already headed out.”

“actually, i’m down to just head back to my place, honestly.” you grimace at him before donning a remorseful smile. “i’m pretty tired.”

“boo,” nicholas jeers before he outstretches his arm to you. “alright. i’ll walk you back, though.”

at the end of the hall, fuma and euijoo tower over yudai seated at the edge of his bed. his shoulders heave with every breath, his eyes still glowing and piercing his reflection in the mirror.   the pair of them exchange concerned glances before euijoo speaks.

“dude, we can’t start shit with the other frats,” he lectures, “panhellenic council will be on us if we—”

“i fucking know, euijoo,” yudai snaps through gritted teeth. the vice president’s face falls as he sits beside the older man, resting a hand on his shoulder tentatively. “i don’t give a fuck. yeonjun can kiss my ass.”

“what even happened?” fuma asks, crossing broad arms over his torso.

“he was just—i don’t know. he was fucking with some of the girls.”

fuma scoffs, knowing yudai well enough that he was lying through his teeth. “some of the girls, or a girl?” he doesn’t answer.

“it’s definitely something related to your bloodline,” euijoo says, gently inspecting yudai. “your eyes are practically on fire right now. something’s triggering your instincts more than usual.”

they remain silent, deep in thought as yudai wills himself to calm down. he finally gets his hands to stop trembling, his breath to stop racing when fuma clears his throat to capture their attention. the other two look at him expectantly, unnerved by the expression on his face.

“who was yeonjun talking to?” yudai doesn’t answer, leaving euijoo to reply with your name on his behalf. “i—i have a theory. you’re probably not gonna like it, though.” fuma sighs before continuing. “she could be your—”

“no, no, no,” yudai quickly interjects as he lifts himself off of the bed to pace the floor. he brushes a hand through his hair in frustration, praying that the radiance in his eyes would soon wear off. “don’t hit me with any of that mate shit. there’s no way.”

“it’s definitely rare, but it’s not totally impossible—”

“isn’t it also just more of a superstition?” euijoo asks, looking between them nervously. “i mean, i can’t tell you the last time i heard about someone having an actual mate.”

“every bloodline is different,” fuma shrugs. “yudai might be more reactive to his connection to his mate than the rest of us.”

“i’m sorry, there’s no fucking way she of all people is my mate,” yudai laughs, the sound dry and humorless. “she literally can’t stand me. we’ve known each other for years. i feel like that window is beyond closed.”

“you can’t exactly control when your body chooses to react,” fuma replies plainly. “have you been acting differently around her recently?” yudai’s stomach tightens at the thought of his dream about you and it ending with his hand wrapped around his cock panting your name. he swallows, shaking the thought from his mind and brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“no.” he shakes his head again. “literally nothing.”

“mm.” fuma hums, obviously not believing him as he heaves another sigh of his own. “well, get it together. the last thing we need is our president throwing hands with someone.”

you spend most of your time holed up in the library with nicholas, away from the adt house or the dorms in a feeble attempt to stop yourselves from losing motivation to finish working for midterms. you don’t ask him about the night you saw yudai being dragged back to his room. if anything, it would probably just encourage nicholas to insinuate that you cared about him.

you only ever see yudai in passing or during exams. his entire demeanor has shifted ever since that night. there’s no more snide comments, no witty remarks as he flashes you that stupid grin of his. he doesn’t draw attention to himself in his usual fashion, instead remaining bundled in his hoodie and sweats and keeping his head low. you’re almost worried about him.

almost.

after your final shared exam for the week, you make an attempt to joke with yudai on your way out of the classroom. he doesn’t so much as look at you, let alone reply. he just blinks at you, expressionless before he turns on his heel and heads back towards the adt house. you stare after him without another word.

even after spring break and the return to a normal semester schedule, yudai continues acting strange. he doesn’t bother you anymore. doesn’t even seem to care when other people flirt with him or try to get in his good graces.

during class, he doesn’t bother with banter anymore. just jumps the gun entirely and is an absolute dick when you’re answering and he doesn’t agree with you. all he does is sneer with a haughty laugh you don’t recognize from him.

“are you good?” you finally ask him when you have the chance to catch him alone on the way out of class.

“yeah,” he answers, his own face contorted with irritation when you try to stop him. “i’m good.”

“well, you’re acting weird,” you point out. “you have been since before midterms.”

“why do you care?” yudai mutters, an eye roll following before he walks away from you and leaves you with your lips parted and eyes narrowed in confusion.

you’re at the next adt party when you’re sat beside euijoo and nicholas yet again, drink in hand. the three of you stare out from the kitchen archway towards the hall that wraps through the bedrooms, watching as yudai leads another girl into a guest room and locks the door behind him.

“that’s what, the third girl in the last twenty-four hours?” nicholas scoffs with his brow arched in the direction the pair left.

“fourth,” euijoo corrects him, following his gaze. you don’t say anything, let alone mention the fact that yudai had been acting strangely even around you for the last several weeks.

yudai has no idea about your conversation with his brothers in the kitchen, his hips grinding into the girl’s beneath him as she claws across the skin between his shoulder blades. he hisses at the sting and bears his weight down even more, biting down on her collarbone with a groan. he leans back just enough to have her settle into his lap, her high-pitched squeals like nails on a chalkboard. she reaches between her own legs to massage against her clit, rocking her weight against him to coax a moan out of him.

and he says your fucking name.

the girl stills in his lap, as if she was just doused with ice water. she gasps and crawls off of him immediately, hurling a round of expletives at him before storming out of the bedroom. yudai squeezes his eyes shut, pressure building beneath his ribcage. he’d been stifling the idea of you being his mate ever since fuma floated the possibility and it was as if his own body was fighting against him. he threw himself into anything that kept him away from you. extra commitments to greek life, longer hours studying, less time lingering after class. hell, he thought he’d be able to fuck away the idea by hooking up with anyone willing.

clearly, he was wrong.

“trouble in paradise?” you ask in a fit of laughter when yudai walks back out of the room, irritation evident on his face. the two men flanking you don’t say a word, exchanging uneasy glances that you don’t notice. yudai glares down the hall at you, storming into the kitchen to snatch a bottle of vodka.

“fuck off,” he snaps at you, “seriously.”

you stare after him with wide eyes. he’d been sassy with you in the past, but never outright rude. “what’s your fucking problem?” nicholas says your name in warning as you rise to your feet and and ignore him so that you could follow after yudai. you manage to stop him before he scales the staircase and yank his arm to turn him to face you.

“seriously,” you parrot, “what’s your problem?”

“why do you care?” yudai lets a laugh slip past his lips and you feel your blood boil when he turns his back to you and heads upstairs, anyway. with a frustrated groan, you shake your head and head back into the kitchen in defeat.

“i’m going home,” you grumble, ignoring the way nicholas and euijoo make an attempt to calm you down. “i’m not sticking around here if he wants to act like that.”

you slam the front door behind you and can still hear a muffled round of questions as to what was wrong. the cool night air kisses your skin and you wrap your arms around yourself as you walk back towards the dorms. you glance up at the night sky, as if the full moon held the answers you were looking for.

“bro, you need to get it together,” nicholas snaps at yudai when he corners him back in his room upstairs.

“i’m fine,” he slurs, bottle of vodka in hand as he falls back onto his bed with a huff.

“no, you’re not,” the younger man tears the bottle away from him and slams it onto his dresser. “you’re acting like a fucking freshman.”

“so what?” yudai asks, sober as ever as he sits up with a glare. “i’m showing up for the boys. i’m not out here getting into fights or some shit. i have it under control.”

“oh, i’m sorry,” nicholas scoffs, “is rejecting your mate bond until you drive yourself fucking insane also a part of that? especially when it’s a full moon and you’re losing it?” he doesn’t answer. “if you can’t figure it out, stop blaming her. she doesn’t even know and it’s not fair.”

you make it back to your dorm when you feel your phone vibrate against your hip.

[from: yudai] can we talk?

a strange anxiety rises beneath your skin, one you don’t quite recognize considering yudai’s never tried to speak to you in this way before. your blink at your phone screen, as if clearing your vision enough would make sense of the message. with a sigh, you thumb a quick reply and throw your phone onto your bed.

[to: yudai] you can come over

you don’t find it in yourself whatsoever to relax before yudai replies that he’s at your dorm entrance. you let him in wordlessly, leading him up to your room and staring at him expectantly. his eyes dart around the room, from your bed to the window where the moonlight filtered in. his hands clench and unclench into fists at his sides, something clearly eating away at him.

“talk,” you urge him.

yudai still doesn’t say anything. he just looks at you, that familiar ember glint in his eyes as his brows furrow in thought. his lips part every time he’s about to say something until he purses them shut. he remains silent for long enough that you exhale and move towards your door.

“if you’re not gonna say anything, then just go—”

“give me a fucking second,” he snaps, frustration evident in his voice. his body trembles at the mere proximity to you after weeks of trying his best to push you away. “i don’t even know how to tell you this.”

“well, i’m all ears,” you say, deadpan.

“you’re—” he stops himself. “look, you know that i’m a descendant.”

“uh huh.”

“and you know that there’s a lot that goes on for us genetically that we can’t control.”

“dude, if you came up here to discuss bioethics with me at almost fucking midnight, i—”

“you’re my mate,” yudai spits out in a single breath and the room becomes deadly silent. you stare at him, wide-eyed as you try to wrap your mind around his confession. you were aware of the superstitions surrounding werewolves over time and the way that their bodies succumb to their mate.

still, you chose not to believe him. “yeah, okay.”

“i’m serious,” he assures you, nothing in his face leading you to believe otherwise. you don’t manage to get a word in before he frowns and shakes his head, muttering to himself. “don’t even worry about it. i’ll just figure it out.”

“you’re not lying.” yudai turns back to you and watches as realization dawns on your face.

“why the fuck would i come here in the middle of the night if i was lying?” he counters.

“then, let’s say i believe you.” you fold your arms over your torso and stare at him. “what am i supposed to do in this situation?”

“i—nothing,” yudai answers, obviously frustrated. “i figured just ignoring you would be enough.”

“yeah?” you arch a brow at him. for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks unlike himself. there’s no confidence in his demeanor, no twinkle in those big, brown eyes of his. he just looks defeated, desperate for something you don’t quite recognize. “and how’s that working out for you?”

he doesn’t answer and you study him carefully for a moment. his body is rigid, tense enough that you can notice even in the dim lighting. you take a tentative step towards him, one that causes him to back away from you instinctively.

“don’t,” he warns, averting your gaze.

“indulge me,” you ask, remaining in place. “what happens when you’re mated to someone?”

yudai swallows, his eyes fixated on your bed and his fingers twitching. “it’s torture.”

“torture?”

“i knew a little about mate bonds from some of my relatives, but this is so much worse than i expected,” he rasps. “i can’t—i can’t think straight. the moment you’re around me, it feels like i can’t breathe. it’s like all i can focus on is you. the way you smell, the way you sound. it makes me feel insane and i can’t stand it.”

“because of the way it makes you feel, or because of the fact that it’s me?” you ask pointedly.

“i don’t know,” he answers, “at this point, i just wish it would stop.”

you don’t know what compels you, but you take another step towards him and he flinches away from you for the second time.

“don’t,” he warns again, more sternly this time.

“why?” the way he looks away from you and color flushes his cheeks catches your attention until you feel a wicked smile cross your face. “oh, you want to fuck me.”

“no, i don’t,” he mumbles. the air becomes thick with tension, the heat radiating from your bodies suddenly becoming all too noticeable. “just don’t touch me.”

“does it feel good?”

“h-huh?” yudai’s eyes widen at your question when he finally looks at you. like before, you see the flicker of embers across his pupils that are blown wide.

“mm,” you hum, as if he’d answered you already. “you can’t even handle if i lay a finger on you.”

“that’s not true.”

“isn’t it?” as much as your mind was reeling from a myriad of emotions towards yudai’s confession, you chose to ignore it in exchange for the rare opportunity to get under his skin as much as he did to you in the past. you arch a brow, reaching for his wrist to brush your thumb against his skin. he tenses beneath your touch, a shaky breath slipping past his lips.

yudai’s anxiety shifts to a familiar irritation you hadn’t seen from him in some time as he holds your gaze. “don’t fuck with me.”

“or what?” you ask. you’re close enough now that you can feel his breath against your own. you trail your hand along his forearm until you’re able to trace your nails across his collarbone. he whimpers beneath the contact, the sound filling your chest with pride as your smile grows wider. “you want to tell me that doesn’t make you feel good?”

“it doesn’t,” he lies as he tries to turn his body away from you. a scoff escapes your lips as you rake your nails down his chest, low enough until you’re able to graze along the waistband of his boxers. he nearly buckles over, his hand jutting out to steady himself with the edge of your desk. his knuckles are white from how hard he grips the wooden surface.

“tell me to stop, then,” you mutter between breaths. you’re not entirely sure what’s left of your logic at this point. the rational part of you warned you to stop, to not indulge him in what he wanted—or, needed, it seemed—while there was a sudden ache between your legs you were struggling to ignore with every passing second.

yudai looks at you in a way he never has before, his eyes hooded with lust and his brows knitted in frustration. “i—you should—i can’t—”

“tell me what you really want, yudai,” you press, his body twitching at the way his name rolls of of your tongue. a surprised gasp slips out of you when he juts his hand out to capture your throat between his fingers as he holds your gaze.

“you sure?” he asks huskily, the last thread of his resolve snapping when you respond with a  nod. “i don’t—i can’t promise that it’ll be gentle.”

“i don’t care.” that does it.

yudai groans before he brings his lips to yours in a feral kiss filled with desperation. you feel his body finally relax under your touch, his hand still at your throat as he snakes his tongue into your mouth. you nearly collapse from the pleasure that surges through you. of everyone you’d ever hooked up with, yudai was the last person you’d expected to make you feel this way. years of pent-up tension between you came crashing down in waves, satisfied noises muffled against his lips as you claw at his shoulders.

he trails his lips along your jaw, along the crook of your neck until he drags the tip of his tongue along your pulse point with a hum. you cry out when he sinks his teeth into your earlobe and arch against him enough so that he could hoist you up by your thighs and wrap your legs around his waist. he carries you to the bed, your back hitting the sheets with his lips still latched onto your neck.

you watch as he pulls away for a split second to swallow down air. like before, his eyes reflect that bright gold you’d seen earlier. only this time, there was something pained in his expression that you couldn’t understand. the way his hands tremble as he slides them up your thighs to hold your waist confirm your suspicions that he was becoming overstimulated from finally touching you.

“fuck,” he mumbles with a shake of his head, as if it would clear his thoughts.

“you alright?” you tease, pressing a heel into the small of his back so that you could close the distance again.

the pressure building in his chest was becoming unbearable and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pace himself. his hand moves to between your legs so that he can press a large palm against your clothed entrance. he shivers when he feels how soaked you are beneath your skirt already and you gasp when you hear the fabric tear and a cool rush of air brushes against your skin.

“already so wet for me, baby girl,” he praises against the shell of your ear with long fingers gliding along your folds. you don’t reply right away and a half-grin forms on his face when he shoves two fingers into you without warning and you gasp.

there’s still a small part of you that refuses to admit that you were equally as needy for him in that moment. it was a futile attempt, considering yudai was able to quite literally smell the way your body craved his touch. the scent nearly drives him mad as he slips his fingers back out of you and brings them to his lips. you watch as his eyes nearly roll back from the taste of you and hook a finger through his chain to draw him back in.

“where’d that little attitude of yours go?” you tease. you fight to regain control, raking your fingernails more rigidly against his skin this time. pain mixes with pleasure and he hisses until your hand settles at his waistband again. before you can dip any lower, he grabs your wrists to pin them above your head and sinks his weight fully onto you so that you could feel every inch of him against your now-exposed entrance.

“i need to fuck you,” yudai chides, as if he hadn’t heard a word from you just now. it was as if he was possessed, his only relief the chance he had to fuck you until you were as senseless as he was.

“work for it, then,” you order, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way the feeling of him grinding against you was making your head spin.

“seriously?” he glares down at you, his grip still firm on your wrists against the sheets. you nod once, watching as inner conflict registers across his face before he shuts his eyes with a sigh and lowers his lips back to your ear. his voice rumbles low against your skin but there’s a strain to it that causes you to arch your back.

“you’re driving me fucking crazy,” he laments. “i need to see what you look like when every inch of my cock is stretching you out. what you sound like when—ngh—when i fuck that pretty little mouth of yours.” not once since you’ve known him had you heard yudai talk like this.

then again, you weren’t mad about it.

yudai reclaims your lips in another messy kiss before he lowers his free hand to unfasten his jeans and shove them onto the floor. you allow him to flip you over so that you were face-down onto the sheets and peer over your shoulder as he drops to his knees and positions himself at your entrance. he flattens his tongue against your clit before sucking on it harshly enough that you ball the sheets into tight fists.

you let out a string of expletives as he devours you with hungry, animalistic groans against your core. the vibrations from his voice against your skin send a shiver up your spine. his name finally falls from your lips and he smacks your ass approvingly, earning another moan in reply.

“you taste so fucking good,” he whines, a sound that you reciprocate as your body buckles onto the sheets.

you feel your stomach tighten from an impending rush of pleasure, your orgasm quickly approaching when he reinserts a pair of fingers into you to match the pace of his mouth. he curls them against your walls, somehow instinctively knowing just where you needed to feel him. he lets out a satisfied exhale when you clench around his fingers to draw him in deeper.

“yudai—!” you nearly scream as he drags you to your climax. he doesn’t let up, instead picking up the pace to have you ride out your high. you tremble beneath him, the tightness in your core slowly releasing as you swallow down deep breaths while he stands upright.

there’s not a moment for you to steady yourself when you feel the tip of his cock brush against your entrance. the friction coaxes another needy whimper from him and he buries himself inside of you in one swift thrust. you cry out from the sudden fullness as he loops an arm around your torso and hoists you up so that he was able to press another string of kisses along your neck. he bites down on your shoulder hard enough that you’re sure he’d leave a mark and you yelp from the sting.

“mm, i love the way you scream my name,” he hums, soothing the bite on your shoulder with another lap of his tongue. “such a fucking good girl.”

you can barely register his words as he begins to rock his hips into you, the length of his cock brushing against your walls. you aren’t quite sure how you’d managed to lose control over yudai, but he picks up on it instantly and threads a hand through your hair to yank your head back against his chest.

“tell me how it feels, baby,” yudai lilts, his tone mirroring yours from teasing him earlier.

“really—ah—really fucking good,” you manage through broken gasps. your body tenses against his, a firm grip still on your hair while he pounds into you relentlessly. you groan through gritted teeth at his size. you assumed he was big, but he was well past your expectations. you sink your nails into the flesh of his thigh and he bites down on his lip with another groan.

he presses his palm against the small of your back to lower you back onto the sheets, slowing his pace only for a moment to say, “hold onto the headboard.” you obey, fingers wrapped tightly around wooden slats when he slams back into you fully. his pace is more relentless than before and you can feel the shift in how he holds you when he succumbs to the unabashed need that was spurring him on.

the bed rocks beneath you hard enough that you’re sure the legs will snap. the sound of skin on skin fills the room, coupled with the way you bite down on one of your pillows to stifle a scream until yudai’s hand connects with the back of your thigh.

“let me hear how good it makes you feel,” he commands breathlessly. you defy him and bite down harder on the sheets, your screams growing increasingly muffled. he lets out an exasperated grunt and yanks you upright again, only this time with his hand back around your throat. “i said—” he pauses, long enough to press his fingers into your jaw so that your mouth falls open with a pathetic whimper, “—let me fucking hear it, baby girl.”

“i—” you pant in an effort to steady your breathing. “i’m gonna—i’m—” yudai understands immediately and snakes his hand down your torso so that he could massage circles against your already sensitive clit. your body contorts against him, your mind hazy with lust from a second orgasm threatening to spill over.

in seconds, you come undone on his cock and the wetness that engulfs him only spurs him on further. he feels himself drowning in pleasure from finally, finally allowing himself to lean into the need that had been gnawing at him for weeks. he doesn’t pay heed to the way your moans become broken and desperate for him to stop, overstimulation grinding against every nerve ending in your body as he remains focused on the way his cock feels buried deep inside of you.

“y-yudai,” you gasp, reaching blindly for his bicep to slow his pace.

“you can take more,” he assures you, keeping up his rhythm as he stretches you out even further. he was too far gone at this point, drunk off of his high as he felt his own release on the horizon. he relishes in the sound of him still being able to get under your skin, your body trembling from too much as he buries his face in your neck with a strained, drawn-out whimper.

he thrusts into you once, twice more before he shudders, his cock twitching inside of you until you’re filled to the brim with his cum. thick, white streaks drip down the back of your legs as he pulls out, his chest heaving in an attempt to steady his breathing. you back up onto the floor to stand upright and whimper at the way your thighs trembled from the residual tension.

the room falls silent, with yudai running into your bathroom to collect washcloths while you stare out the window absentmindedly. you slowly come to, becoming painfully aware of the fact that he’d walked into your dorm not more than an hour ago to tell you that you were his mate. the man you swore up and down was the bane of your existence was just responsible for fucking you into your mattress to the point that you were seeing stars.

“so, what now?” you ask, glancing at yudai as he recollects himself. he meets your eyes again, the gold flecks gone and returned to his usual deep brown. he purses his lips, caught between answering and remaining wrapped up in his thoughts until he lets out a low exhale.

“i don’t know,” he answers honestly. you frown at the dissatisfaction of his answer, a heavy feeling beginning to settle in your stomach as you wonder if it was a good idea to give into your own desperate need for release with how complex this was about to become.

still, you approach him with a teasing smile, one he’s seen over the years that brings him a strange sense of comfort amidst the stress of navigating your newfound bond. he arches a brow, watching as you tap a finger against your bottom lip and shrug.

“maybe we don’t have to know right this second,” you say, “but, if we need to do that again, i won’t say no.”

“really?” yudai asks, mirroring your grin.

“really.” you nod. “for research purposes, of course.”

“oh, of course.”

[junrenjun]

would you consider doing something like the Understand series but with NCT 127? if not do you any recommendations? i’m craving ot8 content on tumblr 😞

also i love your fics! keep up the good work ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ )

hi anon! thanks so much! i too crave the ot8 content 🥲

I’ll try and keep this idea in mind going forward, maybe once I finish my current wips. if you guys can’t tell from the way I’ve barely been posting, life has been crazy as usual. i start my doctorate in august, so I’ve been doing a lot of adulting as of lately. I’m hoping I get more time to write soon though!

[zerocoded]

HELIOS UNIVERSITY ⸻ part one

“You’re spending the heat at my flat.” Sunghoon said. The bathroom fell silent, even Jaeyun looked briefly surprised by how immediate the decision sounded leaving his mouth. You stared at the alpha openly now, heat-hazed eyes widening slightly while your fingers tightened unconsciously against Jaeyun’s shirt again. “Excuse me?”

𝓜 , we love two hot alphas saving an omega in distress so pls be my guest and enjoy this. i lost all progress of editing on my second day writing this due to my fucking ellipsus account bad syncing and gave up editing entirely so forgive me if this is very bad, i drag everything too damn much that's why this is so damn long lolz. jakehoon hot alphas, that's it. this is my life's mission.

17O52 ━━━━━ genre omegaverse enhypen au ━━━━━ pair alpha!jakehoon x omega!reader

spotify hu playlist read on ao3 zrcdd main masterlist helios university masterlist

17O52  warnings jakehoon does NOT know how to handle an omega in distress and is showing, be patient pls this is their first time falling in love okie, sunghoon specially is very bad at feelings on this one, i'm pretty sure i fucked the pacing up by making it too repetitive, SFW, WE DON'T HAVE SMUT IN THIS CHAPTER, let’s pretend they were not trying to make a call inside an elevator in one scene here ok, reader has low self-esteem and is financially unavailable bye.

The first symptom was the itch beneath Sunghoon’s wrists.

Not enough to truly bother him at first. Just a faint irritation beneath the cuff of his dress shirt, somewhere under skin and tendon, subtle enough that he ignored it for almost twenty minutes before realizing he’d been scratching at the same spot through the entire conversation.

The ballroom around them had long since begun emptying out.

Hours ago the Helios Founder’s Cocktail had been unbearably loud — trustees laughing over old money politics, cameras flashing near the donor wall, omegas in silk and diamonds drifting between tables while alpha heirs performed the delicate art of pretending they were still students and not future conglomerate directors. Now the atmosphere had softened into something slower, tired and expensive.

The quartet near the staircase had stopped playing almost half an hour ago, leaving only a low jazz overhead.

Most of the staff had already started quietly dismantling the event around them; empty champagne towers disappearing cart by cart, floral centerpieces being removed one by one. Somewhere behind the ballroom walls he could hear industrial dish carts rolling over marble floors.

9:12PM.

Sunghoon glanced briefly toward the face of his watch before leaning back in his chair again. The afternoon cocktail had bled into evening without any of them noticing. Their table was one of the last still occupied.

Not surprising.

The sons of Helios donors had a tendency to linger after events ended, especially when alcohol and networking were involved.

Across from him, Jaeyun sat lazily reclined with one arm thrown over the back of his chair, necktie loosened, half-finished whiskey balanced carelessly between elegant fingers. Beside him, Yudai was midway through shrugging into his coat while checking messages on his phone.

“You two are actually insane,” the oldest alpha muttered, eyes flicking between them. “It’s over. Go home.”

Jaeyun hummed absently. “You’re leaving because your little sister keeps threatening to block you.”

“She’s right to.”

“She always is,” Jaeyun agreed easily.

Sunghoon barely followed the conversation. His attention kept drifting, the itch beneath his wrists had worsened. Annoying.

He pressed the pad of his thumb against the irritated skin through his sleeve and exhaled quietly through his nose. The ballroom air smelled overwhelmingly sweet now that the crowd had thinned — alcohol, expensive perfumes, lingering omega pheromones soaked into velvet chairs and linen tablecloths.

Sunghoon loosened his grip slightly around the sweating glass in his hand before dragging the pad of his thumb once more against the inside of his wrist beneath the cuff of his shirt.

Across from him, Jaeyun finally looked up from his phone.

His attention lingered for a beat too long.

“You look irritated,” the Sim observed lazily, though there was something sharper underneath the casual tone now, something quietly attentive in the way his eyes tracked Sunghoon’s movements.

Sunghoon dropped his hand immediately, expression flattening. “I am irritated.”

A grin tugged slowly at the corner of the GS Group heir's mouth as he leaned further back into his chair, whiskey turning amber beneath the ballroom lights when he lifted the glass slightly between his fingers. “That’s new.”

Sunghoon said nothing to that. He only brought the glass toward his mouth again, though the champagne had long since lost its taste somewhere between the chairman’s closing speech and Yudai leaving after a twenty minute talk. The sharp dryness lingering at the back of his throat remained stubbornly unsatisfied, and after another pointless sip he set the glass back onto the white linen tablecloth with more force than necessary.

Jaeyun noticed the Park uneasiness and decided to comment on it.

“You sure it’s not the omega perfumes?” he asked after a moment, voice easy. “Half the women here smelled like they bathed in pheromone oils.”

“That’s not it.”

“Hm.”

Jaeyun swirled the remaining whiskey around slowly, watching the amber liquid catch beneath the low gold lighting overhead.

Around them, staff members continued dismantling the ballroom piece by piece with near invisible efficiency. One side of the room had already been stripped of centerpieces entirely, bare white tablecloths left behind like ghosts of the event from earlier.

Sunghoon glanced once more toward his expensive watch.

9:17 PM.

Too fucking late for students to still be working. And yet—

His gaze shifted almost automatically toward the far end of the ballroom again.

You were still there.

The registration tables near the donor wing had become one of the few untouched areas left in the room, stacked with archival boxes, unopened envelopes and scattered gala programs waiting to be organized before morning. Most of the volunteers had disappeared already, but you remained seated behind the long table with your sleeves rolled neatly to your elbows, head lowered over a stack of paperwork while typing something into a university-issued tablet.

You looked exhausted.

Not ordinary tiredness. Not the sleepy sluggishness everyone carried after long events like this. This looked sharper somehow, your movements had slowed noticeably since Sunghoon first spotted you ten minutes ago. Every few moments your hand would pause mid-motion against the papers like your thoughts were briefly disconnecting from your body before forcing themselves back into place again.

Jaeyun followed his line of sight without needing to ask.

“There she is,” the other boy murmured, the amusement returning instantly to his voice now that the subject had shifted somewhere more interesting. “Our missing scholarship prodigy.”

Sunghoon ignored the phrasing, though something unpleasant tightened low in his chest at the sight of you.

Three weeks.

It had been exactly twenty-three days since you last sat with them willingly. Not that Jaeyun counted. Sunghoon absolutely did not count.

At first your disappearance had almost seemed accidental. Missed dinners, delayed replies, excuses about debate preparation and committee obligations, normal enough during midterm season at Helios. But eventually the pattern became too deliberate to ignore.

You stopped studying in the business library entirely. Stopped attending late-night debate practices unless absolutely necessary. Started leaving lectures before crowds formed afterward. And most noticeably of all—you stopped looking at them for too long.

Jaeyun had complained about it constantly.

Sunghoon hadn’t.

Mostly because acknowledging it out loud would have forced him to acknowledge how often he searched for you automatically now.

Across the ballroom, one of the omega coordinators approached your table carrying another stack of folders against her chest. She said something quietly to you that Sunghoon couldn’t hear from this distance, and you immediately straightened in your seat with polite professionalism settling across your face like muscle memory.

Too fast.

Even from here he could tell the movement wasn’t natural. Your smile followed a second later. Small, careful and wrong. The itch beneath his wrist sharpened so suddenly his jaw tightened. Beside him, Jaeyun finally went quiet too.

His fingers stilled around the whiskey glass as his attention lingered more carefully on you now, the easy laziness bleeding subtly out of his posture the longer he watched your slowed movements behind the registration table.

“…she looks awful,” Jaeyun muttered eventually.

Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately.

“Something’s wrong.”

Sunghoon’s gaze remained fixed on you.

“That’s Professor Kim’s coordinator, isn’t it?” Jaeyun asked after another moment, though his attention never left you either. “The omega from the fellowship office.”

Sunghoon gave a short nod.

“She’s still working her?”

“Y/N probably volunteered.”

Jaeyun let out a disbelieving breath through his nose. “Of course she did.”

There was no real mockery in it, just familiarity.

The three of you had known each other long enough now that some things no longer required explanation. You volunteered for everything: debate events, faculty mixers, alumni forums, scholarship committees, student outreach programs... Every prestigious academic function Helios offered somehow ended with your name attached to it somewhere.

At first the Sim used to joke that you were trying to singlehandedly run the university, then eventually he realized the bitter truth.

You weren’t ambitious in the same way heirs at Helios were ambitious… You didn’t move through opportunities expecting safety beneath failure, everything you did carried consequence. Real life consequence. That difference had unsettled both of them more than they ever admitted aloud.

Across the ballroom, the coordinator said something else quietly before resting a hand against your arm again, gentler this time.

You froze.

Sunghoon’s jaw locked instantly. The reaction inside him was so immediate and irrational it almost startled him. The irritated thought slammed through his head hard enough that his fingers tightened automatically against the stem of the champagne glass.

Beside him, Jaeyun slowly turned his head, their eyes met briefly across the table. Jaeyun had known something was wrong with Sunghoon for months now. Ever since the debate finals last semester, probably.

Back when you’d stood in front of an auditorium full of Helios trustees and dismantled the opposing international policy team so thoroughly that even the faculty looked stunned afterward. Jaeyun had fallen for you quickly after that — openly, predictably, with all the shameless confidence that came naturally to him.

Sunghoon’s situation had been worse.

Because it happened quietly. In pieces.

