warnings. MDNI (there'll be a warning cut), heavy angst, alpha!jay being our target again i'm so sorry this is the last time i promise!, tw: nosebleed, softdom!heeseung because i love soft doms, p in v, fingering, missionary AND doggy because why not, unprotected sex (haih pls just don't), loss of virginity, nipple sucking, body worshipping, BITING, MARKING, BITE-MARK, heeseung cries a lot good lord but he deserves it lowkey, LIKE BONNIE AND CLYDE MAKIN' LOVEEE (insert hoonwon's voice), yes they make love your honour, and yes it's a happy ending your honour, not beta read we die like injang, tumblr pls stop with your 1000 blocks limit im gna come at you!!! lmk if i missed anything :>
word count. 15,175 words
note. i'm sorryyyyyyy for the delay sjshidshk here's the last part!!! thank you for showing this series your love and support <3
It’s finally the day of the competition.
Yet you haven’t heard from Heeseung for days.
You try not to make it obvious, nor to show how much you care. Not when Jungwon wouldn’t say anything either.
The younger alpha has been replacing Heeseung instead, walking you home while chatting about anything but the elephant in the room.
Or, in your case, the wolf in your universe.
There’s a lump of disappointment lodging in your chest whenever you think about it. You think that Heeseung has finally given up on trying to make up. You think that you’ve been too indifferent and unintentionally have pushed him away further than the two of you have ever been.
You don’t know why the thought makes you feel bitter.
“Our pitching is next,” Jungwon whispers next to you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You watch the group before you begin their pitching presentation.
In the first stage, the pitching was done in separate rooms to make it less time-consuming. But your group has advanced to the final stage, and now you have to convince five professionals from the business industry why your business idea is better than three other groups in front of hundreds of audience.
The image makes your blazer suddenly feel too tight around your ribs. You shift, trying not to think about the eyes watching every movement of the participants sitting on the far end of the stage.
Where the hell did this many people come from, anyway? You never see this crowd in lecture halls!
“Y/N. You’re nervous.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“Well, you don’t really smell like you’re relaxed right now.”
You purse your lips. Jungwon is right, of course, except you actually feel like your nerves are on the edge of bursting.
You’re not exactly good with stage fright. Especially in front of all these people whose names sound way too dramatic, like they don’t belong to the normal citizens like you. Their eyes are too penetrative, like they’re already figuring out every single doubt and nerves in your body, ready to tackle with impossible-to-answer questions.
You move in your seat again, trying to find comfort. But the seat is too hard for your tailbone. Beside you, Jungwon leans closer, speaking over the speaker blasting by your ears.
“Are you going to Jake hyung’s after party tonight?”
“His after party?” your eyebrows shoot up. Then you remember the invitation and something inside you sinks.
“Oh. Right. It’s his birthday today, right?”
And Heeseung must be there, you think bitterly, unaware of the withering daisies now wafting from your neck. They’re close friends, after all.
You don’t understand why, or you maybe actually do, but the lump in your chest only gets bigger. Really, you shouldn’t expect much by a man. They’ll always prioritise their homeboys over you in every way, your brain adds to the fuel.
Jungwon chuckles when he sees your frown, showing off his perfect dimples that could disarm any opponent.
Something clicks in your mind. Yeap. That’s right. You just need to force Jungwon to smile in front of the judges and surely—
“Relax, Heeseung hyung’s daisy. Look to your right.”
You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of his name finally being mentioned by the younger alpha, or the flutter in your chest at being called his daisy—but your head whips so fast in that direction, heart ramming behind your ribs.
Seated at the front row, standing out too much due to his handsome features and not-so-subtle hair colour, is Lee Heeseung. From where you sit, you can’t really make out his expression.
But the alpha is already staring at you, burgundy hair swept back neatly to expose his forehead. A small curve of his lips quirks up like he’s been expecting you to notice him.
You sit dumbly as he gives you a tiny wave, not sure what to do now that the alpha is actually here.
Here. To watch your group presentation and not there: To celebrate Jake’s birthday at his party.
For the first time in weeks, you feel your omega stirs and you almost choke.
“It’s our turn!”
You inhale sharply, snapping your eyes back to the centre of the stage. The previous group is already receiving applause and walking towards the other end of the stage to join the audience.
Okay. It’s actually your turn.
You feel sick to your stomach. You almost miss it when Jungwon nudges at you to stand, smoothing down his own blazer as he shoots you a dimpled smile. On the way to the centre of the stage, your mind is nothing more than a whirlwind of overthinking.
Trailing after Jungwon in your heels is nerve-wracking because what if you trip?
Bowing down to greet the judges and audience is scary because what if you lose your balance?
Staring back at the audience is distressing because what if they silently judge your makeup?
But all thoughts fly out the window when you meet eyes with Heeseung again.
As if the noise in your head suddenly vanishes, you can feel your frantic mind quieting down and your breathing, previously quite erratic, steadies without so much effort.
And it only happens when Heeseung holds your gaze, trusting and comforting all at the same time.
It’s like the stage was a tidal wave and Heeseung was the shore that keeps you safe.
Your omega stirs again.
Before you know it, Jungwon is already passing the mic to you. You take in a shaky breath, sweaty palms almost slippery, and imagine that every cell in your brain is filing up your speech in a neat line.
Despite your worries, everything goes well.
Your presentation goes on without a hitch and it ends exactly the way your best-scenario imagination does. You even manage to answer one out of five questions from the panel, and you can’t help the pride swelling in your chest when your group is announced as the first runner-up of the competition.
It’s a national-level competition, so being in the top three is already satisfactory for you and your group members, who were lowballing to only bring home participation certificates.
“First runner up is good enough! Congrats!” you squeal, almost hugging Jungwon in your excitement. The alpha dodges you as if you were a bullet, eyes darting to somewhere behind your head.
“Hey. You dodged my hug,” you huff.
“I have no intention to challenge a dominant alpha,” Jungwon gives you a teasing smile and wiggles his eyebrows. You raise yours, and before you can ask what he means by that, Jungwon is already raising his hand and waving at someone.
“Heeseung hyung! Your daisy is here!”
Your daisy. Heeseung hyung’s daisy.
His daisy.
Crimson red blooms across your cheeks, and your heart decides to skip a few beats you think it’s going to fall to the floor from how fast it's pounding.
Jungwon is fast to grab your shoulders and turn you around, like a proud parent introducing their child to their conglomerate friends. Your protest dies in your throat once your eyes settle on Heeseung’s approaching figure.
He’s donning a white dress shirt with slightly rolled-up sleeves, exposing his smooth forearms and athin silver bracelet. A dark gray vest, tailored and buttoned neatly hugs his frame snugly, showing off his narrow waist. There’s a big bouquet of pink roses held close to his chest, handled delicately like it’s something sacred.
His eyes, round and soft around the edges, are already trained on you. A wide smile curves up his lips, charming and disarming you’re sure the omegas around you are stealing glances.
Inside, your omega stirs again.
“Hi, Y/N.” He holds out the bouquet to you, his smiling turning shy. “For you.”
You take it slowly, admiring the beautiful petals. There are tiny daisies filling up the spaces between the roses and you feel something tug at your heartstring.
“Thank you, Heeseung. How’ve you been?”
Closer, only now do you notice the lack of colour in his face. His cheeks are losing its radiant flush, and his lips are void of its usual pinkish hue. There’s a slight delay before he responds and his smile comes slower than usual.
Something feels off. Not obvious enough to name, but it’s enough to make your chest tighten.
As if noticing your stare, Heeseung tries to cover his face. He raises his hand and pretends to cough.
“I was quite sick,” he says after a moment, trying to sound casual. He gives you a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry that I didn’t show up without any updates.”
“It’s okay,” you softly say. You don’t know if it’s truly okay, though, because now your heart thinks that there’s something wrong.
Is he hiding something from you?
“I came to see you,” he says, like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be. “I didn’t want to miss it. Congratulations, Y/N.”
He really came for you. Not for Jungwon or anyone. Not to Jake or anyone. But for you.
You can faintly hear your omega murmuring something, but your racing heart is louder than any noise in your head.
You’re about to reply when Jungwon inserts himself into the conversation, announcing his presence like a royal entering a ball.
“Thank you, hyung! I know we were great.” Jungwon says way too loudly, forcing Heeseung to shake hands with him. You let out a laugh while Heeseung only rolls his eyes.
“You too, Jungwon.”
“Anyway, why don’t we take a picture?” Jungwon, ever the trusted wingman, wiggles an eyebrow at Heeseung, hoping that you won’t notice. You actually do, but for some reason, you don’t say anything against it.
Heeseung studies your face. “Can I take a picture with you, Y/N?”
You hesitate for a second, heat sweeping across your cheeks before you nod. “Sure.”
Jungwon instantly pushes you in Heeseung’s direction. The dominant alpha, not expecting his accomplice to take such a bold move, catches you by the elbows instinctively. His fast reflexes are proving to be useful in the situation.
“Okay, look at the camera. Y/N, don’t be so stiff!”
Jungwon, that menace. One of these days you’re gonna beat his ass for sure.
“Heeseung hyung, is that a GDP gap? Get closer!”
“I’m sorry about him,” Heeseung whispers into your ears and chuckles breathily. Something kicks in your heart. “He’s a bit annoying, right?”
You just cannot hold your tongue. “He is, and I had to stick around with him when you weren’t around,” you catch yourself saying and silently curse yourself. Beside you, Heeseung stills for a second.
Why are you already whining to him? Fuck these stupid feelings, man. You’re still mad at him!
But Heeseung doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his grin only gets wider. He leans down further, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ears.
“I’ll keep trying,” he murmurs, edged with his usual determination. “Even if you don’t let me.”
You try not to notice that Jungwon has been silently snapping the candid moments. You also try to ignore the way your heart beats like a war drum. You try not to think too much about the manly pheromones coming from Heeseung—the cinnamon and sea salt that are awakening old memories, and the way his taller shoulder brushes yours.
“On three!” Jungwon interrupts, a boyish smirk on his face. You quickly clear your throat and smile at the camera.
“Two!”
Heeseung’s left shoulder bumps into you softly from behind, angling his body to face you. His hand hovers a safe distance from the back of your waist, not touching you even by accident like he’s afraid even that would be too much.
“One!”
As the flash goes off and you hold the bouquet dearly to your chest, you quietly wonder when it stopped hurting so much.
The next morning, you’re awakened by the sound of Yujin squealing and thumping on your door.
“Y/N! Get your fucking ass out now!”
The urgency in her voice makes you jolt awake and scramble to your feet. With sleepiness still clinging to your lashes, you stumble to the door, mentally preparing yourself to punch a robber.
“Yujin! What is it?!” you ask, voice hoarse but still laced with panic.
“Did you already make up with Heeseung?!”
You pause and stand there dumbly, hazy mind slowly clearing up at her sudden interrogation. With the biggest question mark on your face, you blurt out, “Huh?”
“Heeseung posted you on his Instagram!”
“Huh?”
“Y/N! He never posted girls on his account!” Yujin screams in your face, looking more excited than ever. “Fucking hell, open your damn phone!”
Yujin rushes into your room, flipping your pillows where she knows you always keep your phone despite the electromagnet radiation that she warns you about. She unlocks the screen by shoving it into your bleary face and hits the pink-purple-orange gradient icon quickly.
“There!”
You blink the blurriness away from your eyes, adjusting to the bright screen in your face. Yujin waits impatiently, gauging your reaction with wide eyes.
On the screen is the picture you took last night. You haven’t checked the result yet because you were quickly ushered away to take group pictures with other participants after and by the time you reached home, you were out the moment your head hit the pillow.
But now, you realise, the picture turns out really well.
Heeseung stands taller than you, a close-lipped smile spreading wide across his face as he stood proud and protective beside you. You have a similar smile mirroring his, leaned into him in a way that hinted at familiarity and domesticity. The pop of colour from the roses makes the picture look more alive, and the colour filter he used makes it look almost nostalgic.
An ancient feeling, like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled, blooms in your chest. You stare at the picture longer than intended, then read the caption he typed in cursive.
‘smarty daisy did it again.’
You re-read it once. Then twice. The soft declaration, the hints on intimacy makes your omega purr in delight. Nobody has ever called you daisy, especially their daisy, but here Heeseung is: calling you his daisy like he’s just found a new favourite flower.
“Yujin…”
To your surprise, Yujin replies with a sniffle. When you look up, her eyes are already glossed over.
“Yujin? Why are you…”
“I’m sorry I got emotional,” Yujin cuts in, laughing it off like a funny joke with a shaky voice.
“It’s just—I never met true mates. And while the circumstances between you two weren’t great, I’m just so glad that you have an alpha willing to amend his mistakes.”
You can already feel your eyes watering.
“Yujin…”
Yujin takes your hands in her hold and urges you to sit on the mattress with her. It’s silent for a moment, and you take the chance to stare at the picture again.
It’s an Instagram story, but there is already a long line of comments. You read through each one of them, curiosity getting the best of you.
narin.kim no fucking way
jakesimisimiya hey so u ditched me ON MY BDAY
jeyipark @jakesimisimiya talk to me i am his lawyer
just.jungwon cute cute cuteeeee wonder who took the pic tho
evanlee @just.jungwon she is cute
nishimurariki welcome to the simp club
sunooyaa it’s time to ask me if my back hurts from carrying this ship
Every comment makes your breath feel shorter. You try hard to bite back a smile and ignore the small flutter in your chest, not noticing the way Yujin observes everything. When she eventually speaks, her voice has dropped to a serious tone.
“Have you forgiven him?”
You tear your eyes away from your phone, taking a moment to reply. Then, with a shake of your head, you reply, “No. Not yet, I think.”
It’s not a whole lie. While the human part of you has already forgiven him, your omega is still giving you radio silence. But for now, you decide to keep it to yourself first—the way your omega has been more responsive these days, albeit slowly and slightly.
“That’s good,” Yujin nods. “Forgiveness should come from your heart. You shouldn’t force it just because you feel bad for him.”
The words land like a gentle reminder tucking you in a warm blanket. You don’t say anything and look back at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply box. The gears of your mind start turning, looking for a polite way to thank the alpha.
Then, softly, Yujin continues, making your head spin with the weight of her words for the rest of the day.
“But when it’s really time to forgive him, I hope you don’t run away from it too.”
You end up reposting Heeseung’s story and hide.
The attention is quite heavy for you, to be honest. You’ve never been the centre of that many eyes, not since in the backyard of Jake’s frat house.
You never dare ask Heeseung as well. A reply of, ‘Thank you Heeseung’ is all you can manage, keeping the rest of the sentence to yourself.
‘Why did you post only me?’
You’re not blind. You see the chaos he created from that single post. The notorious alpha who doesn’t do relationships, who always prioritises his friends over girls is suddenly skipping Jake’s birthday to see a boring competition and posting a picture with the omega he came for. You become a hot sensation overnight—people just can’t stop talking about it.
Because of that, thoughts about him become even more frequent and inevitably, your heart starts to melt at how persistent he is.
It’s been more than a month yet Heeseung doesn’t falter. He keeps choosing you in routine. He keeps choosing you in public.
And, apparently, he chooses you in private, too.
You don’t mean to overhear the conversation, really. You’re just leaving the restroom during practice break, about to have lunch with Rei when you see two shadows disappearing around the corner. Your heart almost stops.
Seeing Heeseung and Narin together brings back old wounds that almost makes you lose your mind. Your quiet omega has been tugging you to follow, to see what the alpha is doing with the omega that your wolf has marked with a red ink on her forehead.
So you follow them quietly, covering your scent gland with a hand in hope to hide your presence. With your back to the wall, you hold your breath as you hear the conversation between the two of them.
“—on, Heeseung. You left things unfinished that night.” Narin’s voice is the one you hear first, frustration spilling into her tone.
“I don’t intend to finish it,” Heeseung replies, always sounding calm and composed. It painfully reminds you of the talk you had with him after the tournament.
“Why? You always sleep with different people. Why did I never get a chance?” Narin scoffs, disbelieving. “And they've been saying that you’ve stopped!”
“I have. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Is it because of Y/N?”
Your ear perks up. Damn bro, they’re now talking about you. It slips from your mind sometimes, about how childish Narin can be. Something akin to anticipation builds up in your chest, waiting for Heeseung’s reply.
“Yes,” he answers, firm and fast. “I’m pursuing her right now. I hope that’s clear.”
There is silence from Narin, but the spike in her scent sours the atmosphere almost instantly. While you, well, you try not to feel so giddy about it.
“Are you stupid? Her? Didn’t she cut the—”
“What happened between Y/N and I is a private matter of our hearts. It’s not your business,” Heeseung cuts in sharply with a bite to his voice. Your omega shifts inside you. “Are you done? Because I’m leaving.”
Panic ensues in your system at the thought of being caught eavesdropping. Your mind scrambles for escape, so without thinking you almost sprint to the vending machine at the end of the hallway and pretend to buy a drink.