A late-night study session here. Walking you back from the law building during rainstorms. Watching you fall asleep over economic journals in the library while pretending he wasn’t staring.

None of it dramatic enough to notice individually. Until suddenly you existed everywhere inside his head.

Jaeyun leaned back slowly in his chair again, studying Sunghoon now instead of you. “You know,” he said lightly, though there was something deliberate beneath the casualness now, “for someone who claims he doesn’t like clingy people, you’ve been glaring at her for ten straight minutes.”

Sunghoon looked away from you at last, irritation immediately surfacing. “I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m observing.”

“That sounds even creepier.”

Sunghoon ignored him.

A grin tugged briefly at Jaeyun’s mouth again, softer this time. Less teasing. “She missed your presentation last month and you looked homicidal for two days afterward.”

“Shut up, Sim.”

Jaeyun’s mouth twitched immediately at that, the kind of restrained amusement that only really appeared around people he knew well enough not to perform for. He leaned further back into the velvet chair, one ankle hooking loosely over the opposite knee while the melting ice shifted softly inside his whiskey glass.

“Sure,” Jaeyun said mildly, clearly unconvinced. “And I’m sure the reason you nearly bit Minhyuk’s head off during the policy mixer had absolutely nothing to do with him flirting with her for twenty straight minutes.”

Sunghoon finally looked at him properly then, expression flattening beneath the warm lighting. “Minhyuk flirts with anything that breathes.”

“True,” Jaeyun admitted easily, lifting the glass toward his mouth before pausing again halfway there. “But you looked like you wanted him publicly executed.”

“He’s irritating.”

“You say that about everyone.”

“Because most people are irritating.”

Jaeyun huffed out a quiet laugh beneath his breath before letting the whiskey settle briefly against his tongue, gaze drifting lazily back toward the ballroom.

At a glance the GS heir looked entirely relaxed again, all effortless charm and expensive ease stretched comfortably across velvet seating while the last remains of the gala dissolved quietly around them. Most people stopped looking too deeply once Jaeyun smiled at them, that was part of what made the alpha dangerous.

But Sunghoon knew him too well to miss the shift in his attention.

There were very few things in the world capable of holding Jaeyun’s interest for long. Even fewer capable of making him observant. Jaeyun liked people easily, flirted easily, charmed easily, but genuine fascination was rare for him. Usually once the novelty wore off, so did the attention.

That had not happened with you.

If anything, the problem had only worsened.

At first Sunghoon thought Jaeyun’s interest was predictable enough. You were beautiful in a way Helios rarely produced naturally — not polished and curated like the daughters of politicians and chaebol families drifting around the ballroom tonight, but sharp, expressive, almost severe beneath all that relentless professionalism. You carried yourself like someone who’d built every inch of herself deliberately, and at Helios that alone drew attention. Then there was the debate circuit. The scholarship omega humiliating legacy students every other weekend had become campus gossip almost embarrassingly fast.

Jaeyun loved things that challenged him. Beautiful things even more.

But what truly doomed him, Sunghoon thought, was the age difference.

Tiny enough to barely matter in their context. Three mere years. But Jaeyun had looked genuinely delighted when he discovered it.

Sunghoon still remembered the conversation because he’d never seen someone become more interested so quickly over something so stupid.

You had mentioned it absentmindedly one evening after debate practice while correcting Jaeyun’s citation formatting on his laptop. He’d been leaning lazily across the library table beside you at the time, tie loosened, completely unserious about the assignment until you frowned faintly at one of his references and muttered, “You’re younger than me, shouldn’t I be teaching you this properly?”

Jaeyun had blinked and then slowly looked up from the screen. “You’re older than me?”

You had immediately looked regretful for saying it aloud at all. “Barely.” And somehow that made it worse.

Sunghoon remembered the exact grin spreading across Jaeyun’s face afterward — pleased in a way that instantly made him insufferable for weeks.

“She’s older than me,” he’d repeated later that night like the information had fundamentally altered his understanding of the universe. “That explains everything.”

“It explains literally nothing.” Sunghoon had said.

“You don’t understand,” Jaeyun had said solemnly while Sunghoon attempted to finish reading financial reports beside him. “This is exactly my type.”

“You say that about every omega who ignores you.”

“No,” Jaeyun corrected immediately. “I say that about older women who ignore me.”

And unfortunately, he’d been telling the truth.

You never indulged him properly. Never acted impressed by his family name or reputation or effortless charisma the way most people eventually did. Half the time you treated him like an irritating classmate you’d somehow accidentally become responsible for.

Jaeyun adored it.

The memory lingered pleasantly in Sunghoon’s chest as he watched you across the ballroom now, shoulders tense beneath the black volunteer uniform while your phone continued vibrating softly against the registration table.

Jaeyun’s contact photo lit the screen once.

Twice.

Then disappeared.

Ignored.

Jaeyun stared at the unanswered call for a moment before exhaling quietly through his nose and locking the phone again. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, though the irritation in his voice sounded thinner than usual now, worn down by too many weeks of the same cycle. “She’s still doing this.”

Across the room, you’d already pushed the phone face down beside the stack of folders as though simply refusing to acknowledge it would somehow erase the problem altogether. The omega coordinator beside you said something else softly, concern still visible in the tilt of her posture, but your attention kept drifting unfocused toward the ballroom exits instead.

Like you wanted out.

Fast.

The sight made something restless tighten low beneath Sunghoon’s ribs.

“She’s been ignoring you too, right?” Beside him, Jaeyun dragged one hand slowly down his face before leaning back into the chair again, though this time the movement lacked all the earlier ease.

The question itself wasn’t new. They’d already had this conversation two nights ago outside the business tower after the semifinals results were announced. Then again last week in Jaeyun’s car after you left campus early without attending the celebration dinner your entire debate team showed up for. But there was something different about the way Jaeyun asked it now — quieter, more frustrated than teasing.

Because your disappearance had stopped feeling temporary.

“She’s been busy,” Sunghoon answered flatly.

Jaeyun looked at him like he was insane.

“She won the biggest academic fellowship Helios offers and disappeared immediately afterward,” he said. “That’s not normal behavior.”

“She’s probably exhausted.”

“She’s been exhausted since February, Sunghoon.”

He couldn’t exactly argue that.

The debate circuit alone had been brutal this semester. Endless preparation meetings. Policy reviews. Public forums. Guest lectures. He’d lost count of how many times he found you asleep somewhere on campus over the last few months — curled over economics textbooks in empty classrooms, head resting against library tables at three in the morning, still wearing debate credentials around your neck because you’d been too tired to remove them.

Every single time, you insisted you were fine afterward.

Every single time, neither of them believed you.

Jaeyun loosened his tie further with one sharp tug before glancing toward you again. “I thought she’d come tonight.”

“She is here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sunghoon did.

After the debate victory earlier that afternoon, most people expected you to fall naturally back into orbit around them again. That had become your routine over the last few months whether you admitted it aloud or not. You disappeared when pressure built too high, isolated yourself for days or weeks at a time trying to survive Helios alone, and eventually Jaeyun would force his way back into your life through sheer persistence while Sunghoon quietly waited nearby pretending he wasn’t waiting at all.

But tonight should’ve been different.

You won.

And yet the second the debate ended, you vanished again. No dinner. No celebration. No responding to messages. Nothing, just silence.

Across the ballroom, your hand slipped against the edge of the registration table again before catching yourself harder this time. The folders scattered slightly sideways and the omega coordinator immediately reached toward you once more, concern obvious now in the hurried movement. Again.

You stepped back too quickly, making Jaeyun’s expression over the table change immediately.

“Okay, no,” he said under his breath, already pushing his chair backward against the marble floor. “I’m going over there.”

Sunghoon’s hand closed automatically around the edge of the table before he could stop himself. “Don’t.”

Jaeyun paused halfway upright. “Why not?”

“Because she clearly doesn’t want us over there.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened slightly. He knew his friend wasn’t entirely wrong.

He knew your presence had simply embedded itself into their lives so naturally neither alpha fully noticed it happening until other people started pointing it out first.

He knew you practically lived in his flat during midterms. He knew your things kept appearing there; hair ties abandoned beside his bathroom sink, debate notes scattered permanently across his dining table, the oversized gray hoodie Jaeyun bought you after catching you shivering outside the economics building at two in the morning currently folded over the back of Sunghoon’s couch like it belonged there.

Sunghoon knew his best friend had become incapable of walking past your favorite bakery near campus without buying something for you out of reflex alone. He knew both of them had spent an embarrassing amount of time arguing over your living situation after finding out your dorm building security barely functioned past midnight, Jaeyun insisting you should move into his family’s east-side vacant residence while Sunghoon offered one of the guest rooms at his flat with enough casual certainty it startled even Jaeyun for a moment.

You had rejected both offers immediately, obviously.

Then accepted a copy of Sunghoon’s passcode anyway three weeks later after getting locked outside your building during a thunderstorm.

That probably should have told him something.

Regardless, Sunghoon knew that going after you publicly now — especially while you were already distressed — would corner you.

And you hated feeling cornered.

Gosh, you could be so stubborn sometimes. Sunghoon learned that the hard way sometime around early winter, when he made the catastrophic mistake of half-confessing his feelings to you during a three a.m. study session only for you to stare at him over your laptop and sincerely ask whether he was “having an unusually emotional alpha moment.”

Jaeyun laughed so hard he almost choked on ramen the day Sunghoon told him about it.

Sunghoon genuinely considered killing both of you that night.

Then, three weeks later, you showed up at his apartment shaking with exhaustion after a twenty-hour debate prep cycle, crawled directly into his bed wearing one of his hoodies without asking permission, and fell asleep against his shoulder while mumbling that his place “felt quiet in a nice way.”

The next morning, you acted like none of that had happened.

Sunghoon still had not recovered psychologically. Honestly, neither had Jaeyun.

The two of them had finally spoken about it properly after that night, mostly because pretending the situation wasn’t becoming increasingly dangerous stopped working. The conversation itself had been humiliating enough already — two lifelong best friends sitting in Sunghoon’s kitchen at one in the morning admitting they were both apparently obsessed with the same omega.

Jaeyun handled it first, obviously.

“Okay,” he said after staring at Sunghoon for thirty seconds too long. “So we’re both insane.”

Sunghoon remembered looking away immediately after that. Not because he denied it. Because he couldn’t.

The embarrassing part was how quickly they recovered from the revelation afterward. No dramatic fallout. No possessive alpha bullshit. Just the quiet mutual understanding that neither of them seemed capable of staying away from you anymore, and somehow losing proximity entirely sounded worse than sharing the problem.

Which, in hindsight, probably said deeply concerning things about all three of you.

The realization lingered unpleasantly in Sunghoon’s mind now while the ballroom lights reflected dimly across half-empty champagne glasses and abandoned dessert plates around them. Somewhere behind the registration tables, staff members had already started dismantling flower arrangements for the night, the gala slowly collapsing into quiet cleanup conversations and rolling service carts.

Across the ballroom, you nearly dropped another stack of donor folders before catching them clumsily against your chest at the last second. The omega coordinator said something else to you — too far away for either alpha to hear properly — and this time even from a distance Sunghoon could tell your smile looked wrong.

Jaeyun seemed to reach the same conclusion a second later because he sank slowly back into the chair with visible reluctance, fingers drumming once against the tablecloth before stilling again. “I hate this,” he muttered eventually.

Sunghoon’s eyes remained fixed on you across the ballroom. “I know.”

For a while neither of them spoke.

The jazz overhead faded into another softer song while staff continued clearing tables around them. Somewhere near the ballroom entrance, one of the event managers thanked the remaining volunteers quietly before disappearing through the west corridor.

Jaeyun exhaled slowly through his nose before finally dragging his attention away from you and reaching for the abandoned suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair. “Come on,” he muttered, standing at last. “If we keep staring at her like psychopaths she’s going to disappear for another month.”

Sunghoon stood abruptly enough that Jaeyun glanced toward him once before smoothing his jacket over his shoulders. Neither alpha said anything while moving away from the table, shoes echoing softly against polished marble floors as they crossed the ballroom toward the donor corridor near the west wing exit.

Jaeyun noticed immediately.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re literally texting her.”

Sunghoon ignored him, thumb already moving across the screen.

You still backstage?

A pause.

Then, after a second longer than necessary:

Do you need a ride home?

He stared at the last message he sent you — two nights ago, sometime after midnight when he finally gave up waiting for you to answer during the day.

Want me to bring something to the debate rehearsal?

And before that:

Did you eat

You still awake?

Jaeyun says you’ve been in the library since eight

All seen.

Never answered.

The typing cursor blinked quietly beneath the words.

Jaeyun leaned against the corridor wall beside him, arms folding across his chest while watching with poorly concealed interest. “That’s somehow more embarrassing than if you’d just confessed feelings outright.”

Sunghoon closed the app without reacting.

“Shut up".

They continued further down the donor corridor after that, eventually joining a small cluster of lingering faculty and university sponsors near the executive lounge overlooking the lower courtyard. Most of the remaining guests belonged to the same social circles their families had occupied for decades — investment directors, law partners, board members, old-money alumni who still treated Helios less like a university and more like inherited territory.

Professor Hwang stood near the bar discussing international acquisitions with two trustees when they approached, silver-haired and visibly tired beneath the ballroom lighting. He greeted them both with the easy familiarity reserved for students whose surnames appeared on campus buildings.

“Still here?” the older alpha asked mildly.

Jaeyun accepted the offered glass of bourbon from one of the attendants nearby before answering. “Unfortunately. Apparently adulthood is just networking until death.”

Professor Hwang laughed quietly at that before turning toward Sunghoon instead. “Your father called earlier.”

Of course he did.

Sunghoon suppressed the immediate irritation threatening to surface again and loosened his grip slightly around his phone inside his pocket. “About the Singapore expansion?”

The conversation shifted naturally after that into business, the familiar language of heirs raised inside boardrooms instead of ordinary households. Market expansion. Investor hesitation. Political instability overseas. Jaeyun slipped easily into the discussion beside him despite earlier distraction, posture relaxed once more while debating projected partnership risks with the kind of effortless confidence people spent entire careers trying to imitate.

Normally Sunghoon found conversations like this grounding, predictable, clean. Numbers behaved logically, people did not. Tonight, though, concentration kept slipping strangely through his fingers.

Every few minutes his attention drifted instinctively back toward the ballroom entrance beyond the executive corridor. Toward the distant possibility of catching another glimpse of the omega his alpha can't seem to stop thinking about moving between tables. Toward the persistent awareness prickling unpleasantly beneath his skin.

The itch along his wrists had become dull before coming back ten times worse during the conversation.

He pressed his thumb harder against the irritated skin beneath his cuff while Professor Hwang continued speaking about projected policy changes overseas. The sensation only intensified, heat curling strangely beneath the surface until even the collar of his shirt suddenly felt too restrictive against his throat.

Across from him, Jaeyun babbled uncomfortably. For the first time all evening, Sunghoon noticed his best friend was almost as bad as him.

His bourbon glass sat trapped too tightly between his fingers, amber liquid shifting sharply every time his grip unconsciously tightened around the crystal. He had bitten the inside of his lower lip enough throughout the conversation that the skin looked faintly reddened beneath the ballroom lighting now. Worse than that, his scent had changed.

Subtly.

But enough.

The suppressant patches lining the inside of Jaeyun’s collar should have neutralized most of it already — mandatory during formal university functions for wolf hybrids — yet traces still bled stubbornly through the blockers anyway. Restlessness. Agitation. Protective instinct sharpening too close to the surface.

Sunghoon recognized it immediately because his own alpha smelled dangerously similar right now.

Professor Hwang continued speaking beside them completely oblivious, discussing projected investor movement through Southeast Asia while Jaeyun nodded at appropriate intervals. Externally, the Sim still looked perfectly composed. Beautifully dressed heir, relaxed posture, easy social smile appearing automatically whenever one of the trustees addressed him directly. But Sunghoon caught the exact second Jaeyun’s attention drifted again toward the ballroom entrance.

Toward you.

The realization settled heavily inside his chest.

This wasn’t just ordinary concern anymore. Something biological had started reacting beneath both their skins hours ago, sharpening every instinct until the distance separating them from you suddenly felt physically wrong. Sunghoon still didn’t fully understand it himself. He only knew the irritation beneath his body kept worsening every minute you remained out of sight.

Across from him, Jaeyun finally looked over when Professor Hwang got busy with one of the alumni guests. For one brief second, neither alpha spoke.

Then quietly:

“You smell it too, right?” Jaeyun leaned over his best friend shoulder just so he could hear.

The Park's grip tightened inside his pockets.

“Yes.”

Professor Hwang was midway through explaining a private equity restructuring proposal when one of the senior event staff finally approached their group carefully, exhaustion visible beneath her professional smile.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, gentlemen” she said politely, hands folded neatly in front of her black blazer, “but we’ll be closing the ballroom level in about fifteen minutes.”

Professor Hwang blinked once before glancing toward his watch, genuine surprise flickering briefly across his expression.

“Well,” he sighed lightly, adjusting the cuff of his coat with quiet amusement, “I suppose that’s our reminder we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

A few restrained laughs circled softly through the remaining group.

The older alpha waved goodbye not long after that, gathering the dark wool coat draped behind a stool while the trustees beside him began exchanging final handshakes and closing remarks between themselves. Even tired, the entire interaction still carried that polished old-money diplomacy Helios functions always dissolved into eventually — relaxed smiles, promises of future meetings, careful mentions of family names and upcoming board dinners woven naturally through conversation.

Now that the evening had finally begun dissolving around them, Sunghoon realized just how wrong the atmosphere still felt beneath his skin.

Beside him, Jaeyun straightened slowly from where he’d been leaning against the counter, the movement oddly tense beneath all his usual composure. “Did she answer you?”

Sunghoon reached automatically for his phone again.

Still nothing. Not even read.

“No.”

Jaeyun rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck before finally exhaling through his nose. “We should go.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer immediately.

His attention lingered toward the ballroom entrance one final time before forcing himself to look away altogether. Rationally, there was nothing left to do. You’d ignored both their calls. The gala had ended nearly an hour ago. Most likely you’d already left through one of the staff exits specifically to avoid them finding you lingering alone afterward.

The thought irritated him more than it should have, so eventually he gave a short nod and pushed himself away from the counter at last.

The elevator ride downstairs passed mostly in silence. Not uncomfortable at all, but restless.

Jaeyun scrolled absently through emails on his phone while Sunghoon stood beside him with one hand shoved into the pocket of his slacks, thumb repeatedly dragging against the inside of his wrist again before he consciously stopped himself.

The itch had become unbearable.

By the time they reached the lower lobby, Sim Jaeyun looked strained beneath all his usual composure.

“You smell that?” he asked suddenly.

Sunghoon frowned slightly.

The scent lingering through the lobby was faint beneath cleaning chemicals and polished stone — sweet omega perfume residue left over from the gala crowd upstairs. But underneath it— there was something sharper, almost familiar.

Jaeyun looked unsettled now. “Okay. I officially hate this feeling.”

“Then stop acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird. You’ve been scratching your wrists for the last hour like you have fleas.”

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.

The valet attendant approached them a second later with practiced politeness, asking if they wanted their cars brought around front. Jaeyun reached automatically into the pocket of his coat—

Then stopped. A pause.

“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What.” Sunghoon glanced at his stressed bestfriend.

“My keys.”

Sunghoon stared at him flatly. “The one time I agree to come with you, you lose your goddamn keys.”

“I didn’t lose them.” Jaeyun already turned back toward the elevator again, irritation surfacing properly now. “They're probably upstairs.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Stop whining and let's go pick it, Park.”

Sunghoon muttered something deeply unfriendly under his breath before following him back toward the elevators.

By the time the elevator doors slid shut behind them again, the restless irritation from earlier had sharpened into something more palpable. The enclosed space suddenly felt too warm despite the aggressive air conditioning running through the building after hours, polished steel walls reflecting both of them back in fractured gold from the dim overhead lighting.

Jaeyun pressed the button for the ballroom level harder than necessary before immediately pulling his phone back out again.

Still nothing from you.

Jaeyun swore quietly under his breath before trying your number again, lifting the phone toward his ear while one hand dragged restlessly through his hair.

Whatever ease both alphas managed to hold onto throughout the night had vanished entirely now, stripped away by instinct and exhaustion until even their voices sounded tighter around the edges.

“Come on,” Jake muttered when the ringing continued unanswered. “Pick up.”

Sunghoon leaned back briefly against the elevator wall, thumb pressing hard against the inside of his wrist again. The elevator climbed another floor. Jaeyun lowered the phone again with visible frustration. “Nothing.”

“She probably left already.” The words sounded hollow even to him.

Jaeyun looked over immediately, fume coming out of his ears. “You don’t even believe that.”

By the time the elevator doors slid open onto the ballroom level again, the entire floor had transformed into something unrecognizable from the polished gala space they’d occupied earlier that evening.

The lights had already been shut off, leaving only the dim amber glow of after-hours wall sconces stretching across long sections of marble corridor. Without music or conversation to soften the space, every sound carried unnaturally far now — the distant mechanical hum of industrial cleaners somewhere below, the rolling clatter of service carts being pushed toward freight elevators, the muted echo of their own footsteps crossing polished floors too quickly.

Jaeyun moved ahead first the moment they stepped out, already pulling his phone back again while cutting sharply toward the executive lounge where he’d apparently abandoned his keys. “If they’re not still there I’m actually going to lose my mind,” he muttered, distracted enough now that the words barely sounded directed at Sunghoon at all.

Sunghoon followed automatically a few steps behind him, though his attention had stopped settling properly on anything around them.

Ahead of him, Jaeyun pushed open the executive lounge doors with visible impatience before immediately scanning the marble counter near the bar. “There,” he breathed, spotting the keys almost instantly beneath the abandoned bourbon glass from earlier.

Relief barely had time to settle before something metallic crashed somewhere deeper down the hallway.

The sound wasn’t loud. But in the near-empty silence of the upper floor, it cut sharply through the corridor anyway.

Both alphas froze at once.

Jaeyun’s hand stopped halfway toward the keys.

He looked over first, and for the first time all evening Sunghoon saw something dangerously close to genuine alarm cut cleanly through his best friend’s composure.

“That came from backstage.”

Sunghoon was already moving before the Sim finished speaking.

The urgency hit both of them at the exact same time, instinct bypassing rational thought so quickly neither bothered pretending otherwise anymore. Jaeyun abandoned the keys entirely on the marble counter while pulling his phone up toward his ear again, dialing your number for what had to be the fifth or sixth time that night as they crossed the darkened ballroom corridor at a pace just short of running.

The farther they moved past the ballroom itself, the emptier the building became.

Somewhere beneath the lingering smell of cleaning chemicals and stale champagne, Sunghoon caught something different.

Sweetness.

His entire body reacted violently. He stopped so abruptly that Jaeyun nearly collided into him from the side. Not perfume. Not residual scent trapped in the ballroom from hours earlier.

Fresh.

A faint, but unmistakably fresh scent of omega distress.

Sunghoon felt something deep in his chest pull tight enough to hurt.

Beside him, Jaeyun lowered the phone slowly from his ear, expression shifting almost visibly as the scent reached him too. All the remaining color drained out of his face at once while his alpha surged so sharply beneath the surface that even the atmosphere around him seemed to change.

“Jesus Christ,” he said quietly, breathing harder now. “That’s her.”

The words barely finished leaving his mouth before another sound echoed faintly through the backstage hallway ahead of them — uneven movement, followed immediately by what sounded unmistakably like someone trying to catch themselves against furniture.

And then silence again.

You had a difficult time accepting nice things into your life, that much you knew.

Not because you were ungrateful. People liked assuming that sometimes — that scholarship students carried some kind of bitterness toward wealth, toward ease, toward people born into lives softer than theirs. But that had never really been your problem.

Your problem was permanence.

Nice things rarely stayed long around people like you at Helios University. Opportunities disappeared. Funding disappeared. People disappeared the second maintaining proximity stopped being convenient. Somewhere during freshman year you had learned the safest way to survive the institution was to never hold onto anything expensive too tightly — internships, recognition, attention, friendships.

Especially friendships with alphas like Park Sunghoon and Sim Jaeyun.

The thought alone almost made you laugh now. Because honestly? You had been pretty sure Sim Jaeyun wanted to get into your pants since the second week of sophomore year. He had never exactly been subtle.

He flirted the way rich people donated to university buildings — generously, publicly, and with alarming confidence no one would tell him no. The first month he started inserting himself into your life, you genuinely assumed it was some elaborate joke the Helios business department played on unsuspecting omegas for entertainment.

Then he kept showing up.

Study sessions, debate afterparties, coffee left on your desk before eight a.m. lectures, text messages asking whether you’d eaten delivered with enough persistence to become psychologically invasive after a while.

And somehow, worse than Jaeyun himself, was the fact Park Sunghoon always appeared eventually too. Because, yes, the two alphas heirs were basically a combo.

It all felt unfair considering your crush towards the Park heir had existed long before Jaeyun decided forcibly integrating himself into your life was a reasonable hobby.

You blamed freshman year for that. More specifically, you blamed one particular Wednesday afternoon during your first semester at Helios University when Park Sunghoon had quietly ruined your life forever by doing something catastrophically simple.

You had been sitting alone outside the old law building after class trying not to cry over a scholarship review email and at some point your coffee had gone cold beside you. At some point it also had started raining. And at some point Park Sunghoon had walked out of the building with three other business majors trailing behind him before stopping directly in front of your bench.

You still remembered thinking he probably wanted the seat. Instead, he had looked down at your untouched coffee for two seconds before quietly setting his umbrella beside you. Then he left.

No weird sympathy, no conversation, no awkward attempt at charity. He simply walked back into the rain himself while one of his friends asked what the fuck he was doing. That was it. Which, in hindsight, said deeply concerning things about your psychological state at twenty-two. An unmated omega entering an elite educational system later than the others.

Still, after growing up around people who treated help like currency, the gesture had lodged itself somewhere embarrassingly permanent in your chest. Park Sunghoon had acted like your existence inconvenienced him so little it never even occurred to him to make the moment embarrassing.

And unfortunately for you, that tiny interaction had created a very dangerous thought during freshman year: maybe you could survive being around people like him after all.

Unfortunately, the crush probably would’ve stayed safely buried in the humiliating corner of your psyche reserved for 'unattainable rich alphas' if Sim Jaeyun hadn’t decided during sophomore year that you apparently belonged to him now.

To this day, you still weren’t entirely sure how it happened.

One successful debate season somehow turned into Jaeyun appearing beside your table after class. Then lunches. Then study sessions. Then him casually dragging you into private student lounges you technically did not have card access to while greeting security guards by first name.

The transition happened so gradually you barely noticed it until people around campus started noticing for you.

Which they absolutely did.

Helios omegas looked at you strangely sometimes now. Not openly hostile — Helios students were generally too well-trained socially for obvious cruelty — but with the particular kind of polished confusion wealthy people reserved for situations that disrupted the natural order of things.

Because objectively speaking, it did not make sense for Sim Jaeyun to orbit you this aggressively. He was rich in the terrifying old-money way where entire academic buildings quietly carried his family name somewhere on campus. Beautiful. Extroverted. Socially effortless. The kind of alpha older professors accidentally flirted with during networking dinners.

And yet somehow he kept choosing to spend most of his free time sprawled across Sunghoon’s apartment couch with you eating convenience store ramen while complaining about macroeconomics.

Looking back, maybe that should’ve terrified you more than it did.

Because somewhere between sophomore year and now, the line separating “occasional friendship” from whatever this had become disappeared almost entirely.

Jaeyun texted you like he expected answers, Sunghoon silently kept extra electrolyte drinks in his kitchen because he once overheard you complaining about caffeine headaches during finals, they saved you seats at class without asking whether you were coming first.

And, perhaps most dangerously of all, the company of both alphas had started feeling normal to your omega.

That was probably why you spent the last three weeks avoiding both of them.

The realization hit you properly about a month before fellowship season started, during one of the many “study sessions” at Sunghoon’s apartment that had long ago stopped resembling anything academically productive after midnight. Jaeyun had been half asleep beside you on the couch answering emails between complaints about corporate finance while you highlighted case law readings you would later realize you never actually absorbed.

At some point, Sunghoon texted the groupchat.

Gone for a few days. Father wants me at the east residence.

You remembered staring at the message longer than necessary, then feeling strangely upset afterward. Not disappointed exactly. Not even surprised. Wealthy alpha heirs disappeared for family obligations all the time at Helios. Rationally, you understood that perfectly.

Your omega, unfortunately, did not seem interested in behaving rationally that evening.

The flat suddenly felt wrong without him there somehow. Too quiet. Too empty in ways that irritated you almost immediately because what the fuck did you mean empty? It was Park Sunghoon, your friend, one-third of your increasingly codependent academic disaster trio. Nothing more.

You spent almost forty minutes trying to convince yourself of that before Jaeyun’s phone rang.

He answered lazily at first, still reading something over your shoulder while murmuring distracted responses into the speaker. Then his posture shifted slightly.

“You triggered early?” he asked quietly.

Your highlighter stopped moving instantly. Silence stretched for a few seconds afterward while Jaeyun listened again, expression softening into something strangely familiar and instinctive.

“No, don’t leave the estate yet,” he muttered eventually. “Just stay there until it passes properly this time.”

The words lodged somewhere deep beneath your ribs because suddenly the situation stopped sounding abstract.

Rut. Sunghoon was in rut.

Your stomach twisted so sharply afterward it genuinely startled you.

Not because alphas entering rut was unusual. Helios practically functioned around rut and heat schedules every semester. You’d grown up around enough hybrid dynamics to understand the biology behind it.

But Park Sunghoon had somehow never felt biological to you before, not in that way.

Not until that exact moment.

Something ugly bloomed beneath your skin afterward, hot and irrational and embarrassingly possessive. You hated the immediate mental images your omega supplied against your will. Hated the realization that somewhere out there, hidden safely inside his family estate, Sunghoon was currently vulnerable in ways you had never even considered before.

Worse than that, you hated how deeply the thought affected you.

That was the moment you realized distance had become necessary. Because whatever existed between the three of you had stopped feeling safely platonic a long time ago, and your omega was beginning to notice it before the rest of you caught up.

At first, the changes looked small enough that maybe neither alpha noticed immediately. You stopped accepting Jaeyun’s last-minute invitations to private donor dinners and off-campus gatherings where everyone smelled painfully rich and expensive and mated. You stopped leaving your gym bag at Sunghoon’s apartment just because the campus athletic center felt too alpha-heavy during evening hours and his private building gym had always been easier on your omega.

You stopped staying over after midnight. Stopped falling asleep between them during movie nights. Stopped letting Jaeyun casually tug you into his side whenever crowded spaces overwhelmed you. Stopped looking too long whenever Sunghoon absentmindedly handed you things like you already belonged inside his routines naturally.

The worst part was that neither alpha pushed.

That same month, Sunghoon came back from the east residence seven days later. He looked calmer, broader somehow, alpha scent heavier beneath expensive cologne in ways your omega noticed immediately despite your best efforts.

Jaeyun resumed dragging himself across your life exactly the same as before. Study sessions. Coffee runs. Complaints about business faculty politics sent at unreasonable hours of the night.

And still you kept pulling away, because the fantasy had finally started crumbling beneath reality.

It turned out falling quietly in love with two powerful alpha heirs felt significantly less romantic when you were simultaneously calculating whether you had enough money left in your account to survive your next heat safely.

Your cycle had been scheduled almost perfectly against fellowship week this semester.

Of course it had.

Which meant regular suppressants were no longer enough. Stress always worsened your heats, and fellowship season had already destroyed your hormone stability before debate rounds even officially began. You knew from experience what would happen if you tried surviving onset with cheaper medication again — fever spikes, scent leakage, hormonal crashes violent enough to leave you bedridden for days afterward.

You needed the stronger suppressants this time. The expensive ones.

Unfortunately, Helios University did not care whether scholarship omegas required medically necessary medication while surviving academically suicidal workloads. So you picked up extra night shifts instead.

Quietly.

Embarrassingly.

A hostess position three districts away from campus where nobody recognized your name and wealthy alumni from Helios wouldn’t accidentally spot you carrying drinks through dim private lounges at midnight. You told nobody. Not your roommates. Definitely not the boys.

Because something about those two discovering you were skipping meals to afford heat medication felt more humiliating than the job itself.

That became the final straw eventually. The more time you spent around them afterward, the sicker the guilt inside your stomach started feeling. Jaeyun bought you meals without thinking twice about it. Sunghoon silently replaced things around his flat to accommodate your omega before you even asked. They cared for you so naturally it almost hurt.

And meanwhile you were hiding second jobs and rationing suppressants like some pathetic cautionary tale about class differences inside elite universities. So you disappeared instead.

Because honestly? Why would alphas like Park Sunghoon and Sim Jaeyun ever truly want someone who couldn’t even afford to survive a natural part of life properly?

You threw yourself so aggressively into fellowship season afterward that exhaustion eventually became easier to manage than whatever complicated thing your omega kept feeling around the two of them. If you stayed busy enough, maybe the ache inside your chest every time Jaeyun sent another unanswered text would eventually disappear too. Maybe Park Sunghoon would stop lingering so heavily in your thoughts every time you laid awake calculating medication costs at three in the morning.

Unfortunately, your body chose that exact moment to start falling apart instead.

By seven-thirty that Friday morning, you already knew the day was going to become a problem.

Not because of the fellowship debate — you had prepared too obsessively for that to scare you anymore —, the problem was your body. More specifically, the fact your suppressants were sitting wrong in your stomach barely twenty minutes after taking them.

Which was deeply, deeply inconvenient timing considering the day ahead of you included:

the most important debate round of your academic career,

a mandatory donor gala immediately afterward,

and approximately twelve consecutive hours of pretending you were not biologically approaching disaster.

You stared at your reflection in the tiny apartment bathroom mirror while waiting for the nausea to pass, fingers braced against the sink beneath flickering fluorescent lighting that your landlord still hadn’t fixed despite three separate maintenance requests.

The stupidly expensive suppressants you bought last week should have stabilized already. You had followed the dosage schedule exactly, timed every intake correctly, even forced yourself to sleep more than usual leading up to fellowship week because you knew stress could destabilize your cycle if you weren’t careful, and yet your stomach still felt hot and unsettled barely twenty minutes after taking them. This had never happened before.

Behind the bathroom door, your omega roommate yelled something incomprehensible at a video game before immediately following it with, “Are you throwing up yet? Do you want me to go run to the store?”

“I’m not throwing up.” Yet. Your brain added without your consent.

“You looked spiritually unwell this morning, bae.” Soojin replied.

"I'm good."

You reached automatically for the suppressant bottle beside the sink again before stopping yourself halfway through the motion. No. Absolutely not. You already took the emergency-adjusted dose earlier than scheduled because you knew the debate stress would spike your pre-heat symptoms faster. Taking more now would only make you dizzy during qualifiers, and if you lost focus today after preparing for almost three months straight, you would genuinely never forgive yourself.

So instead you splashed cold water against your wrists and forced yourself upright again.

Manageable. Everything was still manageable. Your pre-heat technically wasn’t due until tomorrow evening anyway. The timeline remained functional as long as your body cooperated for another twenty-four hours. Which, admittedly, was becoming an increasingly ambitious request.

Your phone buzzed against the bathroom counter right as you reached for concealer.

Sim Jaeyun [7:42 AM]

Day 83th of reaching out to my omega friend. Are you alive, baby?

If you ignore me again I’m reporting you missing to campus security btw

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched faintly.

Then another message appeared beneath it.

Park Sunghoon [7:43 AM]

Saw you at the theatre yesterday.

Did you eat yet?

You stared at their texts for a second longer than necessary. That didn't change the fact that you ignored them for the rest of the day just like how you've been doing for the last couple of weeks, by the way.

By noon, the suppressant nausea still hadn’t gone away.

By one-thirty, you started lying to yourself about it.

Not intentionally. More in the academically delusional way high-achieving students developed during survival situations. The cramps twisting low in your stomach every twenty minutes became dehydration. The overheating became stress. The faint dizziness every time you stood up too quickly became lack of sleep.

Perfectly manageable problems. Totally normal problems. Absolutely not signs your body was beginning to force itself into pre-heat nearly a full day early.

You repeated those thoughts to yourself with increasing desperation while standing in the law building bathroom forty minutes before the fellowship finals, one hand gripping the marble sink hard enough your knuckles had started aching beneath the fluorescent lights overhead.

The debate uniform suddenly felt unbearable against your skin.

The fitted blouse clung wrong at the waist now, heat crawling unpleasantly beneath the expensive fabric while another cramp twisted sharply enough through your lower stomach that you actually had to brace yourself harder against the sink to stay upright.

“Fuck,” you whispered under your breath, panic finally flickering properly through you then.

Your pre-heat was not supposed to hit until tomorrow evening. You had calculated the schedule down to the hour specifically to avoid exactly this situation. Debate today. Gala tonight. Heat leave submitted tomorrow morning. Isolation by tomorrow afternoon.

Manageable. Planned. Controlled.

Another cramp hit harder this time, making your eyes squeeze shut briefly.

Okay. Not controlled. But maybe still salvageable.

You forced yourself to breathe slowly while staring at your own reflection again, trying to assess the damage objectively instead of emotionally. Your pupils looked slightly blown already. A faint flush had started creeping along the underside of your throat despite the aggressively cold bathroom air. Worse than that, your scent blockers were fading too fast underneath the stress response surging through your body.

You pressed both hands flat against the sink and lowered your head for a second, forcing your thoughts back into order before they could spiral properly. You did not have time for this right now. You had spent almost three months preparing for this debate round. One successful fellowship placement would solve nearly every financial problem currently dismantling your life.

You could survive one bad day.

You had survived worse.

“Get it together,” you muttered quietly toward your reflection. “You are not losing your academic career because your hormones decided to become theatrical.”

The pep talk sounded more convincing in your head than aloud.

Still, it worked enough that you straightened again a few seconds later and reached automatically toward your bag sitting beside the sink. Your fingers hesitated briefly over the emergency suppressant packet hidden inside one of the side pockets.

You should not take another dose. Logically, you knew that immediately.

That part had been written very clearly inside the instruction pamphlet you obsessively read three separate times last week after buying the medication. The suppressants were specifically designed for severe heat regulation — stronger, faster acting, significantly more stable than the cheaper brands you usually survived on during semesters. Emergency doses were technically permitted under extreme hormonal stress conditions, but only within carefully spaced intervals unless you wanted rebound symptoms later once the medication metabolized too aggressively through your system.

You had already adjusted your suppressant schedule once this morning. Doubling too early would almost definitely trigger rebound symptoms later once your metabolism burned through both doses at the same time.

But the alternative was walking into the most important debate of your life while actively cramping through pre-heat onset.

Not happening.

“Temporary problem,” you whispered to yourself while tearing the packet open anyway. “Future me can suffer later.”

Which, in hindsight, turned out to be a deeply unfortunate mindset.

The second dose hit your system almost too well at first.

Within twenty minutes the cramps dulled significantly. Your temperature stabilized enough that you stopped feeling vaguely feverish. Even your head cleared slightly as the suppressant blockers forced your hormones back under temporary control again.

By the time you stepped into the debate chamber, you almost believed you’d fixed the problem entirely.

Which was adorable, really.

The fellowship finals occupied one of Helios’ older auditoriums — dark wood paneling, elevated seating, donor plaques lining the walls beside framed portraits of men who had definitely ruined at least three economies each. The atmosphere inside always felt oppressively formal during major competitions, packed with faculty members and alumni pretending the event was purely academic while quietly scouting which students looked profitable enough to sponsor later.

Normally you loved that environment, loved the pressure, loved the performance of it. Debate was one of the few places at Helios where people stopped seeing scholarship status first and started paying attention once you opened your mouth. Intelligence disrupted hierarchy in interesting ways when displayed publicly enough.

Unfortunately, your body seemed determined to sabotage that experience today.

By the middle of the second round, the suppressant crash had started creeping back subtly beneath your skin again. Not enough to alarm you immediately, just small things.

Your blouse collar suddenly felt too tight while responding to cross-examination. Your pulse kept spiking strangely every time the auditorium overheated beneath stage lighting. The scent blockers layered beneath your perfume felt thinner now too, fading in uneven waves whenever stress sent another rush of hormones through your bloodstream.

Still manageable, you thought.

You kept telling yourself that repeatedly while dismantling a third-year law major’s economic policy argument in front of half the faculty board. At some point during rebuttals, you caught sight of Jaeyun near the back row, which was honestly irritating.

Not because his presence surprised you — Jaeyun treated your debate schedule with the same terrifying level of commitment other people reserved for professional sports teams — but because he looked entirely too relaxed for someone watching you psychologically disintegrate in real time.

He sat sprawled lazily across one of the auditorium chairs with his suit jacket folded beside him, expression easy while listening to the panel discussion like he didn’t already know you were about to win.

By the time the judges announced the fellowship results, your body already felt dangerously overstimulated beneath the surface — nerves too sharp, skin too warm, every sound inside the crowded auditorium slightly too loud. When your name was called first, applause erupted loudly enough around the room that you actually flinched before catching yourself.

For a moment you genuinely just stared at it: Winner — International Fellowship Division.

The words blurred slightly before sharpening again beneath the bright stage lighting while conversations immediately exploded throughout the room around you. Faculty members leaned toward one another speaking in low impressed voices. Students across the front rows already looked vaguely murderous. Somewhere behind the judges’ panel, cameras flashed briefly while one of the coordinators hurried toward the stage entrance preparing for photographs and donor introductions.

You had won. Actually won.

Relief crashed through your system so hard your knees almost gave out beneath you. Which was unfortunately the exact moment your suppressants finally started losing the fight entirely.

Pain twisted sharply through your stomach without warning, violent enough this time that your breath caught visibly in your throat before you managed to recover. You lowered your head immediately under the excuse of gathering debate materials from the podium, one hand gripping the edge hard enough to steady yourself while the room tilted unpleasantly for half a second.

Not now.

Please not now.

A fresh wave of heat rolled through your body immediately afterward, hotter than before, your pulse suddenly loud enough to hear beneath the auditorium noise.

Fuck.

You forced yourself upright before anyone noticed the stumble and accepted the fellowship certificate from one of the faculty coordinators with what you hoped resembled a functioning human smile.

More applause followed. Somebody congratulated you. Another professor started talking about networking opportunities overseas next semester.

If you were being honest, you had completely forgotten about the donor gala in that moment. You were just focusing on picking the certificate and fleeing home for the rest of the week. Submitting your heat leave officially could be done by morning when your body went through the first wave of pre-heat symptoms and you felt more like yourself again.

You suddenly wanted to die.

Instead, you smiled through another congratulations, accepted three business cards you absolutely would not remember receiving later, and escaped the auditorium the second faculty attention shifted elsewhere.

The hallway outside felt colder, quieter too.

By the time you reached the donor ballroom level forty minutes later, you were already starting to understand just how catastrophic the rest of the evening was about to become. Unfortunately, understanding that fact and being able to leave were two very different things.

The Helios Fellowship Gala happened every winter after the final debate rounds, designed specifically so wealthy alumni could parade high-performing students around expensive ballroom spaces while pretending the networking opportunities justified the institution’s obsession with unpaid academic labor. Scholarship students volunteered almost every year because refusing “community participation opportunities” tended to look mysteriously terrible during renewal evaluations later.

Which meant despite actively approaching pre-heat, you still found yourself checking in beside the ballroom registration desk at six-thirty in the evening wearing heels that suddenly felt medically offensive.

“Congratulations again, sweetheart.”

The omega coordinator overseeing the volunteer staff smiled warmly the second you approached the check-in station, her silver clipboard tucked beneath one arm while assistants hurried behind her carrying floral arrangements toward the main ballroom entrance.

Kim Yejin worked full-time under Helios student affairs managing donor events and scholarship galas, and over the last two years you’d developed enough mutual exhaustion together that she occasionally smuggled leftover pastries into your hands during late-night networking functions.

“You survived Professor Han’s judging panel,” she continued while scanning your name off the volunteer list. “Honestly, you deserve financial compensation for emotional trauma alone.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

“Can I collect that before or after the gala?”

“After. We need you alive first.”

Alive felt increasingly ambitious at the moment.

Yejin either didn’t notice or politely chose not to comment on the fact you looked vaguely feverish beneath the harsh ballroom lighting. Instead she handed you the volunteer identification lanyard alongside the standard coordinator uniform for omega representatives — fitted cream blouse, black pencil skirt, gold Helios insignia stitched subtly along the collar.

“We’re rotating you between registration and backstage donor coordination tonight,” she explained quickly while glancing over the growing ballroom crowd nearby. “Nothing complicated. Smile politely, hand rich people their name cards, and stop stupid alphas from stealing champagne glasses off passing trays again if possible.”

“That sounds impossible actually.”

“It probably is.”

Another coordinator called her name from across the ballroom before she could continue, and Yejin squeezed your shoulder briefly on the way past. “Staff briefing in ten minutes. Change fast.”

You nodded automatically before heading toward the volunteer dressing rooms tucked behind the west ballroom corridor, heels clicking too loudly against marble floors while another wave of nausea rolled unpleasantly through your stomach.

For the first time since leaving the debate auditorium, silence finally settled around you properly. No applause, no donor conversations, no faculty questions, just fluorescent lights humming softly overhead beside rows of garment racks and abandoned makeup kits scattered across long preparation counters.

Your hands were trembling now.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath while reaching automatically toward the side pocket of your purse containing your suppressants. “You literally had one job today.”

Your pulse spiked hard enough to hurt. That was bad. Not mildly inconvenient bad either, actually dangerous.

Suppressant rebound symptoms became unpredictable once you started overdosing inconsistent cycles under stress, especially for omegas already prone to severe heats.

And judging by the cramps still twisting sharply through your stomach every five minutes, your body was already rejecting the schedule entirely.

For one horrible second, genuine fear surged through you properly. Not embarrassment, not stress, but fear. Because suddenly the timeline looked very different. You were nowhere near home. Nowhere near isolated. And potentially only a few hours away from onset.

“Okay,” you whispered quickly to yourself before the panic could spiral further. “Okay. Fine.”

Not fine. Absolutely not fine. Still, your fingers reached automatically toward the last suppressant remaining inside the bottle anyway because at that point what other choice did you realistically have? You couldn’t leave. You couldn’t disappear after winning the fellowship final. You definitely could not start pre-heat in the middle of a donor gala full of unmated alphas and wealthy social predators.

So instead you swallowed the final dose dry beside the dressing room mirror and prayed your body would survive the consequences long enough for you to make it home later. Future you could deal with the hormonal catastrophe afterward. Present you simply needed to function another few hours.

When you stepped back into the backstage coordination hall ten minutes later, Kim Yejin already stood near the volunteer briefing table organizing name cards into alphabetical stacks while several omegas and beta staff gathered around her holding clipboards.

After that, the evening dissolved strangely.

Later, when you tried reconstructing the timeline inside your head, most of the gala existed only in fragments — chandelier lighting reflecting gold against champagne glasses, donor surnames repeated too many times, the constant low hum of wealthy conversation blending into one indistinguishable noise inside the ballroom.

You remembered working. That part remained clear.

Your body had apparently switched fully into survival mode somewhere around the beginning of the second donor rotation, because despite everything happening internally, you still performed the role expected from you almost perfectly.

Smile politely, check invitation lists, escort guests toward reserved tables, refill registration folders, redirect drunk finance majors away from important alumni before they embarrassed themselves publicly.

By eight-thirty, you had layered so many neutral scent patches beneath your uniform collarbones and wrists that your skin had started itching angrily underneath the adhesive. The blockers barely helped anymore, but they dulled the sharpest edges enough that nobody around you reacted visibly. Every time you passed backstage storage rooms, you reapplied another strip mechanically before returning to the ballroom floor pretending nothing was wrong.

Most importantly, you avoided alphas entirely whenever possible.

At some point, Yejin asked whether you wanted one of the catering staff to bring you food. You said no.

At another point, one of the younger omegas helping with registration complained jokingly that the ballroom felt too warm tonight. You nearly laughed from the sheer psychological violence of that understatement.

By nine forty, the suppressant crash had become impossible to ignore anymore.

Everything felt wrong suddenly.

Your body ached with the deep exhausting heaviness that usually arrived right before full onset, heat curling constantly beneath your skin while your scent blockers struggled harder every minute to suppress what your hormones were trying desperately to force outward. Even your hearing had started dulling strangely around the edges, ballroom conversations blending together beneath the persistent rush of blood pounding inside your ears.

The ballroom had mostly emptied by the time your shift finally ended. Most donors disappeared toward private afterparties or executive lounges upstairs, leaving behind only a handful of lingering guests scattered across the remaining occupied tables beneath dimmed chandelier lighting. Staff members had already started dismantling sections of the registration area by then, floral centerpieces disappearing onto rolling carts while waiters quietly cleared untouched dessert trays from abandoned tables.

When Kim Yejin approached you near the registration counter to dismiss the remaining volunteers for the night, you didn’t even recognize her immediately.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked slowly. Yejin’s face sharpened back into focus a second later, concern already pulling visibly across her expression while she reached instinctively toward your arm.

“You okay?” she asked carefully.

Your mouth moved automatically before your brain caught up. “Yeah.”

The answer sounded delayed even to yourself. Yejin frowned harder. “You look feverish.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated quickly, the words slurring together slightly around the edges now. “Just tired.”

Not technically a lie. Your ears felt full suddenly, pressure building strangely beneath the constant pounding of your pulse while another wave of heat rolled violently through your body hard enough that you had to grip the edge of the registration table for half a second before your knees steadied again.

Yejin noticed that too. “Hey,” she said more softly now. “Do you need me to call someone?”

Panic surged instantly through the haze clouding your thoughts. “No.”

Too fast.

Too sharp.

Both of you froze briefly afterward. Then, thankfully, another staff member called Yejin’s name from across the ballroom before she could push further into the question. Her attention flickered uncertainly between you and the volunteer carts still waiting near the west entrance.

“You should go home,” she said finally, still sounding unconvinced. “Seriously.”

You nodded quickly, then waved goodbye with what you hoped resembled normal human coordination before immediately turning toward the backstage corridor the second she looked away.

The moment the ballroom doors shut behind you, your composure shattered almost instantly.

Your heel caught unevenly against the marble floor hard enough that you nearly tripped outright before catching yourself against the hallway wall with a quiet curse. Heat surged violently through your body all at once now that you were finally away from people, the abrupt isolation tearing through whatever fragile control the suppressants had still been holding together.

Fuck.

The backstage corridors had mostly emptied already by then, only a few lingering beta staff members crossing through the administrative hallways carrying storage boxes toward service elevators. None of them paid attention to you beyond polite exhausted nods while passing by.

You made it another twenty feet before realizing you physically were not going to survive the walk home like this.

The staff bathroom near the volunteer lounge stood empty when you pushed through the door. You barely managed to lock yourself inside one of the stalls before your body gave out completely.

The floor hit hard beneath your knees first.

Then everything blurred.

For a few long minutes, you honestly weren’t sure whether you had passed out fully or simply stopped functioning enough to distinguish consciousness properly anymore. Heat crashed violently through your system in uneven waves now that the suppressants had finally burned out completely, your body trembling against the cold tile while every nerve ending felt painfully overstimulated all at once.

Too hot. Everything felt too hot.

You pressed your forehead weakly against the bathroom floor and tried focusing on breathing through it instead of panicking. That part mattered. Panic made onset worse. Stress accelerated hormonal response.

Somewhere beyond the fog clogging your thoughts, a tiny practical part of your brain finally realized something important.

The door.

You needed to lock the bathroom door.

The thought repeated sluggishly inside your head for several seconds before your body obeyed it. Later, you wouldn’t even remember actually standing. One moment you were curled half-conscious against freezing tile, and the next you were gripping the sink counter near the entrance while fumbling clumsily with the bathroom lock using shaking fingers.

Click.

Safe.

Or safe enough.

You stood there breathing hard for another few seconds afterward, forehead resting weakly against the metal door while another brutal wave rolled through your body hard enough to make your knees threaten collapsing again.

This was bad. Not catastrophic maybe, but bad.

You had survived every other heat mostly alone already. One pre-heat wave trapped inside an unfamiliar bathroom wasn’t ideal, but it also wasn’t the end of the world. Once the worst of the hormonal spike passed, you could call a ride home. Maybe text Soojin if things became genuinely unmanageable. She’d complained about you isolating during heats before, but she would still come get you if necessary.

You just needed to wait this out first. An hour maybe, two at worst.

Then home.

Your body seemed satisfied with that plan too because once your mind settled around it, the desperate panic underneath your instincts softened slightly into exhausted resignation instead. Another cramp twisted sharply through your stomach while you slid slowly back down against the wall beside the sinks, knees pulling weakly toward your chest afterward.

Cold tile pressed soothingly against your overheated skin.

Your ears still rang faintly from the ballroom noise lingering inside your head, but at least the bathroom remained quiet now. Empty. Isolated. Safe from alpha scent and crowded spaces and humiliating public disasters.

At some point during the wave, you remembered your phone existed.

The realization surfaced sluggishly through the haze clouding your thoughts while you sat curled against the bathroom wall, one cheek pressed weakly against cool tile beneath the sinks. Your purse had fallen sideways nearby sometime earlier, contents half spilled across the floor beside you.

You stared at it for several seconds before finally leaning forward enough to grab your phone with clumsy fingers.

The brightness of the screen immediately made you regret being alive. Too bright. Too loud somehow too, despite the fact phones obviously did not produce physical noise strong enough to hurt. Your entire body felt oversensitive now — skin, scent, sound, temperature — every sensation dragging roughly against nerves already overloaded beyond tolerance.

Still, you forced yourself to focus enough to unlock the screen. An embarrassing number of notifications greeted you instantly.

Missed calls. Unread texts. Multiple messages stacked aggressively on top of each other from group chats you absolutely did not have the emotional stability required to process right now. And, as expected, far too many notifications from your two alpha friends.

Jaeyun’s messages looked exactly like Jaeyun himself — excessive, rapid-fire, increasingly dramatic the longer you ignored him. He had called you a number of times as well.

Sunghoon’s messages were worse somehow because there were fewer of them. Which meant he was worried.

Your stomach twisted unpleasantly at the thought while you scrolled weakly through the newest notifications. You let your head fall weakly back against the wall afterward and closed your eyes for a second, phone still loose in your hand while guilt crawled slowly beneath the exhaustion weighing down your limbs.

You weren’t entirely sure how much time passed after that.

You looked terrible. Eyes glassy. Pupils blown. Cheeks visibly flushed beneath ballroom makeup now starting to separate slightly around the edges from heat and exhaustion.

You forced yourself upright enough to unlock your phone again, thumb hovering uncertainly over Jaeyun’s contact this time. Maybe texting him wasn’t the worst idea anymore. Not because you wanted help — absolutely not — but because if you disappeared entirely, he genuinely might start looking for you himself.

And honestly? The idea of Sim Jaeyun roaming Helios at midnight asking strangers whether they’d seen you sounded psychologically exhausting for everyone involved.

You had just barely managed to type: alive. going home soon. when footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor outside.

Not unusual at first. Staff members had been passing through the administrative halls all night. Still, something about these footsteps immediately felt different somehow. Slower. Heavier. Familiar enough that instinct reacted before your brain fully processed why.

Your body went still automatically.

The footsteps stopped briefly. Then continued again, closer this time.

You frowned faintly at the bathroom door while your pulse abruptly started climbing for entirely different reasons now. Through the lingering haze clogging your thoughts, another realization surfaced sluggishly a second later.

Voices, low and muffled through the hallway walls. One sharper and faster. The other quieter.

Your stomach dropped instantly.

You were sure your omega was being genuinely delusional now.

Maybe overdosing suppressants really did start causing auditory hallucinations after a certain point, because there was absolutely no reasonable explanation for why your body suddenly reacted to those voices like this. Every nerve ending beneath your skin seemed to spark violently awake all at once, instincts surging toward the sound hard enough that you physically had to press yourself harder against the bathroom wall to stay still.

Ridiculous. Actually ridiculous.

There were thousands of men inside Helios University. Your heat-addled brain did not get to start assigning familiar voices to random hallway conversations simply because you spent too much time psychologically obsessing over Sim Jaeyun and Park Sunghoon.

You squeezed your eyes shut briefly and tried focusing on literally anything else. The cold tile beneath your palms, the fluorescent lights overhead, your breathing.

Outside, the footsteps stopped again.

You stared at the locked bathroom door in actual horror now while your thoughts scrambled uselessly against one another. How had they even found this floor? Why were they still here? Had Yejin said something? Did they know something was wrong already?

God, no. Could it be…?

No, it can't be.

Your scent.

Sunghoon didn’t remember deciding to move.

One second he stood frozen beneath the dim ballroom lighting with his heartbeat hammering violently against his ribs, and the next both of them were crossing the corridor fast enough now that restraint finally stopped mattering altogether. Jaeyun called your name the moment they crossed into the backstage corridor, his voice echoing sharply off concrete walls and metal service doors before disappearing deeper into the administrative wing.

No answer came back.

The space beyond the ballroom looked nothing like the polished Helios University presented publicly upstairs. The deeper they moved into the staff-only hallways, the more the illusion of wealth and prestige peeled away into something functional and strangely intimate.

Gone were the marble floors and gold lighting and carefully curated donor architecture. Back here the ceilings lowered visibly, exposed pipes running overhead beside fluorescent maintenance lights that buzzed faintly in uneven intervals. Rolling garment racks crowded one side of the corridor beside stacked catering crates and folded banquet tables waiting to be wheeled into storage by morning staff.

The door slammed lightly against the wall when Jaeyun pushed it open, both of them stepping instinctively into the narrow staff lounge beyond before immediately stopping again.

Empty. At first glance, completely empty.

But your scent saturated the air so heavily now that it hit both alphas immediately. Not perfume anymore, not subtle, full on omega distress.

Every irrational part of them had already started building images faster than logic could stop them — you alone back here for who knew how long, trying to suppress pre-heat symptoms by yourself while the entire university celebrated upstairs completely unaware.

Or worse. Aware and ignoring it.

Jaeyun swore quietly under his breath while turning sharply toward the second door near the back of the lounge. “Bathroom.”

Even with decades of mandatory high-grade suppressants and scent patches drilled into every elite alpha since puberty, nothing could fully blunt the raw pull of an omega in pre-heat distress. It wasn’t just smell—it was instinct screaming through the bloodstream: warm rain on sun-baked asphalt, sharp ozone after lightning, threaded with something sweeter and more vulnerable that made the alpha hindbrain sit up and snarl protect, claim, fix.

Jake’s throat tightened, a low involuntary rumble building in his chest that he had to physically swallow down. Sunghoon’s jaw flexed beside him, fingers curling into fists at his sides. In Helios, where every scent was supposed to be civilized and controlled, this kind of unfiltered potency was rare, almost illegal in how it bypassed every social filter. It didn’t beg. It simply existed—honest, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore.

The pull of your scent only grew stronger as they crossed the small lounge, thick enough to coat the back of their throats and make every instinct bristle. Jaeyun moved on pure reflex now, drawn straight to the closed door at the far end like a compass needle snapping north. He reached the bathroom first.

Locked.

“Fuck.” His voice dropped lower immediately, gentler this time despite the urgency bleeding underneath it. “Hey. Baby?” No response came from inside. Sunghoon’s pulse spiked hard enough to ache. Jaeyun knocked again, sharper now. “Y/N, it’s us. Open the door.”

Still nothing. But then—movement. Small. A weak sound from inside that didn’t quite resemble words. Sunghoon stepped forward immediately. “Move.”

Jaeyun shifted aside without argument while Sunghoon grabbed the handle hard enough that the old lock snapped almost instantly beneath the force. The door jerked open violently against tile.

And there you were. Curled tightly against the wall between the sinks and the last bathroom stall like you’d tried to make yourself physically smaller somehow. One of the volunteer blazers had fallen half beneath you across the tile floor while your fingers remained clenched tightly around your phone against your chest, knuckles pale from pressure.

For one terrible second neither alpha moved.

You looked wrecked. Your hair had started coming loose completely now, makeup smudged faintly beneath exhausted eyes gone glassy and unfocused beneath harsh fluorescent lighting. Your breathing sounded uneven in the too-small bathroom, shoulders trembling faintly every few seconds despite the obvious effort you were making to stay still.

And the second the door opened wider, your entire body reacted instinctively.

You recoiled sharply against the wall.

“Don't—” The word came out rough. Your eyes lifted toward them immediately but didn’t fully recognize either of them at first, pupils blown wide enough that instinct clearly outweighed rational thought now.

The scent flooding the tiny bathroom intensified all at once — sweet, overheated, terrified.

Jaeyun’s expression broke completely. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You shook your head almost immediately after, movement frantic despite how weak you looked. “Please— don’t come any closer—”

The fear in your voice wasn’t fear of them, it was fear for them. Fear of what your heat could do to them. You’d locked yourself alone inside a staff bathroom rather than risk exposing anyone else to it. The realization hit both of them hard enough that their composure nearly fractured entirely.

“How long have you been here?” Jaeyun asked softly, crouching instinctively near the doorway without fully approaching you yet. Every movement he made had gone careful and controlled despite the visible tension running beneath his skin. “Y/N, look at me.”

Your gaze flickered toward him briefly before darting away again almost immediately. “Fuck— Why are you here? Jaeyun, you shouldn't be here.”

“Too late for that.”

“Jaeyun?", you hiccuped, "I’m serious—”

Your wrists were rubbed raw beneath the sleeves of the volunteer uniform where you’d clearly been scratching at your skin trying to ground yourself through the instinctive discomfort. Empty suppressant packaging sat crumpled near the trashcan beside you. Your phone screen still displayed unanswered messages and missed calls beneath trembling fingers.

Sunghoon took one step forward before he could stop himself. That immediately made your eyes snap toward the taller alpha.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered. “Please don’t come any closer.”

“Hey,” Jaeyun said softly, voice dropping lower in the careful way people used around frightened animals. “Look at me for a second.”

You didn’t. Your eyes stayed fixed stubbornly somewhere near the floor instead while your fingers tightened harder around the phone against your chest. “I’m fine,” you managed weakly. “Just need a minute.”

That made Sunghoon, who still stood closer to the door, almost lose his mind. The anger hit him instantly and irrationally, hot enough to cut clean through the panic clawing inside his chest.

Not anger at you. Never really at you. But at the image in front of him instead — you locked inside a staff bathroom at nearly ten at night trying to ride out pre-heat symptoms alone because you genuinely believed this was preferable to asking them for help.

“You are very obviously not fine, Y/N.”

Your shoulders flinched hard at the sound of his voice.

Jaeyun shot him a look immediately, warning flashing across his expression before turning back toward you again. “Sweetheart,” he said quickly, softer now. “We're just worried because you've been ignoring our calls all night.”

Another wave hit you before you could properly respond. A tiny sound escaped you before you could stop it, quiet enough it almost didn’t register at all. Except both alphas reacted instantly.

Your omega whining in distress shattered whatever remaining distance existed inside that bathroom.

Jaeyun swore softly under his breath.

Because fuck, you looked horrified afterward, eyes squeezing shut while your head dropped against the wall behind you. “God— fuck, I’m sorry—”

Sunghoon muttered under his breath. “No need to apologize, sweetheart.” he looked at you. “You locked yourself inside a staff bathroom alone instead of calling someone, that's dangerous, Y/N.” He couldn't help but point.