Acting like you don’t notice them while catching your breath proves to be the hardest sport for you yet. You stare blankly at the vending machine, unaware of the grape juice sitting right under your nose and fully aware of the manly pheromones approaching you.
Thank Goddess that he smells like himself only. You think you’re going to break down if Narin’s scent clings onto him.
“Are you thinking of a different drink?” Heeseung murmurs softly, standing beside you and mimicking you staring at the machine.
You steal a glance at him, feeling the movement of your wolf becoming more responsive and bold. Behind your ribs, your heart is galloping like a horse.
“No. I still like grape juice.”
“Mhm, okay,” Heeseung fishes out his wallet and makes the purchase like it’s routine. The impact of the can dropping can’t even beat the loud pulse racing in your ears. Heeseung opens the can with one hand.
“For you.”
“Thank you.”
You take it, fingers brushing his. You try not to overthink the sparks the touch sends to your system and quietly drink, feeling his eyes boring into the side of your face.
“Y/N, I have something to tell you,” he begins, this time sounding slightly nervous. “Narin and I talked just now.”
Oh. Okay. He’s actually coming clean about it.
You didn’t expect that at all.
You nod, still not looking at him. Heeseung takes a second to himself, like he’s plotting something, then before you know it, he’s already moving to stand in front of you, bending his body to be on your eye-level.
You almost choke and take a step back.
“Heeseung?”
“I need you to look into my eyes,” he licks his lips, holding your eyes with his intense gaze. “Because I need you to know that you’re the only omega I like and I’m pursuing.”
The sincerity in his voice is almost too much, but you find savouring it instead.
“And I made that clear to her just now.”
Is he trying to reassure you?
You search his face, and all you can see in those dark eyes is utter devotion and determination.
It makes your chest tighten.
“I’m serious, Y/N. I will keep trying no matter what.”
You can only hum and nod, failing to find your voice.
“Okay.”
Heeseung shoots you with a small grin and straightens up. He glances at his smartwatch and frowns.
“I have to skip tonight’s practice. There’s a meeting about the upcoming music festival,” he says, looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. “I’ll find someone to walk you home.”
“It’s okay. I’ll use the Safe Night Walk service,” you politely decline, already sick of hearing Jungwon talking about his lifelong crush on some noona that won’t see him as a man every time he walks you home.
Seriously, you don’t blame that omega. Jungwon is really cute, it’s hard to see him more than a kitty cat.
Heeseung’s face, on the other hand, twists into confusion before a look of understanding crosses his face.
Safe Night Walk is a service provided by the omega activist club of your university. The purpose is pretty self-explanatory, where any omega who’d like to go home at night can request an alpha to keep them safe. It’s pretty well-known for how rigid the alpha selection process is, seeing as the new president of the club is the fiercest to hold the title yet, making the service the most credible it has ever been.
Which is probably why Heeseung agrees to it too easily.
“Oh, right. Jay also tried for the selection, but he never told me if he passed or not,” Heeseung pauses, pondering about something.
“Sunghoon also signed up for it and we know each other. Do you want me to contact him?”
You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get someone when it’s time to go home.”
It’s quite hard to convince the alpha that you don’t need his friend’s service, but Heeseung eventually relents. He gives you a fond smile, walking backwards and not breaking eye contact.
“Call me if no alpha is available.”
“Okay.”
“I will run to you in ten minutes. No—five minutes.”
Your heart stutters, but your face remains neutral. “As if you can do that.”
Heeseung grins. The easy affection etched in his features is almost too scary for you to bear.
“For you, I will.”
The shared apartment is quiet save for the track playing from his producer room. Heeseung lies down on his couch, staring at the ceiling in silence. His lyrics notebook sits idly on the coffee table, open and now forgotten. Outside, the rain pouring down does nothing to wash down his guilt.
He had lied to you.
He just came back from a doctor appointment, not a meeting about any festival. A checkup meant to follow up with his condition after the night he collapsed in Jay’s arms.
‘You only have two weeks to win the omega back. If nothing succeeds, you must cut the one-sided bond, Heeseung-ssi.”
Heeseung only wants to do one thing and cutting the bond is not an option.
It’s better for him to die being yours than to live being nothing to you.
“I’m sorry,” he quietly mutters to the empty space.
“I ran away again,” he swallows thickly. “I’m still the old Heeseung in some ways. I’m sorry, Y/N.”
The pitter-patter of the rain is the only sound he receives back, thickening the guilt spilling over his chest.
He grazes the scent gland with the tip of his finger. It pulses slowly, faintly, like a calm before a storm. A storm that is just turning the key and entering the door.
“I’m home,” Jay announces, toeing off his shoes. There are tiny droplets of rain in his hoodie, but that’s not what catches Heeseung’s attention.
It’s the scent that lingers in his citrusy pheromones.
Soft daisies and sweet honey—unmistakingly you.
Jay smells like you.
Something churns violently in his stomach.
Every silent breakdown, every secret insecurity of his best friend comes crashing down on him. His blood roars in his ears that Heeseung believes he’s seeing red.
In that one single sniff that he picks up with his sensitive nose, Heeseung almost thinks that the floor holding his weight is crumbling down.
He springs up to sit, eyes narrowing down in his friend’s direction. His alpha is already growling, ready to take the other alpha down in a fight.
Jay, still oblivious to the storm building inside the house, throws Heeseung a smile.
“Hee, just now—”
“Park Jongseong,” Heeseung starts slowly, trying to hide the hurt in his voice as he stands and approaches him slowly. “Why the fuck do you smell like her?”
Jay’s expression turns into confusion. He sniffs at the collar of his hoodie and—oh.
Oh.
Heeseung can’t stand the look of realisation on his face. It’s like being left out of something that should be his, something that only he should know and have. His chest twists sharply and before he can stop himself, he’s already shoving Jay into the wall, fists trembling with restraint.
“Jay,” he breathes out, his voice treading the edges of fear and heartbreak. “Please tell me why the fuck am I smelling Y/N on your right now.”
Despite his anger, Heeseung’s voice sounds way too broken. Anxiety cracks through his demeanour, and for a moment, Heeseung’s not sure if he wants to hear Jay’s answer. There is a thin veil of tears glossing over his eyes and his scent gland is throbbing violently, shooting pain all over his body.
It’s almost like he was back in the backyard, watching you scream in pain as you smelled another woman on him. Heeseung sobs, hating himself even more than he ever did.
Was this how you felt that night?
Jay claws at the hands around his collar, almost gasping for air.
“Heeseung—it’s not what you think—”
“Then tell me! Fuck!” he shouts, eyes pleading Jay desperately to prove him wrong.
The longer he smells the blend of your scent with Jay’s pheromones, the dizzier his head gets. His frantic heart is buzzing with the thoughts of being replaced, of losing yet another chance to make things right, of losing you.
His self-esteem, already in pieces since that tragic night, is filled with doubt and uncertainty to the brim.
Not you, please. Heeseung quietly prays. Please not you, Jay.
“I walked her home!” Jay yells, face red from how tight Heeseung’s gripping his collar. His wolf whines at the unexpected aggression from his closest alpha, confused and wounded from being treated like an enemy. “She used the Safe Night Walk service and I was one of the alphas on duty.”
Hearing that, Heeseung’s grip loosens a fraction, trying desperately to believe his friend.
“It’s raining so I lent her my hoodie.” Jay quietly mutters, losing the previous edge. There’s a look of hurt on his face now that he fails to mask. He searches Heeseung’s tearful face, dread growing in his chest.
Despite the aggression, Jay cannot find it in him to be upset when all he can see in his friend is fear and hurt.
“Please, Heeseung. I will never betray you like that.”
Heeseung bites his lips until it bleeds and finally lets go. Jay almost drops down to the floor, clawing at his throat for relief. His neck has turned deep red, bruised from Heeseung’s grip.
Heeseung is strong even when he never admits it, the dominant traits in him giving him the advantage when his wolf is riled up. Jay is lucky that Heeseung didn’t use his commanding voice—he would’ve been helpless if it happened.
But deep down, Jay knows that Heeseung would never do that to him. They’re best friends, after all.
The air is thick and heavy with a dominant alpha’s wrath. Heeseung doesn’t even realise how sharp his scent has turned until he finds himself struggling to breathe.
There’s a ringing silence between the two alphas. Jay is still on the floor, chest heaving rapidly as he tries to process. Heeseung, on the other hand, is on the verge of breaking apart.
Quietly, the alpha mutters an apology.
“I’m sorry.”
Heeseung leaves the house in a storm of cinnamon and tearful bergamot, slamming the door so hard the frame rattles.
He’s never felt closer to death than tonight.
You take your time with your skincare. Or rather, you’re actually zoning out while tapping toner into your skin.
Your conversation with Jay still lingers in the back of your mind.
“Thank you for giving him a chance, Y/N. I was scared that you wouldn’t.”
What would happen if you didn’t?
You sigh and stare into the mirror. You’re freshly out of the shower and in your comfiest pajamas, yet a hint of Jay’s pheromones is still there. It seems that the rain doesn’t wash it away; it only makes it stick longer.
Inside, your omega shifts uncomfortably, unsettled by the scent of the foreign alpha. You roll your eyes.
“I know you hate it, but it can’t be helped when we haven’t forgiven him yet.” You grunt, capping your bottled product. “I mean, I already did, but since you’re like, my other half, I can’t just—”
Forgiven.
The toner slips from your hand and clatters on the floor.
Your lungs freeze.
“...What?”
I want to forgive him.
Slowly, a habit that you’re already accustomed to since that night, you place a hand on your chest. Your omega’s presence is more tangible now, like she’s finally arose from her deep slumber.
And she’s finally talking to you.
“Are you sure?” you start slowly, not wanting to offend the fragile soul. “We can take more time, you don’t have to feel rushed—”
I want my alpha, Y/N. I forgive him and I hope you do, too.
Every word fails you in that moment. You stand alone in your room, with only your wolf as your lifelong companion. There’s a strange feeling in your heart.
“Idiot. I told you, didn’t I? The stubborn one out of the two of us is you.”
He hurt us badly, Y/N. Of course I had to stand on business.
“It’s better that you did,” you hum, finally feeling like a weight has been lifted off your shoulder. “Or else I probably won’t see this side of him and will only remember him as a bad alpha.”
Your omega doesn’t reply. In return, there’s a soft pulsing in your scent gland; something that hasn’t occurred in so long. You gasp.
But before you can process it, your phone rings, the noise slicing through the atmosphere sharply. You frown when you see that it’s your next-door neighbour, a fellow floormate that likes to borrow your detergent.
“Hello?”
“Y/N, oh my Goddess. Don’t come out!” she whisper-shouts, panic evident in her voice. “There’s an alpha outside of your door right now and he smells so bad. I think he’s dangerous. We’re about to call the security.”
Your heart drops. “What? Who?”
There’s a sound of movement and whispering before you hear a gasp.
“Okay, what the hell. It’s actually Heeseung and he’s crying,” your floormate says in disbelief. You, on the other hand, are in bigger disbelief.
Heeseung? Didn’t Yujin already let him know that you’re home?
Your feet are already padding across the tiles of your apartment, heart beating in your lungs.
“Y/N…I think you need to come out. He’s not moving at all.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
Your sweaty palm trembles at the doorknob. Heeseung’s pheromones, thick and definitely smells distressed—which explains why your neighbour said that he smells bad—seeps through the gap between the door and the floor. But he doesn’t knock, like he’s here only to feel your presence.
Your omega whines, restless from the distressed pheromones, eager to comfort. You take a deep breath before you yank the door open.
The scene that greets you almost makes you speechless.
Heeseung stands in front of you, head hanging low like he’s trying to make himself smaller. The hallways are filled with slightly open doors and heads peeking out; all the omegas and betas living on this floor are definitely curious about the distress-smelling alpha and his omega.
“Heeseung?”
He doesn’t respond at first. His breaths come out uneven—too sharp, too shallow—like his lungs have forgotten to work properly. For a second, you think he doesn’t hear you.
But then, he lifts his gaze slightly, holding back a storm behind his eyes as he looks into yours. His nose flares, and then his scent turns more sour.
“Heeseung?”
There, lingering too faintly under your body wash, your lotion, and your own scent like it’s already fading out slowly—is Jay’s pheromones.
Something finally shatters in his chest.
“You smell like him.”
His voice is grim and shaky, tugging at your heartstrings. You immediately know what he’s referring to and for some reason, an ugly feeling twists in yiur gut.
But before you can respond, Heeseung already drops to his knees.
A chorus of gasps is heard across the hallways. The bystanders are no longer caring about being seen eavesdropping. You think you even see a phone directed your way, but it’s the least of your concern now.
“Heeseung—”
“I can take anything you do to me,” Heeseung’s voice cracks, barely holding it together. “I can take any punishment you want to give me but not this.”
Heeseung cranes his neck. Trails of tears clinging to his lashes are falling his nose, his cheeks, the side of his face, down to the floor.
“Please, not him. Please—I beg you.”
His face crumples, like he’s imagining the sight of you and Jay together in his mind.
“I can’t—” his breath stutters, chest heaving like it’s caving in on itself. “I can’t do it, Y/N. I thought I could take it. I thought I deserved it, but—”
His fingers curl into the fabric of his pants, knuckles turning white.
“It hurts,” he chokes out, voice breaking into something almost unrecognisable. “It hurts so fucking bad.”
Your heart lurches.
Because you know.
You know exactly what he’s feeling.
The suffocating ache. The betrayal that sits in your lungs and refuses to let you breathe. The way your mind spirals, painting images you don’t want to see but can’t stop imagining.
It’s the same pain.
The same one he put you through.
Heeseung lets out a broken sound, shaking his head like he’s trying to rid himself of it.
“I get it now,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “I get why you looked at me like that. I get why you—”
Heeseung cuts himself off. This time, a more pained, more broken noise slips past his lips.
“I get why you ended it.”
Everything hurts. His scent gland is angry red, throbbing endlessly like a sign of the real ending. His head pounds sharply and his lungs—oh Goddess, Heeseung can’t breathe.
His body sways. Instinctively, you crouch down to his level and catch him before he can fall. Panic fills up your system when a trickle of crimson blood starts peeking out of his nose.
No. No, please no. Not this again.
You cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks shakily. You turn your face and shout at your neighbour to call the ambulance or anyone—you just can’t let this happen.
You can’t let Heeseung go through the same pain you did.
“Heeseung, please don’t close your eyes.”
His head weighs heavier as he lolls forward, eyes almost snapping shut. You let his head rest on your shoulder, not caring about the blood now staining your shirt. Hot tears brim along your lashline.
“Heeseung, please—”
“Please forgive me,” Heeseung whispers weakly into your ears. The pain is unbearable, crushing his bones and penetrating his system like a sharp-end disease—an inevitable reaction from smelling another alpha on you.
So this is what you went through, he thinks wistfully. You must be in so much pain.
“Please forgive me, Y/N.”
“Where’s the ambulance?!” You finally break, cheeks wet with tears. Heeseung has completely gone still in your embrace, adding panic to your system. You reach out to hold his face.
“No, no, please.”
The lower part of his face is smudged red. His eyes close shut, still leaking out his tears even in his unconsciousness.
You let out an ugly sob, feeling utterly broken and scared.
“I forgive you, Heeseung. Please.”
You’re so fucking scared. Scared of losing yet another life you could’ve had when you were so close to having it.
Scared of not having the chance to love and to be loved again, this time with the person your soul chooses and not because fate says so.
“Please don’t leave me again.”
When Heeseung comes to, you’re holding his hands, zoning out.
There’s a distant look in your expression. A thin air of sad, wilted daisies lingers, no doubt wafting from you. His wolf, having just woken up like him, immediately shifts restlessly in his chest at the scent.
Your thumb brushes over his knuckles absentmindedly, tracing the veins like you’re memorising something before it disappears again.
He stays quiet, letting his eyes trace every curve of your features. The pretty slope of your nose, the soft swell of your cheeks, the petals of your lips. Then they stop at your puffy eyes.
Something inside him twists uncomfortably.
Why does he always make you cry?
You don’t even notice that he’s awake yet, too lost in your head as you stare at the beige wall of the ward. Not until he squeezes your hand back, eager and nervous to see if you’ll return it back or let go.
When you feel the grip tighten, your eyes snap back to him. And then, like a small win that heals something in his heart, you squeeze his hand back.
Heeseung almost breaks down.
“You’re awake,” you say in relief and move to stand. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Heeseung obeys, never finding it in him to go against your words anymore. But his hand never lets go. He savours every second that you let him hold you—the closest he’s ever touched you since the night he saved you.
He doesn’t let go even as the doctor does a checkup on him. The doctor comes in with Jay, who looks as disheveled as he is. There’s an awkward atmosphere between the two alphas, but neither dares to say anything and lets the doctor do his job.
He was unconscious for twelve hours, apparently.
“The scenting from your omega helped speed up the recovery process,” the doctor elaborates. Heeseung steals a glance at you, gauging your reaction, but your face remains neutral.
It’s no wonder that he’s been feeling at peace since waking up—you had been scenting him when he was out.
“You just need to stay for a blood test and then you’re good to go,” the doctor continues, flashing him with a reassuring smile.
Murmurs of thank-yous ripple in the room as the three of you watch the doctor take his leave. Shortly after, the tension returns, and it’s almost obvious to you that the suffocating air comes from the two best friends.
Jay shifts on his feet awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. “I’m gonna grab us lunch.”
Which leaves him alone with you in the room.
Heeseung braves himself and takes a look at you, but you’re already staring at him. Your stare unsettles him, like you’re waiting for him to confess for a crime he didn’t know yet he committed.
“How are you feeling?” you ask instead.
“I—I think I’m good. Yeah,” Heeseung says quickly, a bit taken aback. He watches as you nod, then inspect his face by blinking closer, oblivious to the way he almost explodes from the proximity.
When satisfied, you lean back slightly, but still keep a close distance with him.
“Heeseung.”
The temperature suddenly drops, and the serious look on your face damn near makes him cry. Heeseung tries to mask his panic.
Did he do something wrong again? Fuck. He messed up, didn’t he?
“Hm?”
You take a shaky breath. “Jay told me about everything.”
Heeseung freezes. Everything?
Everything as in the fight that almost broke out last night? Everything as in how pathetic he is for you, which shouldn’t be so shocking or earth-shattering because he is pathetic and a loser for you?
Or everything as in his worsening health condition?
For a moment, you just stare at him. But the more seconds pass, the more obvious it is that you’re holding back tears.
“About the two options you had.”
Heeseung stops breathing. True to his speculation, it is about his health condition. About the fate that he has to choose, about the options that stand between mercy and cruelty.
“Why didn't you tell me? No—” you shake your head, your grip on his hand trembling greatly. His lips remain shut.
“Why didn’t you just cut the bond?”
The sadness dripping in your scent feels almost physical. You hang your head low, enveloping the two of you with the distressed scent of your pheromones. A low whine echoes in your chest, not heard but felt. Your omega is just as destroyed as you are, utterly horrified from the choice he made.
What if you never forgive him? What would become of him?
Heeseung brushes his thumb over your hand consciously, trying to seep his own calming pheromones into your troubled scent. It helps, he notices, as the tremble in your hands subsides, breath evening out.
Then, with a raw honesty, he answers.
“Because I didn’t want a life where you don’t exist in it.”
There’s a lump in your throat but you swallow it down, refusing to break now that you have the chance to understand. To understand the equally wounded alpha in front of you, flawed yet still trying.
“I know that sounds selfish,” he adds quickly. “It is. I was choosing myself when I said that.”
You shake your head, tears threatening to escape. “You could’ve died, no—you almost died, Heeseung.”
“I know.”
Heeseung doesn’t argue. He looks down to your joined hands, branding his brain with the image. A soft smile appears on his lips. He wishes he could hold your hands more often.
“I just…” he exhales shakily. “I thought if I let go of the bond, it would be like I never got the chance to love you at all.”
You squeeze his hand. Your alpha, you realise, is just as soft as you are. He’s always been. It was just misunderstood and misdirected—his flaws that almost cost you your life. You resented him for it, ran from him to avoid it, made it hard for him to save yourself.
But in the end, quietly, tenderly—you find yourself forgiving him.
You understand now; what he was afraid of.
For Heeseung who used to live in short-lived attachments and practiced detachment, loving someone would sound like a too-big responsibility for him. Too lost in his own fear—fear of loving someone so much they could have power over you—he made choices that hurt you.
It doesn’t justify his actions, nor did it undo everything. But understanding him softens the pain.
“You’re so stupid,” you finally whisper, but it breaks halfway through. Heeseung looks almost hurt from your comment.
“I already forgave you.”
His head snaps up but you don’t look at him.
You take your time to speak. “I already did for a while. I was just waiting for my omega to open up her heart,” you chance him a glance and smile wistfully.
“And she did just before you came to my door last night.”
A beat of silence passes by. Heeseung can’t seem to find his voice, too stunned with the sudden grace being granted upon him.
He searches your face. For any lies, for any possible fabrication. He’s desperate to know if this was all just fragments of his dream, if you were just a manifestation of his desperation to be forgiven.
But you’re real. You’re breathing, and you’re telling him that you’ve forgiven him.
“Is this…true?” he asks, voice sounding breathy. “Don’t forgive me just because you feel bad, Y/N. I can’t live with that.”
“No, you didn’t force me,” you shake your head, returning his gaze with built-up courage.
“You earned it.”
Your scent softens, sweeter now that you finally let it out. Like the anger finally loosens its grip on your chest, you can feel your omega melts, her walls crumbling piece by piece.
Heeseung stares at you, mouth slightly agape. The weight he’s been carrying finally cracks and finally, finally—breathing finally comes easy for him now that his chest loosens.
His alpha paws at him in joy.
“Thank you, Y/N. I—” his voice cracks, and so do the tears he’s been holding back. “Oh my Goddess—thank you for forgiving me.”
Heeseung hesitates before he slowly wraps an arm around your shoulder, gauging your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he pulls you closer and you let yourself fall into his embrace.
Heeseung buries his nose in your hair, and the familiar scent of daisies and honey and your hair wash only makes him sob harder.
“Can we try again? Please?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his waist, smiling into the hug.
“Mhm. Let’s try again.”
Trying again with Heeseung is soft and gentle.
Heeseung doesn’t change. If anything, he becomes more present than ever. If there was hesitation in his action before, he seems more confident to initiate things now.
Holding hands when you’re together. Tucking your hair behind your ears because ‘it hides your beautiful face’. Carrying your bag before you can even greet him properly. Bringing you food and trying to bake, even when you receive complaints from Jay about his oven almost catching on fire. But honestly, out of every failed experiments he did in the kitchen, it’s his ramyeon that you love the most.
And you always get it for free, presented like a five-star Michelin with radish and perfectly-made half-boiled egg. ‘Girlfriend privileges’ is what Sunoo called it, as he and the other alphas eat from their cup noodles.
With forgiveness, conversations come easy. Talking about everything and nothing with Heeseung is like trying to map a land. You finally get to know the story behind his jersey number.
‘My mom always tells me that I’m her number one,’ he told you when you asked, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. ‘It sticks until now, but I know that he said that only because I was sulking about being the second son—they love my brother more, to be fair!’
You never thought that Heeseung could be cute and adorable. But the two now fit his description perfectly.
Sometimes, his old habits crawl back. Heeseung still finds it hard to tell you about things that bother him, still trying to run away from ugly emotions that make him feel vulnerable.
Just like right now, Heeseung is trying so hard not to pout as he watches his teammates grab a cookie from the Tupperware you bring.
When Riki reaches for a third, his resolve finally cracks and he slaps the alpha’s hand away.
“That’s enough, you greedy alpha. Shoo!”
You stifle a laugh, basking in the rare occasion where Heeseung shows his emotion almost openly like this. He doesn’t like sharing, of course, but he says nothing—which unsettles you a bit.
“Are you mad?” You finally ask after pulling him out for some privacy.
He doesn’t reply. Heeseung takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, then shakes his head.
“I’m not mad.”
“Please tell me what’s wrong,” you coax him again, reminding yourself that Heeseung is still trying to unlearn some of his bad habits. “I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me.”
Heeseung gnaws at his lips and avoids your eyes. He knows, with a devastating resignation, that he could never refuse if he looks. So he doesn’t look.
But your scent does the same damage anyway. It’s sweet, it’s too intoxicating and Heeseung can feel himself melt even before he can protest.
He finally relents. “Okay,” he sighs.
Heeseung reaches out and takes your fingers in his, clutching at your smaller ones like a lifeline.
“Y/N…” he starts, contemplating his words, unconsciously pouting. “Can’t you bake only for me and not…share?”
You bite back a grin.
“See? It isn’t hard to tell me,” you squeeze his hand. “You can tell me anything, Heeseung. I will always listen.”
Heeseung gives you a pouty nod.
As for him, Heeseung thinks he was never happier than he is right now.
There’s a strange satisfaction blooming in his chest every time he does something for you.
Be it walking you home, or waiting at the lobby of your apartment to walk to the campus together. Or feeding you food and having a can of grape juice always ready for you.
All the things he used to avoid—doing domestic things, having one person to devote all his attention and affection to—they become things that bring his heart at ease now.
And Heeseung loves being taller than you. He loves when you have to look up to talk to him, or the way you can easily hide your face in his chest when he says something corny. The way he can reach the higher shelf for you and become useful to you. He loves towering over you because every time he does it, he can’t help but notice the sweet spike in your scent.
You love it too.
Over time, the two of you get closer than ever. Every brush of hands, every bump of shoulders, every laughter shared—they only bring you back to him, and him to you. And slowly, like a prophecy finally meeting its destiny, the red thread finds its way back to you.
“Are you sure about this?”
You’re now standing in between his legs while Heeseung sits on the mattress of his bed, craning his neck to search your face.
Your fingers pause in his hair when you feel a faint pulse beneath his skin.
A reminder that he’s still hurting from the one-sided bond. A reminder of the weight of fate tying the two of you.
Heeseung could’ve walked away like you did. He could’ve defied his wolf and cut the bond. But he did nothing of those.
He’s still here, still choosing you in every way you keep choosing him.
“I want this, Heeseung,” you whisper back, carding your fingers through his burgundy hair. “I’ve never been so sure.”
One of the things that the both of you learn more about the relationship is the importance of the sacred bond. This time, you’re no longer running away or denying it—you and Heeseung take time to learn about its history, about the nature of the bond—and in your case, about how to fix the broken bond.
“It must come from your wolves,” you remember Jay’s mom saying. “And only then can you commemorate the bond and heal it for good.”
Commemorating, in this context, is to finally mate with your alpha.
It’s a big leap in the relationship, especially since you’re every way inexperienced. Heeseung knows this; which is why he never rushed you and let himself take the hit of the broken bond.
To the Goddess, without the commemoration, the bond is still considered one-sided. It results in Heeseung still experiencing pain from time to time and, after another nosebleed pre-game and out of care for your alpha, you decide you’re done taking your own time.
Your omega holds the sentiment as you, not having the heart to let the alpha suffer for your own sake.
Noticing your silence, Heeseung grabs your wrist gently and brings it to his nose. He starts nosing at the tender skin, pumping out his calm pheromones as he bathes you in his scent.
“Have you been with anyone else before?”
You hesitate. Then, with a shy smile, you shake your head.
“No.”
Contrary to your expectation, Heeseung stills immediately. His face crumples slightly and his phereomones—previously calming and comforting—suddenly takes a sour turn.
You frown. “Heeseung?” You hold his face, heart clenching at his trembling lips. “What’s wrong?”
When he looks up to you, there are silent tears spilling down his cheeks. It alerts you almost immediately.
“Hee?”
“I—” Heeseung takes a deep breath, but his lips wobble, betraying his effort to remain calm.
“I touched people like it didn’t mean anything,” his voice breaks. Heeseung closes his eyes, like the mere looking into your eyes was too much for him to bear. “And now you’re standing here like this is something sacred and I—”
When you understand what he means, you can feel your own heart breaking.
“Heeseung…”
“Why are you letting me handle something this—precious? I—I don’t deserve you, Y/N. I never did.”
“Please don’t say that,” you coo at him, wiping his tears with the pad of your thumb.
“I chose you knowing everything you’ve done,” you whisper. “Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re trying.”
Heeseung leans into your touch, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. Like the warmth of your touch is the only thing that keeps him grounded. A comfortable silence falls upon you two, full of warm understanding and acceptance.
“Thank you,” Heeseung kisses your palm, long and gentle. “Thank you, Y/N. I mean it.”
A smile creeps up your face. You lean down to kiss his forehead.
“Come and sit here,” Heeseung pats his thighs. You pause for a moment, already getting shy from the proximity. But deep down, you can’t deny that you want this.
Slowly, you descend onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Heeseung pulls you closer by your hips, eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. He lets out a breathy chuckle.
“Are you comfortable?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” then you pause. “I’m not heavy, am I? Are you comfortable?”
Heeseung hums. “Your weight is perfect for me, baby.”
The term of endearment makes warmth bloom across your cheeks. Heeseung gazes at you fondly, his nose already inching closer to where your scent smells the strongest.
He takes a lungful of your sweet scent—daisies and honey—and almost groans from the feeling of it. His favourite scent in the world. It’s been so long since he got to have you like this, so he keeps scenting you like he’s taking his fill.
“Your scent—you smell so good, Y/N.”
He lets his nose graze your scent gland. Once, twice, before brushing it with small, slow licks. You clutch at his shoulders, sparks bursting from the touch.
“Mhh!”
Heeseung trails up wet kisses up the column of your neck, dragging his tongue along your skin, savouring the soft gasps leaving your parted lips. His grip on your waist tightens, nails digging into your camisole while you try not to lose your mind over the foreign sensation.
Everywhere Heeseung touches with his lips is hot, sending strange, tingly feelings up your spine. It’s wet and it should make you recoil, but you find yourself loving it, already wanting more.
Heeseung stops when he reaches your lips, hot breath brushing against the soft pair. His eyes, now hooded and dark, are losing their round shape, like he, too, is already unraveling from just this.
“I’m gonna kiss you now, my daisy,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your parted lips, open and so inviting. Something churns inside your stomach, always keening when being called his daisy.
Then you nod, granting him permission.
“Please kiss me, Heeseung.”
There’s a tiny quirk of a smile, before he finally closes the gap between your mouths. He’s careful, caressing the plump of your lips with his own, tentatively and slowly at first, before he captures your mouth in his. You close your eyes.
Heeseung kisses you like it’s sacred. He moves slowly, allowing you to follow his pace and getting used to the feeling of his mouth on yours. It’s gentle and sweet. It’s everything you have imagined sharing a kiss with a lover.
His lips, soft and wider than yours, easily dominate the kiss with a flick of his tongue.
Your lips part in a gasp and Heeseung takes the chance to prod his tongue in, licking into every corner of your mouth like he’s been starved for you. You clasp a hand in his hair, losing your pace as Heeseung takes over.
With each passing second, the kiss turns into a needier one and you grow hotter. It’s messy now, with drool leaking down your chin and the noises you make getting louder. When you start to feel lightheaded, you tap his shoulders, lungs burning from the lack of breath.
Heeseung lingers for a second, as if he never wants to let go, before detaching from your lips.
He looks absolutely wrecked. His lips are shiny with spit, panting into your mouth like he needs more.
“Need some air?” he whispers, voice hoarse, caressing your waist tenderly. You nod, catching your breath before you lean in and try to kiss him again.
This time, Heeseung lets you take the lead, grabbing your hips tight enough to ground himself. You mouth at the corner of his lips, peppering kisses across the pinkish skin before he loses his patience and starts kissing back, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth.
Pulling you flush against his own hips, Heeseung is desperate to feel you closer. The scent of his pheromones is taking a richer, darker tone, dripping with building arousal. He wants to stay like this forever—wants to memorise every taste, every curve of your lips, and carve it into his memory.
You’re unraveling just as fast. Driven by a deeper need to feel each other and more, you pool your arms around his neck and pull him closer, instinctively bucking your hips to soothe the ache between your legs.
Beneath you, Heeseung freezes. A strangled groan catches at the back of his throat, his fingers digging into your hips. His head is on cloud nine; he can’t believe you just did what you did, feeling his own lust slowly getting thicker.
Then, as if testing, you roll your hips again.
This time, the sound that leaves his throat is deep and ragged. Heeseung bites his lips, brows pinched together, his restraint visible through the veins popping in his neck.
“Y/N,” he rasps, voice strained. “Good? Comfortable?"
Your eyes, dazed and glossed over, look into his eyes and you nod. You move your hips again, chasing the delicious friction like a lifeline. “More.”
“Fuck,” Heeseung curses under his breath.
Wordlessly, he snakes an arm around your waist and flips your position. Your back meets the mattress before you can process it, the impact punching a breath out of your lungs. Heeseung hovers over you, chest heaving rapidly, heated gaze raking over your body like he’s already dreamed of this many times.
“Heeseung,” you sigh, lifting your arms to his nape, already hating the distance. “Want you closer.”
Heeseung thinks he’s still in a dreamland, because there’s no way you’re lying down under him, hair splayed like a halo, asking him for more. Your lips, kiss-bruised and bitten-raw from the previous makeout session, are parted in a soft gasp, looking every bit like his wet dream.
No. This is better than any of his dreams.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out as if he’s in a daze, a willing hostage to your magical spell. “Fuck, I just—I just love you so much.”
The confession lands like a feather drifting through the air. Your breath catches in your throat, searching for Heeseung’s eyes and almost tearing up when you see only devotion and sincerity in his gaze.