“There wasn’t anyone to call.” Your answer came too fast and too honest, making the two alphas fall in silence. The atmosphere dropped heavily through the room.

Sunghoon stared at you at your response with the same intensity as Jaeyun. The second realization crossed your face — the moment you understood what you’d admitted aloud — you immediately tried looking away again.

Too late.

Somewhere inside your exhausted, heat-addled brain, you genuinely hadn’t considered either of them an option.

“Baby,” Jaeyun said quietly, all teasing gone from his voice now. “That’s not true.”

You shook your head weakly. “Jaeyun—”

“Y/N.”

“No, you don’t understand—”

The Sim's expression softened almost painfully despite the tension still visible around his jaw. He interrupted you and moved carefully this time, lowering himself fully onto one knee against the tile so he looked less imposing.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Baby, can I touch you?”

Your entire body reacted to the words.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Jaeyun murmured softly, noticing the trembling in your hands the longer you tried forcing yourself smaller against the tiled wall. “We can take you somewhere safe. Don’t you want that?”

Your expression tightened immediately. Both of them watched embarrassment flash across your face faster than instinct, humiliation settling visibly beneath the feverish haze clouding your eyes while you shook your head again.

“I can manage,” you whispered weakly, though the sentence barely sounded convincing to yourself anymore. “I just need— I just need this to pass a little.”

Jaeyun’s face did something painful at that.

Not pity.

Worse.

Understanding.

Because suddenly the entire situation looked horrifyingly clear. You weren’t fighting them because you didn’t trust them. You were fighting because somewhere inside your head this still counted as dignity. Sitting alone on a freezing bathroom floor while your suppressants failed felt less humiliating to you than letting two of your friends alphas see you vulnerable like this.

The realization seemed to hit Jaeyun just as hard as it hit Sunghoon.

“Baby,” he said carefully, keeping his voice impossibly gentle despite the tension running through every inch of his body now, “look at me.”

Your gaze lifted toward him through heavy lashes before darting away almost immediately again, heat and distress thickening your scent so heavily now the tiny bathroom barely felt breathable anymore.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. “Talk to us.”

For a second it looked like you wouldn’t answer, then your fingers tightened harder around your phone against your chest and your face twisted faintly with something dangerously close to panic.

“I swear I thought I could make it,” you whispered after a moment, exhaustion finally bleeding visibly into your voice now that the fight inside you had started slipping. “My pre-heat was supposed to start tomorrow, I just needed to get through today and then I was going to take leave for the week.”

Sunghoon rubbed one hand slowly down his face.

Tomorrow.

You’d calculated this down to the hour, of course you had. And somehow that made the entire situation even more devastating.

Jaeyun swore softly under his breath before leaning forward slightly again, voice gentler this time. “Baby,” he murmured, “can I touch you now?”

Sunghoon watched the conflict move visibly across your face — embarrassment warring violently against instinct while your omega practically screamed beneath the surface for comfort. Another wave hit you hard enough that your breathing stuttered sharply afterward.

Then finally, a tiny nod.

Jaeyun moved immediately after that, careful and slow despite the obvious urgency beneath his skin now. He crossed the remaining distance between you carefully enough not to startle you, one hand lifting toward your arm—

The second he touched you, your entire body reacted. You latched onto him so fast it almost startled all three of you.

A broken sound escaped your throat while your hands grabbed fistfuls of the Sim's dress shirt and pulled yourself directly against his neck, breathing him in like you’d been deprived of oxygen for hours.

Jaeyun froze. Completely froze. “Oh,” he breathed instinctively, arms catching around you automatically before you slid sideways against the tile. “Does that help, baby?” he asked quietly.

Your answer came as the smallest nod imaginable against his neck.

Sunghoon had to physically look away for a second because something about the sight hit too hard.

Jaeyun adjusted you more securely against him while glancing up toward his bestfriend again. “Okay,” he said quietly, practical despite the way his hands tightened protectively around your waist. “We need to get her out of here before someone comes back.”

You reacted immediately. “Wait.” Both alphas looked down at you. “Just take me home,” you insisted weakly against Jaeyun’s collar despite the fact you were still visibly clinging to him. “You can leave me there. It's okay.”

The silence afterward felt almost dangerous. Jaeyun stared at you like you’d lost your mind.

He actually let out a short disbelieving laugh. “Absolutely not, baby.”

“I can't take a cab right now, Jaeyun, please just leave me there.”

The words came out muffled against Jaeyun’s throat, weakened further by the fact you still hadn’t let go of him even slightly. One of your hands remained twisted tightly into the fabric of his dress shirt while your breathing slowly steadied against the warm line of his neck, body reacting almost embarrassingly fast to the comfort of an alpha despite the stubbornness still visible all over your face.

Jaeyun looked down at you like you were completely insane.

“We can’t just drop you off and call it a day, princess,” he said, voice low but firm.

You blinked up at him, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders. “What do you mean? I just need to get home and sleep.”

Sunghoon cut in immediately, stepping closer so both alphas were crowding the narrow space in that overwhelming way they had. His jaw was tight, eyes sharp with worry he didn’t bother hiding.

“You’re not sleeping through this,” he said, the words leaving no room for argument.

You finally lifted your head slightly at that, expression exhausted and overheated beneath the harsh fluorescent bathroom lights. Your pupils remained blown wide, lashes damp at the corners from strain while the sweet scent of distressed omega still saturated the cramped room heavily enough that both alphas looked perpetually on edge.

Still, stubbornness burned underneath it all.

“I have suppressants at home,” you argued weakly.

“You already burned through the emergency dose,” Sunghoon replied flatly, eyes flicking briefly toward the empty packaging discarded near the trash can beside you. “And they barely worked.”

Your jaw tightened immediately.

Jaeyun sighed quietly beneath his breath before shifting you more comfortably against him, one hand moving slowly up and down your back in absentminded calming motions that made your shoulders loosen despite yourself. “Do you live alone?”

A long pause stretched between you. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he waited.

“No,” you finally murmured.

Sunghoon’s frown deepened instantly, his sharp eyes narrowing with concern. He stepped a little closer, voice dropping.

“Roommates?”

You nodded once against Jaeyun’s shoulder, the movement small and tired. “Two.”

“What are their designations, Y/N?” Sunghoon asked, the question coming out sharper and more immediate than before. You lifted your head just enough to look up at him, confusion flickering across your face at the intensity behind his words.

“One omega. One alpha.”Sunghoon went completely still. Jaeyun cursed softly under his breath, the two reactions hitting at the exact same second.

Your eyes narrowed faintly, suspicion cutting through the haze. “What?”

“You go through heats with an alpha at home, baby?” Jaeyun asked carefully, his voice low and measured, though his hand had stopped its soothing motion on your back.

“He’s barely there,” you answered.

“That’s not the point.”

“He works nights most of the week,” you continued quickly, the words rushing out like you’d had this argument a dozen times before. “And he’s not—we’re not close or anything.”

Sunghoon stared at you for a long second, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy and tense.

“No.” The single word cut through the room like a blade, leaving no space for negotiation.

You blinked at him. “No what.”

“No, I'm not letting you go back there.”

Your expression shifted instantly from exhausted embarrassment to disbelief. “Sunghoon—”

“You’re spending the heat at my flat.” The bathroom fell silent. Even Jaeyun looked briefly surprised by how immediate the decision sounded leaving his mouth.

You stared at him openly now, heat-hazed eyes widening slightly while your fingers tightened unconsciously against Jaeyun’s shirt again. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Sunghoon replied, calm and unyielding.

Your voice came out sharper than you intended, heat making your cheeks burn as you glared up at him. “You can’t just decide that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, the fuck you can’t,” you snapped, the words tumbling out sharper than you meant, your fingers twisting tighter into Jaeyun’s shirt.

Sunghoon leaned forward slightly then, frustration and protective instinct finally bleeding fully together beneath his skin after spending the last hour watching you try to rationalize dangerous situations like they were minor inconveniences.

“You are not spending a heat in an apartment with a random alpha roommate,” he said firmly.

“He’s not random,” you insisted, voice muffled against Jaeyun’s shirt.

“I don’t care,” Sunghoon shot back without missing a beat, his tone flat and final.

“He’s barely even home,” you tried again, the words coming out weaker this time, exhaustion and heat making your argument feel flimsy even to your own ears.

“Y/N.”

Sunghoon’s voice was low and careful as he said your name, a quiet warning wrapped in concern. Jaeyun's hand resumed its slow, soothing path along your back, but his body had gone tense beneath you.

Your face flushed hotter instantly, equal parts embarrassment and irritation now. “Do you even hear yourself right now, Sunghoon?”

“Yes.”

“You sound insane.”

“You’re in pre-heat,” Sunghoon snapped back immediately. “Your suppressants failed, your emergency coverage expired, and you locked yourself inside a staff bathroom alone instead of asking for help. Forgive me if I’m past pretending this is a reasonable situation, sweetheart.”

The anger in his voice startled you enough that your omega reacted instantly, another distressed sound escaping your throat before you buried your face hard back against Jaeyun’s neck in humiliation.

“I’m not yelling,” Sunghoon replied, voice still edged with frustration.

“You literally sound like someone’s angry husband,” Jaeyun muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused despite the tension.

Sunghoon ignored him completely, his sharp gaze staying locked on you, unwavering.

Because now that the reality of your living situation settled properly inside his head, the idea of you going back there genuinely made something primal and furious rise beneath his skin. An unmated omega in full heat trapped in an apartment with an unrelated alpha? No stabilizing support? No scent management? No one monitoring suppressant crashes?

Fucking impossible.

“You need somewhere controlled,” he said more evenly this time, though tension still tightened visibly along his jaw. “Somewhere people aren’t going to lose their minds because your heat scent leaks through an apartment wall.”

You slowly lifted your head again and for the first time since they found you, genuine surprise cut cleanly through the haze clouding your expression. “You really mean that.”

Sunghoon frowned slightly. “Yes, princess. It's obvious that I mean it.”

Your eyes searched his face like you genuinely couldn’t tell whether he understood what he was offering.

“Sunghoon,” you said carefully now, voice rough with exhaustion and disbelief all tangled together, “do you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about?”

Jaeyun glanced between both of you quietly, already understanding exactly where your mind had gone.

Because yes. Everyone did know what it meant.

An alpha offering his home to an omega during heat wasn’t casual. Especially not an unmated omega. Especially not one both of them clearly wanted badly enough the tension practically filled the room around them.

Sunghoon held your stare evenly anyway. “I know exactly what I’m talking about, sweetheart.”

Your breathing caught faintly. “You’ve never even taken care of someone through heat before. This might be too much for you guys.”

The words came out quieter this time, stripped of some of the earlier defensiveness now that exhaustion had started overtaking your ability to fight them properly.

Sunghoon held your gaze steadily anyway, jaw tightening slightly before he answered. “No,” he admitted flatly. “I haven’t.”

The honesty seemed to surprise you more than the admission itself.

Beside you, Jaeyun shifted carefully against the bathroom wall while still holding you loosely against his chest, one hand resting warm and grounding against the middle of your back. Unlike Sunghoon, he looked completely unsurprised by the conversation unfolding in front of him.

Probably because Jaeyun already knew him too well.

“But Jaeyun has,” Sunghoon continued before you could retreat into your own head again. “And he’ll be there. He'll know how to help you.”

Your eyes flicked automatically toward Jaeyun.

Jaeyun gave a small shrug despite the obvious tension still visible around his shoulders. “I used to date an omega years ago,” he explained quietly. “Her heats were rough when we were together.”

Something in your expression softened faintly at that.

Not fully trust.

But understanding.

Sunghoon pushed forward immediately while he still had your attention. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, baby,” he said, voice lower now, steadier than before despite the instinctive tension still clawing constantly beneath his skin. “No one’s saying we’re dragging you home to lock you in a bedroom and lose control.”

Your face burned instantly at the phrasing.

Sunghoon ignored your reaction, eyes still fixed on you. “We can help with scent stabilization. Keep your temperature down. Make sure you eat. Make sure you don’t hurt yourself trying to ride it out alone.” His jaw flexed slightly before he added more quietly, “And if you don’t want sex involved, then it won’t be involved.”

The words settled heavily between all three of you.

Because again — you all knew what this meant.

Two unmated alphas offering to spend an omega’s heat with her wasn’t neutral no matter how clinical Sunghoon tried making it sound. Not when your scent already flooded the tiny bathroom thick enough to make both their instincts visibly frayed around the edges. Not when you were currently curled half in Jaeyun’s lap breathing him in like your body already recognized comfort there instinctively.

Still, Sunghoon looked completely serious.

“I just want you safe,” he said finally, quieter now in a way that almost sounded frustrated with himself. “Because after seeing this tonight, if you go back to that apartment alone I genuinely don’t think I’ll sleep for the next week.”

The confession slipped out rougher than he probably intended. Not polished, not controlled. Honest enough that the entire room fell silent afterward. You stared at him.

Jaeyun stared at him too, though there was something knowing hidden beneath the softer look crossing his face now.

Because there it was.

Care.

Raw enough that even Sunghoon himself looked faintly irritated by the fact it had become visible.

Your fingers tightened unconsciously against Jaeyun’s shirt again while your gaze stayed locked on Sunghoon a second too long this time. The heat still clouded your expression heavily, but beneath it he could practically see the moment your walls started cracking apart around the edges.

“You’d really just…” You swallowed once, visibly struggling to finish the thought through exhaustion and embarrassment both. “Take care of me?”

Sunghoon looked almost offended by the question.

“Yes.”

Like it was obvious.

Like there had never been another option in his mind the second he found you sitting alone on a bathroom floor.

"The two of you?" Your fingers tightened unconsciously against Jaeyun’s shirt. The heat still clouded your expression heavily, but beneath it he could practically see the moment your walls started cracking apart around the edges. Not enough to disappear completely, just enough that the real question finally slipped through.

Your gaze drifted between them slowly. Two unmated alphas. One omega approaching heat. One apartment. One week.

Even through the haze clouding your thoughts, the situation sounded insane.

The city lights blurred past the windows as Jaeyun drove. In the backseat, you had curled into Sunghoon without asking, face pressed against his chest, one hand loosely fisted in his shirt. Your breathing had gone shallow and uneven, dozing in fits between waves. Every bump in the road pulled a small whimper from you, and Sunghoon’s arm tightened around your shoulders automatically.

He stared out the window, trying to ignore how right it felt. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t the type to get pulled into something messy like this. He liked distance. Clarity. Not an omega in pre-heat clinging to him like he was the only stable thing left. Yet here he was, thumb brushing absently over your arm, body angled to shield you from the AC vent.

It’s just biology, he told himself. She needs an alpha’s presence. Any alpha. Doesn’t mean anything deeper.

But the itch under his wrists had finally stopped. The restless edge that had followed him all night was gone, replaced by something quieter. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to hand you off to Jaeyun or drop you anywhere else. The flat was fifteen minutes away. His bed was made, spare blankets in the closet, fridge stocked from last week. Practical. That’s all.

Jaeyun glanced at the rearview mirror. “She okay back there?”

Sunghoon grunted. “Sleeping. Sort of.” His voice came out lower than intended. He adjusted the way your head rested against him, careful not to wake you fully. Your scent was everywhere now—sweet, fevered, undeniable. It should have been overwhelming, instead it settled something in his chest he refused to name.

He wasn’t in love. That was ridiculous. This was responsibility. Friendship. The same instinct that made him leave the umbrella that rainy afternoon years ago. Nothing had changed. You were still the stubborn scholarship student who disappeared when things got too close. He was still the Park heir who didn’t do complications.

And yet he kept his arm around you the entire drive, letting you cling. When another wave made you shift restlessly, he murmured something low and wordless against your hair, barely audible. Not romantic. Just… necessary.

Jaeyun didn’t say much from the front, but Sunghoon caught the occasional glance. They had already gone over this months ago in the kitchen after you’d crashed on the couch—one too many late nights, one too many times watching you pull away. No big confessions, just mutual acknowledgment that pretending they didn’t both want you around was getting exhausting. Sharing the problem felt easier than losing proximity.

Sunghoon exhaled slowly. The denial sat there, familiar and comforting. He wasn’t accepting anything permanent. This was one heat. One week. You’d recover, go back to avoiding them, and they’d go back to pretending they weren’t watching for you in every lecture hall.

But right now, with your weight warm and trusting against him, the city passing quietly outside, he didn’t want to be anywhere else. The thought annoyed him. He pushed it down.

Temporary, he reminded himself. Just get her through this.

Still, his hand stayed on your back, steady. The flat lights were already visible up ahead. Jaeyun slowed the car. Sunghoon didn’t loosen his hold.

author's note — no reader hate will be tolerated ok. love you guys, forgive me if this is bad (ik is dragging af). guys bully me into writing the second part of this because i swear i tried so many times but the smut isn't smutting AND IT'S BEEN A MONTH SINCE I STARTED WRITING IT. I'M GOING TO CRASH OUT I SWEAR.RRRR

HU TAGLIST — @chuuyaobsessed @missoxy @strawberrywonnie @fancypeacepersona @areikii @urlocalstaygenemoa @sa1ky @imeowni @i4tzy @liashimura

PERM TAGLIST — @hesperisms @caratchronicles

[junrenjun]

sigh. had a bad day at work and now I know I’m not going to be able to sleep bc I’m just going to sit here and overthink every single second of it.

[sailorsoons]

Rule One (c.sc)

PAIRING: F.Reader x ot13 PACK MEMBER FOCUS: Seungcheol PACK MEETING: You're having a hard time adjusting to your new pack. Good thing your head alpha knows exactly how to help you adapt. REQUESTED BY: @peaspeas REQUEST: Idek if this qualifies because I'm talking like, maybe pré-rules or before they were finalised formally but I want Seungcheol finding reader whenever she's eating and sitting with her and she has no idea why. If he shows up and she's already eating, he's like oh shit, panic to make up a reason that he needs to as well etc. Almost a sort of farcical comedy vibe? Both idiots ofc WC: 5,135 RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. PACK WARNINGS: Very mild angst like wouldn't even call it that, reader has some anxiety adjusting to a new pack, she's a little in her head, Seungcheol is a little shit, some vague references to hormones and adjusting to being near others, reader being lonely and feeling a little on the outside, both of them are kind of stupid lmfaooo but in a good way, some playful arguing at the end. A/N: Moni this is not as cracky as it was supposed to be and didn't really notice to the end I'm saur sorry lmfaoooo. Also this is not beta read we die like men guys.

HOUSE RULES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | ASK

THE KITCHEN IS PAINTED IN SHADES OF BLUE AT 5:47 IN THE MORNING. As the only resident of said kitchen this early in the morning the past two weeks, you've learned that the pre-dawn light that spills through the wide windows above the sink turns everything soft and cool in the morning. The white subway tile back splash starts off a muted grey before the sun finally melts away the blue and turns it bright white each morning.

This morning, the honey-colored cabinets look muted, nearly colorless as the sun hides beyond the horizon. You take another bite of cereal, listening to the old house settle around you. The house has taken getting used to - not because it's ancient, but because it's old enough to feel lived in and have its own quirks of floorboards that squeak, doors that click shut because the hinges are a little loose, pipes that groan when one of the thirteen people upstairs showers late at night.

It's a big house. It has to be, to fit the pack of thirteen - fourteen now, including you. Six alphas, seven betas, and you. A single omega, new and a little out of your comfort zone as you try to figure the ins and outs of a pack who have been together so long, they don't even have to think about how to navigate one another. They just do, planets who have been in rotation of one another for so long that it's as easy as breathing.

Where they've had years together, you've only had two weeks. It still feels like you're learning an entire new language - not because any of them are difficult or unkind, but rather because there's a difference between being welcomed into a pack and belonging, and you're somewhere in the strange gap between the two.

Unfortunately, the omega part of your brain doesn't really understand the distinction between the two, even though you do. You get that it'll take time to integrate yourself fully and to fit in as intimately as the others do with one another, but your instincts don't have that nuance. All your omega knows is that you should be surrounded by a pack, that you should be scented and claimed and constantly near people who want you.

Instead, you're sitting by yourself in a kitchen that feels too big and your instincts are ramming against you to go knock on a door and ask for company. You can't, though. Not that they wouldn't let you in - they would. You know they would. But the small fraction of the what if keeps you rooted to your seat. What if they end up not liking you? What if this doesn't work out? What if they decide they don't need an omega after all?

You stare at the cereal in your bowl, now soggy. It's something honey-flavored and generic that you took out of the pack pantry without looking. Mingyu swore you could take anything out of the pantry and fridge - anything in the house. What’s theirs is yours until you start filling the house with your favorite things, but like the anxiety of asking one of them to spend time with you, you can't seem to figure out how to ask for cinnamon sugar cereal or sweet cream coffee creamer.

Another bite confirms your cereal is as soggy as it looks. You ignore it, watching the kitchen in the morning stillness. It still smells like cinnamon and brown sugar from something Mingyu baked yesterday. Dishes pile in the sink and you know Seungcheol is going to have a field day when he sees it, adamant about dishes being done each night.

Under the layers of the smell of the kitchen is them. You're still trying to pick out the strands of scents that belong to each member, but thirteen scents layered over the top of one another is dizzying and hard to get used to, each one blending into something that you recognize as almost pack. Pack but not.

There are a few you can pick out individually, at least. You know Seungcheol's cedar and smoke, the head alpha easier to scent than the others. Jeonghan's citrus and something that you can't put your finger on. Mingyu's clean laundry smell with a hint of something soft and woody. The others remain a bit of a mess, but you're determined to try, hoping that maybe untangling each scent will lead you to untangling them and finding a sense of belonging that you'd hoped to find here and that they said they'd wanted you to find.

You try not to think about what happens if you don't find a place here. Though it's actually entirely normal not to, you don't know if you could survive that kind of embarrassment. You had already been a bit wary of using omega placement services as it was, desperate to find a pack after years of living on your own and unwilling to go back to living with your all-beta family in your tiny town where nothing much ever happened.

Thirteen pack members is a lot after coming from something small, something lonely. You'd been thrilled at the idea, realizing that you'd never be alone again, that you'd always have someone to lean on. Now you're here, in a house full of thirteen people who are supposed to be your pack, and you're still eating breakfast alone. Still sitting on the outside of their easy familiarity. Still trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between being new and being home.

Creaking stairs catch your attention. You perk up, freezing as you listen to the soft steps of someone coming down the stairs and toward the kitchen. You smell the cedar and smoke before you see him, your brain getting a little foggy before Seungcheol ever steps into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He pulls up short when he sees you. He's surprised, and you realize he hadn't smelled you before he walked in, unused to having an omega or an outsider in his house. He looks devastating this morning in sweatpants slung low on his hips and a t-shirt that's tight enough to show off the width of him and strength in his chest. An alpha not only built strong mentally but physically, someone who feels and looks dependable, someone who looks entirely too soft and swollen and pretty in the dawn light.

He blinks at you. His eyes are dark and a little unfocused, still soft with sleep, but there's something sharp underneath. It makes you sit up straighter, you body thrumming as he flicks on the light. You squint, but when your eyes adjust, he's still looking at you with an expression he doesn't understand.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" He asks, voice rough with sleep. "Are you alright?"

"What? Oh." You lower your spoon to the bowl, hyperaware of him. "Sorry, I'm an early riser in new places. I can go if you need the kitchen, sorry-"

"No, stay."

It's not a command, but his voice is firm enough that you nod instantly, relaxing a little. He moves further into the room, carrying the heavy presence of a head alpha with him. You can feel it in the way he moves, the way he takes up space and the gravity around him that has nothing to do with physical mass and everything to do with him.

You grip the edge of the counter, trying to stay composed as your omega instincts kick in. The last thing you want is for him to think you're awkward or needy. You don't want him to know how much you're struggling with this transition more than you should be. You're supposed to be settling in and comfortable by now, but you're not.

It scares you.

"Coffee?" he asks, already turning it on.

"No, I'm okay."

He hums, opening the cabinet next to the coffee maker. You watch him scan the mugs until he finds a specific one and selects it. You wonder if they have assigned mugs, if there's a hierarchy in the cabinet beyond your understanding like so many other things here.

Silence hangs between you as he makes his coffee, turning to lean backward against the counter with the mug tucked between his hands. His gaze drifts back to you and he gives you a soft smile that you tentatively return. The attention makes you feel exposed, like he's looking at you and sees right through the core of you despite only having been in the same room for a few minutes.

"Couldn't sleep?" You ask, desperately trying to fill the silence.

"Something like that." He gestures toward you. "What about you? Do you do this a lot? Waking up early and sitting alone in the dark, I mean."

"I guess, yeah. I have a hard time sleeping in new places and I don't like to just lay there."

"Mmm." There's a pause, and you can feel him still watching you. Still assessing. "You eat breakfast alone a lot too?"

You glance down at the bowl. "Sometimes, I guess? I'm usually up before anyone else."

"How long have you been up?"

"Maybe an hour?"

"And you've just been sitting here by yourself."

It's not quite a question, but it feels like one. You glance up at him, trying to figure out where this is going, but his expression is unreadable. His scent shifts and you realize what it is. Protectiveness. He doesn't like that you're sitting here by yourself, and the realization makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"I don't mind," you murmur, looking down again to hide the sudden flush you feel.

He hums. "I'm hungry." You look up, confused at the statement. He points to your bowl. "What are you having?"

"Cereal. I think it's honey? I didn't want to wake anyone up by cooking."

"Cereal sounds good. Honey is Chan's. Good choice."

He moves with purpose then, crossing to the cabinets to pull down a bowl. Your eyes catch on the line of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under the cotton tee, the way it rides up just slightly as he reaches for the milk in the fridge, revealing a tiny strip of skin at his lower back that makes your mouth go dry. You look away quickly, back down at your soggy cereal, and try to get your breathing under control.

You watch as he fixes himself a bowl of cereal and strides over to you, dragging a stool up next to you. You blink in surprise. You expected him to sit across from you, but instead he plops down next to you close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin and close enough that the cedar and smoke of him makes your eyes flutter. His knee brushes yours as he adjusts and you have to physically stop yourself from leaning into him, your nervous system lighting up at the proximity.

"So," he says, pulling you from the static of your thoughts. "Tell me about yourself."

You blink at him. "Like what?"

"Anything." He takes another bite of cereal like this is completely normal. Like he wakes up at five in the morning to eat with strangers all the time. "Where are you from again?"

"Small town." You stir your cereal. The milk swirls. "Really small. Everyone-knows-everyone small."

"And you left."

"For college. I came back for a few years after but it didn't feel like I fit in anymore so I moved to the city, got an apartment by myself. Thought I wanted independence and freedom to figure things out on my own terms." You take a bite of cereal just to have something to do with your hands. "Turns out being alone and being independent aren't the same thing. I was just lonely. Really lonely. Didn't even realize how bad it was until I started looking into pack placement programs and well… now I’m here trying it out, I guess."

Seungcheol goes quiet. When you glance over, his expression is soft. "How long were you alone?"

"Three years."

"That's a long time for anyone, not specifically an omega."

"Yeah." You swallow. "I didn't know what I was missing. I'm still trying to figure it out, I think and how I… fit in."

"You're doing fine," he says.

"I eat breakfast alone every morning."

"Not this morning, though."

The words are simple and direct. When you look up at him, he's watching you with something warm in his expression. Something that makes your chest tight.

"No," you say quietly. "Not this morning."

He gives you a small smile that transforms his face. Suddenly, he's not the intimidating pack alpha - he's soft and warm, more like a person than someone you have to impress or earn the trust of. You relax a little, stirring your milk aimlessly.

"What about you?" you ask. "What made you want to lead a pack this big?"

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Honestly? I didn't set out to. It just kind of happened. We all met in college, started spending time together, and it felt right. Natural. Then more people joined and suddenly I was the one everyone looked to when decisions needed to be made. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it right. If I'm taking care of everyone the way I should be."

"I think you're doing a good job," you say. "Everyone seems happy. Settled."

He looks at you and gives you a look, one brow raised. "Everyone except you."

His words make you wince. Not because they're accusatory, but because you didn't think he noticed. You realize it's a bit of an insult for you to have doubted him - Seungcheol's entire role as the head alpha is to understand his pack, to balance the personalities, to lead. That includes you, despite not feeling like it, and you realize that he's taken notice and doesn't intend to let it go.

"We don't eat alone unless we want to in my pack," he says simply.

My pack. The possessiveness in those two words makes something flutter in your chest and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from grinning, to stop yourself from getting too hopeful.

"I didn't want to be a burden," you admit.

"You're not," he promises. "You're a part of our pack which means you're never a burden. We want you here. We wouldn't have gone through the trouble of the agency and placement if we didn't think there was something missing. You were missing and we're happy to gave you, even if it's a little awkward at first."

You can feel your heart beating too fast, the warmth of him making you dizzy. Seungcheol doesn't lean closer, but you feel him closer, the smell of him overwhelming and comforting. You realize he's doing it on purpose, pheromones comforting you like he should. You glance up and he has a knowing look on his face, a little smug and a little endeared and you find yourself smiling.

"Thank you," you manage. "For noticing."

"Always," he murmurs.

You finish your cereal together as the sky outside continues to lighten. For the first time since you moved into this house, you don't feel quite so alone.

-

It's Tuesday in the middle of the day when Seungcheol interrupts your next meal. You look up as he walks onto the back porch, the apple covered in peanut butter in your hand pausing as he sits down next to you at the table. He's got a full plate with him, rice, chicken and vegetables piled high as he sighs and settles in comfortably.

"Hey," he says casually, cracking open the can of soda he's brought along.

"Hi," you say slowly, eyeing him.

"I am starving. Wanted something sweet."

You look at his plate. Then back at him. Then back at the plate.

"Seungcheol, that is not sweet."

"What?"

"You said you wanted something sweet. That's chicken."

He blinks and looks down like he's just now noticing what's on it. You press your lips together as he scratches the side of his neck, nodding. "Right. I meant I wanted something sweet after this. You like ice cream?"

"I do."

"Great." He leans over, peering at your apple slices as his shoulders brush yours, sending a spark through you. "What are you having?"

"Apple and peanut butter."

"Hmmm. Classic." He starts cutting into his chicken as you watch him, eyes narrowed. "How's your day?"

You're still processing the fact that he claimed to be starving for something sweet while holding a savory meal, but you answer anyway, amused.

"Good. I've been reading."

"Yeah? What are you reading?"

Taking another bite of your apple, you tell him. Seungcheol is an engaged listener, nodding and asking follow up questions as he devours his plate. Somehow, time passes easily. Even after he's cleared his plate, he leans back into his chair, foot up on the seat as he tells you about one of his favorite books growing up, dimples appearing every time he smiles.

You love his dimples, watching them as he ducks his head and laughs, long hair falling in his eyes. You smile too, unable to help it around him. He's infectious like that, easily shifting the mood from something tense to warm or lonely to comfortable, like an alpha should.

Eventually, he sighs heavily, stretching. You try not to notice the way his shirt peels up, revealing the barest hint of soft stomach before he drops his arms back down and grins at you.

"I have to get back to work," he says. "But this was nice. We should do it again."

"That would be nice."

He smiles and gets up, clearing his plate and reaching to grab your empty one without much preamble. You watch him go inside, shaking your head when you realize that he never wanted something sweet in the first place.

-

You've been awake for three hours.

It's not insomnia, exactly. It's more like your brain won't shut off and you keep laying in bed replaying conversations, analyzing the way Seungcheol looked at you on Wednesday, wondering if you're reading too much into the fact that Mingyu sat close enough to scent you yesterday but didn't, if any of this means anything or if you're just desperate enough to convince yourself it does. As usual, your brain is doing laps, restless and unsettled, and the quiet of the house at midnight isn't helping. It's making you hyper-aware of how alone you are in your room, how easy it would be to just stay here without anyone noticing and how good you've gotten at it.