“Heeseung…”
“My precious daisy,” Heeseung lowers down and gives a smooch to the back of your ear. Your breath hitches. “My sweet, sweet honey.”
Another wave of heat pools between your legs. His voice—oh Goddess, his sweet and sultry voice in your ears, accompanied by such adoration is almost too much. You whine, clutching his shirt in a desperate grip.
“What do you need, baby?” Heeseung breathes hard into your ears, his own voice almost cracking from restraint. “Tell me, hm?”
“Need you to touch me.”
He barely stops nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “Where do you need me?”
You grab one of his wrists and bring it to where you need him most. The moment his fingers touch your soaked sweatpants, Heeseung lets out a deep, throaty groan. He pulls away slightly just to catch the expression you make—mouth agape, eyes closing shut—as he presses a finger on your cunt.
“Here? You like it here?”
“Y-Yes—” You purse your lips, pleading eyes peering into his dark gaze. “Please—More, please.”
Heeseung holds back a smirk. “You’re so good to me,” he purrs, his alpha swelling with pride and arousal. “I’m gonna give you everything you ask for, hm?”
Heeseung slips his hand into your panties and curses out loud at the wet sensation on his fingers.
“Fuck, Y/N—you’re leaking.”
He props himself on one arm. His long, slender fingers stroke your folds, the wet sound of your arousal filling the room. You claw at his upper arms and arch your hips, letting out a broken breath.
“H-Heeseung!”
A deep growl rumbles in his chest. Heeseung leans down and peppers kisses all over your cheeks as he flicks his thumb over your clit. The high-pitched, whiny moan that you let out makes his twitching cock kick and drool, already begging to be freed.
“Does that feel good?” he rasps, nudging at your hole with the tip of finger. The tight hole is almost sucking his finger in, eliciting a breathless moan out of your lungs.
You nod frantically, desperate to feel anything inside.
“‘Feels so good, alpha.”
“Mhm,” he purrs, circling your gaping hole lightly, teasingly. “I’m gonna put it in slow and nice for you and you’re gonna take it, ‘kay?”
You suck in your bottom lips, heat pooling low in your stomach at the deep timbre of his voice.
“Yes. Please give it to me.”
Heeseung almost melts at the big eyes you’re giving him. He gives you a soft peck and speaks against your mouth, “Tell me if it hurts, Y/N. I will stop immediately.”
When you give him the green light to go, Heeseung slowly pushes his middle finger in, fighting back a loud moan at the feeling of your walls sucking him in. He pauses for a moment, gauging for any discomfort in your face, and then starts pumping in and out gently when he sees only pleasure.
It feels strange and uncomfortable at first; having something inside you. But the subtle feeling of pain is slowly disappearing the longer he shoves his finger in. His thumb, eager to please you, keeps circling your swollen nub, adding to the building sensation in your stomach.
Before you know it, you’re already leaking out more slick. Your head thrashes to your left and right, breathy moans spilling out of your lips.
“Ngh—fuck—Hee—“
Heeseung forces himself to stay still; forces himself to breathe at the sight of you unraveling and so, so pliant under his touch, even when all he wants to do is ruin you. He inserts another finger, the additional stretch burns so good that you almost cry.
“Heeseung!”
The alpha lets out a heavy, ragged breath as his fingers skillfully scissor you open, willing your walls to loosen for him. His lips fall open as he watches you fist the mattress with a tight grip, eyes fluttering shut from pleasure.
Heeseung thinks he’s about to come just from watching your erotic expressions alone.
“Ah—ah—ngh!” You squirm and whine and writhe, throat scratchy from how long you’ve been keeping your mouth open.
Heeseung’s eyes darken as he takes in the way the straps of your camisole fall down your shoulders. The soft swell of your chest moves up and down in a rapid breathing, nipples peeking out just enough to tease.
Fuck—you’re a sight to behold.
He can’t think straight, not when every sense is filled up with your thick, heady scent. Your slick, where it smells the strongest, is now pouring out of your gaping hole in waves and drenching his fingers down to his wrist, making the tent in his pants tighten painfully.
“I’m gonna add one more—fuck,” Heeseung almost chuckles in disbelief at the way your body sucks him in. “Your cunt is a little greedy, baby. Might just take all my fingers in.”
You’re already a mess of broken moans and high-pitched, ‘ah—ah—fuck’. The sensation is becoming too much. You have fingered yourself before, but they don’t have the girth of Heeseung’s long and slender ones; reaching deep inside where you can’t get before, or the roughness of the pad of his thumb circling on your clit relentlessly—bringing you closer to the edge faster than you can think.
Heeseung can already feel it. Your greedy little hole is catching at his fingers even tighter, signalling how close you are to cumming. He leans down, latching his mouth on your neck and littering it with bruising kisses that are going to leave marks, increasing the speed of his wrist until your hips lift off the mattress.
“H-Hee—! I’m—God, fuck—“
“Give it to me, my daisy,” he whispers, voice hoarse and rough from arousal, thumb flicking faster. “That’s it. Give everything to me.”
Heeseung watches closely as you close your eyes and mouth falls open as you come, the erotica of everything almost makes his neglected cock bust out. A feeling of intense ecstasy floods your system, crashing through your body, slick gushing out in waves upon delicious waves.
The alpha slows down the movements of his wrist, thumb circling lazily as he lets you ride out the high. He’s already dizzy from your pheromones, so sweet and inviting, that he almost pushes you into oversensitivity.
He plops out his fingers and puts it into his mouth, tongue lapping at the nectarine of your slick like a thirsty dog. His alpha hums in satisfaction at the sweet taste of his omega’s come, all drenched and warm just for him.
“Fuck, Y/N,” Heeseung hovers over your body again, now kissing you hard in pent-up hunger. “I wanna eat you out so badly but I just can’t wait anymore.”
You hum into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Heeseung parts for a moment, jagged breathing hitting your lips warm as he stares into your eyes. His gaze softens.
“Are you okay?”
You nod. “‘M’kay.”
Heeseung nuzzles his cheek against yours, hands sliding up and down your waist before slipping under your camisole and cups your breasts. You let out a half-shocked gasp.
“Can you take more, baby?” He murmurs against your ears, teetering on the edge of sanity as he listens to the sinful sounds leaving your mouth. “Can you take my big, fat knot this time?”
You can’t find your voice, too lost in pleasure as Heeseung kneads your breasts and plays with your nipples. Heeseung drags his tongue along your earlobe, desperate to hear you more.
“Look at these perky tits,” he says as he drags down your camisole, letting it bunch around your waist. His mouth gapes at the way the plump flesh spilling over his fingers, so soft and yielding. “Fuck—you’re so beautiful, Y/N, I will fucking cry.”
“Nnggh!” You cry out when he latches his mouth on your left nub. He sucks and grazes his teeth on your hardened nipple, never breaking eye contact, the wet sensation sending heat straight to your core.
“Hee!” Your hand flies into his hair when he sucks particularly hard at the bottom swell of your breast, marking his territory. His rough fingers fondle your right tit, rolling the perky nub with reverent attention that makes you clamp your thighs shut.
You squirm, feeling another pool of slick gathering. “H-Heeseung—!”
“Oh, fuck, baby,” he lets go with a pop, lips shiny and slick with his own spit. “Please say my name like that again,” he requests, simultaneously rolling his hips to gauge your reaction.
As he expected—your body, so sensitive and pliant in his hold—immediately writhes from the friction. Heeseung watches with awe, nose twitching as another wave of your scent floods the room, mixing with the sultry accent of his cinnamon and seasalt almost too perfectly.
“Heeseung!”
Heeseung feels so dizzy. His thoughts are only filled with your name, your voice, and your pretty, pretty face that contorts in pleasure when he grinds more. His crotch area is already so fucking wet from pre-cum and your arousal that he thinks he’s losing a chance at any decent and coherent thoughts.
He gives you another roll, and when the name that leaves your swollen lips comes out broken and high-pitched, Heeseung decides that he can’t take it anymore.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, my daisy,” he rasps, leaving one last mark on your cleavage before sitting up. He helps you out of your clothes, marvelling in the way your body trusts him completely.
You’re all soft lines and gentle curves. Heeseung loses his breath as he traces his eyes from the soft mounds of your chest—littered red from his markings, to the narrow pinch of your waist, and the flare of your hips. He caresses the flesh with his hands, gripping it like a love handle as he revels in the contrast of his tanned, big hands on your soft, unblemished skin.
And your pussy—fuck, it’s still glistening from your previous climax and his ministrations, and is now getting wetter under his heated gaze alone.
But it’s the look in your eyes that completely undoes him—pure trust and devotion only for him that he so damn near cries.
“So beautiful,” he praises again, unable to stop the word from flowing out of his mouth. He slides down his hands down your thighs, groping the supple flesh, almost moaning from the sheer softness of it.
“Every inch of you is perfect, baby,” he husks, intoxicated by your pheromones invading his senses.
You hold your breath, peering up at the dominant alpha through your lashes. In a moment of such vulnerability, your chest is filled with affection and trust only for the man now handling your body with care, as if your body was made of porcelain.
My alpha, your wolf purrs inside, heart pounding into your chest.
You spread your thighs wider, so inviting and pliant.
“Alpha,” you mewl, nervously looking up at him. “Please.”
Heeseung can feel his dick twitching from the sight alone. With a swift movement, his shirt is already discarded, thrown somewhere on the floor.
“Say it clearly, baby. Tell me what you need.”
Heeseung fumbles with the strings of his sweatpants as his hooded gaze bores into your hazy one, hissing when his aching cock is finally springing free from the confines of his pants.
You almost drool at the sight of his weeping cock, standing tall and proud against his abdomen. Its tip is angry red, leaking precum down the length of prominent, bulging veins. Your hole flutters with dripping need.
The words come out so easily now that your pussy is pulsing with an aching need to be filled.
“Please fuck me, Heeseung.”
Heeseung’s lips are bitten raw from restraint, his jaw tight as he forces himself not to move—not to give in to the urge to push forward and lose himself inside you. But before he can move to get a condom from the drawer, your hand snaps to his wrist, shaking your head no.
“Just—just do it,” you bite your lips trying not to squirm under his darkening gaze. “I want to feel you.”
It takes everything in him to stay still—to not reach for you, not pull you back, not ruin this by losing control. Heeseung looks for any doubt in your face.
“Are you sure, baby?”
“Mhm,” you tug at his wrist, guiding his hand to cup your pussy. Heeseung almost combusts right then and there.
“Quick, Heeseung. Need you here.”
“Oh my fucking God—” Heeseung curses under his breath, trying to remain calm. But his body betrays him, his muscles tensing, breath unsteady, as he forces himself to stay where he is.
He sits taller, his thumb rubbing your clit teasingly. His other hand strokes his cock lazily, flicking his wrist around the erection and hisses when more precum drools out.
The whole time, he doesn’t let go of your eyes, taking in every micro-expressions you make like a greedy man. You’re so sensitive, so expressive, and so, so wet—always so eager to shower him with more slick and more of your sultry moaning.
He aligns his cock in between your folds, grinding the bulbous head against your swollen clit. A choked moan escapes both of you, too fucked over the pleasure. Another gush of slick trickles down your hole, intensifying your scent.
“Heeseung—”
“Shh, baby, I know,” Heeseung coos at the tears pooling along your lashline. He reaches out to wipe it, torn between guilt and absolutely fucking pleasure that he feels from seeing you break apart at his hand like this.
“I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?” He rasps, still rolling his hips, gathering your slick around the tip of his cock.
He trails his fingers down your wrists before pinning them over your head, hovering over you completely like an eclipse. Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Heeseung finally pushes in.
He doesn’t move after that.
A broken breath leaves him, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the effort of holding himself back is physically weighing on him. His grip on your wrists tightens just slightly, seeking something to ground him to the moment. Beneath him, you’re trembling from the mix of pain and pleasure, the latter outweighing the former.
“Y/N…” he exhales, voice rough, almost unsteady. “Look at me.”
There’s something in the way he says it. It’s not commanding or urgent, like he really needs to see you or he’ll fall apart.
You turn your head, meeting his gaze, your expression soft but overwhelmed, lips parted as you try to steady your breathing. It stings, but not enough for you to pull away. Heeseung did a good job at preparing you.
He searches your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him.
“Am I—” he swallows, jaw tightening. “Am I hurting you?”
You shake your head, even though the feeling is new, intense, more than you expected. But the way he’s holding himself back, the way he’s watching you like this could fall apart at any second—it steadies you. Heeseung is so careful, so scared of hurting you that it almost makes you cry.
“It’s… okay,” you whisper, fingers twitching under his hold. “Don’t stop.”
His eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he’s bracing himself, like your trust is something he has to deserve in real time.
“Slow,” he mutters to himself more than to you. “Gotta go slow…”
He barely shifts, testing, careful, measured. Like every movement is something he has to think through instead of give in to. He sinks in another inch, mind floating from the tight sensation of your hole. A strained sound slips past his lips, low and wrecked, his control slipping just enough to show.
“God…” he breathes, almost shaking. “You feel—”
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard, like even finishing that sentence would push him too far.
Instead, his hand comes down to your waist, grounding himself there, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin like he needs something soft to hold onto.
You can feel it—how much he’s holding back. Not just physically, but everything. The way his body tenses with every tiny movement, the way his breathing keeps stuttering like he’s constantly pulling himself back from the edge as he pushes inside, inch by inch.
And something in your chest tightens.
“You can move,” you murmur softly, a little unsure, but still wanting. Wanting him, wanting every side of him and not just this careful version of him.
His head lifts immediately.
“No,” he says, almost too quickly. Then his voice grows softer. “Not if you’re not ready.”
Your brows knit slightly, a small shake of your head.
“I am,” you insist, voice quiet but certain. “I trust you.”
Your declaration hits deeper than anything else.
For a moment, he just looks at you—really looks—like he’s trying to understand how you can still say that to him. Then his grip tightens again; a firm grip that anchors you to the moment.
“Okay,” he breathes.
And this time, when he moves, it’s still slow—but there’s something underneath it now. Not just restraint, but a crack in it. A quiet, dangerous edge that slips through no matter how hard he tries to hold it back.
His forehead presses to yours, breaths tangling, uneven.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, softer now. “Anything—you tell me, yeah?”
You nod, already clutching onto him, already feeling yourself giving in to the rhythm he’s so carefully trying to control.
God, Heeseung tries not to lose himself completely. Chanting ‘Go slow, go fucking slow,’ like a mantra in his head is proving to be the hardest test he’s ever been through.
But he still tries—even when it starts slipping crack by crack.
You can feel it in the way his pace stays measured, like every pound into your walls is a calculated move. It makes your heart flutter, really, but you want more.
You don’t know how to say it without sounding desperate, but your body knows you better. Instinctively, you clench around his cock. The action is not fully registered in your head until Heeseung’s rhythm falters.
“Y/N…” he exhales, your name catching in his throat like it’s too much for him to hold.
“More,” your fingers tighten around his arms, pulling him impossibly closer. “More, please.”
You tighten your walls again, drawing a shuddering gasp from him. His head drops forward as his control stutters, cock twitching inside you.
“Don’t,” he starts, half-warning and half-whining, “Don’t do that or I’m—”
You can’t stand it anymore. You meet his thrust, hitting his navel with yours, gasping because the sensation feels too good. A broken groan leaves him, deep and absolutely fucking wrecked.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, gripping your hips tighter. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Heeseung kisses up the length of your neck, leaving more marks before he props his arms. When you catch his eyes, something flickers in that heated gaze, like his control is finally slipping away, snapping with the way he pistons his cock into you. You choke out a breath.
“Okay?” he asks, still worrying. You nod frantically, desperately.
“Yes—please—more—”
Heeseung does it again. Again and again and again until all there’s left is the sound of your broken gasps and the wet, filthy noise of his balls hitting your hole.
“Still—fuck—still okay?” he asks, voice rough, barely held together.
You can’t form any coherent thoughts, so you nod again, breathless and more certain this time. “Please…don’t stop.”
Heeseung lets out a curse, lifting your hips slightly before continuing pounding into you, faster and harder. A high-pitched moan rips from your throat, the new angle hitting the spot that has you seeing stars.
He watches your face, his own contorting in pleasure, setting a pace that has you blabbering out broken words and more drool.
You feel so full. His cock is so deep inside you, filling you up to the hilt. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s also so, so addictive that you just want more, more, and more. It’s the only thing you can ask for: “More, more—Heeseung—ah—please.”
Heeseung leans down, taking your earlobe into his mouth, alternating his pace between achingly slow rolls of his hips and harsh, sharp thrusts, whispering hotly into your ears.
“You’re taking me so well.”
“So fucking tight, baby, fuck.”
“My daisy. My honey. My everything.”
The heat in your stomach intensifies, building up like a tidal wave waiting to crash. Your nails dig into his biceps, meeting his heated gaze with your glassy one.