So you give up on sleep. Again.

The kitchen is dark when you pad downstairs in your pajamas, the hum of the refrigerator going as you open it up, squinting against the light. You don't bother to turn the overhead lights on, the moon filtering in through the big windows over the sink enough to get by. You steal the honey cereal - Chan's - again from the pantry, and fix a bowl before sitting at the counter, sighing as you take a bite.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you. You flip it over, squinting in the dark as you frown when you read it.

SEUNGCHEOL [12:15 AM]: What are you doing?

Your stomach does something complicated.

YOU [12:15 AM]: Eating cereal… why?

SEUNGCHEOL [12:16 AM] Be right there

You set your phone down slowly, your heart doing something erratic in your chest. He heard you come downstairs. His room is above the kitchen - you know this now - and realize that he must have heard you snooping around down here like he did that first morning he found you eating in the kitchen at five in the morning.

A minute later, he appears in the kitchen doorway and your brain short circuits a little. He's in soft cotton pajama pants and a t-shirt that's clearly old and pulled tight across his chest. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up in about fifteen different directions, and he's rumpled and sleepy enough to tell you that he absolutely was asleep until he heard you.

"Hey," he croaks.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he lies.

"You didn't have to come down, Seungcheol."

"I did. And you can call me Cheol, you know. Seungcheol makes it sound like I'm in trouble."

He moves to the cabinet, and grabs a bowl, making himself a matching snack before he sits down close enough that his thigh brushes yours. You shiver and if he notices, he has the decency not to point it out.

"Maybe you are in trouble," you mutter, taking a bite.

"Yeah? What for?"

"Being a liar who lies. You heard me and came down."

He grins and takes a bite of cereal. He chews thoughtfully for a few seconds, ignoring your stare. "So what if I did? I wanted to join you, so I did. Anyway, trouble sleeping again?"

"Kind of." You push cereal around your bowl, not quite meeting his eyes. "My brain won't shut off."

"Yeah?" He shifts slightly, and you're hyperaware of every point where his body is close to yours. "What's it doing?"

"Thinking."

"Pack stuff?"

"Maybe." You finally look at him. His eyes are soft in the moonlight. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

He doesn't ask what you mean. Doesn't pretend to be confused. Just smiles into his cereal, and the smile is so knowing that your face goes hot.

"Yep."

"Why?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

He sets his spoon down. Turns to face you fully, and there's something serious in his expression now, something that makes you sit up and pay attention to him.

"I told you already," he says softly. "We don't eat alone unless we want to. Do you want to?" You hesitate only a moment before shaking your head. "Exaclty. So until you feel confidence to ask someone - you can ask any of us, by the way - I'll make sure you're not eating alone."

It's something so simple and yet it devastates you to hear him say it. It isn't the words themselves exactly, but rather the way he says it, like it's a promise, like he's already decided that this doesn't require permission or gratitude or even for you to ask. It's just a fact that he's going to do this, no negotiation, no need to think about it.

You think about the last three years of your life of eating in your apartment along, of making meals for one, of not having to consider anyone else's schedule or preferences. Three years of being fine with it because fine was easier than admitting you were lonely. And now you have a pack you don't know what to do with, but this alpha - this head of a thirteen-person pack - is keen enough to pick up on what you need and come down to the kitchen at midnight to make sure you have what you need.

It's wonderful and terrifying all at once.

"Okay," you murmur, nodding.

You watch him in the moonlight filtering through the kitchen window. His hair is still a mess and his face is puffy with sleep, but he's soft. Warm. You notice a small scar on his collarbone you've never been close enough to notice before, and wonder where he got it from.

When he finishes his bowl of cereal, he looks at yours, raising his brows. "You finishing that?"

You shake your head and he grins, reaching over and brushing against you deliberately to steal your bowl. The contact is electric as his arm grazes your shoulder, his chest brushing your back for just a second, and your entire nervous system short-circuits. You nearly go catatonic at the contact, omega melting even when he pulls away, leaving you dizzy and touch starved and hungry for something not food. Your skin tingles where he touched you.

Seungcheol notices. This time, you see the way he grins, smug and content at your reaction. It hits you that he planned that, that he wanted you to feel it. The realization makes your chest tight in a way that's half panic, half something else entirely.

You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, your face, and it pisses you off - not at him, but at yourself for being so transparent, so easy to read. You huff and cross your arms over your chest, turning to him, temper flaring a little. You're not mad at all, but your omega instincts bristle in a way that feels playful and fun, something entirely unfamiliar to you. It's like your body knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

"Well that's not fair," you huff. "You can't just do that."

"Do what?"

"Brush up against me and use your… alpha ways."

He laughs, full bellied and loud, echoing off the kitchen walls. "My alpha ways?"

"Yes!"

"That's how it works."

"Well!" You stomp your foot against the footrest on the stool. "I would like to file a complaint. Wait, who do I file a complaint with? You're head alpha."

Even as you say it, you know how ridiculous you sound. You're literally complaining to the person you're complaining about. It's absurd. But there's also a part of you that likes this game, this playful banter.

"You're cute when you panic."

The word lands like a punch. Cute. You're not cute. You're competent and sarcastic and you've survived three years alone in a city that didn't care about you. You're not cute. Except the way he says it makes you feel small in a way that isn't entirely bad. You like it, even.

"I'm not panicking," you say, which is a lie and you both know it.

"Sure."

"And for the record, I'm not cute. I am a very strong, very assertive omega." You stand up, trying to reclaim some dignity, trying to put distance between yourself and the way his presence makes your skin feel too tight. "I've even lived on my own. Very independent."

"Absolutely," he agrees, not sounding convinced at all.

Seungcheol stands with you and puts the bowls in the sink, leaving them unwashed for once. He grins at you and gestures to the door and you listen, because apparently you do that now. Your body just obeys him, no thought required, no decision made. You just move when he moves, follow when he leads. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't. It feels familiar in a way you've been craving and you finally have it.

He follows you up the stairs and you're hyperaware of him behind you, footsteps quiet and measured. . You can feel the warmth of him in the space between your bodies, close enough that you could lean back and touch him. Your omega is purring at his proximity, at the simple fact of him being there, and you hate how easy it's becoming to just accept it. To want it.

The hallway is dark except for the moonlight filtering through the window at the end, letting in enough light for you to walk to your room, third door to the left. When you reach it, you pause, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly unsure of the protocol. Do you just say goodnight? Do you invite him in? The uncertainty makes your stomach knot uncomfortably, panic spiking.

You turn to look at him and he's closer than you expected. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. He's still soft from sleep, and he's looking at you like he looks at the other members of his pack, warm and soft and so gentle that it makes your omega nearly scream.

Seungcheol grins and leans down, pressing a kiss briefly to your head, soft and warm and over before you even know it's happening. Your throat tightens immediately, thoughts turning to static as he takes a step back, winking at you.

"Sleep, he murmurs. "Wake me up when you want breakfast. I mean it."

He dismisses himself then and you watch him walk back down the hallway, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness, and you don't move until you hear his door close softly upstairs.

Only then do you slip into your room and lean against the door, your heart still racing, your forehead still burning with the ghost of his kiss. You touch your fingers to the spot where he kissed you, like you can hold onto it somehow.

Crawling into bed, you do exactly what Seungcheol has asked and you sleep.

-

The next morning when you wake up, you don’t have to wake Seungcheol. You hear the noise downstairs, confusion drawing you down the steps and into the kitchen where breakfast is being made in full. You stand in the doorway, confused as you watch Mingyu and Joshua argue at the stove, the sound of eggs sizzling and the smell of bacon wafting toward you.

Seungkwan is at the coffee machine, staring lifelessly into the open air as his coffee brews while Chan stands on his tip toes to reach more coffee mugs out of the cabinet behind him. Seokmin is sitting on the counter swinging his legs, laughing animatedly at whatever Soonyoung and Jihoon are arguing about near the sink while Jeonghan lays across the counter, head in Seokmin’s lap as he dozes. 

Seungcheol walks in behind you, not missing at beat as he steers you by the waist toward the counter. Jeonghan peeks an eye open and grins, lifting himself from Seokmin’s lap to make room for you just as Seungcheol grip you by the waist and halls you up to sit on the counter next to Jeonghan, the citrus and jasmine smell of him placating your immediate irritation at being lifted. 

“Why is everyone in the kitchen?” You demand, turning to Jeonghan because Seungcheol is already leaving you and heading for the fridge. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Rule number one,” Jeonghan yawns, scooting closer so that he’s pressed up against you. You hesitate for only a second before you let yourself relax and tentatively lean toward him. “The omega is never allowed to eat alone unless she asks to.”

Seokmin peers around him. “Do you want to?”

His question hangs in the air among the noise and chaos of the kitchen, scents hitting you from every angle, the sound of Minghao complaining about burnt bacon and Mingyu hollering as oil pops and burns his wrist. 

You grin, ducking your head a little as Seungcheol catches your eyes from across the kitchen and winks. 

“No,” you tell Seokmin. “I like the company.”

[junrenjun]

@ all my understand series enjoyers, i feel as though you would also like this

[sailorsoons]

Until Death (x.mh)

PAIRING: Minghao x f. reader SUMMARY: As the second daughter to one of the most powerful businesses under the Choi Syndicate, you’ve always lived your life free of responsibility - until your sister dies and you become the heir. So when your family announces one of your new responsibilities as heir is an engagement to the son of a powerful shipping conglomerate, it comes should come as no shock. Minghao, however, is full of surprises, each one of them more deadly than the last. WC: 33,779 AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Arranged Marriage GENRE: Smut, Angst RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Graphic violence and assassination attempts, descriptions of blood and on screen murder (two with a knife, one with a garrote), mentions of off page deaths of a sibling and a parent (one via suicide), references to organized crime/syndicates with political marriages, power plays, and illegal activities, references to physical abuse from a family member but honestly very vague and ambiguous, hemes of grief, trauma, deception, and identity secrets, some power imbalances throughout, lots of showcasing of disparity of wealth throughout, some angst and a lot of lying, reader is kidnapped, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms/positions, uhhhhh I think that's it. It's a Syndicates fic y'all, as always read with caution. Smut is warned in-text when it starts and stops. A/N: I have been working on this chapter since November 2025 and it is finally here. I'm going to apologize in advanced if the plot seems a bit twisty turny or if the motives are a bit weak - taking that long between the first 15k I wrote for this fic and the second 15k I wrote for this resulted in me writing a completely different story than what I started with. Also - reader was supposed to be a lot more mystical but it's just sort of vague in this. She is not literally magical in a fantasy sense, but rather the same way that there are mysteries of the universe and energies etc. i really hope this makes sense - thank you for being patient with me as I put this chapter out. I think I like this one... maybe. Also, we are introduced to three new characters who are relevant in the rest of the series - especially Kero :) This fic takes place during the events of Baby for your timeline purposes. A/N 2: It is recommend you read the other works of the Syndicates collection before you read this fic - specifically Baby. You don't have to read the others to understand the fic as I try to sum up the world and plot well, but I'm not perfect so ready this totally separate of the other stories might not be as easy as I crack it up to be! A/N 3: This is un-beta'd we die like men.

COLLECTION | ASK | NOW PLAYING: UNTIL DEATH | SYNDICATES WORLD GUIDE

THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.

It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.

You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.

Again.

To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.

Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.

Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.

The world, reversed.

-

The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.

Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.

You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.

Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.

The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.

People like you.

You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.

Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.

The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.

A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.

The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.

Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.

One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.

You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.

Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.

Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.

Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.

He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.

And extremely intimidating.

"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.

The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.

Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.

Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.

Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.

"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."

Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."

"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."

Jian bows his head and agrees.

You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.

Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.

In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.

"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."

No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.

"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."

You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.

The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.

Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."

This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.

Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.

Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.

"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."

"The Observatory?"

"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."

"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."

You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.

"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."

Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."

"What is your security like?"

Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.

"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.

"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."

His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.

"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."

His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."

Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."

The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.

"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."

"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."

Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."

Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.

Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place. 

When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.

"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"

She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.

It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.

"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"

The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.

"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."

"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."

"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"

You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"

Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.

"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."

"I would prefer-"

"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."

Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.

You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.

"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."

Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"

"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."

Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."

"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"

Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."

Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.

After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."

Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."

The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.

Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.

Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.

You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.

"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.

Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.

You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.

People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.

You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.

Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.

You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.

Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.

You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.

The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.

It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.

You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.

Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.

"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."

Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.

"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"

"You know what they are?"

"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."

You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."

"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"

"Yes."

He hums. "Keep going."

"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."

"I see. And Death?"

"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."

Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.

"You're practiced at reading these, then?"

"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."

"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."

—

The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.

Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.

Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.

Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.

A statement night, really.

You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.

A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.

Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.

"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."

You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."

His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.

"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."

"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."

"And what is it you practice?"

"None of your business."

He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."

"If you're trying to upset me-"

"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."

"I am unhappy."

He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."

In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.

Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.

You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.

The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.

Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.

As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.

A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.

A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.

The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.

"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."

"Why?"

"They seem normal."

"They are."

Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?

The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.

You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."

"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."

"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."

"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"

A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.

"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."

Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.

"Observant."

"I have to be."

"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."

He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.

"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."

Minghao hums. "Violent change. Illusions stripped away. Transformation."

"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."

"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"

Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.

Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.

You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.

Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."

You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."

Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."

Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.

The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.

Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?

It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.

You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."

Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."

With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.

Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.

Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.

-

Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.

The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.

The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.

Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.

It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.

No words. Nothing.

You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.

The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.

As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.

You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.

As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.

He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.

Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.

"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.

You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.

Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.

Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.

"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."

"Where are you going?"

"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."

"Pardon?"

"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."

You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."

His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"

You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.

-

"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."

It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.

His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.

He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.

“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."

"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."

Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."

"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.

"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."

"Don't read too much into it."

"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."

For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.

-

When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.

This wedding is not that.

The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.

Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.

You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.

A small win.

Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.

The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.

Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.

You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.

Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.

“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."

You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.

It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.

Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.

Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.

Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.

Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.

Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.

When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.

His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."

You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.

Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.

Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.

Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.

"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.

"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."

Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."

"It's-"

He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."

Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.

The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.

Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.

-

The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.

You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.

You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.

"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."

He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."

You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.

For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat. 

A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.

Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.

A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"

No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.

Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.

Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.

The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.

"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.

No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.

There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.

You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.

Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.

You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.

A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.

Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.

And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.

The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.

You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.

The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.

Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.

Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.

Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.

More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.

Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”

The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.

Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.

“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."

Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.

“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."

You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"

"Cuts on my arms."

"Deep? Tell me ba-"

Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"

“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.

Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."

"I don't care-"

"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”

Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.

Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.

"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."

She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.

Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.

You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.

"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."

“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.

Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."

Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.

Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.

Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.

“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.

Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.

The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.

Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.

Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.

You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”

Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."

The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."

Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”

The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.

Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.

You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.

"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”

Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.

"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."

Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.

“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”

The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.

Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.

The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.

A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.

“Status?” Minghao asks them.

“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”

Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.

Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.

He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.

“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”

You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”

Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”

"What are you about to go do?"

"Something very violent."

The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.

Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."

He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."

You nod. "Be careful. Please."

Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.

He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."

He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.

The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.

Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."

You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.

None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.

You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.

You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.

-

Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.

He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.

Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.

Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.

But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.

And tonight, someone tried to kill you.

He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.

Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.

Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.

He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.

Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.

One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.

"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.

The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.

Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.

He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.

You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.

The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.

Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.

Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."

“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."

A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”

Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."

"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."

"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."

"It will be done."

In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.

Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.

Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.

Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.

His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."

"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."

"You sound fond."

Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.

He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.

"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."

His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”

"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”

Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.

You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.

This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.

Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.

He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.

For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.

Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.

-

Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.

He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.

Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.

“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.

“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."

Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.

"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."

Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”

“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."

Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.

He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.

When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.

He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.

It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.

A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.

Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.

They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.

He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.

An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.

Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.

Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.

His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.

Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.

Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.

If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.

How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.

The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.

You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.

For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.

Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.

-

The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.

Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.

Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.

Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.

Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.

Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.

You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.

Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.

Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.

Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.

Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.

Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.

The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.

Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."

You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."

"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."

You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.

The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.

"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."

Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”

Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."

Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"

"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"

Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.

"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."

A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”

You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.

“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”

Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.

A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.

Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.

And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”

Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”

The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.

A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.

Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.

Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”

He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.

The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.

Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”

"Hush."

You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.

The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.

You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.

Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”

You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.

"Well?" Minghao asks again.

You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"

"Who?"

You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."

Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"

"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."

Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"

"Yes."

A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."

Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.

-

Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.

Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.

You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.

Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.

Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.

Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.

The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.

Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.

Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.

The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.

Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.

Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.

“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”

The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.

"Try again," you say through your teeth.

She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."

"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."

She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."

"Are you going to do the search or not?"

She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."

"That's it?"

"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."

You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."

As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.

"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."

You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”

"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."

The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.

It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”

The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.

Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."

He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.

-

Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.

Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.

Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.

It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.

Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.

Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.

Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.

He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.

"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.

Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."

“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."

"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."

“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”

Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.

“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."

"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"

"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."

"And yet you think she's wicked."

"I never said wicked. She's just strange."

Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.

"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."

"Minghao-"

"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"

"Son…"

"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."

Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.

“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.

"Who was he?" He asks.

"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."

“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.

“I became pregnant.”

The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.

“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”

"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"

She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."

Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.

In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.

It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.

He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.

If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.

“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."

Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.

As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.

Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.

Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.

He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.

"I have to handle this," he mutters.

"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"

"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."

"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."

Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."

Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.

"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."

"Blood for blood," she agrees.

As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.

Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.

But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.

-

Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.

Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.

The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.

A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.

She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.

You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.

Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?

It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.

Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.

The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.

"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"

“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.

"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.

"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."

The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.

"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."

She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.

Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.

The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.

Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.

Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.

“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"

"Who says I'm in trouble?"

"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."

You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”

“Not everything.”

"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."

"So you know who I am?"

Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.

“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”

"No."

"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."

You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”

The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.

"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."

She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"

You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"

Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"

"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”

Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.

“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”

"I don't know what the Virate is."

"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."

You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.

Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.

"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.

"Yes."

Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.

“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”

"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."

She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."

You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.

"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"

"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."

"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."

You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"

"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."

Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.

The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.

Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."

You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.

“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."

Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”

“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”

Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”

“I appreciate it.”

Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."

You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."

Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.

Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.

In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.

The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.

Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.

Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.

The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.

You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.

Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.

You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.

Still, the feeling follows.

Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.

Sato Ken.

The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.

You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.

Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.

A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.

It rings once. Twice.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.

Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.

The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"

You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.

"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."

"Wicked-"

"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."

Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.

“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."

Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.

When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.

"Is your husband coming?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good."

-

Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.

This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.

Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.

Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.

PATIENT STATUS: ELEVATED STRESS RESPONSE WARNING: HEART RATE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: ADRENALINE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: CONCUSSION DETECTED LOCATION PING: ACTIVE LOCATION: 908 LOWER WATER STREET, WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, HYPERION 3094304

Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.

He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.

You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.

Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.

The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.

Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.

Blood for blood.

It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.

"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.

As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.

"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"

Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”

Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"

"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."

"I'm listening."

"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."

Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"

"Agree to it before I say anything."

Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"

"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."

The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.

The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."

“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."

A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.

“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”

The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.

"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"

“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”

“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."

Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."

"Sure."

Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.

The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."

“Understood, sir.”

Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.

His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.

-

Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.

Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.

Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.

You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.

Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.

"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."

You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.

"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."

His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."

"I'm not worried."

"You think your husband is coming?"

"I know so."

He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"

“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"

His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."

“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”

Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.

“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”

“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"

"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."

The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.

Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."

The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.

"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."

It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.

"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."

Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.

Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.

"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.

You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.

"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"

You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.

“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”

Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."

Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”

“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”

Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”

Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.

You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.

The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.

Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.

Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.

Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.

"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."

Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.

Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.

Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.

"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.

Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.

Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair

His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.

"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."

Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.

“I’m okay," you whisper.

Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.

It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.

“You’re bleeding-"

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."

"Minghao, you need stitches."

“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.

“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.

“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."

“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”

A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”

He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.

Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.

“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”

You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.

-

Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below

The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”

Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”

The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.

Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.

You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.

He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.

“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."

He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.

“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”

"So have them," you murmur.

He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.

The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.

Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.

He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.

Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.

“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.

He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.

“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”

Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.

“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.

He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”

Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.

He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.

He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.

He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”

He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"

Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.

The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.

"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”

You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.

He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.

“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.

Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.

"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."

You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.

You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.

After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.

“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."

"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."

Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.

-

The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.

This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.

You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.

A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.

“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."

You smile. "Until death, Xu Minghao."

[doyoueverthinkofrose]

Better Late Than Never -- W.Y.

✩ Synopsis: Nicholas has sworn for years that he doesn't have feelings for you. He has no right — you're his best friend, not to mention the fact that you're taken. When things go awry at a party, however, and you're left alone, he'll be damned if he leaves you to suffer. ✩ Pairing: Wolf!Nicholas Wang x Fem!Reader ✩ Warning(s): Best Friends to Lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, infidelity (Not Weno, he'd never), angsty werewolves, suggestive dialogue, physical assault, brief instance of slut-shaming, reader and Nico are Going Through Things, Byun Euijoo saves the day ✩ 10.6k words. | Chap. 2 (coming soon)

Contary to popular belief, Nicholas Wang does not like parties.

Well…no. He likes parties with friends. His pack. Loved ones. Small, intimate gatherings that last for four, maybe five hours before everyone else goes home and he can finally bury himself under his sheets, ready to zonk out for the night.

Frat parties, though? Gods, what a nightmare. They're loud. Too extra. Too many scents for his brain to decipher all at once, too many drugs, and too many people with exhibition kinks fucking against the nearest uncrowded surface.

There's booze, too. That part, though, he doesn't necessarily mind.

There are definitely ways he prefers to spend his Friday nights: In bed, in a convenience store, or out at a mall making fun of the basic Uniqlo mannequins. He'd rather spend three nights at a local 7-Eleven than be in the middle of some weed-stinking, sorority girl-infested, douchebag-crawling hangout.

So, naturally, he finds himself leaning against the kitchen counter in the Epsilon Nu Eta house while some of the guys, ones he can actually stand, play beer pong. The four of them — Jay, Beomgyu, Matthew, and Yuma — are wasted to hell and back, which means that above all else, their aims are all shit. Even Yuma, his own packmate, is having a hard time aiming for the solo cups. If Nicholas wasn't tipsy himself, he would have the sense to take video footage just to rub it in Yuma's face later.

"I thought I'd find you both here." His head snaps to attention as Euijoo settles beside him, studying their drunken friends. "You're not dancing?"

"Don't really feel like it tonight." Nicholas swirls his drink around once in his cup before he sighs. "I didn't even want to come."

"But you did." His leader's gaze has never felt quite heavy to him, courtesy of their closeness in age, but it still carries some weight to it — the kind that leaves a part of him itching on the inside. His wolf, the inherent non-human side of him that resides somewhere deep within, sinks down with respect. 

"I did." He eyes the remainder of his drink, something fruity with enough kick to make his temples feel lighter.

"Because of her?"

Nicholas freezes, if only for a split second.

Yeah…He's been caught. He's only here for you — his best friend since middle school and roommate.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Well…To him, anyway. His wolf seems to think otherwise.

Stupid fucking mutt.

That second of exposure passes, and he lets the thought go. He nods. "You know I don't trust people here."

Jay yells out something unintelligible, slurred from the alcohol, and Euijoo tilts his head. He never takes things at face value, that one. Nicholas has never been sure if he's grateful or irritated by it.

"You don't trust people," his brother says slowly, "or you don't trust him?"

Another frozen moment. This time, there's no masking it; Nicholas's face contorts in annoyance. His gaze sharpens, his lips flattening into a line that blurs between disapproval and pure disgust.

It's no secret to anyone in the pack that Nicholas despises your boyfriend.

Kaito is his name (A stupid one, he thinks). You met him at the beginning of your freshman year at SCU and fell head-over-heels right away. He's exactly your type: tall, charming, observant, and financially responsible.

He also happens to be exactly the kind of guy that Nicholas hates. A try-hard. Nice, but not kind. Sweet around you, and a total fucking prick once your back is turned. Gods, Nicholas hated him from the moment he met him, and yet…

And yet, he only spoke out against him once. Because he didn't want to hurt your feelings or make you feel pressured to rethink the relationship. He'd feel like a real jerk if he sent you into a crisis because of his opinions over some guy.

That's all Kaito is to him — some guy. Nothing special. Not noteworthy or to be envied in the slightest.

Well…

Nicholas shakes his head and raises the last of his drink to his lips. Swallowing a little too much at once, he meets his brother's eyes and shrugs. "Can't it be both?"

Euijoo snorts, albeit softly. "You're impossible."

"Am not," Nicholas retorts, wincing at a ping-pong ball that goes flying over someone's head. "I just don't like him."

"We know," Euijoo says flatly. "But if she really was in a bad situation, she'd probably tell you."

If Nicholas were in his wolf form, his ears would flatten at that. "Don't say that shit. It's bad karma."

"Karma?" Euijoo echoes with a frown. "I'm not speaking anything into existence, Nico. I'm being logical." Then, his assessing gaze softens into something more gentle. More Euijoo. "You care for her. I get it. You have to give her credit, though; she keeps him in line."

Barely, Nicholas almost scoffs. If you weren't so assertive, Kaito probably would've walked all over you. One scenario comes to mind at that — the time the three of you, plus Chaewon and Jake, went out for a 7-11 run at 3am. In a haze of We need this and Don't forget the Sprite, someone had knocked over the glass tip jar and completely shattered it.

You hadn't even been standing near it.

Kaito still blamed you — and made sure everyone else in the store knew, too.

His solo cup makes a small, popping protest as he grips it just a hair tighter. 

And, because Euijoo is Byun-fucking-Euijoo, he notices right away.

"Mostly," he amends. "There's no saving that asshole, though."

Nicholas just grunts in agreement and turns his attention back to the beer pong table. Yuma has landed himself in quite the predicament; somewhere between his winning streak and his drunken state, he's managed to knock every cup out besides the two on the opposite ends of the table. And now…he's missing every shot he takes.

It's enough to conjure a quiet laugh from Nicholas. Enough to vanquish his frustration and allow him to just sit and enjoythis moment of alcoholic bliss with one of his closest friends.

"Nico!"

He jolts and glances warily through the crowd. Kai Huening has never been hard to miss (tall bastard), but his silvery hair makes him stand out even more now. What stands out more, though, is that look in his eyes; agitated, discontent. Nothing like his usual upbeat demeanor.

"Kai." He shoots the man a curt nod. "You alright? You look…" He searches for the appropriate term in any of the four languages he knows, and eventually settles on a (slightly undignified), "Not well."

"Me?" Kai runs a hand through his hair, shorn shorter than usual, and shakes his head rapidly. "I'm fine. Your girl clearly isn't."

Nicholas stills.

They don't even stick in his brain like it usually would, Kai's words.

Your girl. 

Here's the thing: Yes, you're a taken woman. Yes, everyone knows that. But as far as half of the university is concerned, you've been with Nicholas for longer than anyone can remember — not Kaito — and as often as Nicholas attempts to correct people, they never seem to get the memo.

You're friends. Best friends. You have movie marathons on your couch every Friday and go thrifting every other week. You dragged him to your house in high school when he got beat up for defending the weird kids from the jocks, scolding him while disinfecting his wounds. He trusts you to do his nails. You trust him to pick out your outfits. Hell, he picked the one you're wearing now.

Maybe it isn't much of a shock, then, that people assume you're both an item. Nicholas isn't going to let people's perceptions of him cloud the way he sees you, though. And right now, you're not okay. At a party.

You fucking love parties.

Panic rises, swift and unstable, so fast that he can't even correct Kai. "What?" he sputters, only kept in place by Euijoo's well-timed clamp on his shoulder. "What happened?"

Kai winces; it's aimed more towards Euijoo, like an apology for creating some sort of mess — but the damage is already done. There's no going back now.

Not when it comes to you.

Never when it comes to you.

"I don't really know." Kai glances over his shoulder, like he might need backup for a crime he didn't mean to commit. "I just saw her run upstairs, and I think she might have been crying—"

"What?!" Nicholas practically chokes on air, doubling over for a fraction of a second before his eyes narrow.

"Nicholas." Euijoo's tone borders on a warning.

"Don't shoot the messenger, man." Kai takes a step back. "I just know you both are close, so you'd want to know."

He can't find the right words for a second. "She's my best friend, yes. But she does—" He hopes his expression doesn't go sour — "have a boyfriend."

Clearly, his hopes are futile, because Euijoo quietly repeats his name with subtle disapproval. "Nicholas…"

"I know." Kai's scent, jasmine, is pervaded by obvious nervousness. "But I can't find him. I don't even know if he's here."

Oh.

Ha.

You're somewhere in this stupid frat house, probably alone, in tears…and Kaito isn't even with you.

Of course he isn't.

Just like that, Nicholas' wolf is done. And, for the first time in a long time, Nicholas himself agrees.

The remainder of Kai's words are lost within the roaring in Nicholas's ears. His vision tunnels, and suddenly, he moves without thinking. He downs the last of that peachy drink and all but crushes the solo cup in his fist. It makes an audible crack as his claws emerge from his nails and plunge into the plastic. His wolf rears its head within, snarling and pacing restlessly, and all he can think to do is follow that instinct. He has half the mind to throw himself into the crowd—

"Nicholas. Stop."

He freezes completely. Doesn't even breathe.

Euijoo has straightened to his full height, a good three or so inches on Nicholas. It's enough to allow him to stare the latter down with a gaze that screams listen, listen, listen.

It's enough to render Nicholas's body useless, too helpless to do anything but obey his leader's command.

Too helpless to get to you.

Somewhere, his wolf snarls in frustation.

In another place, Euijoo's growls back.

His hand is still clamped on Nicholas's shoulder, fingers curled tight enough that it reminds Nicholas that while it might not hurt right now, it most certainly could later. Euijoo is a more patient leader than most, but it's not lost on anyone that he could absolutely take someone twice his size down with terrifying ease. That's why, he guesses, no one ever messes with his pack. It would be a damned death sentence — and that's not even considering Fuma and Yudai.

"Look at me," Euijoo orders. 

Nicholas can't even force himself not to listen, and he fucking hates himself for it. He doesn't have the time for this, he wants to yell. You could be hurt, and he doesn't even know the specifics because Kai decided to go to him and not you—

Euijoo's grip goes tighter, only stopping when Nicholas hisses softly under his breath. The taller man leans in and mutters into the latter's ear, his voice gentle yet firm. "Ground yourself. You can't tear a house party apart just because you can't think straight."

What Nicholas wants to say is something along the lines of, "It's not that easy. You know that it's not that easy. Not when it's here. Not when it's an emergency."

"Not when it's her."

But he can't. Not even his stubborn mind can resist his leader's orders. Not of his own accord, Nicholas relents — anything to get Euijoo off of him and you closer. His shoulders sag, and his gaze falls. He squints at the floor, analyzing the tiles and suspicious stains that threaten to stick to his shoes, something clear and sticky. If he got it on his Converse and tracked it back into their own home, Maki would absolutely kill him. If that didn't end him, then the ensuing lecture about properly keeping our floors clean certainly would.

The thought is enough to bring him a moment of peace within the noise, and his sight clears for long enough that he's sure he can suck in a long breath without blacking out completely.

You're still not next to him, though. That's a problem.

Slowly, he tilts his head back up. Euijoo just arches a brow. "Better?"

Wordlessly, Nicholas nods. The hand on his shoulder squeezes him, hard enough to force him to respond. "Yeah. I'm better."

Euijoo releases him and, because he's him, gives him a tiny pat on the arm. "Good. Now, go get your girl. Don't even thinkabout fighting you-know-who."

Nicholas is bounding up the stairs seconds later. Although his mind is more clear, less alarm, his eyes still dart around frantically as he shoves through couples grinding on each other in the shadows of the hallway. Of course, all he can smell is the unmistakable scent of sex, but that doesn't mean he can't try to find yours in the sea of sweat and arousal.

He has to admit, albeit reluctantly — Euijoo's little alpha stunt in the kitchen has made him more aware of his surroundings than he has been all night. He pauses in the center of the hall, shakes his head, and scents the air for your unmistakable coconut perfume, the very bottle he gave you for your birthday four months ago.

Nothing. He growls lowly and stalks further down the hall. There's no way you'd hear him even if he attempted to call your name; the bass downstairs echoes throughout the house, and you don't have the same keen sense of hearing that he does.

He pauses. It's faint, drifting subtly around through musk and booze and bad decisions, but the scent is definitely there — coconut and vanilla. He follows it carefully, the knot in his chest tightening at how stronger it gets with every passing footstep. It's different from its usual notes; your scent tends to fall on the sweeter side, but from here, it's dampened. Subdued. Disturbed.

He catches the sound of a choked sob, and before he can quite consider how this might look to anyone who's people-watching, Nicholas is wrenching open a door close to the end of the hall — a bedroom-turned study area. It's dark; the lights remain off, but the moon pierces through the sole window in the center of the wall and illuminates the room just as well as any lamp would.

Under that window, you're curled into a ball. Your shoulders, uncovered on account of your outfit, shake. The harsh movement catches the light from the window and reflects it jarringly across his vision. For a moment, it blinds him. That's what he gets for dressing you in silver.

You look beautiful, he thinks — but Nicholas has never seen you crying so hard.

He calls your name softly, shutting the door with a tiny click. You don't make an effort to move, so he moves just a tad closer — enough to alert you of his presence, and also enough to give you appropriate room. It's just an instinct of his, lupine in a sense, and you're more than used to it by now. Should be, anyway, yet the moment you hear your name, your body language shifts. You stiffen; it's not quite a flinch, but it's not motionless, either.

You've never been so…tense…before.

Nicholas is silent for a moment. He tries his best to keep it together. Really, he does — he even tries to dampen the roaring in his ears so that he can speak to you quieter. You still don't look up at him. 

It pierces him harder than he can describe — just enough that his vision clears and he's able to pull himself together. 

"Hey." He drops into a crouch just a few feet away. "Look at me. What happened?"

You don't say anything, but slowly, slowly, your face emerges from where you buried it between your knees. His wolf lets out a whine of distress at the sight — how your once-perfect eyeliner smears down your cheeks along with hot, glistening tears. The highlighter you'd so carefully applied earlier shimmers in places it shouldn't even be in, and something in Nicholas aches.

He pulls your quivering frame into his own carefully, subtly moving your head so that it's tucked under his chin. Gods,he's never seen you so shaken before. You're cool, effortlessly confident; you walk into places like they were built for you personally and take up space with no issue whatsoever.

Now, he notes, you feel...less than that. Smaller, in his arms.

Deep in his chest, his wolf preens at the contact. He silently snarls at it to shut the fuck up.

Your voice is just as small, if not weaker. "I hate him."

Nicholas blinks. "What?"

You hate him.

There's no question as to who you're referring to.

The hairs on the back of Nicholas' neck raise. In the two years you've been with Kaito, you've defended him from anything and everything thrown at his way. You even scolded Nicholas when he'd called your boyfriend out on getting drunk around children at a different function.

But now…you hate him?

You cough quietly, your lips brushing against his collarbone. "Did you see that girl, earlier? She had that really long, blue ponytail."

Nicholas purses his lips, searching his memory through the haze of peaches and smoke. Usually, he has near-perfect recall with that sort of thing, but when a party has as many people as this one does, faces can blur into one, and scents are just as bad.

Finally, he finds her in his mind's eye. "Yeah. She's a transfer from Europe. Danika, I think."

You sniff. "I don't give a shit what her name is. I give a shit that she was giving my boyfriend head, and that he liked it."

Nicholas freezes.

Now, in his time at SCU, he's seen infidelity a good number of times. He's seen girls post confidently on Instagram about being the other woman. It's not uncommon for guys on the lacrosse team to fuck their teammate's girls and pretend it never happened. Hell, once time two student government leaders cheated on their boyfriends with each other. Never in his life, though, did he consider you getting cheated on.

How could he? You're perfect. Cheating as a whole is awful, but to cheat on you…

His blood boils with something primal.

"I hate him," you whisper again, your voice breaking. "I fucking hate him, Nico."

Nicholas has always hated him. Now, though…

He's never felt his own wrath hurtling to the surface so swiftly.

He grits his teeth, canines sharpening in his mouth. One punctures the flesh of the inside of his cheek, and the metallic rush that floods over his tongue is the only things that completely grounds him to his humanity.

Well. Not quite. As if his friend could hear his thoughts, a subconscious version of Euijoo sighs in the back of his mind. "We just talked about this. Ground yourself before you lose it."

Carefully, he slides one arm under your knees and lifts you up, cradling you gently to his chest. You make a soft sound of surprise that would have him cooing in any other situation, but you don't resist. That, more than anything, is terribly alarming.

"Wanna get out of here?" he prompts, nodding towards the door. "I know it's kind of early, but—"

He falters when you seem to lose all strength, slumping into him with a ragged breath. Unconsciously, his grip on your legs tightens, just by a hair.

"Please." You swallow around a thick lump in your throat. "Please…I want to go home."

Nicholas usually isn't one to follow orders, but for you, he'll do just about anything. Ensuring your skirt stays covering your thighs, he shoulders the door open and strides down the hall, shielding you from the curious, drunken gazes of classmates and strangers alike.

His nose wrinkles. Sex, booze, and pot is what he smells, even stronger than earlier. He quickens his pace and tries his best not to jostle you too much with his movement down the stairs, lest you be more uncomfortable than you already are.

"You don't have to carry me," you mumble, your mouth all too close to his ear. "People will stare."

Nicholas side-steps a pool table. "I know I don't have to. Would you like me to?"

You're quiet. That's his sign to keep moving.

He mutters quiet excuse me's as he moves through the swell of bodies. The door is just on the other side of this coffee table, and you'll both be free of this sweat-infused hellhole—

Red hair catches his eye. He falters for a moment. 

Euijoo is still keeping an eye on the beer pong table, but he watches Nicholas keeping you close against him. He blinks once. Tilts his head.

Nicholas' eyes narrow. If you make me come over for another fucking lecture, I swear, Byun Euijoo…

His leader glances at you again and nods. Go, he mouths.

That's all Nicholas needs to dart out the door and down the sidewalk towards his car.

Under his chin, you sniffle. "I feel fucking pathetic."

"What's pathetic," Nicholas mutters, lowering your feet to the ground gently so that he can grab his keys, "is his stupid, cowardly ass."

He unlocks the passenger's side door and helps you in. You curl into yourself almost immediately, your stare blank and wet with grief. His windows are tinted, though — no one can see you once the door closes in front of you.

Right as he turns to head to the driver's side—

A tall, familiar silhouette stands faintly against the side of the frat house. A shorter one with a long ponytail clings to its side.

And just because he's outside now, and you're safe in the car, he looses a long, gutteral growl. Territorial. Protective.

Stay away, his wolf threatens. Before I tear you apart.

It's tempting. He wouldn't feel guilty about it.

The crunch of metal brings him back from his anger-laced haze. He jerks away from the car and glances at where his fingers have literally dipped into the hood, leaving a faint — but unmistakable — mark.

He just sighs. 

Fuck. This.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The next day is…rough, to say the least.

It's not like he expects anything different; you and Kaito were together for two years, and even though it always ground his gears, Nicholas knows that deep down, you'd wanted to marry him someday. Nice wedding, grand reception, with all too much booze for everyone there.

He'd only tried calling you three times. Three, before leaving a voicemail. "Hey, there. If you're hearing this, I think you might have found my girlfriend's phone…she must've lost it. Call me back so I can give it to her, please."

Stupid, arrogant asshole. Nicholas wanted to chuck the phone through a wall.

You're barely able to speak past a quiet thank you or curses falling on otherwise un-present ears. All you can do is cry, and it splinters his heart more than it should.

"He said he loved me," you choke. "Why the hell would you lie about that?"

Nicholas has no response to that — he just shifts from where he perches on the couch and lets your tears soak into his shirt.

"Did I do something wrong?" He snaps to attention at your anxious whisper. "Is this supposed to be some, like, vengeance plot?"

His arms tighten around you. "Absolutely not. You devoted yourself to him completely, and he took advantage of that. It's not your fault he's a piece of shit."

"I should've noticed." You let out a strangled gasp and wrench yourself away from him. He takes the loss of contact like he would a bullet wound — his wolf howls, so loudly that it rings through his ears. "You said…Oh, gods." You choke. "You told me he was sketchy. And I—"

"Did nothing wrong," Nicholas says firmly. "You were in love. You gave him everything you had. I was in the wrong for giving you my unsolicited opinion at the time."

Your head tilts towards him, and something inside cracks at the humiliating desperation in your widened eyes. "What else did he do," you breathe, "that you never told me about?"

That's a…complicated question.

You see, Nicholas holds grudges like addicts pop pills — with pleasure. Every little thing about Kaito, from the way he walked to the way he talked, irked the wolf with an ease that he's too proud to admit to.

That's not to say, though, that he didn't notice the actual problems. Wandering eyes. A smirk, quirked at the ends, shot towards other women. Suggestive remarks about your friends that, while you found innocent, Nicholas found revolting.

Gods, how did you even fall for that dickhead?

"Truthfully," he says, "I just didn't really like him. I thought he was annoying as fuck."

"But…" You swipe a hand over your face like it can help you win the argument."You said you didn't think he was trustworthy. And—" The laugh that leaves you is anything but humorous — "you were right. As always."

He winces. "I don't think any men you like are trustworthy, babe."

You swallow. "I should've listened."

Nicholas shakes his head. As much as he agrees with the sentiment — fuck, he'd been saying that for months — it's not worth gloating over when it has you like this.

"Hey," he says gently, (admittedly, selfishly) pulling your body back into his own. "You could've never predicted that something like this would happen. No one can predict the future." He pauses. "Unless you're, like, one of those shitty TV oracles."

At that, the corner of your lip twitches up for a fraction of a second. It's not much, but it's enough to settle Nicholas' nerves. "A shitty TV oracle?"

"Yeah." He smirks in spite of himself. "You know. Call the number. Your future awaits. Only $29.99."

You're quiet for a second. "Thirty dollars is a shitty deal for the future."

"I'm saying." Nicholas glances over at the clock on the wall. It's 5:42. "Hey, you want me to order dinner? Or do you just want leftovers from yesterday?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, your gaze curling into something more delicate than he's used to. "I…" You stop.

Nicholas tilts his head. "Not up to food?" You hadn't found the strength to eat anything after the party. Last night was the first time you'd ate an actual meal, and it was hard to even stomach it.

Your head drops, slightly ashamed. He just tsks and pulls you closer. "Don't be embarrassed. If you feel sick, you feel sick."

"I don't want to feel sick," you mumble into his bicep. "He probably feels just dandy."

His wolf grumbles at the mention. Nicholas swallows it and huffs quietly. "You know…I could totally ask-"

"Nooo. You can't ask your pack to hunt him down."

"Come on! We'd have a field day. We'd just be scaring him, anyway."

"And he'd be calling the cops," you insist, though there's a small twinkle in your eye that entrances Nicholas. He wants to see more of it.

"Eh." He shrugs. "We could outrun them. Harua's faster than you give him credit for."

"Harua is innocent!" you gripe, poking Nicholas in the chest with a sharpened nail. "Don't include him in your crime scheme."

Harua is anything but innocent, he thinks dryly. "You just think he's cute."

"Everyone thinks he's cute," you point out, and you're not wrong. 

"Already looking ahead, huh?" Nicholas tries at a joke, but judging by the way your face slackens at that, he knows he's fucked up. 

Shit. Good going, Yixiang.

You're quiet for a moment, and Nicholas' heart thunders in his chest. Then: "Say…If I download Tinder—"

He blinks. "I— Do not download Tinder!"

"If I download Tinder, I'm not swiping right without your approval."

"Do not download Tinder," he repeats, mirth bleeding into his tone. You're not hurt. Good. "That's, like, the worst thing you could do right now."

You rest your head against his shoulder wordlessly, eyes sparkling with something unfortunately familiar. Your phone is in your hand in a second, and Nicholas' eyes widen. As if you can sense the change, you snort and cuff him on the back of his neck, avoiding his hair.

"Easy, loverboy," you say dryly. "I don't wanna talk to anyone. I'm sad, pissed, and sick. I wanna talk shit on someone."

Your voice is still raspy from sobbing, and your skin is sticky from tears and mucus. You haven't changed out of your pajamas, and there's a stain of marinara sauce on your shirt from the pizza you ate together last night. You look like a total disaster, yet…

You want to scroll on Tinder to make fun of men. 

That's Nicholas' best friend, right there.

He cracks a feline grin and stares down at the pink loading screen. "Your coping mechanisms are so odd."

"You can't say that. You dyed your hair blue when Aeri broke it off with you."

Nicholas frowns. "That was just an impulse decision."

"It was," you agree, "and that's how we got blue Weno." You pause. "Bweno."

At that, he groans and points at the screen. "Put in your email before I find those pictures of the red hair from sophomore year."

"It looked good," you pout, your nails clicking against your phone screen. "Plus, it made us look like 3-D glasses. It was iconic."

"We looked like Fireboy and Watergirl," he says dryly, "but genderbent."

"Is that why Euijoo wanted us to get together so badly?" you ask. "Because we both dyed our hair and failed every relationship we were in?"

Nicholas almost chokes.

No, he almost says. Euijoo wanted us together because he can't help but stick his nose where it doesn't belong, and the tall bastard read my journal.

He quickly recovers. "Ouch," he tries to joke. "Pretty harsh there."

You tap your screen a few more times, the bluelight illuminating your swollen eyes. "I just got cheated on. Let me cope."

Nicholas grimaces at the reminder, and then shakes his head. 

As long as it makes you happy, he thinks. As long as it makes you happy.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A week later, Nicholas is just about to fall asleep when his nose twitches, hooking around the scent of coconut perfume and old leather.

"You should be asleep, dummy," he mumbles, pressing his face into his pillow. "Go back to bed."

Your answer comes from the door. "Bold of you to assume I was in bed in the first place."

He frowns into his pillow case. But you've been so…quiet for the past few hours. Surely he'd have heard you if you'd been milling around, right? Or maybe you've been staring restlessly at your ceiling while time ticks away.

Good on you, Yixiang. And you call yourself her best friend.

With a small groan, he lifts his blanket up and shivers when some of the warmth escapes. 

You cough over something — it sounds like a tiny inhale — and shake your head. "I was actually wondering if you wanted to go on a 7-Eleven run with me."

"Huh?" Nicholas lets the blanket fall back over his naked torso. "It's past midnight. Why do we need to go to 7-Eleven?"

"For bonding, obviously." You shuffle some cash in your pocket. "You know. And Slurpees."

Honestly, Nicholas is more relieved by that than anything else. You're not one to mope for too long — you never have been — but a part of him was convinced that he'd need to scrape you off the sidewalk and guard the front door like a sentry. 

Well…he kind of is. When he's not soothing you back to sleep or letting you cry and cling to him, he paces in the living room and glares at the door like it may come alive. His wolf is restless, angry. It tries to take control at the most inopportune of times, and it's not subtle, either; he's woken up a number of times from dreams of incessant howling with his claws half-out, or his pupils condensed into slits. He usually just stares at himself in the mirror for a moment and slumps back into his pillows.

But waking him at one in the morning for Slurpees? Really?

"No," he says into his pillow. "Goodnight."

For a second, he thinks he could fall back asleep. That you're giving up.

"Fiiiine," you sigh, turning on one heel with a small squeak from your shoe. "Guess I'll go by myself, then. Alone. In the dark."

Fuck no. He rolls over and out of his bed with swift reflexes, socked feet hitting the ground with muffled thuds.

"You're a menace," he says, yanking an old hoodie from the back of a chair before he meets you at the front door. "Why the hell would you go out by yourself at night?"

"I wouldn't, obviously." You tug him through the door. "I just needed you up."

The 7-Eleven across the street is surprisingly empty, you both find. You take the liberty of sitting yourself on the counter, subtly flipping off people who stare with hands sticky with dried Slurpee. You select cherry, while Nicholas opts for blue raspberry. 

"Bweno never dies," you laugh, nudging his cup. "He's just reincarnated."

"Fuck off," he groans, shoving gently at your knee. "It just tastes the best."

"Yeah?" You tap his wrist with a sticky finger. He grimaces. "Lemme try it."

He raises the colorful straw to your lips and almost flinches at the sudden purr that rings through his ears — not from you, but from inside of him.

His ears turn a bright shade of strawberry red. "Zip it!" he hisses at his wolf. "It's not like that!"

"Ours," it whispers back. "This is the right way."

A low growl builds in his chest, but his frustration shatters when you nudge him with your cup. "Now mine."

He blinks. It takes him a few moments to comprehend your words.

Now mine.

Oh. Yes. He clumsily reaches for your cup and takes a sip, the cherry concoction spreading across his cold tongue. It's nice, but not as good as his own Slurpee. There's something that cuts through that hinders the flavor. It's almost like…vanilla?

He pauses. Ah. That would be your chapstick.

He shifts against the counter and hands you your cup. "It's good, but mine's still better."

You kick him and stick your tongue out before you hop off the counter. He watches you stride towards the door with a single middle finger raised. "Please. Cherry will always be supreme."

Nicholas swipes a cool, slightly sticky hand across his forehead before he follows you. His wolf still purrs in his ears, satisfied by your shared Slurpees and the taste of vanilla on his tongue. That's not why Nicholas' cheeks feel hot, though.

Your tongue is purple. He can imagine his is, too.

Somewhere, deep in his brain, he groans.

I am so fucked.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The energy starts to change in bursts. They're tiny, unnoticeable, but impossible to ignore.

Kaito attempts to call each day, but never tries to come over. It's for the best, really. He may not know about Nicholas' true nature, but he knows his personality, as does he know about Nicholas' friends.

Imagine if Fuma got involved. Yikes.

It's a Thursday evening when he suggests a walk by the river — a place where you both find it easy to clear your heads. Between your situation and his wolf being a damn prick, you both need the time.

You glance at the sunset over the water, shielding your eyes. The light illuminates them anyway, making them glow in a similar way to Nicholas' when he's in his other form. It makes him wonder, for a split second, what you'd look like as a wolf. Would your eyes glow like this? Would they take on a preternatural color like K's do? Would your claws be as sharp as your acrylic nails, or would they be blunt from how often you used to chew them?

It's a silly thought. That doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy picturing it, though.

"Do you think the sun is meant to be alone?"

Nicholas glances at you from the corners of his eyes. You wear a thoughtful expression — not upset, per se, but not content either.

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

Your fingers fidget with the seam of your loose tee. "Like…" You hesitate. "The sun is a star that's far away from all the other stars. It's millions of miles from Earth, and it's never close to the moon. I just…"

Your voice gets soft. "I can't help but wonder if it's meant to be alone forever, you know?"

He's silent for a minute, considering your words. Obviously, you're not talking about the sun. While you've definitely had your higher moments as of late, you're still not completely yourself. Deep down, Nicholas fears you might never return to that state.

He draws in a deep breath. "I think," he says quietly, "that it might be lonely a lot of the time. That doesn't mean it's always alone."

"It never gets to see the moon, though." Your eyes narrow as you stare directly into the light. "They never cross paths."

Nicholas tilts his head. "Not necessarily," he replies. "You just have to wait for an eclipse. They become one there."

"Not a lot of time together, then."

"No," he agrees. "But they still pull each other around. The moon still gets lit by the sun. They're lucky enough to exist at the same time, and they'll last for longer than we know."

With a soft grip, he pulls you in front of him so he can really look into your eyes. You're not crying, not yet, but the beginnings of tears in your waterline are obvious enough to him.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Where's this coming from?"

You avoid his concerned gaze, and his wolf whines softly. "It's stupid," you mumble.

"Humor me, babe."

"I've just been thinking — overthinking, really — about him. About everything." You shuffle uncomfortably. "And I…I don't know. I just can't picture myself ever being loved like that again."

That's because he didn't love you.

"Fuck," you sigh. "I'm sorry, Nico. I know that's stupid—"

"No," he cuts you off. "It's not stupid to be upset. You were together for a long time. You're not going to be—" He waves a hand— "magically over it in two weeks."

"I should be angrier. I don't have to be so…mopey about it." You cross your arms over your chest.

"You don't get to decide how you feel," Nicholas replies. "You just feel. You have every right to cry and be upset as much as you do to be angry."

Though, he thinks, I think I cover that part well enough.

You flinch. His gaze snaps back to you, instinctive and assessing. He realizes, after a moment, you didn't flinch — you shivered. Goosebumps pattern against your arms. How had he not noticed the chill?

He quickly strips his hoodie off and offers it over. "You should've said you were cold."

You don't reach out for it. "It's not that bad."

Nicholas is just as stubborn as you, if not more. His arm doesn't move. "Take the jacket."

"But you'll get cold!"

"I'm a wolf," he reminds you. "I run hot. Take it."

You both stand there for what feels like an extensive amount of time before you groan and relent, reaching for his hoodie and pulling it over your head. 

"Damn," you say, head still lost in the fabric. "Did you get strawberry cologne? That's bold, even for you."

Strawberry? Nicholas frowns. No. He buys the occasional Dior perfume, maybe Gucci, but never strawberry. He already smells of them.

Wait.

"How the hell can you smell that?" he asks, eyebrows shooting to his hairline. "That's part of my scent."

"Is it?" You sniff again and blink. "Yeah. Those are strawberries. Maybe a bit of lime?"

Nicholas feels like he might faint.

"Either way, it smells good."

He digs his nails into his palms. How the hell can you smell his scent? You're human — your nose isn't sensitive enough for that.

"You already know," his wolf purrs. "You're in denial."

He grits his teeth. "Fuck. Off."

"Weno?" You poke him with the tip of an acrylic nail. "You okay?"

Nicholas draws in a shaky breath and smiles weakly. "Yeah. The sun's just doing me in."

He takes deeper breaths, but they do nothing to fill his lungs. If anything, he realizes with dread, it just suffocates him even more.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Later that night, Nicholas lies awake in his bed, his chest heaving with something desperate. His wolf is too loud, and he can't make it fucking stop.

His rut isn't for another month. He's in the clear for that, at least. His sheets are soaked in sweat, regardless, and there's just no quieting the howling that rings in his ears.

The walls are too close. Your scent wafts through his door even though you're three doors down. His scent is even stronger, and all the more sour from stress.

He needs to run.

Nicholas grabs for that old hoodie and audibly whines at the coconut scent that rolls through the fabric. His wolf yips. He throws it on and fights the urge to scream at it to stop.

Not even bothering to reach for his shoes, he slips through the door and sprints down the stairs of the apartment complex towards the woods that back it. The chill of the midnight air feels good against his sweaty forehead, and its thinness streams into his lungs with ease. It's not enough.

Under the cover of trees, Nicholas shifts.

Bones rearrange and lengthen. His teeth morph into elongated, lethal canines. His feet hit the ground, and he's suddenly bigger, stronger than before.

His mind is still human, but his body is pure wolf.

He sprints through the woods, away from his home, away from his problems…away from you. He feels guilty. You're not an issue. You've never been an issue. You've always been…easy.

Why aren't you easy anymore?

He runs faster, pushes harder. Even if he has to run in circles for the night to avoid being seen, he'll do it. Anything to quiet the noise in his mind.

So he does. He runs for hours. They fly by in his head, and he's still not tired. Where has he gotten this kind of energy? Even on those play-hunts him and the boys go on sometimes, he's more lax than this.

Is he…breaking?

"Nicholas."

He skids to a halt, flanks rising and falling rapidly. His legs itch — he can't stop, he needs to keep running — but there's an underlying command in the sound of his name that forces him to pause.

He glances up and narrows his eyes at the auburn fur standing out against the rocky outcrop. "What are you doing out here, Euijoo?"

The lithe wolf stretches, the light of the moon making his fur glow like living flames. "I could say the same. I could feel your heart racing from miles away. We haven't seen you in weeks. Can you blame me for being concerned?"

Guilt cuts through Nicholas' racing thoughts. Now that he thinks about it, it has been a long time since he was with the pack. The last time he actually talked to Euijoo, not over text, was at the party.

Fuck. He growls softly, but there's no malice in his tone. "I…Shit. I didn't even realize…"

Euijoo pads over to Nicholas and rests his muzzle over his friend's. "Don't beat yourself up. I'm not mad. Just…concerned, is all." The russet wolf pulls away and looks him dead in the eye. "You aren't okay."

Nicholas can never lie to Euijoo. "I'm not."

Euijoo sits himself down and tilts his head, a gesture for Nicholas to copy. "Talk to me."

"I'm…not sure what I have to talk about," Nicholas admits, looking down at his paws. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Juju."

His leader — his brother just blinks calmly. "Start from the beginning."

Nicholas does.

All of it. The party, the nightmares, the urges. His wolf's unrelenting whispers, his restlessness, the thing with you and his scent.

You.

Euijoo doesn't interrupt, and courtesy of him being in his wolf form, his expression doesn't change, either. His eyes flicker, though; between concern and interest, and then understanding.

"Ah," he says after a while of silence. "She's your mate."

"No!" Nicholas yelps, his frustration building. "She can't be. She's my best friend who was just cheated on—"

"And your wolf is seeing the opportunity," Euijoo replies calmly. "That's why you can feel her nerves, and she can smell your scent. Your wolf is reaching."

"How do I get it to stop?" Nicholas snaps, his strawberry musk souring. "She's not something to claim, Euijoo. She's mybest friend. That's it."

Euijoo lowers his head — a calming gesture — as his orange scent surrounds Nicholas. "Easy," he reasons, ever patient. "You don't need to panic, Nico. It's not something to be scared of. It's just our way."

"Our way," Nicholas echoes with a snarl, his ears flattening. "She's human, Euijoo! I can't just drop by her bed and say,'Hey, babes. We're actually interconnected by magic forces.' That would be so fucking unfair to her."

"And it's not to you?" Euijoo's eyes narrow as he looks Nicholas up and down. "You can't hide it from me, you know. You're not doing well. You're going to get sick if you keep neglecting yourself for her sake."

"She was just cheated on," Nicholas emphasizes again, baring his teeth. 

"And you've been in love with her for years."

"I don't matter in this equation." Nicholas takes a step back, his hackles rising. "I never have. Her happiness comes first."

"Sit down," Euijoo orders, only moving when Nicholas inevitably collapses under the weight of the command. He pads over and gently takes Nicholas' neck in his jaws — not biting, but holding. Waiting. "That won't work, and you know it. You'll die if you ignore it for too long."

Nicholas snarls weakly, but he can't force himself to move when he's so tangled in his leader. His wolf is split, angry at Euijoo's audacity and grateful for the display of dominance. It's his anchor in the swell of a storm, his tether in a hurricane of dread and panic. He hasn't allowed himself to collapse in weeks, and he knows it shows in both his forms.

"Listen to me," Euijoo growls quietly. "I'm not telling you that you have to ask her out. I'm not saying that you need to overstep. I'm not even saying that you need to tell her about any of this. But you can't neglect yourself. I won't sit here and let you kill yourself because you feel bad for her.

"I'm sorry about what happened. Really, it sucks, and her ex is a piece of shit. But she's not the only one getting hurt here."

Something stings in Nicholas' chest, and his wolf howls once more in his brain, rattling his skull. He thinks he flinches imperceptibly, but Euijoo notices — because he always notices.

Euijoo releases Nicholas and takes a few steps back to let his friend gather himself. "You should come home for a few days," he says softly. "Let yourself rest."

Nicholas shakes out his pelt and gazes up at the sky. It must be two or three in the morning by now. "No. I…No. I don't know what to do, but I need—"

"— To be near her," Euijoo finishes.

"Yes. No. I don't…" Nicholas looses a low whine. "Fucking hell."

"I'll leave." Euijoo stands. "But let me say this: You could ask anyone — me, Fuma, K, the pups — and we'd all have the same opinion. The final decision is up to you."

Nicholas hates making decisions. That's why Euijoo is the leader.

The auburn wolf nuzzles Nicholas' neck affectionately. "Stay safe. Please call someone soon. K's antsy, thinking you're in trouble."

"He's such a mom." Nicholas huffs quietly. "I'll be okay eventually."

Euijoo turns and retreats into the darkness. "Make sure eventually comes sooner rather than later. I'd hate to lose my brother."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Mate. Mate. Mate.

Nicholas has no way of denying it, as much as he'd like to.

You're his mate.

He doesn't even need his wolf to tell him anymore. He can tell by the way that he can hear your quiet murmurs all the way from his room when you're in the kitchen. Your scent lingers in places where it shouldn't. He finds himself relaxing when you shove him around or lay on top of him, though you've done it thousands of times before.

How much would change, he wonders, if he did eventually say something? Would you accept it? Would you run? Would you laugh in his face?

Ultimately, Nicholas is a coward. He doesn't say a peep.

You're certainly not an idiot. You see how dark his undereyes become, how exhausted he is when you lay against him. You invite him into your room for sleepovers, like normal. Nicholas rarely takes advantage of them. It's unlike him, truly, but he doesn't trust himself at all.

He is a wolf, at the end of the day. Whether he wants it or not, you're his mate. What would happen if his wolf took over him randomly? What if he hurt you by accident?

He's never worried about that before. He's never had to.

You don't say anything about it, thank gods. Nicholas doesn't need confrontation right now. If anything, he needs a fucking nap.

A steady knock on the door changes that.

He knows the scent even from his bedroom. The suave cologne, spiced, pierced by the odor of a cigarette long tossed away. It always grossed him out, that smoking habit — but you never seemed to mind.

It was only a matter of time, he guesses, until Kaito got the balls to show up.

Nicholas' canines burst out before he can stop them, his vision tunneling like it did at the party. His wolf snarls and thrashes angrily, demanding that he take on this male that's trespassing on his territory — but he calms it with a simple No.

You cannot beat his ass. You will not beat his ass. You will not look like a fucking monster.

"I've got it!" comes your cheerful call. Nicholas' eyes widen. Shit, he'd thought you were asleep. Now he scrambles for the door, not even bothering to make himself look out together.

"Oh," he hears you say. Both his and your heart drop. He grips the threshold of his bedroom door and wills himself to just sit and listen, peeking around the corner subtly.

You're strong. You don't need him to protect you. He's been doing that for weeks, anyway.

"You've been avoiding me," Kaito says quietly from the door. "For weeks, baby. I thought you lost your phone after the party, but I guess I was wrong."

"First of all," you say, straightening to your full height, "don't call me that. Second, why are you surprised? I have every right to ignore you."

"Can I come in? I just—"

"No." It sounds like you begin to close the door, but then you falter. Or maybe you're stopped.

"Baby, please. It was one mistake—"

"You made the decision to get head from her."

"I was drunk."

"So?" Nicholas would be lying if he said he didn't find your cold tone extremely attractive. "I get drunk sometimes too, you know. I've never cheated on you."

"I…" Kaito sighs. "What do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness?"

"No," you tell him flatly. "I want you to leave. We're done. We've been done."

His voice rises. Nicholas' hackles do, too. "Since when?" 

"Since I saw some girl sucking you off at a fucking frat party!"

"I didn't even know her name. That's how little she meant to me."

Nicholas edges out of his room, slowly stalking towards the door.

"You think that's going to make me forgive you?" You laugh dryly. "You're actually an idiot. Wow."

"I'm just saying." Your ex has the audacity to sound offended. "You matter more to me than any girl in the world."

"I'm a woman," you correct him. "And clearly I don't, if you decided to fuck another woman who didn't know about us."