“Mate with me, Heeseung. Please.”
Heeseung almost stops, but you’re fast to hook your legs around his waist, urging him to continue. He continues with slower grinding, locking eyes with you.
It’s finally time to seal the bond for good. But even in the haze of pleasure and nirvana, all Heeseung cares about is your well-being.
“Now, baby?” he whispers in between thrusts. He catches your jaw in his hand, thumb brushing your cheeks softly. He knows it’s bound to happen tonight anyway, but if he can save you from the pain longer, he will. “It will sting, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you.”
You nod, never felt more sure than now. You lean up to kiss him, breath mingling hotly before you look into his eyes.
“I trust you, Heeseung,” you whisper back. You grind back into him, hips stuttering when his cock thrusts almost sharply into your cunt.
With broken gasps, you finally say it. “Please mark me yours.”
Heeseung almost tears up from the sheer weight of your words.
Trust. Yours. Mine.
Something that the old him would’ve never imagined wanting and needing.
But here, as your starry eyes gazing into his teary gaze, Heeseung’s never felt so full and complete. He doesn’t even know that he was capable of loving someone this much; of this overwhelming affection that he has only for you.
A single drop of tears slides down his cheek as he kisses you again, trying to convey his emotions into the sweet touch. You respond just as reverent, understanding him without words being spoken.
“Do you trust me?” he murmurs against your mouth. His hips are slowing down, getting lost in the warm sensation of your breath and your sweetening scent.
You give him a peck. “I do.”
Heeseung smiles fondly. He leaves one last kiss on your forehead before he sits up, pulling out of you at the same time. You almost whine at the loss of touch, but he’s quick to reassure you.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
Then, with a dominating strength that makes your stomach flutter, he grabs your waist and flips you over. You arch your back almost instinctively, shoving your ass in the air. Heeseung groans, his alpha howling in pride at seeing his omega presenting like this. His jaw clenches from restraint, absolutely close to losing his mind over this sight of you.
His cock slips back in easily. Heeseung splays a hand over the skin between your shoulders, pushing you gently into the mattress.
You glance over your shoulders, wiggling your ass and pushing it further into his face. “Like this, Heeseungie?”
Heeseung bites his lips, mouth salivating from the sight. “Yeah, baby.” He is so fucking turned on. “I’m gonna move now, yeah?”
At the single movement of your head, Heeseung is already thrusting inside, barely holding himself back. The new angle gives more access to his cock to hit places you didn’t know exist in your walls, sending sparks of electricity to your nerves.
“Ah, ah—nnghh!! Heeseungie!”
“Keep saying my name like that, baby,” Heeseung drools over the jiggles of your round ass. He kneads the flesh with his thick fingers, moaning at the dimples his nails make by digging into it.
“So soft. So beautiful,” he grinds and rolls his hips, leaning down to bite down on your buttcheeks. You clench around him. “So responsive for me. God—you’re perfect, Y/N.”
“I’m—I’m close—”
“Oh, I can feel it, baby,” Heeseung grunts through his teeth. Your walls keep sucking him back in, as if refusing to let go. “I’m close too—fuck.”
Heeseung picks up his pace, his muscles flexing as he, too, almost reaches his high. He leans down, broad chest meeting your back and noses at your pulsing scent gland, sweat dripping down his chin.
It’s intoxicating, the way your scent blends in with his pheromones, like a perfect match made in heaven—which might not be so far from the truth. He is your true mate, after all, written in the prophecy for God knows how long.
He can feel how close you’re getting, your whining turning needier and messier. His canines sharpen slowly, readying himself to mark you.
You drool into the mattress, incoherent words leaving your mouth. The coil in your stomach tightens, so close to snapping, so close to bringing you over the edge.
And it’s with a flick of his thumb over your clit that you finally give. You go still, shockwaves of your release rippling through your body, pulling Heeseung with you as he cums, spraying your insides white.
Following his promise, Heeseung chooses that exact moment to sink his teeth in your nape, right over where your scent gland is. You yelp, body trembling from the intense feeling of pain and pleasure.
The feeling is otherworldly—like something inside you finally clicks into place.
A warmth blooms from where he’s marked you, spreading through your body in slow, overwhelming waves. It’s not just the sensation—it’s him. You can feel him in a way you’ve never felt before, like his presence has settled beneath your skin, threading into every part of you.
Your fingers clutch at the sheets, breath stuttering as something inside you tightens and softens. You feel complete, like the quiet ache you never noticed has finally disappeared.
Heeseung groans softly against your skin, almost like he feels it too—like the bond snaps into place just as strongly on his end. His hold on you tightens, not possessive, but grounding, as if he needs to make sure you’re real, that this is real.
He quickly laps at the blood and the wound, tongue gentle now, almost reverent as he soothes the mark he’s just made. His hips slow down, now grinding into you lazily to ride out the wave before you mewl from oversensitivity.
He pulls out after a while and gently turns you back to face him. As soon as he locks eyes with you, Heeseung’s composure breaks instantly, tears spilling down his cheeks. He catches your lips in a wet kiss.
“My daisy,” he cries, cradling your jaw and never intending to let go. “Oh Goddess—I love you so much.”
His voice, broken and gasping with gratitude and relief, moves your heart in ways that unravel you just the same. You kiss back just as hard, heart finally full and complete.
Your omega purrs in satisfaction, and to your surprise, you can almost hear another wolf echoing back to yours.
It doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s Heeseung’s wolf—your alpha, finally and wholly yours.
Heeseung breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours. Your scent gland pulses, but this time, it’s gentle and grounding, like a mark of a new beginning; a bond now finally healed and sealed.
“Y/N,” he breathes out against your mouth. “Don’t get tired of me yet, okay? I… I cherish you so much. ‘I love you’ doesn’t feel like enough.”
You let out a soft giggle and pull him closer, sealing your lips with his again.
“Then don’t say anything. Show me, my alpha…show me that we belong to each other.”
As moonlight spills into the bedroom, a blessing from the Goddess for the mated pair, the sheets bear witness to the moment two fractured souls finally become one.
You wake up before Heeseung.
Trying to remove his arms from your waist proves to be a real challenge; the alpha refuses to let you go even in his sleep. You chuckle softly and plant a kiss on his forehead before slipping out of the blanket.
Standing on slightly wobbly legs, you drift into the kitchen, your throat screaming for water. You let the sunshine hit your skin, highlighting your afterglow, as you down a whole glass of water.
The house is quiet. Jay, with the intention to give the two of you privacy, has gone to visit his parents for the weekend. You silently thank him for it. You don’t want to know how awkward it’d be if he has to hear all the noises you made last night.
Just as you’re about to return to Heeseung’s warm embrace, your eyes catch a sign on another door. It’s located at the end of the hallway, a few paces away from Heeseung’s and Jay’s bedrooms. It’s almost unnoticeable, but the name on the sign is what intrigues you to go closer.
EVAN LEE
Evan? That’s Heeseung’s English name.
You know it’s an invasion of privacy, but your wolf is nagging at you to go. So, with almost zero reluctancy, you let yourself inside.
It’s his producer room, you guess, judging from the equipment filling up the space. You let your eyes roam, smiling to yourself when you catch random things that just scream Heeseung.
There are two frames of pictures hanging on the wall, one of his family and another one of him and Jay. The two looked younger, more reckless, a given when you notice the uniform they were wearing. High-school Jay with a neat shirt, tucked in and collar buttoned up while high-school Heeseung was missing his tie. They were smiling bright, already so handsome from such a young age.
You look at the random stickers on his PC—basketball, white cats, and alphabet stickers that are arranged into ‘NI-KI’.
A pair of headphones sit on the table, each ear decorated with different aesthetics. The left one is full of flowers, tiny stickers of ‘ddeonu’ are left as watermark, while the other is just one big orange cat sticker, and instead of leaving his name in a way that doesn’t stain, Jungwon actually signed with a marker pen.
You laugh, wondering what might be Heeseung’s reaction when that menace did that. It’s Sony, after all, and judging from the sleek design—it’s definitely pricey. But knowing how soft Heeseung is for Jungwon, he probably just let it slide because ‘Jungwonnie is cute’.
This room is so full of everything Heeseung loves. His passion for music and basketball, his affection for his close friends. A thought, not unkindly or bitter, crosses your mind: you cannot wait to leave traces of you here, too—something of yours, beside everything he already loves.
Just as you’re about to leave, something in the corner stops you in your tracks. It’s a notebook, hidden under a keyboard, like it’s never meant to be found.
You walk over and look at the notebook, breath catching in your throat when you read the cover.
For my daisy.
Is this for you?
With trembling fingers—a result from your pounding heart—you flip the cover. There’s handwriting, unmistakably Heeseung’s, filling up the first page.
These are my silent apologies to the girl I lost. I was too late to love you when you still loved me, but I promise myself that I will start and continue loving you, even when I can no longer hear your echo until the very end.
P.s. park jongseong stop making fun of me this will become a hit album TRUST!
Just like what the note has said, the notebook is full of song lyrics. Each line, each intended melody, each scribble left in the margin—every one of them is meant for you, intended for you, and just for you.
Your vision blurs, heart tightening so painfully it almost aches—because this wasn’t just regret. It was love. Quiet, enduring, and yours all along.
Heeseung didn’t know how to stay or to cherish—but he’s been unlearning every single bad habit for you. Through your resentment, through your tears, through your silences, until finally, your omega was willing to open up and give him another chance at love.
Your chest swells with affection and pride, echoing with only the name of the alpha.
You reach for a pen and flip back to the first page, leaving your first ever trace in his producer room.
p.s. i love you more, my cinnamon alpha.
andddd that's the end of it!!1 thank you once again and until next time <3
synopsis. heeseung loves omegas, but he doesn’t believe in mates—especially fated ones. that kind of destiny is reserved for people like riki and jay. but then he meets you. and the first thing you ask him to do is scent-mark you: an intimate activity shared only between mates. a spin-off from love me (k)not!
warnings. slightly suggestive, fated mates-coded, power imbalance, unjust system and society, harassment against omegas (not by heeseung), &team cameo but they're assholes here sorry! i love them though dw, mating mark, scent-marking, heeseung is a dominant alpha, and a bigger asshole i fear, reader is a cheerleader, alpha!jay being our target again (sorry), alpha!riki, alpha!sunghoon, beta!ahn yujin, omega!rei, sunoo is bi, heeseung is also bi, this omegaverse is partly made up by me! but it’s just a tiny portion of it just to keep the plot going, denial, rejection, angst, not beta read we die like injang, please let me know if i missed anything!
word count. 21,280 words
note. please read this before proceeding 🤎 everything here is purely fictional and it has nothing to do with the members as a person outside of this fanfiction 🤎 also idk how cheerleading works so pls bear with me...
In a private booth of a nightclub, a group of long-legged, broad-shouldered alphas huddle around the table, drinks in hands. The air is layered with pheromones and adrenaline, occasionally flashing with neon lights and blurred with thin smoke.
In the middle of the couch, Heeseung sits leisurely, manspreading with ease. On either side of him, Jay and Riki lean back in a similar posture, each of them engaged in the conversation bouncing between the team.
The team has just won a friendly match against their long-sworn rival, a university from the west, after a frustrating streak of loss for two consecutive tournaments. It wasn’t really a landslide win, considering their competitive skills, but a win is a win. A satisfied smirk curls around Heeseung’s bow-shaped lips, his alpha purring with pride.
Friendly or not, the whiskey surely tastes extra sweet tonight.
“Did you see K’s face just now?” Riki pipes up from his left, still buzzing with adrenaline. Being the last man to score and secure the win for them, it’s obviously hard for Riki to contain his enthusiasm. He’s beaming wide. “I did that. I wiped that smirk off his face, gentlemen!”
The rest of the team roars in reply, infected by Riki’s contagious excitement. Heeseung and Jay wear a fond smile on their lips, clearly delighted to see the younger alpha’s happiness. Glasses clink again as they toast to their win, and to their future wins, and to the sexy, beautiful cheerleading omegas that played a part in keeping their spirits up just now—to which Jay grimaces and Riki rolls his eyes at. Heeseung snorts.
He forgets that he’s friends with a prude and a loyal, claimed alpha.
“Speaking of omegas,” Heeseung tilts his head at Riki when the chatters break into small groups of conversations among the team, leaving him to talk to two of his closest friends. “It’s a surprise to see you here, Ki. Like seeing a four-leaf clover.”
Jay joins in, his signature lopsided grin on display. “I half-expected you to run home to your girlfriend. It’s hard to see you hang out with us at the club now, pup.”
Riki crosses his arms with a dramatic huff. His bottom lip juts out in a pout. In this light, when Riki shows this side of him, free from fake nonchalance and his cool persona, Heeseung sees him ten years younger than his actual age. Riki is so cute.
“I fully expected to run home to her too, hyung. But she forced me to come here. Said something like I should celebrate my win with y’all,” Riki sighs, messing with his newly-dyed hair and tipping his head back. “So here I am. Drinking with you idiots when I could’ve cuddled with my sweet, sweet omega at home.”
Jay feigns offence while Heeseung laughs. The both of them know too well of Riki’s devotion to his girlfriend. Maybe it’s the alpha-omega bond, or just the fact that they’ve known each other practically their whole lives, but Riki is never at ease whenever she’s not around.
But tonight, the alpha seems more relaxed than usual. He’s not playing with his fingers or toying with the hem of his shirt like he always did when his girlfriend is absent. Heeseung wonders why the sudden change until he catches a glimpse of something at the back of Riki’s neck.
His brows furrow. His movement falters mid-air.
“Riki? Is that…” Heeseung squints his eyes, trying to see better while the tips of Riki’s ears slowly redden. From his right, Heeseung can hear a soft gasp from Jay.
“Holy shit. Is that your mating mark, Ki?”
It is. It is a mating mark, Heeseung realises, when a purple neon light flashes on Riki’s wounded skin. The alpha is rubbing his neck sheepishly now, heat sweeping across his cheeks. Despite his sudden shy demeanour, Heeseung can smell the pride in his sandalwood scent, and in that moment he finally notices the subtle layer of sweet vanilla—Riki’s girlfriend’s scent—in Riki’s pheromones.
“Yeah,” Riki confirms, still red like a tomato. “I mated with her last night.”
“Wow,” Jay breathes out in amazement, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “About time, man! You’re finally mated!”
Jay’s exclamation attracts attention and soon, the whole group is congratulating Riki on the milestone. The said alpha is red down to his neck now, clearly not expecting the sudden shift of focus on him but still relishing in the pride of having his mating mark, if the musky lilt to his pheromones is anything to go by.
Heeseung remains a quiet observer, watching as Riki pulls down the collar of his shirt to proudly show the mark. Two other alphas join him as they speak fondly of their omegas, relishing in their identical mating mark on their napes. Beside him, Jay listens with an adoring smile. There’s a certain longing in his gaze when he stares at the mated alphas that doesn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung.
Heeseung averts his eyes away, trying to forget that familiar look on Jay’s face. He almost scoffs at the image.
He knows that look like the back of his hand.
Jay, too, yearns for a mate. Like Riki. Unlike Heeseung.
Mate. It’s the word that is so common in omegaverse but so foreign in Heeseung’s little world.
If Jay is a walking green flag that effortlessly attracts omegas with his gentleman charms, Heeseung is a running red flag that chases after willing omegas. If Jay stays away from wild sex life, Heeseung lives by it. If Jay dates to marry, Heeseung fucks to breathe. He’s everything Jay’s not that Riki was so bewildered when the two first met him.
Don’t get him wrong—he’s not the creepy kind of chaser. Rather, he likes to call himself the sexy one. It’s not hard for him to pull; just a few flirty comments here and a couple of filthy whispers there and the next hour he’ll have an omega to bring home and under him.
He doesn’t know if he’s the only one wired this way, but where territorial instincts stream in his alpha blood, his sexual desires run even harder and faster. It’s like an itch that just won’t get away if he doesn’t scratch at it. He’s an attractive alpha with a high sex drive, he admits it, but is he really wrong to accept any omegas with his long, eager arms?
He thinks not.
Plus, they’re omegas. Heeseung tries not to objectify them, but gosh, the scent wafting from them is always so sweet and inviting. They’re curved softly, meant to hold and love the right, physical way that he’s known how to. He’s a weak man, and an even weaker alpha; Heeseung can’t resist a good fuck between two consenting adults and he always, always consents to being sucked off dry and scratched to bleed.
Fuck, just thinking about it is already making him excited.
Heeseung’s eyes wander, tuning out the conversation about mate as he scans for any attractive omega. It’s starting to bore him—the talk about mate and having a mate and being mated—so he’s entertaining himself with the exposed skin and swaying hips of dancing omegas on the dance floor.
For someone like him that gets off on having sex with omegas and being drunk on their sweet pheromones, mating culture is a big no for him. The idea of being tied to only one omega makes him laugh; it sounds ridiculous to him. He’s an alpha capable of giving and his knot is not limited to only one hole, so why should he settle?