"For basis of comparison," Kaito argues, "Your favorite time of day is sunset. You prefer iced coffee to hot, you've been a fan of Twilight since you were 12, and your favorite color is light blue. I could go on, and I would, because I care. Give me a shot, babe. I'm not asking for much."

You open your mouth to respond, but your gaze meets Nicholas' as he steps behind the door. He's done. He's exhausted, emotionally fraught, and the stupid cigarette smell is pissing him off.

This is the first time he's let himself get this close to you in over a week. You do him a favor by taking a step back.

"Actually, her favorite color is silver." Nicholas fills the gap between you two with his eyes narrowed. "And if I heard correctly, she asked you to leave about five minutes ago. I can't possibly think of a reason as to why you're still here."

Kaito's eyes darken. For a second, Nicholas wonders if he, too, could possible be a wolf…but he knows that's impossible. He would've sensed that years ago.

"Nicholas," he greets curtly. "Sorry, man, but this is personal business. If you don't mind—"

"I do, actually." Nicholas grips the door and wills his claws to stay in. "I'll repeat myself: she asked you to leave. It's been my business since the moment I found her crying in a frat bedroom because your stupid ass decided to discard her."

"Discard?" Kaito snorts. "God, you're dramatic."

Nicholas can feel his wolf clawing at his chest, snarling for release. He just holds on and begs it to calm down. "Call it what you want. You're a dickhead. Leave."

"Just because she follows you around, doesn't mean you can tell me what to do, Wang."

"I don't follow him, asshole," you cut in, voice sharp. "He's been my best friend for longer than I've even known you. I think you're just jealous that I have friends to back me up."

"I'm jealous?" Kaito repeats, incredulous. "Please, baby. If anything, he's the jealous one. You're blind if you think he isn't completely head over heels for you."

Nicholas almost chokes.

His wolf snarls. The growl makes it into his chest, though inaudible.

"Oh, please," you reply blankly. "I bet you're into him. That's why you were always so obsessed with whether he was home or not when you came over."

"Can you really blame me?" Kaito gestures between you and Nicholas. "You live with and spend half of your time with another man. I could name ten times easily, the amount of times I wondered if you were secretly fucking behind my back."

The hand that holds the back of the door clenches. Long, knife-like claws slide out.

"What? Oh, my God. You're genuinely insane."

"I bet that's what you've been up to since the party." Kaito arches a brow, arms crossed like it might make him look more intimidating. "Does his dick feel as good as mine, baby?"

Nicholas' claws dig into the door.

"Has he seen the cute little look you get right before you cum?"

His wolf roars.

Kaito shakes his head with a tiny laugh. "You know, you always did tend to whore yourself out when you got too upset."

Nicholas feels his pupils flatten into slits. 

He does not care that Kaito can see it.

He doesn't register the crack of bone until you yell his name and yank him back by his claw-free fist. He lets it happen, though his skull is filled with his wolf's murderous snarls. His vision comes in flashes — none of which he can connect at first:

The claw-marks on the back of the door.

His hand shaking and covered in blood.

Kaito, on the ground with a jaw that looks…not right.

You, eyes wide with panic.

With panic.

You're scared.

He scared you.

This is exactly what he'd been trying to fucking avoid.

You hiss something to your bloodied ex, something about leave and police and harassment. Nicholas doesn't hear.

Death, he thinks, would be most merciful in this moment.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Nicholas flees back to his room and doesn't come out for three days.

You don't push it.

Until today, that is.

Nicholas lies curled in a ball on his bed, facing the wall. Sweat streaks down his temples; the howling has only gotten worse. His wolf is furious. Euijoo and Fuma have both called him ten times. He does not reply.

He still can't sleep. He only dreams of you, anyway.

The knock on the door is soft. Tentative. Careful, like you expect him to explode again.

You're scared of him now.

"Nico?" Your voice is quieter than he's ever heard it. "I'm coming in whether you like it or not. I need to see you."

Nicholas would honestly rather you stab him. But you wouldn't do that, because you're not like him.

His door creaks open. Your socked feet pad softly against the floor.

His bed sinks as you take your place at the edge of his mattress. You don't lay against him, thankfully; he might actually start crying if you did. 

You're quiet. You want him to start the conversation.

"I'm sorry." His voice is hoarse, like nails on a chalkboard. When was the last time he drank something?

"I don't know what for," you reply, nudging his muscled back with your knee. "You did what I wanted to do — and much more effectively, might I add."

There's humor in your tone. Nicholas holds onto it like a vise.

"If you're talking about this, though…Yeah. Talk to me, Weno. Please don't shut me out."

How does he even begin? There's too much to say, too much to think about. A plethora of singular words jam into his brain all at once: Mate. Monster. Eyes. Dickhead. Awful. Dead.

He starts with the easiest. "You're not…scared of me?"

He's not even looking at you, but he can tell that you're frowning. "No…? I've never been scared of you. Why would that change?"

"I put claw-marks in the door and almost killed your ex-boyfriend."

"You broke his jaw. I'd argue that that's not the same thing as attempted murder."

He sucks in a harsh breath. You wince. "Sorry. I'm not trying to argue. But, no. I'm not scared. I was upset, too."

"How the hell did you fall for such a dick?" he asks, not regretting his blunt tone. 

"Don't know," you shrug. "I've been asking myself that for weeks now."

The room goes still and painfully silent. It remains that way for almost ten minutes. Finally, you shatter the ice. "We're gonna have to address it, you know."

Nicholas' wolf, in a rare act of synchronization with its human's emotions, whimpers.

He chuckles, though without humor. "About?"

Your hand finds his shoulder. He doesn't even have the will to move away.

"Stop being avoidant," you say. "You've been in here for three days, and I know it's not just because you think I'm scared of you."

Damn you. Damn you and your sharp perception.

"What do you want me to say?" Nicholas murmurs, all of his usual fight draining from his system. He doesn't have it in him to care anymore. "That he was right? That I've been in love with you for eight fucking years? That every part of me wanted to kick his ass for your entire relationship because my wolf was jealous? Is that what you want?"

You're stunned into silence.

Nicholas slowly begins to regret his entire existence, but he doesn't stop talking. The top of the wine bottle has already been uncorked.

"It reaches for you. That's why you could smell my scent. That's why I can't fucking sleep half the time. I can't ignore it or push it away, but I've tried regardless, because you don't deserve this. Not from me. Not from anyone."

You swallow, eyes darting between his limp form and your own hands. "Deserve…what, exactly?"

"The lack of choice," Nicholas groans. "Me pursuing you when you just ended a relationship. Your best friend pursuing you. You're not my puppy-crush-mate-whatever. You're my best friend, and I—" 

He cuts himself off with a desperate little growl. "I can't lose you."

You're silent for longer than he would like. If you reject him here, maybe he can drag himself away to lick his wounds at the pack's house and hibernate for a couple of years.

Finally, after what seems like light-years: "…Is that what those are? Those dreams?"

Nicholas' heart comes to a dead stop.

"…Excuse me?"

"Ever since the party," you begin hesitantly, "I've been having…weird dreams. Wolves. Howling. I thought I'd just spent too much time around you and the guys, but…"

Nicholas clenches his fist and digs his sharp nails into his palm. He swallows against the hope that breaks through the dark cloud in his mind and forces it into submission.

"Probably," he manages. "But that doesn't mean you need to accept it. It's just wolf shit. If you reject it — me — right now, it'll stop."

You shift on the bed, and Nicholas thinks for a moment that you actually might do it. He can't tell what strikes through him faster — relief or fear.

He finds himself being rolled over to lay on his back, staring up at your face. Your brows are furrowed, jaw set.

"Why the hell would I reject you, dumbass?"

His eyes widen. "Wha—"

"I've been thinking," you interrupt, "for weeks, you know. How you've always been here for me. Always. You know me better than anyone and treat me better than any man I've ever been interested in."

Nicholas tries to cut in. "Well—"

"And you're telling me to reject you?" You arch a brow, looking terribly stern. "Wang Yixiang, have you lost your mind?"

Oh, fuck. Not the government name.

"You can't really blame me," he mumbles, sheepish. "I didn't wanna force this onto you."

You squeeze his arm gently. His wolf lets out a tiny, embarrassing yip. "And you're sweet for that, Weno. But I'm not rejecting you. Not now, not ever. You're too important to me for that."

He dares to look up, into your eyes. The light that seeps in through his curtains catches onto your irises. For a split second, they remind him of the sun.

"So…" He blinks, his hand coming dangerously close to brushing against the one that steadies you on the bed. "What now? If you're not rejecting me…"

You glance out the window and then back down at him. "You need to get out of this room," you tell him, your tone leaving no room for argument. "You up for a Slurpee?"

Nicholas, for the first time in days, grins. His wolf howls and whispers, "Good. Ours. Complete."

This time, he lets it speak. "You're right."

"Always am."

Tags: @lacedwithmsg @taelvvrzz @minhosimthings @stayluneatinyengenzen @reiofsuns2001 @cherry012399

[miscellaneousdae]

⋆˚🐾 MINE !

WOLF!WANG YIXIANG X FEM!READER a series of head-cannons regarding nicho as your mate [SMUT, suggestive content, wolf!Nicho.]

dae’s note: no one asked for this, but i’m sad and this is what i currently had the motive to write lol. green highlights nicho please save me 🫠😞 also, this could have been more nasty but like i said im in my feels LMAO. maybe i’ll add more if you guys want to see that in the future 😝

ᓚᘏᗢ — REQUESTS OPEN FOR &TEAM ! I write text fics, one-shots, headcannons, blurbs, and love to represent for my plus sized girlies. See my pinned post for more info and works! <3

Mate!Nicho who’s got the prettiest emerald green eyes and black fur, in his wolf form. His fur is sleek and shiny, especially iridescent under a full moon. His eyes glow in the dark, especially under full moons, in a way that’s hauntingly beautiful.

Mate!Nicho who, in his wolf form, is always nudging you with his head. It keeps the joke running that he’s more cat than he is dog, the way he’ll nuzzle into your thigh, or lay between your legs with his head on your stomach. His nudges are a form of communication. Sometimes it’s meant to be an “i’m right here” reminder. Other times it’s an “are you okay?” He’s just a nudger.

Mate!Nicho who hates when you’re upset. “You don’t smell bad, but you just…don’t smell right, when you’re upset. It’s off-putting.” He gets so worried when the scent of your dismay crosses his senses. Especially when it’s not anger, but sadness.

Mate!Nicho who—as we discussed, is a “nudger”—knows exactly how to comfort you, usually blanketing himself over you in his wolf form, like a warm, fluffy comforter made just for you. He usually lets you get comfortable, before he chooses where to lay. As mentioned, he likes lying with his head on your stomach, but he also enjoys putting his snoot in the crook of your neck, burying his nose in your scent.

Mate!Nicho who’s more protective and possesive of you than others realize. He’s calm and quiet, usually at your side like a guard dog, but he doesn’t let anyone forget that you’re his. He leaves marks on you non-stop, and should anyone point it out, he doesn’t deny nor acknowledge it, but his silence is usually the answer within itself. His claim on you doesn’t need to be loud or over the top. He knows others know who left those marks, or why you smell like him. You’re his, he is yours.

Mate!Nicho who is incredibly loyal. Loyalty is a rather basic standard to have, but Nicho regularly shows just how much he values you and your connection. The moment you need him, no matter how small or big the reason, he will be there. He doesn’t complain, never huffs or puffs — anything you need of him, he’s more than willing to give, because to him, that’s what being your mate is. Taking care of you, being reliable to you.

Mate!Nicho who doesn’t like to let you do things you don’t have to. What I mean is he goes out of his way to open doors, pull out chairs, make room for you, clean up, etc. Cooking isn’t his strong suit, but he will happily do the dishes as you cook to keep you from having to do any more work than necessary. This little trait also applies in the bedroom. He loves blowjobs, sure, but nothing beats pleasuring you. He gets off on your release every single time, and you hardly have to lift a finger. He manhandles you, takes his time and energy to learn your tells and preferences, tailoring his filthy behavior to your tastes. You get a little wetter when he praises you? He notices. You clench around him when he grabs your throat? He takes mental note of it. He’s very in tune with you; you are his beloved mate, after all.

Mate!Nicho who is obsessed with breeding. It doesn’t even have to be about getting your pregnant, —which, he does want. That’s a very special way to stake his claim on you, in his eyes— but rather the concept of being so utterly connected. What’s closer than filling you out it’s his cock? Pumping every last drop of his seed into you, too! He loves fucking you after he cums, watching the mixture of his release and yours cream on the base of his dick, even when he’s sensitive. He also enjoys watching his cum ooze out of you, and can’t help but spread the white substance over your folds <3

Mate!Nicho who is far, far more down bad for you than he lets on. Yes, he worships the ground you walk on and you will know it, but it’s the moments where he lays on top of you and melts into your embrace. It’s the way he looks at you with the softest gaze. It’s the way his voice is always so loving when he’s talking to you specifically. He’s your dog, you could say. This is another scenario where his silence would be an answer, if you were to bring it up. Or, he’d give a simple, straightforward response; “You’re my mate. Of course i’m like this with you…but only ever you.” He doesn’t need to clarify, but maybe there’s a small part of him that hopes only you think of him as a softie. We’re not escaping the “i’m not cute” agenda in any universe, with this man.

[zerocoded]

HEAD OF HR ! mdni

“You’re burning up,” he murmured, thumb stroking your temple. You shrugged weakly against his chest, but your fingers still clutched his shirt like you’d disappear if he let go. “My body’s dramatic when you’re not here.”

WARNINGS ◦ a/b/o designations & themes ◦ omegaverse ◦ mid twenties couple ◦ established relationship ◦ cringe omegaverse terminology lol i warned you ◦ my bro is a little corny ok leave him be ◦ BRO IS SO IN LOVE ◦ heat symptoms and descriptions ◦ ceo alpha jay and head of hr omega reader ◦ nudity description but no smut

2,O25 ━━━━━ drabble alpha!jay x omega!reader

۶ৎ 𝓜 , yo don't laugh okay this is serious for me. i didn't know how to end this shit my bad for the ass finale. need alpha jay in my veins. also i might have disappeared because of health issues but we’re back now yippeeee.

━━━━━ read on ao3

The penthouse smelled like vanilla and warm peach the second the elevator doors opened. Jay loosened his tie with two fingers, briefcase in the other hand, still wearing the same charcoal suit he’d worn through three meetings in Busan this morning. He’d cut the trip short the moment the institutional email popped up on his phone: Heat Leave Request – Approved. Employee: Park Y/N, HR Director. Start date: immediate.

He almost laughed in the middle of the investor dinner. He had your cycle synced on his private calendar—had for two years now—and according to it, you still had nine days. Either your body had decided to rebel, or the stress of him being gone for a full week had pushed everything forward. Probably the latter. His omega didn’t do well when he left the city.

He kicked off his shoes at the genkan and padded across the heated floors in socks. The living room was dim, only the linear fireplace glowing low. Your nest had taken over half the sectional again: his navy cashmere cardigan, the oversized hoodie he wore on flight days, and the throw blanket from his side of the bed all arranged in a messy fortress. A half-drunk bottle of coconut water sat on the coffee table next to your company laptop—screen locked on the HR portal, of course.

Jay smirked. Even on heat leave, you couldn’t fully log off.

He walked down the hallway, following the thickened scent. The master bedroom door was cracked open. Inside, the smart blinds were closed, the room warmer than usual. You were curled in the middle of the bed wearing his white dress shirt from yesterday, sleeves too long, hem riding up your thighs. Your hair was messy, cheeks flushed, and you had one of his pillows crushed against your chest like it owed you money.

He set his briefcase down quietly.

You stirred, then cracked one eye open. The second you registered him standing there, your face twisted into pure exasperation and relief at the same time.

“Fucking finally,” you groaned, voice raspy. “Took you long enough, Park Jongseong. I submitted that leave at 9 a.m. and you still waited until 8 p.m. to show up?”

Jay felt the cuteness aggression hit him like a truck. That little scowl, the way you clutched his pillow tighter while scolding him—it was unfair how adorable you were when you were like this. He had to physically stop himself from diving onto the bed and squeezing the life out of you.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look calm even though his alpha instincts were screaming mine, safe, mine.

“I was in Busan closing the new HQ deal,” he said, lips twitching. “Then I get an official company email—institutional email, mind you—saying my own wife and Head of HR is taking sudden heat leave. I had your cycle on my phone, baby. According to my spreadsheet you still had nine days. I thought the system glitched.”

You snorted and rolled onto your back, throwing one arm over your eyes. “Your stupid spreadsheet doesn’t know shit. Stress pushed it early. And yes, I submitted it through the proper channel like a responsible employee. Didn’t want anyone thinking the CEO’s wife gets special treatment.”

Jay pushed off the doorframe and walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed. He brushed a strand of hair off your forehead, thumb lingering on your warm skin. The bond hummed between you—your low-level discomfort, the restless ache, the relief that smelled like honey once he was close.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, affection thick in his voice. “I have the best HR director in Seoul and she still fills out the form instead of just texting her husband ‘come home, I’m dying.’”

“Professionalism,” you mumbled, but you were already scooting closer, burying your face in his thigh. “Also I was mad at you for leaving me for a whole week. Figured you deserved the corporate notification.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and warm. God, he felt stupidly lucky. First year of marriage and he still caught himself staring at you like an idiot sometimes—his sharp, no-nonsense omega who ran his company’s people department with an iron fist during the day and turned into this pouty, nest-obsessed menace when pre-heat hit. He’d built three companies before thirty, closed nine-figure deals, but nothing made his chest feel this full like coming home to you.

“Alright, HR Director Park,” he said, sliding his hand under the shirt to rest on your bare stomach, palm warm and steady. “New plan. I cleared my schedule for the next five days. No calls, no Busan, no nothing. Tonight we’re doing the usual: shower, food, then I’m keeping you in this bed until you stop glaring at me.”

You peeked up at him, one eye narrowed. “You flew back early because of an email?”

“I flew back early because my wife needed me.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your mating mark, breathing you in. “And because I don’t trust anyone else to take care of you when you get like this. Not even you.”

You grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “sap” but you hooked your fingers into his belt loop and tugged him closer anyway.

Jay felt that familiar rush of protectiveness and pride. He already had tomorrow mapped out in his head: electrolyte drinks in the fridge, the weighted blanket charged, the new scent-diffuser pods he’d ordered from that boutique in Tokyo delivered by morning. He’d work from the home office if anything urgent came up, but mostly he’d just be here—monitoring your temperature, feeding you, keeping you grounded when the heat really crashed in.

“Missed you,” you admitted quietly against his leg.

“Yeah?” He smiled, soft and private. “Good. Because I’m not leaving this penthouse until you’re through it and back to terrorizing the interns again.”

Jay held you in his lap a moment longer, letting the bond settle between you. Your scent was thicker now, peach and vanilla edged with something hotter, almost feverish. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead and frowned.

“You’re burning up,” he murmured, thumb stroking your temple. “This is higher than your usual pre-heat. You were only at 37.8 last cycle. Right now you feel closer to 39.”

You shrugged weakly against his chest, but your fingers still clutched his shirt like you’d disappear if he let go. “Blame Busan. Or blame your stupid week-long absence. My body’s dramatic when you’re not here.”

He exhaled through his nose, half-worried, half-aroused by how needy you already sounded. The alpha in him liked it more than he’d ever admit out loud. Still, the worry won.

“I need to shower first,” he said, gently easing you back onto the pillows. “I smell like airport carpet and recycled air. Your nose is too sensitive right now—I’m not crawling into your nest smelling like that.”

You made a small, displeased sound but didn’t argue. Instead you burrowed deeper into his hoodie, pulling the collar up over your nose like it was the only acceptable scent in the universe.

Jay stood, already unbuttoning his dress shirt as he walked to the bathroom. He left the door open so you could still hear him—another small ritual you both liked during pre-heat. The sound of running water, the clink of his watch on the marble counter, the low rustle of clothes hitting the hamper. He scrubbed quickly but thoroughly, using the unscented body wash you kept for these days. No cologne. No hair product. Just clean skin and the faint cedar that was naturally his.

When he stepped out five minutes later, towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping from his dark hair, you were watching him from the bed. Your eyes dragged down his torso, lingering on the sharp cut of his abs and the faint V that disappeared under the towel. Even flushed and feverish, you managed to look greedy.

“Better?” he asked, voice low.

“Much.” You paused, then softer, almost shy: “Come here, alpha.”

That was the invitation he’d been waiting for.

Jay dropped the towel without ceremony and crossed the room, careful not to disturb the edges of your nest. He climbed onto the bed slowly, knees first, only sliding under the covers when he was sure he wasn’t crushing any of your carefully arranged layers. The moment he was close enough, you surged forward and pressed your entire body against his, face buried in the fresh scent of his neck.

“Fuck, you smell good,” you groaned, nose dragging along his collarbone. “Missed this so much.”

He wrapped both arms around you, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other sliding down to rest possessively over your hip under the dress shirt. Your skin was scorching. The fever really was higher than it should be this early.

“You’re too hot, baby,” he said, concern bleeding into his tone. He pressed his lips to your forehead, then your cheek, then the mating mark on your neck, tasting salt and vanilla. “I don’t like it. Did you eat today? Drink enough?”

You huffed a small laugh against his throat. “Yes, Dr. Park. I had the pineapple and two electrolyte packs like a good employee. Still feels like my blood is boiling though.”

Jay shifted so he could pull you half on top of him, your leg thrown over his thigh. The position let more of your skin touch his cooler body, and he felt the bond pulse with relief from your side. His own body reacted instantly—blood rushing south—but he kept his hips still. This wasn’t about that yet.

He ran slow, soothing strokes up and down your back under the shirt, fingertips tracing your spine. “Tell me what you need right now. Honest. No HR-professional filter.”

You were quiet for a second, then mumbled, “Just you. All of you. The bond feels… empty. Like there’s a hole where you’re supposed to be.”

The words hit him square in the chest. He tightened his arms, tucking your head under his chin. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere for the next five days. Phones are on Do Not Disturb. The company can burn for all I care.”

You let out a shaky breath that turned into a tiny laugh. “My CEO husband skipping work for my heat. HR is going to write me up.”

“HR can fight me,” he deadpanned, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I sign her paychecks.”

Another soft laugh from you, then you nuzzled closer, lips brushing his mating mark in return. The fever still worried him, but the way you melted against his chest, trusting and soft and his, made something deep in his alpha instincts settle. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the thermometer from the drawer, and gently coaxed it under your tongue.

“Open,” he ordered quietly. You obeyed with an eye-roll that lacked any real heat.

While it beeped, he kept rubbing slow circles on your lower back, occasionally letting his fingers dip just under the curve of your ass—possessive, but gentle. When it finally beeped, he checked the number and cursed under his breath.

“39.2. Yeah, we’re cooling you down properly tonight.” He set the thermometer aside and tilted your chin up so he could look at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown with a mix of worry and hunger. “I’m going to take care of you. Shower again later if the fever spikes. Lots of water. My knot when you need it. Whatever you want.”

Your eyes fluttered, a fresh wave of slick warmth blooming between you at his words. You pressed your forehead to his. “I know you will. You always do.”

Jay kissed you then—slow, deep, and unhurried. Not frantic. Just full of that first-year-marriage devotion that still felt brand new and ancient at the same time. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“My perfect omega,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth. “Love you, Jongseong.”

[makeitworse]

𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑

i’m drawn to you // the more i hurt, the more i want you

this rut might burn jeongin from the inside out if he can’t spend it with you. if only he had the guts to just ask.

✤ pairing: alpha!jeongin x beta!f!reader ✤ words: 8k ✤ warnings: omegaverse, polyamorous ot8 (light mxm), jealous innie, smut with hand/blowjob, unprotected sex, he gets a lil rough, biting, 18+ MDNI

✤ notes: happy bday to this silly fox hehe. i had to speedrun writing the smut so idk how well it turned out lmqjwh. stay tuned for the rest of the parts as they release :O

✤ wolfgang m.list

“GOOOOOD MORNING!” han sings from down the hallway, chipper voice bouncing off the walls as he skips out from minho’s room. 

jeongin purses his lips over his iced americano. at least someone slept well – jeongin woke up at the ass crack of dawn to minho’s bedframe ramming against the wall. funnily enough, when he decided to start his day by going to the gym, he ran into chan about to go to bed: red-rimmed eyes from hours of staring at his laptop, noise-cancelling headphones sitting around his neck that he handed to jeongin with a knowing smile. 

han bounces on the balls of his feet as he enters the kitchen, his sickeningly sweet scent cloaking the room: pink pepper and cinnamon, made even spicier with the traces of minho still sticking to him. it burns jeongin’s nose when he breathes it in. 

despite his sour mood, jeongin can feel his alpha stirring over han’s post-heat glow – his full cheeks split with a smile like he didn’t keep the whole house up last night with his hooting n’ hollering. it’s a stark contrast to earlier this week: heat had hit him hard and fast, he looked as if he was on the brink of death.

you and felix did what you could to console him while minho was away at work, keeping han comfortable and cool as he sweated buckets in the plush sheets of the alpha’s bed. the others had stood by the door in worry – even after han had shooed them away in embarrassment of his state – though they could only grind their teeth and swallow down their instinct to help the omega. no one but minho is allowed to touch han while he’s in heat, after all. 

the alpha sure made it up to him, if last night’s cacophony and the love bites littered across his skin were anything to go by – as well as the fact that either had barely emerged from the room since. until now, of course. hopefully this means jeongin can finally get a good night’s rest. 

“feeling better?” seungmin smirks, peering up from his phone. han nods as he lugs the fridge open. “sure sounded like you got it all out of your system.”

jeongin clicks his teeth, pissed off just thinking about it. seungmin narrows his eyes at the young alpha, but han merely shrugs as he inspects an apple, untouchable in his thoroughly-dicked-down haze. “just say you’re jealous.” 

“i am.” seungmin says easily. “just listening to you two has me considering going off my blockers.”

“that bad, eh? well, you know minho’s always got room for you in his bed, seungie.” han coos. he presses a kiss to the younger omega’s hair, pulling a chair out for himself at the table and chowing down on the apple. 

seungmin barks a laugh. “please, only you can take him and live. he’d probably rip me a new one.”

jeongin feels like he could rip something, anything to shreds right now. his alpha bristles under his skin as he sits between the two omegas, provoked for.. honestly, no good reason. maybe it’s the lack of sleep getting to him – this americano has done nothing to relieve the tired weight from his eyelids, or even cool the heat that’s been sizzling restlessly under his skin since he woke up. 

“g’morning,” the grumble of your voice grounds jeongin immediately. the three men perk up like dogs as you trudge into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes. 

han calls out your name around his cheeks full of the fruit. “you’re up!”

“i thought you went out?” seungmin adds, smiling at how you’re blinking slowly, all cute. “i was looking for you but you weren’t in your room.” 

jeongin cuts him a sharp glance, as if he didn’t also seek you out when he got back from the gym (and after finding that you weren’t there, he may have laid in your bed for a minute or two just ‘cause he was craving your scent or whatever..)

before you can even process where you want to sit, if you were even intending to sit yet, jeongin pulls out the chair right next to him; beckoning you over with a tilt of his head. he catches the other two trading amused glances, but he knows they won’t question it. alpha dominance n’ all that. 

“thanks, innie.” you murmur fondly as he pushes your chair back in, feeling pride and something a bit hotter blooming in his chest. you glance back at seungmin. “did you need me for something earlier?”

“just felt like bothering you.” he shrugs. “so, where’d you go?”

“ah, nowhere. i slept in lixie’s room.”

“what?” seungmin plucks the words right out of jeongin’s head, though spoken at a lower decibel than what he was thinking. “where the hell was my invite?”

you roll your eyes playfully. “it wasn’t like that. he was feeling under the weather last night and wanted to cuddle.” 

aaand jeongin’s heard enough. he feels sick too, but with the disease called jealousy. physically even – the americano starting to swirl wrong in his gut, nausea clawing up the back of his throat. he shifts in his chair, thighs starting to stick to the leather from sweat. 

“innie?” he finds your eyes on him, brows furrowed with your lip pouting a little in concern. “you okay?”

he’d like it if his mouth could open to answer, but his jaw’s sore from how hard he’s been subconsciously clenching his teeth. the words burned out on their way up his throat anyways, because he’s not. he’s anything but. 

he nods profusely when the other two glance at him. he doesn’t want to look weak or anything. it’s just… god, when did the room get so hot? why are the lights so bright? and your scent, your fucking scent, it’s assaulting every crevice of his brain and airing out every thought in there. 

his brain shortcircuits when you reach out and press your palm to his forehead, which he didn’t even realise was so sweaty until your eyes widen from the wetness on your skin. “shit, innie, you’re burning up.”

han studies the young alpha. not in suspicion, but understanding. something settles in his face before he comments: “do you think it could be–?”

he’s interrupted when a certain bedroom door swings open and floods the room with a heady, unmistakable aroma. everyone goes a little stiff from the recognition – owner of said aroma padding into the kitchen, looking radiant as ever even with his mussed blonde bedhair. 

felix says your name in a low, sleepy drawl. “you left me..”

“greedy.” seungmin scoffs. “you had her all night and morning.”

han wraps an arm around felix’s waist when he approaches, rubbing his back and eyeing him keenly. “are you sure you should be out of bed?” 

the blonde omega smelled ripe – intense and sunny, like freshly boiled bergamot tea. when the house starts smelling too strongly of citrus, it’s like an omen of the incoming chaos. jeongin can already feel how his body reacts to the blonde omega’s scent, curling around his alpha like smoke and making his hairs stand on end. 

of course, with one sunshine twin in heat, it was only a matter of time before the other got set off. consecutively, no less. and now the rest are going to fall into their heats and ruts like dominos. 

because with felix, as they love and adore him, his heat alone is enough to set the whole house into a heated frenzy of pheromones. 

it clicks in seungmin’s head as he stares at the two sunshine twins, nuzzling into each other’s warmth and rubbing their wrists together – zest and spice curling around the dining table. “ahh, you’re about to be in heat, yongbok?” 

“it’d be about time,” you add on. “you should lay back down. i’ll wake minho up to cook us some brekky.” 

an annoyed huff leaves jeongin’s nose. you’re too focused on felix’s state to acknowledge it, though seungmin does as his gaze drifts to jeongin. his lip twitches into a smile as he stares at the agitated young alpha, like he knows something jeongin doesn’t– 

oh, no. oh. no no no. 

it all clicks in jeongin’s head with terrifying clarity. why didn’t he realise this sooner? well, he does know why actually. it’s because this is the first time in years he’s felt this way. 

his body is plunging into the first stages of a rut: the mood swings, the insomnia, the way every sound is crushing and every light is blinding. he tries to will himself not to panic as a bead of sweat trickles down his neck. how long has it been now – since his freshman year of college? 

after he first showed as an alpha, he endured only a handful of ruts before going on blockers and swearing by them since. ruminating on that period of his life only brings a wave of shame. he couldn’t tolerate his own biology hindering his performance in school, or worse, others’ treatment of him. 

it helped having an entire pack that understood and supported him, of course. in fact it’s the entire reason he warmed up to the decision of letting his body function naturally. however, going through every stage of grief while sitting at the dining table has made all of his thoughts from when he initially went on blockers slam back into him at full nelson. 

in the same vein of wondering why he even decided to quit them, he remembers the exact justification when he looks to you through half-lidded eyes. 

you’re just too fucking beautiful, simply existing. looking like you’re straight from a vogue cover with your bedhair sitting so perfectly messy, your pyjamas hugging your body so… damn. he might be half-hard. 

he forces his eyes back to your face: your brows drawn, chewing on your lower lip as you keep an eye on felix. ah, you’re always so concerned and caring towards all of them. so sweet. 

as a beta, you’ll never have to live a day where pure, raw need completely takes over your body. that’s not to say you don’t have your own struggles, like in society for instance. despite it all, you’re so in tune and adept at dealing with everyone’s cycles as if you’re drawing from your own experience. they all cherish and adore you for it – jeongin especially. even in a relationship with eight others, you’ve always managed to fluster him like a boy with a crush. 

he often wonders how they managed to bag someone as special as you, back when the pack was just a young throuple of chan, changbin and han. perhaps it was the charm of their leader – jeongin can relate. he caught chan’s eye and the rest is history. 

your scent spikes with concern as you watch han help felix stand upright, the lurking heat turning his limbs to jelly. jeongin breathes in to let your smell calm him, though it instantly has the opposite effect; striking him with a euphoric rush like poppers. 

as you stand from the chair and walk to the dazed blonde, jeongin’s thoughts are consumed with visions of you doing anything but leave his side. he wants to wrap his body around yours and keep you to himself, to splay you on this table and taste your scent gland on his tongue. 

the daydream’s shattered when you give felix a soft peck, scenting him gently with your wrist before han sees him back to bed. 

seungmin puckers his lips at you expectantly, and you shake your head in amusement before giving him a kiss too – one that turns almost heated on seungmin’s part before you pull away.

all that’s left is jeongin, who’s staring you down so intensely your eyes actually widen a little in surprise when you notice. 

he can see the cogs turning in your head: it’s a well known and accepted fact that jeongin’s not the biggest fan of physical intimacy, and he’d rather die than ask for it. but, the way he’s looking at you right now.. well, it looks like someone else might die if he doesn’t get a kiss too. 

your hand slides to cup his jaw. jeongin licks his lips and you lean in – kissing him exactly like you know he’d want it. slow, but with force. what becomes a kiss that lasts too long for you, is a kiss that lasts barely a millisecond for jeongin. 

“okay,” you sigh as you part with him, having to wipe your mouth from how much his tongue ran over your lips. “i’m gonna go wake minho up. i’m starving.”

“me too.” jeongin mutters. both of you know he’s not referring to any food. 

with a brush of your thumb against his chin, a lingering glance at his glossy lips, you’re gone – setting off down the hallway and waltzing into another alpha’s room when you should only want to be in his.

jeongin’s not the possessive type, not like minho at least. jealous though? well, it’s hard to get jealous when your pack is all dating one another, but he’s also been on rut blockers since before he met any of you. his alpha hasn’t shown itself full force like this since he discovered he was one. 

for years now he’s been the one to merely witness it in his partners, never been the one to feel it: the burning under your skin, the churning in your gut, the need burrowed so deeply beneath your bones… and it’s weaving one name over and over into his veins. 

it’s you. it’s all you. his alpha grows restless and claws beneath his flesh – all jeongin can smell, see, think is you, you, you. 

there’s one issue though. 

as the pack’s dear princess and sole beta, you’re quite popular particularly during these bouts of felix making his heat everyone else’s problem. jeongin isn’t really intimate as it stands – pretty selective and reserved when he has an itch to scratch, but it’s not something he does often, and his partners respect that. it’d almost be unlike him to want someone this bad, but his alpha nature is just a part of himself that’s finally off the leash after years and years of suppressing it. 

for fuck’s sake. he wants you and so does everyone else and that’s a fucking problem. because really, he needs you. he’s got years worth of energy backed up and it’s all going to hit him with this imminent rut. it’ll probably be painful. you’re good at dealing with this kind of thing, it’s why everyone asks for you when they’re going through it. 

giggles and groans erupt from down the hall, a mixture of familiar scents wafting into the room. jeongin looks up to see you’ve got not just a moody minho in tow, but also a changbin and a hyunjin who’re shirtless and hanging off of each other. chan will probably rise later with the moon, no doubt. 

jeongin can’t help but sigh, shifting in his seat once again. seungmin just smirks across from him. 

“i’ve got dibs first.” the omega winks, shameless in how his eyes drag over the skin spilling out from your pyjamas. 

the young alpha snarls, but whatever he was going to respond with is lost when changbin ruffles his hair from behind – then saying something along the lines of why in the world he’s so sweaty. 

— 

if you asked jeongin to give a summary of everything that’s happened in this movie so far, he genuinely wouldn’t even be able to name the title for you. he’s not fucking watch this. not since seungmin stole the spot jeongin was gonna take by your side on the couch, definitely not when the omega threw a blanket over your bodies to shield whatever he was planning to do next, and positutely fucking not since jeongin has been eyeing each and every movement beneath said blanket. 

seungmin’s been shameless ever since felix went into heat and the rest followed suite. he’s been unaffected because of his trusty old blockers, but seeing you get down and around with the rest of the pack has made him want a sliver of that attention too. which brings us to now: jeongin, chan, you, and seungmin all sitting on the couch pretending to watch a movie. the rest are either fucking felix through his heat or fucking because of felix’s heat. seungmin actually decided to skip taking his pills yesterday, so his signature jasmine and vanilla is the strongest jeongin’s smelled in months. 

it doesn’t help that the omega’s curled into your body on your shared end of the couch (on the opposite end of jeongin’s, mind you) – arms snug around your shoulders, rubbing his scent gland all up on your neck. the smell’s so sweet jeongin swears he can feel his teeth aching. 

his cock is for sure aching with how horny he’s been. even just your secondhand scent, like your clothes as he does the laundry or when he walks past your room, has been getting him stiff in his pants. your actual presence has been scarce though because, as to be expected, you’ve been a bit busy helping everyone else through their cycles. you’re holed up in a different room each day, making another man cum each day. 

he’s not the possessive type. he’s not. these are his partners just as much as they’re yours. you may have been here longer, and he may be the youngest, but the love in this pack is shared and mutual. there are favourites, naturally – there’s been periods where pairs or even trios have wanted to keep things more ‘exclusive’ for a bit. hell, minho has gatekept han’s heat to himself for as long as jeongin can remember. 

right now, you’re the sole object of his desire. his alpha’s rut has a massive fucking arrow pointing at your beta. he fears there’s not enough of you to go around, because it has been days and jeongin has barely gotten a word in with you. each morning he wakes up in a pool of his sweat, every limb aching and every nerve on fire. anyone he does trade words with has been getting nothing but clipped replies and nasty glares. he swears on everything that he’s fine, but it’s as clear as day that he’s finally going through it like the rest of them. in fact, jeongin’s own honey scent has been as potent as felix’s ripe citrus while in heat. chan described him smelling like an angry beehive. 

he knows he’s more than welcome to call on someone else to help him through it. hell, he usually enjoys intimacy with seungmin the most, but he’s pissing him the fuck off right now and all his alpha wants is you and exclusively you. 

and you know what’s crazy? it’d be so easy to just ask. to say a simple: “hey, scoot over and let me join.” to be honest with his partners in life that he’s in physical pain from how horny he is, and they’d give him relief in a heartbeat. but he doesn’t say anything or do anything. 

he doesn’t want to burden you. time and again you’ve helped others and he hadn’t felt anything quite like this – even though he’s always held a certain fancy for you. jeongin knows his ruts can be.. a lot. too much actually. shit, he started popping suppression pills because he needed to stop the 24/7 cravings to fuck anything if he had any hope of graduating collge. 

those first few ruts have defined his perception of his own nature. he can’t risk overwhelming any of his partners, not when you’re all so tight-knit. especially not you, who’s special, who he’s barely shared any intimacy with as is. he can forget about pulling some guts out of his ass and ask you to share an actual rut with him – even if you’re the only person his body craves, and perhaps the only saving grace from this torture. 

it’s had him seriously consider going back on blockers – to run back to what he’s used to, even if it works against the nature he’s trying to embrace and finally take pride in. taking them when the rut’s already started would only bring a fresh slew of pain, though he’d doubt it’d even bother him over everything else raging in his mind and body. 

“i’m going to bed,” chan says suddenly, slapping his knees as he gets up from the couch. “the smell of you both has made me insanely hard. goodnight, i love you all.”

chan excuses himself to his room, foregoing giving you all his usual goodnight kisses because he’d probably pounce instead. you giggle from under seungmin’s body sandwiching you into the couch. jeongin breathes in, your scent filling his lungs – except there’s traces of seungmin’s sticky vanilla curled there too, from just how much he’s scented you. 

that actually gets on jeongin’s last nerve. 

the young alpha stands abruptly, ignoring your confused glances as he storms off without a word and slams his bedroom door behind him. 

he slumps against the door, pressing his palms into his eyes until colours burst behind his lids. he opens them again, blinks until reality blots back into focus. he glances down and sees the massive pitch in his sweats. then he laughs, crushing his forehead between his fingers. 

he’s so hard he could cry. god, does he want you. to the point it hurts. 

hewantsyouhewantsyouhewantsyouhewantsyouhe–

he palms the front of his sweats, hissing at the barest relief it brings, your face in his mind. 

hewantsyouhewantsyouhewantsyouhewantsyouhe–

the shuffling of fabric punctuates his heavy breathing as he wraps a tight fist around himself and fucks into it. not even moving his hand – keeping it stationary as he imagines it’s your warm, wet hole instead. 

heneedsyouheneedsyouheneedsyouheNEEDSYOUHE–

with a fateful jerk of his hips he spills onto the floor, muffling a sob behind his palm. 

jeongin slumps back against the door. well, that did nothing to relieve it. just like the multiple other times he already jerked off today, yesterday, the day before that and so on. he’s still hard, still horny, still not satisfied. 

he sighs, nearly slips on the cum as he grabs some tissues to wipe it up, then flops onto his bed. 

his cock twitches as it rubs against his plush mattress, but he doesn’t even bother attempting to reach another orgasm. it’d do nothing to satiate the bottomless pit of lust inside him. 

he stuffs his face into the pillow and essentially suffocates himself until black swallows him into sleep. 

—

jeongin woke up and instantly wished he hadn’t. just a second ago, you were there: on top of him, dragging your teeth across his scent gland and making him see stars. just a second ago, he felt some semblance of relief as he came in the circle of your fist. 

then, his eyes snapped open to the dark of his bedroom – and to the absence of you. in place of your hand was nothing but a pathetic, wet pool staining the fabric of his boxers. 

jeongin kicked his sheets off like they were personally responsible for his wet dream (he did add a spritz of your perfume to his sheets so, honestly maybe they were). he haphazardly checked his phone – the digits ‘3:41’ mocking him as they stared back – before launching it into his mattress and storming off to the shower. 

jeongin felt like a walking corpse. a zombie that craved pussy instead of brains. a body set to flames. 

it felt like millions of needles trying to burst from under his skin, like his organs were coated in molten lava. the ice cold water stream on full blast did nothing to cool the restless fire burning him from the inside out. 

the walls around him spun endlessly, his stomach churning in sync with it. when his throat started to sear with bile, jeongin began to pray. 

it was answered, if just for a moment – the nausea subsiding just long enough for him to trudge out of the bathroom, pull on some fresh boxers and collapse into his bed. 

the rut’s hitting him with everything he’s worth. the wet dream had been the warning, and after he dragged himself to the shower and back, he hasn’t left bed. he can’t. 

everything is pissing him off. the way his blanket scratches his skin, the way he’s shivering in a puddle of his own sweat. the way his head throbs with a migraine. the way his cock stands upright, indifferent to his suffering, demanding release. 

it’s too fucking hot in here. he needs you so bad he could literally throw up. his phone’s buzzed a few times, laying at his feet from where he threw it, but he can’t find the strength to even lift a finger to go check it. all of the blood in his system is rushing south to his greedy cock, leaving him light-headed and limp. he doesn’t even have enough water left in his body to cry. has anyone ever died from a rut? fuck, if not he’ll be the first. only divine intervention could save him now. 

“innie?”

it sounds so distant, so faraway that jeongin concludes it’s a hallucination. he must be dead already. 

“innie, hey,”

ah, so his last moments are spent imagining your voice calling to him. he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“yang jeongin!” 

he has a full-body jolt like he’s been struck with electricity. he blinks thrice to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him – that you’re actually standing at his bedside, that you’re real and that he’s still very much alive. 

“hey,” you say, relieved. “what’s going on?” 

he replies in his head, but his mouth doesn’t get the memo – nothing but a strained noise leaving his throat. 

you frown, looking at him with such pity he wished the ground would open up and swallow him. you place a plastic bottle of water on his bedside table before sitting gently on the edge of the bed, like you’re afraid of taking up too much space. your hand reaches out to brush a sweat-soaked strand of hair from his forehead, tender touch lingering at his cheekbone as your solemn eyes leave his face. 

you watch the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket before pulling it back from his bare chest: flushed red and covered in a thick layer of sweat. 

the state he’s in shocks you stiff for a moment. you throw the rest of the cover off of him, air hitting his legs. your thumb circles his cheek as you take in the rest of his body, eyes catching on the visible bulge in his boxers. 

“figured you must’ve been going through it..” you lament. “innie, why didn’t you say anything?” 

his mouth’s too dry to form any words, so he just shakes his head. you sigh and reach for the water bottle, slipping your hand to his back and gently guiding him upright. 

“here.” you tap the bottle to his lips, and he tilts his head back obediently. the water pours down his throat and he groans from the instant relief it brings. he even leans into it, downing the entire bottle in record time. 

droplets trickle down his chin as he watches you cap the empty bottle. you clear your throat, looking like you’re a little thirsty yourself after that. 

jeongin coughs to test his voice, before muttering a “thank you.” 

“it’s nothing.” you murmur, breathless. “can i do anything else to help?” 

that gives him pause. he’s had the past few days to say something and hasn’t, but the need is flashing hot in his system and overrides any other thought in his skull. his cock pulses in his boxers just at the thought of you ‘helping’, and of course, you catch it in your peripheral. your throat bobs as you take in the sheer size of him straining – what must be painfully – against the fabric. 

“i don’t want to just leave you while you’re like this,” you say, exasperated. “if you want someone else to take care of you, i could go get–”

“–no!” he cuts in, sitting upright. your brows shoot up in surprise. “i don’t want anyone else.” his voice delivers frustrated, like it’s unfathomable he wouldn’t want you. 

jeongin shuffles closer, his hands twitching in his lap as he just barely restrains the urge to reach for you. his grip would probably leave bruises. 

his breath hitches, the words to just ask lodging in his throat on the way up. you wait, patient, and he knows you won’t move without explicit permission. you’re considerate like that. 

jeongin swallows down a boulder.

“please.” 

it’s so quiet, he’s not even sure he got it out until your face changes – confusion sliding into understanding. 

you cup his face reverently. “tell me what you want, and i’ll do it.” 

he nearly gasps in relief as he says, “please, kiss me.” 

in the next blink your lips are on his, gentle with the state he’s in. on the contrary, jeongin kisses you so hard your teeth knock and your head cranes back. days worth of needing and suppressing is drawn taut inside him. he licks into your mouth, moaning just over the taste of you on his tongue. you’ve kissed before – gotten a little physical, but never the whole way. and certainly never this passionate. 

everyone has differing libidos and boundaries with intimacy. you understand that, you’ve always been careful with jeongin because of that. 

but that was him on suppression pills – quite literally blocking a part of himself out. he is selective with who he lets touch him, so the fact that he only wants to share this rut with you? well, if that doesn’t speak magnitudes about how much you’re his favourite, he doesn’t know what will. 

your fingers thread through his hair as you kiss him, meeting him halfway as you attempt to match his energy. jeongin still doesn’t trust himself to reach for you and not accidentally hurt you, so he settles for gripping his own thighs – the throbbing between them growing more incessant with each swipe of your tongue against his.

jeongin kisses you like he’s on the brink of starvation. like your mouth is the air he breathes. his spit mixes with yours, and with the low groan he lets out when your teeth scrape his bottom lip. 

he doesn’t even know the words to ask anymore, and if he did he wouldn’t be able to get them out. all he needed was you here, your warmth on his tongue. and that’s enough for his cock to twitch violently when his hand creeps over the front of his boxers. 

you pull back slightly at the stream of breathy noises from him, blinking at how he’s palming himself almost roughly. he doesn’t give you a chance to question him before he’s diving back in, swallowing your sentence into his mouth. 

jeongin’s still burning, the rut still prickling beneath his flesh and churning in his guts. but it all feels good. euphoria pumps through his blood, leaves his head foggy and his cock pulsing your name. he shoves his hand down the front of his pants, closing his fingers around his cock and jerking off as best he can manage in the cramped space, just to the feel of your lips on his. 

honestly, he imagined he’d have to tank the rut pains and just suffer through it as opposed to asking you for help – so your presence at minimum is enough to have him close to orgasm. 

as his groans turn quicker and higher, you part with him agan; eyes on his panting face as he jerks off to your pretty one. he can see the words on the tip of your tongue – you want to offer to help, but god you don’t want to interrupt either. you’re in awe of him. you’ve never seen jeongin this desperate. no one has, actually. 

your fingers creep down from the scruff of his hair and glide down his neck, then dip into his scent gland. jeongin moans, his vision whiting out from the sensitivity, from your soft fingers pressing on the tender spot. as if on command, he cums into his fist – your name on his tongue. 

with an exhale over ruining yet another perfect pair of boxers, jeongin opens his eyes, half-expecting it all to have been one crazy fever dream. you’re still here, though; looking at him like you could eat him up. 

“more.” is all he says. 

it’s as if he didn’t just cum with how his cock still stands upright and tents his soiled boxers, with how he’s hardly even out of breath. if anything it’s like he’s less tired now that he’s got one orgasm out of his system.

“tell me.” you reply, voice a little strained. you don’t go through cycles like the rest of them, but their pheromones can affect you all the same, and jeongin’s sickly sweet honey scent is driving you up the wall.

the fact he hasn’t reached for you yet isn’t lost on you – much like the fact that he didn’t tell a soul that he was going through a rut. you take the initiative by grabbing his wrists and planting his hands on your breasts. it’s like a neuron activates with how his hands immediately close in and knead the flesh between his fingers. jeongin swears he can feel his mouth watering. 

“anything, please, just you is enough.” he near-pleads. he’s an alpha, his instinct is to command and to be obeyed, and yet he is melting in your hands. the ‘natural hierarchy’ is nonexistent where the pack is concerned anyways. 

you smile, kissing the drool from the corner of his mouth as you reach for his waistband and tug. he lifts his ass a little to help you pull down his boxers enough for his cock to spring free, slapping against his stomach and leaving a string of pre. 

“lay back,” you urge him, and he obeys without thinking (hands still on your boobs). 

you kiss him, restraint now an afterthought as you put your all into it. he proved how much he wanted you by just jerking off while looking at you – and you’d be crazy to not give him the relief he’s so desperately seeking. 

you leave a one last kiss on his lips before travelling south, switching between nipping and licking at his skin as your mouth trails along his jaw. you nose his scent gland, licking a stripe up his pulse and delighting at how he has a full-body jolt over it. 

you ravage the expanse of his torso with your tongue and teeth, pulling heavenly noises from him, before at last being at level with his weeping cock. it’s flushed as red as jeongin was when you first walked in on him half-conscious and burning up beneath the blanket. 

you lick your lips. “you tell me if it’s too much or if you want to stop, okay?” 

“i won’t.” he says, reaching for your hair to hold and keep out of your face. “you tell me.”

you lip twitches into a smirk, one that accepts the unspoken challenge there. “alright.” 

you dart your tongue the whole way out, catching jeongin off guard by starting off with kitten licks on his tip. he giggles, shivering at the barest contact. 

you apply pressure with your tongue, sliding down to the base and back up, licking deliberately hard on his frenulum. jeongin’s leaking way too much cum to be considered pre. he has so much to give, and each swipe of your tongue on his cock has even more pre spilling from the tip. 

he’s not shy about how good it feels either: steady groans falling from his mouth, punctuated by soft whimpers that he doesn’t even realise. 

growing impatient yourself, you catch jeongin off guard when you just grab the base of his dick. he winces, his veins pulsing under the ridges of your palm. it’s all the warning he gets before your lips close around his tip and you take his entire length into your mouth – right until it hits the back of your throat. you don’t even gag when even more precum spills out. 

he moans, already overwhelmed and feeling his stomach tightening rapidly just from the warmth of your throat hugging his cock, but you’re far from done. 

you let saliva fill your mouth before you start bobbing your head, your hand jerking off whatever your mouth can’t reach. jeongin’s on cloud fucking nine. he’s trying his best to hold back, to not just fuck up into the hot hole of your mouth but man, you’re not making it any easier when you hum each time his tip hits the back of your throat. 

his hands tighten in your hair as he barely holds on by a thread of restraint, and you make an appreciative noise around him that has his hips bucking unintentionally. he curses, in apology but also because it felt too good. 

you don’t mind though. you encourage it. and you show him exactly that by going even harder, provoking him to get rough with you and let it all out. you twist your wrist and you lap at his tip like crazy, bobbing your head all the while and humming around his cock. 

“f–uck, ah, tell me–” he trails off, too lost in the sauce to remember what he was gonna say before he holds your head in place, plants his feet on the mattress, and fucks his hips up into your mouth like no tomorrow.

you let him take over, smiling around his cock as he fervently chases the orgasm he so deserves. saliva and precum fill up your mouth and leak down to his balls but jeongin can’t feel anything but the hot, wet, tight hole you’ve so eagerly offered to him. he swears he can feel the rut pains easing from his body with each thrust. 

jeongin cums with a shout, shooting his load down your throat with one fateful thrust. his body goes completely limp, pulling out of your mouth – but you close your lips in time to make sure nothing seeps out. 

jeongin watches your throat bob as you swallow his cum down, and his dick twitches over the sight. 

“you’re so perfect.” he murmurs, almost in disbelief that he even gets to have someone like you to himself (especially with seven partners as needy as he is who must be waiting for their turns.)

you smirk at how his cock is still as hard as it was when you sat on the bed. usually, there’s breaks as you help a partner through a rut or heat. jeongin’s seen you leave the room for water and such as said partner slept or just needed a breather before getting on with another round. 

that’s not jeongin, though. 

his ruts are restless. sickening greed. he’s never had a partner who’s able to keep up with him, or even tolerate him and his incessant need to fuck. that’s not the jeongin any of the pack knows, since he’s been on blockers since they all first started dating him. but that’s who he’s always been – and now you’re the first to be introduced.

“more?” you ask him, a giddy grin across your cheeks. 

he nods, flashing that dimpled smile you adore. “more.”

jeongin makes the move himself this time as he grabs your shoulders and hoists you up until you’re at face level. you giggle at his newfound confidence, and he can’t help but do the same. 

you make quick work of pulling down your shorts, tossing them somewhere in the room. jeongin arches a brow at your lack of underwear. 

“was betting on not needing to wear any,” you add. 

he faux-pouts. “i was gonna ask to keep them.”

“you can take the shorts.” you roll your eyes playfully. “who are you and what have you done with my innie?” 

both hands grab your ass with a light smack, making you squeak. “what do you mean? i haven’t felt so much like myself in years.” 

you smile at him fondly, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “fair. i’m not complaining, though. just didn’t expect you to have such a high drive..” 

“i am an alpha, pretty girl.” he coos. “just thought it was about time i start acting like it.” 

“hm.. i think you can go harder.” 

“yeah?” 

“mhm.” 

jeongin’s tongue pokes his cheek. your eyes sparkle, successfully spurring him on. 

jeongin snarls as he spreads your cheeks apart with a bruising grip, pushing your ass down until his cock ruts against your wet folds. 

“oh fuck,” he lets out a cry at the delicious friction, cock twitching when his tip bumps your clit. “fucking shit, i can’t,” 

“i can take it.” you urge him, shifting your hips to line your hole up with his cock. all it’d take is one good thrust and he’d be sliding home. “innie, i want it all.” you leave a kiss on his lips, one that’s soft given the circumstances. “do your worst.” 

jeongin curses again, rolling over and taking you down with him. you’re pliant as he presses you into the bed, laying on top and lining himself back up. 

he holds his breath as he finally nudges into your pussy, pushing in deliberately slow just to savour the way you pulse around him and adjust to his shape. his cock slides in with ease with how drenched you are, and he lets out a moan once his hips meet your ass with a light clap as he bottoms out.

“fuckfuckfuck,” he’s bumbling in your ear from behind, every thought fizzling out because your pussy’s got him dumb. he waited for this. put himself through avoidable pain while yearning for this, dreaming for this. he already figured why you’re everyone’s favourite, why they all call on you to spend a heat or rut with. but now jeongin’s feeling it firsthand: pulsing and gripping around his cock like a vice. 

he snaps his pelvis, and you both sob in tandem. the angle’s good – he’s all up in there in the right ways. he soils his balls in your arousal as he grinds forward, making sure you feel each inch dragging against your walls. 

“fuuuck, feels too fucking good.” he grunts, pulling out to the tip just to slam back in and have you both jostling up the bed from the force. “i’d fight for this pussy.” 

your giggle’s lost in a gasp as he starts to fuck you ruthlessly, cock ramming into your g-spot with each of his pointed thrusts. 

jeongin snakes a hand around the front of your neck, splaying his fingers out to press in to your scent glands on either side of your neck. the noise you let out damn nearly makes him cum on the spot, and his effort to not is nearly in vain when you clamp down around his cock from the sensitivity. 

he moans, pressing his palm further into your throat. not hard enough to hurt, but enough pressure to leave your head fuzzy as he fucks into you like a madman – swiping a thumb across your tender gland whenever he wants to feel you squeeze the life out of his cock. 

his head falls down to your shoulder, and you shiver at the cold metal of his chain hitting your skin. 

“i don’t want any of them having this,” jeongin hisses, running his tongue over your scent gland, your sweet taste lighting up his palate as you clench down on his cock as if on instinct. “shit, ugh, want this pussy to be mine– all fucking mine.”

“innie!” you cry out, fireworks bursting behind your eyelids as he rubs the scent gland on his neck right up on yours – the taste of honey on the back of your throat. 

he snarls, resisting the urge to just bite down and leave a mark on the spot – a statement to anyone who tries to scent you. he was here first, and it’s his from now on. 

he settles on your shoulder, sinking his teeth into the skin and revelling in how your body responds. he leaves a patch of bites there: soothing each sting with his tongue. 

“wan.. wanna see you,” you all but sob, helpless to the noises jeongin’s pulling from you by hitting your g-spot just right each time. 

“fuck.”

it’s all fast movement from there, jeongin not even pulling out as he leans back enough to spin you over and have you laying facing him. when he fucks you again, it’s somehow even harder – his chain dangling in your face with each hard thrust. 

you could almost laugh at the irony of it being a cross. you pull jeongin’s face down by the chain, makin a show of biting the metal cross between your teeth as fucks you. 

he grunts, lashes flutter.. and then he loses it. 

“shitfuck–ah ah–” he’s whimpering, mind completely honed in on how you’re spasming around him and moaning around his chain in your mouth. he shoots a hand down to your pussy, rubbing quick eights onto your clit, and you all but scream as he sends you into an orgasm. 

you squeeze down around his cock and wring him out for all he’s worth as he cums in tandem with you, muffling his pathetic moan around your neck as he sucks a bruise onto your scent gland. 

even after both of your orgasms, jeongin’s still fucking you, just to feel the mess of your cum gushing around his cock. you’re long past sensitive, writhing under his body keeping you pressed into the mattress – and yet you still moan when you feel a fresh load of warm cum seep into your pussy, jeongin trembling above you after reaching yet another orgasm. 

he pulls out slowly, careful to let as little as possible seep out. ideally, he wants his cum to still be there the next time you fuck someone else. he wants whoever it is to taste him and think of him as they eat you out. 

on that note… 

jeongin shuffles down your body, greedy hands prying your jelly thighs apart and licking his lips at the sight of your messy, wet hole. 

“please sit on my face?” 

you laugh, head lolling back on the bed. “here i was thinking you were done.” 

jeongin clicks his tongue. “baby, this is foreplay.” 

—

for the first time all day, jeongin retrieves his phone from the spot he left it and checks the time. 

3:42.

damn, it’s been a whole day since he woke up knocking on death’s door. he almost forgot that happened with how he’s spent the last countless hours sucking and fucking his beautiful girlfriend. 

you curl into his side, seeking out his warmth even after an entire day of feeling that same warmth all up in your guts. 

he kisses the crown of your head, admiring how cute you are cuddled into him like this. he feels his cock stirring, but he’s not so evil he’ll wake you up from the sleep you very much deserve after dealing with a rut as high maintenance as his. 

it’s okay. none of your other partners have come knocking at the door, so he’s sure they won’t mind if jeongin needs you for another day. just in case the rut pains come back, of course. 

jeongin’s bedroom door swinging open cuts through the moment of peace – both of you jolting upright in bed, squinting to make out the illuminated figure standing in the doorway who dare disturb your slumber. 

“yah, she was trying to sleep.” jeongin whisper-yells. 

“well i can’t because i’ve been bricked up all day.” seungmin says bluntly. “sooo you doing me next or what??”

@ttturnitup @jhthings @seungttttop @fweakygyatt @lunaryoongie @binneulton @kits-treasure-trove @kpopishgirlie

[doyoueverthinkofrose]

✩ Dating Kitsune!Jo is not what you'd previously expected. ✩ (18+)

His aura is impossibly regal, divine. With his tall stature and devastating beauty, his surreal eyes and the sleek tails that only appear when he chooses, one would think him to be arrogant. A little too confident, at the very least.

As you've found over the past year, though, he is anything but.

Asakura Jo, for all of his physical perfection, is what other kitsunes may refer to as two-faced. That is, breathtakingly gorgeous on the outside, and heartbreakingly soft on the inside. Jo refuses to pull tricks on you, saving his illusions to conjur the occasional butterfly in your living room or galaxies on your ceiling to watch while you cuddle. He tends to prefer wandering outside by himself for hours on end, but he still updates you every ten minutes with texts like, "Look at this stone. Kind of looks like a clover, no?"

That's not to say, though, that Jo is completely unique from the rest of his species. He's gently possessive, appearing from nowhere to hold you in public while he eyes potential offenders, as he likes to call them. At parties, when you're dressed up too good for him to properly focus, he growls under his breath when other men get too close for comfort, ears flattening. That's when his tails finally show — three when he's trying to prove a point, and all five when he really gets pissed. You prefer all five. "You look enchanting," you told him once. "Ethereal, Jojo."

He's also protective in the most endearing way possible. Sure, it's hot when he bares his teeth at people you don't like, but it's so damn cute when he gets huffy at a drawer after you tell him you bruised your hip on it. He feels you getting anxious at the supermarket and a silken tail appears, coiling around your calf in some kind of resemblance to a hug. His keen eyes dart towards exits and entrances constantly — for both of your sakes, because it's hot and you're both drained and ohhhhcuddles sound good right about now.

And, oh…the intimacy. Legs hooked around his waist, tails brushing the skin softly. His teeth graze every inch of your body with just enough pressure to make you feel it in the deepest parts of your bones. He rarely ever fully sinks his teeth in, but when he does, the pulse of fire that rushes through your veins intoxicates you. You're drunk from the way he holds you close through it all, one hand on the small of your back that encourages you to arch deeper for him. It lets him hit your sweet spot with more accuracy, and he lives for your fucked-out whines.

The next morning, you wake to a sting in your neck — it's faint, yet impossible to ignore. You slide out of bed and tilt your head towards the mirror by your bathroom door, and you jolt at the sight of a light, too-deliberate-to-be-accidental set of marks that hide just under your jaw. They're just too curved and symmetrical to be a mistake.

Jo appears from nowhere behind you. You just tilt your head expectantly.

His ears twitch — a sign of nervousness —but his gaze remains firm.

"You're mine," he tells you fingers coming to brush across your shoulders as if touching something precious. "It's…My scent is in that mark. It'll ward you from being touched by unwanted magic."

You blink. You know he's not done.

His ears twitch again, and a hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly. "And, uh…it gives other men a hint. If you know what I mean."