Only hopeless-romantic alphas believe in the belief of fated mates. And unfortunately, two of his friends do. Heeseung mentally rolls his eyes.
He decides that he’s had enough when the mated alphas start talking about having pups; another commitment that makes goosebumps rise in his skin. Wordlessly, he places his shot glass on the table, having sipped only half of it throughout the night.
“Leaving already?” Jay asks, craning his neck when Heeseung stands. The latter only cocks his head to the dance floor with a knowing look. The corner of his mouth curves into a playful smirk when Jay makes a face.
“The usual.”
Jay shakes his head. “Whatever. Just don’t do it raw.”
“I’m always clean and safe, Jongseong.” Heeseung retorts, already taking his leave. “Call me when you’re leaving.”
Whatever Jay replies is muffled by the loud bass and Heeseung couldn’t care less to know what the alpha has said. Probably throwing him insults for using him as his personal chauffeur again. Heeseung only shrugs. Jay’s not his concern tonight. He has a bigger fish, or rather, a pretty wolf, to catch.
His eyes sweep across the space. From where he’s standing, his nose can pick up different scents of alphas and omegas. Even the faint scent of betas are visible, usually amplified by alcohol and adrenaline. He’s still deciding between two male omegas throwing asses back on the dance floor and a group of female omegas giggling at a table not far from him when a spiked scent stabs at his senses.
His nose instantly scrunches, frowning as he tries to detect that smell. An omega in distress. It’s faint, coming from the direction of the exit door, but he can’t see anyone crying or visibly uncomfortable in his line of sight.
Heeseung looks around, momentarily distracted from his initial mission. Nobody seems to notice the scent, however, and Heeseung blames his dominant traits for this. He sometimes forgets that he’s a dominant alpha. Unlike Jay and Riki, his senses are more sensitive and developed, which is a blessing when he’s looking for a hookup and a curse when he’s inside the locker room after a game when the air is drenched in his teammates’ pheromones. Heeseung shudders at the memories. He’s always the first to shower and leave the room because only Riki smells good when sweating.
His thoughts are brought back when the scent intensifies. Heeseung keeps sniffing and blindly follows the trail of wilting daisies and burnt honey, his shoulders braced and jaw tense. He doesn’t know why, but the scent has awakened his senses to a new degree. His alpha is on full alert now.
He passes by dancing bodies and tables to get to the exit door but he’s stopped by a hand on his arm. Heeseung looks down.
A soft, seductive voice reaches his ears. “Heeseung-ssi?”
Heeseung blinks at the smiling omega. After a second of stunned silence, he finally recognises the logo on her varsity jacket and the makeup on her face. Realisation dawns upon him.
She’s part of his college’s cheerleader squad.
The omega is running a hand up and down his arm now, arching her back to flaunt the soft swell of her chest. Behind her, her fellow cheerleaders watch closely, hiding eager smiles behind their palms. Heeseung looks down at her hand, gulping despite himself.
“Spare me a few minutes, will you, my precious, capable alpha?”
Her voice is so enticing, dripping with the kind of allure Heeseung’s so much familiar with. There is a strong wave of her sweet scent—bubblegum and cotton candy, Heeseung notes—coming from her in full force. She’s fluttering her lashes now, hoping he’ll get the message.
Heeseung does; oh does he get the message so well. He knows what she’s hinting on and on any other nights he’ll succumb to the temptation without putting any efforts to think, melting into a puddle of juices at the slightest touch of seductive omegas. It’s a no-brainer decision for him, usually, because he’s always ready to fuck and he always brings a pack of condom with him for this sole reason.
But tonight his wolf is restless. And the reason is none other than the bitter scent still clinging to his nose.
Heeseung gives a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and removes her hand from his arm. The omega frowns, brows almost uniting at the center when the alpha takes a step back.
“Next time, yeah?”
Without waiting for her reply, Heeseung slips away from the crowd, ignoring the sour turn of her pheromones. He can feel their eyes boring into his back, but that’s not his concern now. Following the haunting scent and the sudden flaring instincts to get closer to the owner of it, Heeseung lets his legs bring him closer to the exit door.
Heeseung hates to admit it, but right now, his wolf is thrashing at the bitter scent and his chest feels like caving in. He can feel the itch in his nails; his claws are threatening to sharpen. He frowns.
He’s never reacted this way to any omegas in distress. So why now? Why this particular scent?
When he reaches the door, Heeseung doesn’t waste a second to push it open and steps outside. As he does so, a weight suddenly crashes into his chest, pushing him slightly backwards from the force.
“Oof—”
Heeseung reaches up to steady the figure by the arms. At this sudden proximity, the scent is thicker, the wilting daisies are more prominent it's making his heart constrict. Heeseung lets out a deep exhale and looks down to the person practically in his arms.
A female omega. Clearly in distress, judging by the unshed tears and the tremble in her lips. A familiar varsity jacket drapes across her frame and Heeseung feels his breath stop when he recognises that face.
It’s you. One of the cheerleaders. Heeseung knows many cheerleaders, having been in bed with most of them; but even the most forgetful alpha will remember an omega like you.
A sweet face with a sweeter scent to match, but you are always detached from alphas and their advances. You’re the shy cheerleader his teammates always talk about. The untouchable one. The politely-smile-and-then-reject omega. Heeseung remembers you too well, being one of those rejected alphas himself.
He still remembers how disappointed his wolf was, whining and pouting when a pretty omega he had his eyes on rejected him. But Heeseung is a respectful alpha. He’ll take a no as a no. And you were also so kind when doing so that he moved on from it pretty fast and well.
That was one year ago.
Now you’re crying in his arms, for whatever reasons he doesn’t know and is determined to find out. He can feel your hold on his arms tighten, the spike in your scent when you recognise him, and the hitch in your breath that follows. The bitter scent is definitely coming from you.
“H-Heeseung?” Your voice is so small, like you’re not sure if you can call his name. It’s shaky and breathless. “Please help me.”
Behind you, Heeseung can see three shadows entering the alleyway. Even from the distance, his nose immediately picks up the pheromones of aroused alphas; thick and unpleasant. Your scent lingers amidst the stench, wavering in fear, so heavy he can practically taste it on his tongue. Heeseung instinctively pulls you closer.
“Are they bothering you?”
You nod frantically, the tears now spilling freely down your cheeks. When you speak, your voice is wet from tears and fear.
Nothing can ever prepare Heeseung for the words that are about to leave your mouth.
“P-Please…Please scent me.” You sob, clutching the sleeves of his T-shirt tighter. Heeseung’s breath stutters. “Please, Heeseung.”
Scent-mark. A low rumble sounds from his chest.
You’re asking him to mark you. To…claim you. It’s basically you asking him to bond with you, to shower you with his pheromones and make you smell like him. Smell like you’re his.
This is not what Heeseung’s looking forward to tonight. The fantasy of saving an omega in distress and scent-marking belongs to Jay, an alpha that was even willing to help an omega in heat out of the goodness of his heart. But not Heeseung. That’s never Heeseung. Heeseung doesn’t play the hero; he’s the one stealing the female lead from them.
Scent-marking is way…too intimate to share between two complete strangers with no interaction—that is, if you consider being rejected to having sex together as zero interaction.
Heeseung looks between you and the shadows closing in, then licks his lips. “I can’t,” he tries, and the broken look on your face damn near makes his heart take the same fate. Heeseung schools his expression, forcing himself to push you slightly away from him.
“I—This is not right. You don’t want this.”
He can’t take advantage of you. This is just your scared omega speaking. Outside of this situation, he’s damn sure you’d refuse any kind of bonds with him. Heeseung might be a sex addict, but he’s not an asshole.
But you pull him with you, shaking your head as you keep taking a glance at the approaching alphas. “I do! Please,” you choke, failing to keep your voice steady as you plead at the alpha in front of you. Heeseung forces restraint to his instincts. “Please just scent-mark me, Heeseung. I-I can’t—They will—” You heave a deep breath, your scent taking a sourer lilt at his refusal.
“They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.”
Something sharp stabs at his chest, rendering him speechless and frozen for a moment. Heeseung stares at your trembling figure, at your shrinking body as if to make yourself disappear, and it suddenly hits him how disgusting the whole situation is.
They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.
Alphas only take a no when it comes from another alpha.
Heeseung feels nauseous. His throat closes in and there’s a quiet ringing in his ears. In that heavy, stilled silence, everything is muffled to his senses. Only the echoes of your words ripple in his mind.
Unless it’s another alpha.
It’s a hard pill to swallow; one that Heeseung finds it bitter to believe—because it’s so, so easy to walk away from omegas than force yourself on them. It’s so, so easy to shoot your pride down than dwell on it and go feral over a rejection. It’s so, so easy to respect an omega, even for a fuckboy like him, so why is it hard for other alphas to do so?
And the result of this harsh world, of this fucked up power imbalance is sobbing in his arms, shaking and forcing herself to be okay with an unwanted bond just to save herself. Heeseung’s heart breaks for you, for the fate that follows a beautiful being like you just because of secondary genders and because the world says so.
“Please, I-I don’t—”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Heeseung whispers, rubbing a soothing circle on your arms. Your crying subsides a fraction. “I’ll scent you if that makes you feel better. Is that…okay?”
You blink at him tearily, streaks of salty tears tainting your unblemished cheeks. Even with a swollen face, you still look as pretty as he remembers.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods, taking a hold of your wrist when he senses those alphas getting near. “Or we can just get inside and call the cops on them if you change your mind. You can find—”
“No,” you grip him tighter, your previously-calmed scent spiking again. “Cops are useless. T-They won’t—please, Heeseung. You know how they are.”
You know how unfair the system is.
Heeseung swallows hard before he nods, the burnt honey in your pheromones starting to get really thick and sticky. He rubs the inside of your wrists, slow and deliberate, before bringing the scent gland to his nose. It’s the most appropriate point to scent, less intimate than scenting at your neck, which he guesses the last thing you want from him right now.
The tip of his nose caresses the delicate skin tentatively, testing and tasting before he takes a deep inhale. Immediately, the scent of daisies and honey fill up his senses and Heeseung’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling. There is a rush of energy bursting through his veins, his senses tingling and his wolf purring at the sweet combination of your pheromones. Heeseung feels his wolf hum, almost singing and sighing, like his muscles are unknotting in a hot spring.
It’s strange. It’s new. But Heeseung pushes the thoughts aside.
He runs his nose over your wrist over and over again, blanketing you in his pheromones and starting to feel you relax in his arms.
The tension in your shoulders visibly disappears as you let yourself melt into Heeseung. You sigh. Heeseung’s pheromones are just like him; warm spice of cinnamon carried by cool air of sea breeze. It symbolises his fierce persona on the court and his calm demeanour when he’s out of his jersey perfectly. You lean into him further, your squirming wolf unknowingly calms down when being washed by his pheromones.
If Heeseung notices the change in your demeanour, he doesn’t say anything about it, shoving the thought to the back of his mind. His singular focus is entirely on your pulse, nosing at your wrist and pumping out his calming pheromones. When he opens his eyes, they mirror the look in yours: dazed and slightly glassy. The air is now loaded with daisies and cinnamon, intertwining with each other in a perfect, balanced mix of scent.
Heeseung tries to ignore the loud pounding of his heart, but it’s all he can hear. He tries to ignore the stars in your eyes, but it’s all he can see. He tries to ignore how perfectly balanced the mix of your scent is with his. His grip on your wrist tightens, breath caught in his throat. His wolf refuses to let you go, wanting to keep you here, tucked safely in his embrace for as long as he can.
And that thought is so foreign and scary. He really hopes that’s just his wolf and not him.
“Hey, little bunny.” A sick, twisted voice interrupts.
Oh, right.
Those fucking, disgusting alphas.
Heeseung is always slouching, making him appear shorter than he actually is. But in that moment, he’s standing so tall, dominating the space around him like the air is making room for him itself.
He instinctively pulls you behind him, shielding you from the hungry eyes of the approaching alphas. His shoulders are braced like they’re ready for an impact and Heeseung has to force a snarl down his throat when his eyes land on the wolves.
When the shadows step under the light, it takes less than a second for Heeseung to see the jerseys clinging to their bodies before he realises who he’s looking at.
They’re the players from the opposing team that his team just beat tonight.
K, EJ, and Nicholas.
Heeseung grinds his jaw so hard he might pop a vessel.
“If it’s not the mighty Lee Heeseung,” K taunts, wearing a smug smirk like a badge at the sight in front of him. He cocks his head, trying to see you over Heeseung’s shoulders. You cower. “Mind sharing your pretty little cheerleader? She’s exactly my type, shy but slutty.”
Shame spreads across your skin and you screw your eyes shut. Shy and slutty, you bite your lips. You’re nothing but a kinky fantasy for alphas like them.
As if sensing your turmoil, Heeseung stands taller, his eyes narrowing thin.
“Get lost.” Heeseung tries to hold back, but the rage he feels seeps through anyway. “And cover your gland, for fuck’s sake. You stink.”
K’s eyebrows shoot up, his grin turning cheshire. “Come on, man. Are you gatekeeping your cheerleaders?” K tries to take a peek at you, but Heeseung moves and covers you with his whole body. His frown deepens. “You had fucked her already. Don’t be greedy, captain.”
His alpha minions laugh, and Heeseung is now seeing red. Something hot spreads in his chest, burning in his vein like wildfire at the insult. Was it a hit to his ego and his shameless sexual routine? Definitely, but Heeseung never takes it to heart. Rather, it’s the way you gasp and sob into his back, shaken by the disgusting assumption of your dignity and your virginity. The storm of the ocean spikes in the air, taking his pheromones to a dangerous peak, gathering a tide to a new height.
Heeseung doesn’t think he’s ever released pheromones this bad. But something about seeing the same pattern of omegas falling victim to empty-headed alphas makes his blood boil.
Behind him, you whimper, your omega reacting to the agitated alpha in front of you. But Heeseung is now relentless. He holds out an arm around your waist, protecting you from their sight in a tight, almost-possessive grip.
“Watch your fucking mouth. Don’t you get it?” Heeseung seethes, pupils thinning as the laughter dies down. “She doesn’t want you. In what fucking language must she say no for your stupid brain to understand? She’s—”
Mine. She’s mine, his wolf howls. My omega.
Heeseung grits his teeth.
No, she’s not. Get a fucking grip, Lee Heeseung. You don’t have a mate.
“...not a toy.”
The sea-salt bite of his pheromones thickens in the alley. K scoffs, stepping forward in offense but is stopped by Nicholas. The latter has his arm shot out against K’s chest, preventing him from approaching the couple.
“No, K,” Nicholas murmurs, nose sniffing at the heavy pheromones in the air. Underneath the eye-watering spice of cinnamon and the raging storm of Heeseung’ sea breeze scent, there is a tangled sweetness of daisies and honey clinging to it. He visibly gulps. “They’re together. And Heeseung…”
Nicholas throws him a side eye, giving him a once-over briefly. He takes in the sharp glare directed his way, the downturned curl of his mouth, the tense shoulders ready to pounce. Nicholas shudders imperceptibly and shakes his head.
“…He’s a dominant alpha.”
His statement, though meant to deescalate the situation, only rages Heeseung on further. The alpha takes a menacing step forward, eyes narrowing thin at the trio. They falter back.
“Get this in your empty brains you freaks,” Heeseung grits, fuming beyond reason. Nicholas swears he sees something red flickering in his irises.
“When someone says no, you back the fuck off. Dominant alpha or not. Omega or not.” He spits out the word, the venom in his voice nearly poisons the air. “Do you fucking get it?”
His raging pheromones are turning physical, pressing on each pair of lungs like lead on a mattress. Nicholas fights the urge to cover his nose and pulls his two friends backwards with him.
“We get it. Sorry, captain.”
“Not me,” Heeseung hisses. A low growl rumbles in warning. “Her.”
Nicholas licks his lips and nods. He bows down quickly, forcing the other alphas to bend despite it hurting his pride. K reluctantly follows, though his eyes return the glare Heeseung gives him in a similar intensity.
“We’re sorry, omega. Shit, I don’t know your name, but—we’re sorry.”
In the next moment, the three alphas are already retreating. Nicholas aggressively whispers something among them while K visibly restrains himself from running back to Heeseung. He clearly doesn’t mind taking up a challenge with the dominant alpha and Heeseung finds himself not minding to dirty his hands too.
A beat of heavy silence falls upon you. You stay rooted in place, pulse racing in your ears. Heeseung is still facing away from you, ragged breathing slowing down. The air of dense pheromones is thinning out, leaving behind trails of spicy cinnamon and soft daisies.
You let out a breath and your knees buckle.
Heeseung is by your side in a flash, the same, now-familiar arms caging you against his tall frame. You put your hands on his chest, trying to steady the wobble in your legs.
“Hey, hey. You’re okay now. They’re gone.”
They really are. You cry. They’re actually gone.
An ugly sob racks through your chest and soon, the wilting daisies are back, staining the air with crumpled petals and sad flowers. Heeseung tightens his hold. He doesn’t like seeing people cry, but his alpha apparently despises it the most when he sees you in this state.
His calming pheromones pour out in waves, hands carding through your hair gently. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
You’re safe with me.
Your crying slows down. For a few seconds, you let yourself savour the warmth of Heeseung’s embrace. Closer, his pheromones, layered with a faint trail of his body wash, are stronger, filling up the almost-nonexistent space between the two of you. Strangely, the spice and the salt work wonders on calming you down.
Your wolf—previously anxious and distressed—is now quiet.
Heeseung adjusts his hold on you, and in that moment do you only realise in horror how long you’ve been shamelessly hugging him. Like a reflex, you pull away from his embrace, cheeks now flaming red when his shirt is now stained with two big spots of your tears.
“I’m sorry!” Your palms instinctively rub at the stains, as if they can dry out the tears out of the fabric. “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”
Heeseung looks down, silently watching the small of your palms against his broad chest. There’s a strange flutter that follows, quiet and unfamiliar. He hopes that you can’t feel it through the fabric.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Heeseung murmurs, eyes finding their ways back to your face. Red nose, swollen eyes, blotched cheeks. You really went through it, still sniffling as you still try to fix the stains on his shirt. A small part of him twists uncomfortably.
Heeseung catches your wrists, his thumbs moving almost instinctively against the soft skin.Your breath catches as you lift your gaze to look at him.
“Are you okay?” Heeseung asks, voice soft and gentle. You immediately nod, admittedly feeling better after being bathed in his calming pheromones.
“I’m okay. Just a bit thirsty.”
He searches your face, as if trying to detect any kind of discomfort or distress. But in the end, he ends up staring into your eyes, counting the lashes that guard your beautiful eyes.
It should end there. He really should just escort you back into the safety of your friend group and leave you be. Perhaps, he can go find the previous omega, seduce his way back and bring her home. The normal. The usual.
But something inside stirs in protest to that idea, and so instead he finds himself saying: “Let’s get you something to drink.”
The convenience store is bright under the dark sky, located just two blocks away from the nightclub. It’s already past one in the morning, but to the people of the night, it’s only the beginning of fun. From a distance, the queue line is only getting longer.
Beside you, Heeseung is walking on the edge of the pavement, looking out for cars despite the slow traffic. He’s been quiet since the alleyway, seemingly lost in thought. Occasionally, his hand will brush yours, a quiet graze that sends electricity in your system. You try not to react.
The convenience store is empty, save for a group of partygoers sobering up around the round table outside, leaving only a long bench beside the door empty. You stop when Heeseung does, his hand already tapping on the sensory handle.
“Wait here. I’ll buy you something to drink.”
You nod, obediently sitting down. Heeseung takes one last look at you before he enters the store, the harsh lights greeting his tired eyes. He grabs the coldest mineral water and stops in front of the necessities shelves.
Without thinking, his hand moves like it has a mind of its own, grabbing whatever his eyes land on—a heat pack, chocolate, a pack of wet tissues. It’s only when the cashier scans the items that he pauses, staring at the items with wide eyes.
Since when does he…do this?
“Anything to add, sir?”
Heeseung gulps, looks past the cashier’s head, and lands on the rows of pills behind him.
She cried too much, she might have a headache.
And so, as if on instinct, Heeseung adds paracetamol to his receipt.
Outside, the air is cooler, biting at exposed skin like a bug. Heeseung wordlessly sits beside you, placing the plastic bag on his lap. You curiously peek into the bag.
“That’s a lot. Are you hungry?”
Heeseung pauses, realisation dawns upon him. His instincts flare again. “No. Are you? Do you want ramyeon? Or packed rice? I can—”
“No! It’s fine, Heeseung,” you laugh softly, the sound like a melodious chime of a bell to his ears. “I had dinner.”
Heeseung visibly relaxes and nods. He hands you the bottle first, twisting the cap open before passing it over without a word. He watches you drink, takes the bottle from you, and gives you the heat pack next.
You blink at him. “It’s cold,” Heeseung shrugs, pulling your hand towards him and placing the heat pack on your palm. He closes your fingers over it. “This will warm you up a bit.”
For a second, you just stare at him. The warmth in your hand spreads from your fingers up to your chest, where your heart is thumping wildly at his gentle act.
You bring the heat pack to your neck, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you stare at him, cheeks blooming red. They put him in a trance, your eyes, as Heeseung finds himself unable to look away. His gaze then drops to your lips when they move, already clinging to every syllable without even knowing it.
“Thank you, Heeseung.”
The flutter comes back, now more frantic and aggressive than before, like a caged bird trying to escape. This time, Heeseung forces himself to look away, the plastic bag wrinkles under his tightening grip.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I mean it, though.” You counter back, gazing at the passing cars as you feel a gust of chilling wind breezing through. You scoot closer to the heat beside you. “It was really scary. Thank you for helping me out.”
There’s a bitter tone, faint and subtle, to your scent, as if you’re recalling the ugly incident that just happened almost half an hour ago. Heeseung clenches his jaw.
Before he can stop it, his pheromones spill out like soft waves, calming and comforting, cocooning you again like a safety blanket. His wolf hums in quiet satisfaction, watching the way your shoulders loosen, the tension melting off you bit by bit.
Heeseung doesn’t know when or how it happened, but there’s no gap between you now. But he doesn’t hate it like he thought he would. Here, you’re so close to him, your shoulder practically glued to his, seeking warmth from his body heat.
It’s a foreign feeling. A comfortable, foreign feeling.
You stay in that position, slowly getting drunk on his pheromones. Your eyes droop, fighting sleep, but the exhaustion from running away from scary alphas has finally caught up to you. Before you know it, your head dips against his shoulder, breath evening out as your fingers lose their grip on the heat pack.
Heeseung swallows. He doesn’t dare move. From the proximity, he can smell your fruity hair wash, blending smoothly with your scent.
It’s so unfair. Every inch of you smells really good, whether it’s your natural scent or the products that you use. It’s like every inch of your skin decides that you only deserve to smell the best, and Heeseung himself can’t help but agree too. It’s so unfair.
Heeseung finds his hands hover awkwardly in the air, hesitating for a second before settling carefully on your head. His fingers thread through your hair, slower this time.
“Don’t feel scared anymore,” he mumbles, gently caressing the dark strands of your hair.
It’s me who should feel scared.
His fingers freeze in your hair.
Scared. He is scared.
This is not him. If Riki or Jay were to walk in to see him in this state, they’d drag him to the nearest police station and demand they find the real Heeseung. The normal Heeseung. The usual Heeseung.
The Heeseung that doesn’t stay, or spend his time watching people breathe in their sleep. The Heeseung who’s out the door before the sheets even cool down. The Heeseung that dislikes small touches like these; like caressing the hair of the girl he just saved, because the only physical touch he brands himself with is sex.
Not this. Not whatever this is.
He wants to move, but his body doesn’t listen—he stays despite himself. His wolf, like it’s found something it’s been looking for all along, settles deeper instead, quiet and satisfied. You nuzzle closer into his body and Heeseung feels his chest tighten.
Something uneasy creeps up his spine.
This should feel suffocating. It should itch under his skin, make him want to pull away, shake you off, leave.
But it doesn’t. It feels easy. Too easy, in fact.
And it scares the shit out of him.
When your senses return to you, the first thing that greets you is someone’s scent.
Warm, spicy cinnamon and calm, salty sea air.
The memory follows not long after; of angry frowns and disgusting smirks that make your skin crawl. Amidst it all, a familiar face flashes in your mind and you feel your heart stutter.
Heeseung.
The pulse in your wrist thuds violently, as if not letting you forget the owner of the pheromones now wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You faintly remember, in your subconscious, being carried to a car and your roommate, Yujin, hugging you in panic. Unconsciously, you pull your blanket closer to your chest.
Did Heeseung send you home? Did he really…scent-mark you to help you?
You bite your lips between your teeth. The clarity is palpable now that the haziness of pheromones and distress are no longer around. There’s no way an alpha—a dominant one, at that—is willing to scent-mark an omega he has no connections to. The implications are more than the action itself. Heeseung surely knows about that, right?
It feels like a dream. It has to be a dream.
What a capable alpha, your wolf preens. Shut up, you hiss.
Then, as if the universe was insistent to prove you wrong, your eyes land on a plastic bag placed neatly on top of your vanity, a damning evidence of last night’s incident.
No way.
Your brain swirls with possibilities and your own made-up theories that it has started to throb faintly. Before you could lose your sanity, thread by unraveling thread, you rush to the bathroom to, hopefully, get rid of his scent, even when your omega begs you not to.
Unfortunately for the human-you, the cinnamon trails after you even post-showers. It clings to your clothes when you change and it doesn’t let you go even as you sit for breakfast prepared by your doting roommate. It’s strange, really. No one’s scent ever clung to you so stubbornly like this, like a chewing gum latching on shoe soles. You always cuddle with Yujin and even her green tea pheromones never stay with you after washing up.
“It’s a bit odd, yes,” Yujin munches through a mouthful of her own signature pancake. “But it’s not totally out-of-this-world. His scent will fade by this evening, I promise.”
You chew painfully slowly, eyes going wide at another possibility. “You don’t think that I conjured some kind of bond with him, right?”
It’s common knowledge that a thin, fragile bond can be easily formed when an alpha and an omega scent each other, mated or not. After all, context and intention are greatly considered, whether it’s meant for familiarity, protection, or possessiveness—each one will determine how long it’ll last.
You pull at the sleeves of your cardigan, a telltale sign of your anxiousness. The same wilting daisies accent of your scent from the night before comes back, signalling your impending distress. Yujin drops her fork and reaches a hand to yours.
“Hey, hey. Calm down for a sec, Y/N.”
“It’s just,” you swallow harshly, your traitorous mind replaying the scene from last night. Your heart thumps at the base of your throat. “I don’t know—fuck. I forced him to do this. And—and despite the circumstances, he still helped me and now…now I think…”
Your eyes turn glassy, reminded of the wolf residing deep inside you.
“I think my omega might like him.”
Yujin is silent for a moment, assessing the right words to say. It’s obvious to everyone on campus of the nature of Lee Heeseung. He’s not exactly the alpha you’d seek for companionship or commitment; he seems to be allergic to those things.
And to get your wolf to like him…well, let’s say that you’re already set for thousand-words of angst and a life of yearning. Yujin isn’t exactly fond of the idea of dishing out what you already knew. You already seem restless enough with your own thoughts.
“Okay. That’s valid.” Yujin starts slowly, treading through every syllable like a mother to her kindergartener son. “He’s super attractive. It’s understandable. But you can, you know—unlike him.”
You perk up at that, though the doubt clouding your face is more prominent now. “How?”
“Find a better alpha,” Yujin shrugs, as if explaining the world’s simplest equation. “For the record, I do think Heeseung’s a good guy, just not in the romantic department. I don’t know why your wolf is picking a fuckboy out of all alphas, but taste is subjective.”
“It’s because he stepped up and protected me!” You deflect and pause, realising how defensive of him you have become. Yujin raises a brow and you sigh, defeated, slumping in your seat.
“Fuck. Now my omega hates you for badmouthing him.”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Just kill me.”
Yujin shoots you a small smile, pushing your now-cold plate closer to you. You reluctantly take a bite. “Why not someone else, though? You could ask literally any other alpha, like—” Yujin pauses and it takes her less than a second to pick a name. “Jay. Like Jay. He’s like, the safest option, the greenest flag. But why Heeseung? And don’t tell me it’s because he was the only one there—you could’ve just barged in and found someone else. It’s a freaking nightclub.”
You freeze, unmoving for a slow second. There is, of course, an answer to that. One that you admittedly avoid to admit, because admitting it will admit that there is something underneath that only you know, and you admit that it’s scary to admit that. Fuck this admission! Yujin wouldn’t make fun of you, right?
“I…” You trail off, second-guessing your decision. Should you really tell your roommate? Seeing the eager look on her face, with her sweet, cute dimples showing up, you decide that people with dimples should be banned from this world. Promptly, you’re reminded of your junior—an alpha with Jungwon or something as his name. The both of them possessed dimples that could make any alpha (or omega) drop down to their knees.
Alas, you force yourself to tell the truth.
“I smelled him for afar.” You watch carefully for Yujin’s reaction. “Like, from outside. While I was running from those scary alphas.”
Yujin contemplates. “Did you feel some kind of a pull towards him?”
You don’t even contemplate. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” Yujin laughs, her grin turning giddy. “This shit is actually real?!”
“What is?!” You frown, not liking being kept in the dark. A playful punch lands on Yujin’s shoulder, who’s now throwing her head back in laughter. Unconsciously, a pout is formed on your lips.
“What is it? Tell me!”
“It’s just, there’s this joke going around,” Yujin hiccups between every inhale, “that an omega will eventually crave for his knot. I can’t believe it’s happening to you!”
The lines in your forehead deepen. You regard your roommate with a look of contempt, thinking of the best spot to hide a body.
“That’s not true. I don’t crave his knot, or whatever it is.” You sigh, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose. “You know what? I’m just gonna pretend last night didn’t happen.”
Resigned and defeated, you rise and bring your plate to the sink. Your class doesn’t start until the next three hours, and then the evening is reserved for your new routine practice for the upcoming tournament. The ninety-two unread messages from the group chat are still left unopened; you haven’t had time to review the routine video yet.
You put on your apron and reach for the cabinet. When in distress or deep thoughts, other than nesting in your bedroom, you often opt to stress-bake instead. The scent of baked goods always puts you at ease, and it blends sweetly with your daisies and honey pheromones. Everyone who knows you knows to empty their stomach and be ready for a mass sweet-feeding whenever you’re in your stressed baker mode.
Behind you, Yujin’s laughter dies in her throat. Then, a question that stops you in your tracks comes.
“Hey, you don’t think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates, right?”
Fated mates. The words settle like a heavy blanket, pressing you down with its weight and keeping you warm altogether.
It’s sacred. It’s ancient. It’s something that you never speak of lightly, afraid that a slip of a tongue would taint the purity of such a bond. Against all odds and critiques on the concept of fated mates, you’re part of the minority who believed in it, no matter how foolish or ridiculous it may sound.
You believe in fated mates. You believe in the name written in the stars, in the love that has been shaped and created just to cherish you. You believe in spending the rest of your life looking for a face that your heart would recognise in a heartbeat, feeling that inevitable pull like you’re each other’s missing half.
But after last night, do you think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates?
Heeseung, who’s always made it clear to everyone about his relationship with commitments?
Heeseung, who never shies away when the boys tease him about the girls he sleeps with?
You’re never one to judge someone’s sex life, but you might be a little too concerned about how they view a long-term, committed relationship. Because that’s what you’ve been looking for.
An alpha who’s not afraid to love you loudly. An alpha whose instincts are to love and protect you.
Sometimes, you really envy mated couples. You envy how loyal Riki is of his girlfriend, craving the same kind of devotion to be directed to you. You envy how proud Taesan is to show off his mating mark, like it’s a badge of honour and love that promises forever.
Eventually, your mind drifts to Heeseung. The captain of the basketball team. Someone who deceives people with how approachable he seems, but is actually the most detached.
Heeseung is a perfect and capable alpha. You’ve seen it.
He leads his team with the kind of leadership that becomes a glue, keeping the team together no matter what challenges they’re going through. You know that he’s from the music department, and there are a few songs with his name being credited as the producer, composer, lyricist—you name it. Heeseung is a dominant alpha and uses his authority well, and he knows how to fend for himself.
You admire him, you really do.
But will he devote himself to you? Will he look only for you in a crowd of beautiful omegas, and beautiful omegas who have spent the night with him? Does he share the same sentiment as you when it comes to fated mates?
The churn in your stomach provides an answer clearer than any of your exams had ever done.
You let Yujin’s question fade in the background, letting yourself lose in your element—baking and baking and baking until it feels like you could feed a whole team of athletes. Which is what Yujin has suggested before she leaves for her lab session, after saving a big jar of cookies for herself.
Fated mates.
What a scary thought.
For the first time in his life, Heeseung is actively avoiding omegas.
It’s not any omegas, though. It’s only you. But since it’s you, it’s actually a pretty big deal to him.
Heeseung doesn’t play favourites. He doesn’t believe in fated mates, remember? But last night left a lasting impact in the form of your scent still clinging to him this morning, even after showering. Not to mention how excited his wolf has been when realising that it’s you.
It’s you, for fuck’s sake! The one who rejected him one year ago, and, admittedly, one of the prettiest omegas on campus. You might as well be every alpha’s ideal type. Well, maybe not Riki, that man is proudly claimed and fiercely loyal to his mate. But it’s definitely the case for him and Jay.
Knowing his best friend, Heeseung’s sure you’re just Jay’s type. And his. No. He didn’t say that. He doesn’t have a type, remember?
As if to make it worse, you also have a scent that might just be his favourite one yet. The same scent that is currently invading his senses, dampening other pheromones in the court despite being on opposite ends from you. The same scent that his wolf decides to pick up and single out the moment he steps foot in the campus, recognising you before his eyes can even see you first. The same scent that still lingers in his lungs, mingling with his cinnamon and sea breeze notes like dancing partners.
Yeah, Heeseung is starting to think that he’s slowly going insane.
“Dude, stop staring. You’re scaring them.”
Heeseung blinks, Jay’s voice successfully snapping him out of whatever omega-spell that you have casted on him. Yeap, he nods. It’s definitely that. You’re actually a witch. There’s no other explanation to this other than that.
A blob of freshly-dyed blonde hair pops up beside Jay. “Hyung showed up smelling like daisies and honey and suddenly he’s staring at the cheerleaders like they owe him money.” Riki teases, then grins when he realises something. “Wait, that kinda rhymes—”
“I’m not staring!” Heeseung almost shouts, belatedly realising that he, indeed, has been staring at the group of cheerleaders stretching across the court. Or, to be more precise, he’s been staring at you. He glares at Riki.
“Okay. So why do you smell like one of them then? What’s her name again, Jay hyung?”
Heeseung grumbles. “It’s no one—”
“Y/N.”
“Yes, that one. The shy one.”
Heeseung groans. He kicks Riki’s shins and makes a show of turning his back facing the cheerleaders. But for some reasons he refuses to admit, as if he has eyes on the back of his head, he still can point where you’re standing just from his senses alone.
These stupid, useless alpha senses.
At least Jay takes pity on him. “Your Heeseung hyung saved her from perverts last night. He scented her to calm her down because she was reacting pretty badly.”
Heeseung mentally thanks Jay and continues warming up. He opts to just watch his teammates dribble and stretch just like him. The faint hum of scent neutraliser—a new, advanced one, thanks to that incident with Riki’s girlfriend—rumbles slowly. Somewhere behind him, he can hear you laugh and taste the sweet spike in your scent on his tongue. Heeseung grits his teeth.
What is wrong with his wolf? Please get your tail together.
Riki, on the other hand, is intrigued. “Really? Did it happen after I left? Who were those alphas?”
“Some idiots from that team we beat last night.”
Riki frowns, clearly displeased with the news he just heard. “Well, I’ll keep my eyes on them. How did Heeseung hyung find her?”
Jay shrugs and shoots him a look. Heeseung really hopes he can slap that annoying smirk off his face one day. “Dunno. Ask him. His alpha probably recognised her from miles away.”
Heeseung doesn’t like what that sentence implies. “Shut up. It’s just instinct. Normal alpha-omega reaction.”
“Keep lying to yourself. I can practically see your tail wagging when you smelled your pheromones on her just now.”
“I didn’t—” Heeseung closes his eyes, forcing himself to calm down despite the sudden flare of defensiveness exploding in his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s so reactive and not in his usual calm composure, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with you. Jay and Riki snicker.
“The only people that believe in fated mates are you two idiots. Do you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” Riki snorts and looks at him, amused. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean I have a fated mate. That shit is rare. It’s like finding my size in Calvin Klein.”
Jay frowns. “I don’t see the correlation.”
“There is. My dick is just too big, hyung. There’s no size for me—”
“I don’t need to know that!” Jay slaps at Riki’s shoulders while the younger alpha only lets out a full-body laugh. “Save that information for your girlfriend, Riki. I didn’t raise you like this.”
“She already knows that.”
“Nishimura Riki!”
Heeseung is back to zoning out, his energy is suddenly drained out of his soul. That’s usually the case when you have to deal with a Nishimura Riki and a Park Jongseong on a daily basis. His mind, choosing to move at the pace of a snail today, is replaying Riki’s words back like a broken loop.
The realisation hits him five seconds late. “Wait. Did you mean that you and your girlfriend are not…fated mates? I thought you were!”
Riki is trapping Jay in a headlock when he answers. “Nope. We only imprinted on each other from early on because we’re childhood friends.”
“So like…what’s the difference?” Heeseung pauses and hesitates for a moment. He glances at you and then thinks, fuck it. If curiosity didn’t kill the cat then it’ll definitely kill him. “Can you smell your girlfriend in a sea of people?”
Riki scrunches his nose, his hands busy play-fighting with Jay. Heeseung ignores them like it’s a daily occurrence to see them act this way. Which is probably not far from the truth. “Not really? If they’re too many people, like right now, with your stench and too many omega scents—it’s difficult to find her.” Jay tackles his side and Riki yelps. “B-But it’s getting better after the mating bite, though—Jay hyung! I just got my tattoo there!”
“So…you can’t like…” Heeseung licks his lips, his throat suddenly dry. He has a feeling that he’s not going to like the answer Riki’s going to give him once he finishes his sentence. Jay is now on the floor while Riki is pulling him by the legs and dragging him around like a used rug.
“You can’t single her out from her scent alone?”
There. He said it. His two idiotic friends will catch on it and grill him for the problem he partially caused. The other part is, no doubt, his wolf’s fault for deciding to like one single scent. You’re not at fault at all. Never. Wait, who said that?
Riki is breathless from the laughter and play-fight, but he still manages to listen and answer, thanks to his alpha senses. If he finds Heeseung’s questions strange, he only shares his suspicion through a knowing look with Jay.
“Sometimes. Like I said, it’s only when the crowd isn’t too big and when she’s in the same room as me.” Riki finally spares Heeseung a glance, tilting his head in a feigned curiosity. “Why are you asking, hyung? Did you smell Y/N from miles away or something?”
How the fuck did that idiot know?
Heeseung looks away from the teasing grin thrown his way. He really doesn’t like this. “No,” he grumbles. “I’m just afraid if I might be Jay’s fated mate because his pheromones are fucking everywhere.”
“Hey! What the fuck did I do to you?!”
Riki bursts out laughing and high-fives Heeseung with a cheeky smile. On the floor, Jay is already huffing and sulking, mumbling something about ‘always catching strays’ and ‘citrusy pheromones aren’t smelly’. Heeseung sighs quietly when the topic takes a turn into a debate about who has the best smelling pheromones, which is an easy win for Riki, if Heeseung’s going to be honest.
Don’t tell Jay though. Heeseung doesn’t want to lose his passenger princess privilege so soon.
Much to his relief, it’s already time for practice. Heeseung tries to ignore the prickle in his neck coming from your direction as you and your fellow cheerleaders leave the gym to go to your own practice room. He fights the urge to look back, to stride forward and ask you to stay—which is insane, by the way, what the fuck is wrong with him?
Before he slips into his captain mode, however, Jay approaches him with a more serious look on his face. “Calm your flat tits, Hee. It’s normal for her scent to linger; you kinda scented her aggressively to protect her last night.”
Heeseung weakly nods. Jay pats his shoulder. “A deep bond can’t be conjured just from scenting alone, unless you’re fated mates.”
This time, Heeseung doesn’t move, his tension visible in the rigid lines of his posture, the frantic movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
“Yeah,” he croaks, his pulse louder than his own voice. “Hope not.”
Practice goes on for the next two hours. Heeseung eventually falls into routine, finding himself lost in adrenaline and competitiveness. The thoughts of you cease for a moment, replaced by his quick-thinking strategy and sharp reflexes. He keeps dribbling, scoring, and making passes, not even aware of the ticking clock or when the cheerleader squad comes back in to take a break.
The last whistle finally blows before the players dramatically fall in a heap of sweaty, breathless alphas. The practice was particularly grueling, which made his body ache and his shirt clung to his skin. The coach is on fire today, all because his wife has been giving him a silent treatment. Apparently, he forgot to buy diapers on his way home last night.
Source: Nishimura Nosy.
“I think I might die,” Jay huffs, claiming a bench all to himself. His chest rises and falls in a rapid motion. “But even as a ghost, I bet the coach would still unearth my grave to force me to practice.”
“I’ll be Ghost Number Two.” Heeseung deadpans, lying down on the bench next to Jay. The latter continues to talk about something else, which Heeseung would know and remember if he didn’t get distracted by daisies and honey.
Fuck. You’re in the court again.
The urge to corner you, to grab your wrist and ask if you were okay, crawls under his skin again—restless, unrelenting.
Heeseung isn’t stupid. He knows last night, ugly as it was, doesn’t just fade by morning. His alpha has been clawing at him since then, sharp and impatient, demanding he go to you.
But Heeseung doesn’t move.
For once, he’s a coward.
He shoves it down, buries it deep, treating his own wolf like a disease he refuses to catch.
Heeseung blinks at the ceiling in an active effort to not start looking for you and staring at you like a creep. This time, he wonders quietly why your scent smells stronger than before. Perhaps the adrenaline from your routine. But even so, you don’t only smell strong, but you also smell closer—
“Free cookies!”
Heeseung jolts in surprise and whips his head in the direction of that voice. Or, precisely, your voice. His heart, as if trying to shorten his life span, decides not to take a break from the session just now and continues beating even faster.
There, just a few paces away from him, is you, standing in the middle of the court with one of your cheerleader friends. In her hold, there’s a purple Tupperware, its lid nowhere to be found. You stand slightly behind your friend, shyly looking over her shoulders as she talks to his teammates.
“Oh my God, they brought us cookies?!” Jay is already standing up, stretching lazily like a cat. “C’mon, Hee. It’s free cookies.”
Heeseung’s quick to refuse, despite his wolf begging him to go. “Nah—”
But before he can spit out any excuses, Jay is already dragging him, his weeks spent in the gym working out with Riki are finally paying off. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take your portion and give it to me.”
Heeseung groans. He really should start joining their workout session. He can’t be manhandled by his two best friends easily like this.
Distracted, Heeseung fails to register the decreasing distance between you and him. It’s only when your scent spikes sweetly, which hits him in the face like a fucking tidal wave, does he catch your eyes and realises that, fuckfuckfuck she’s here ohmyGod—
“Hi, Jay. Hi, Heeseung.”
Wait hold on, why does his name sound even more beautiful coming from your voice?
He stands like a flag pole beside Jay, actively avoiding your eyes while being fully aware of that pretty pair staring at his face. The floor suddenly looks very interesting, with skid marks from their shoes and some sweat trails. Okay. Ew. That’s gross.
“Hey, pretty ladies.” Jay greets, flashing his attractive smile as he gestures at the container. “Heard there’s free cookies for the taking? Mind if we have some?”
Smooth as ever, Jay doesn’t even realise how easily he has charmed your friend with his simple greeting. Poor omega is already blinking rapidly, almost bouncing on her toes as she practically shoves the Tupperware into Jay’s chest.
“Yes! Yes, of course you can, Jay. There’s only little left! Take them all!”
Your eyes, fixated on Heeseung since he arrived, tries to search his face as you shyly interrupt, whispering into your friend’s ear.
“Offer some to Heeseung too…”
Heeseung doesn’t know whether to curse or thank the Goddess for his advanced dominant-alpha senses, because overhearing those words…it makes his chest feel warm and tight at the same time.
But your friend doesn’t pay you any mind, urging Jay to take the Tupperware from her. Jay, ever the gentleman but still a little shameless shit when it comes to food, takes it from her eager hands. He takes one bite and immediately lights up.
“This is so good! I love that it’s not too sweet.”
Like a mirror reflecting light, you beam widely, returning Jay’s enthusiasm. Heeseung tries to ignore the ugly twist in his chest. “Really? That’s…good to hear.”
“She made these, by the way!” Your friend proudly announces, which makes red blooms across your cheeks, ducking your head down slightly. You’re so shy, so pretty, Heeseung can’t stop staring.
And so good at baking. Such a perfect omega, his wolf continues. Shut the fuck up, Heeseung hisses.
“You’re really good at this, Y/N,” Jay interrupts his internal war, his voice sounding wrong in his ears. “Care to share the recipe?”
Now, is Jay flirting with you? Since when does his voice sound like that?
Heeseung tries to inhale, attempting to calm his fucking irrational wolf down, but all he can smell is the sugary scent of yours, tangling delicately and blending seamlessly with his spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze. Somewhere in his chest, his heartstrings soften, drunk in the perfect mix of your pheromones, a ghost of a mark from last night.
Maybe that’s what possessed him to snatch the Tupperware from Jay.
Heeseung wastes no time and starts munching two cookies at once, ignoring the gasps from you and your friend and the bombastic side-eye from his fellow alpha friend. The flavour of buttery vanilla and sweet chocolate chips melt on his tongue and Heeseung almost purrs at the taste.
Outside, he makes an effort to look calm.
“These are good,” he comments coolly, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a compliment (he’s failing). This time, he dares himself to meet your eyes, and has to force down another purr when he sees the sparkles in your eyes. “Thank you, Y/N.”
There’s a strange satisfaction blooming in his chest when the blush in your cheeks deepen. You quickly look down to the floor, mumbling softly that could’ve been missed had it not been for his senses.
What kind of pull is this? Why is every sense of his attuned to you? Heeseung swears he can smell the subtle spike of your scent, the sound of your heartbeat and your soft breathing. It’s like his whole body has decided that it wants to worship you.
And Heeseung doesn’t worship. Fuck. This is terrifying.
“Thank you, Heeseung…”
There. Your voice again. Heeseung swallows. His grip on the Tupperware tightens. Seeing you under this light, flushed and softly smiling to the ground while sneaking glances at him—it undoes him in ways he never dared imagine.
The question is already at the tip of his tongue without his realisation. ‘Are you okay? Does what happened last night still bother you?’ The urge to comfort and soothe, now growing like a rolling snowball, threatening to spill from his mouth.
And the scary part is: Heeseung isn’t sure if that desire comes from his wolf or himself.
However, he never gets the chance to, because Jay with his perfect, universe-timing is already pulling him backwards. “Thank you for the cookies! We’ll eat them well!”
Heeseung reluctantly nods, the grip he has on the Tupperware turning knuckle-white.
“What the fuck was that?” Jay whisper-yells when they’re out of earshot, walking back to their previous spot. “And those are not only for you. Give them back to me!”
Heeseung dodges his grabby hand. “Why the fuck are you eating more?” He asks, failing to mask the bitterness in his voice.
“Didn’t they give all ten of them to us?”
“You’ve had two.”
“And you’ve had five!”
“I don’t care. These are mine.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
That’s what it takes for Heeseung to freeze in his tracks. Seeing an opening, Jay quickly snatches the Tupperware from his grasp and runs back to his spot on the bench, not forgetting to flip off the burgundy-haired alpha as he does so.
Heeseung is losing his fucking mind.
Sighing, Heeseung closes his eyes, a faint trail of daisies and honey still clinging to his senses. Even across the room, among the murmur of the gossiping cheerleaders, it’s your voice, the only one clear and crisp to his ears.
I’m being ridiculous.
This isn’t me.
Slowly, his human side starts taking over, all flowery images of you vanish within seconds.
Fuck, he curses. He wishes this scent-marking will be gone by tomorrow morning.
Three mornings later, much to his dismay, your scent still clings to him. On the bright side, it has been notably fading, now only the remnants of daisies and honey underneath cinnamon and sea air; like crunched petals along the shoreline, waiting to be washed away.
Against his own judgment, however, his wolf is fucking devastated.
He’s been whining like a kicked puppy ever since he walked to practice this morning and couldn’t smell his scent on you instantly. He still can spot you from two buildings away, which is still strange, but the lack of spice and salt in your scent is what does it. Heeseung has to fight the urge to march towards you and start scenting you.
His wolf has been restless. And, inevitably, it puts Heeseung in a terrible mood, too. He never knew his wolf was that desperate.
Practice ends late that night. With the tournament just around the corner, everyone is being a little shit at managing their emotions and competitiveness on the court—the downside of having an all-alpha team that people rarely talk about.
Heeseung is not excluded from the equation, though. He almost threw the ball to Taesan’s knot and made his omega pups-less and pregnancy-free when he accidentally made a bad pass. The court had smelled like tension and a barely held-together brotherhood when he left before a cheerleader came up to him to flirt and he wasted no time to drag her to an empty classroom.
Now, Heeseung finds himself making out with that omega, tongue licking up into her mouth while she breathlessly moans into his. It’s been five days since his last fuck, and while he usually can go on without sex for weeks (one month was his best record), he’s been at his wit’s end today. Add the confusion and silent wars he’s been having about you into the mix, and Heeseung is nothing more than a stressed body waiting to be relieved.
Weirdly enough, the frustration he hopes to get rid of stays as frustration. The old sparks he usually feels when having this intimate moment with an omega seems to disappear tonight. In the back of his mind, like a looming cloud carrying a storm, is a hazy image of teary eyes and red, trembling lips.
Something stirs uneasily in his chest.
His huge, veiny hands slip under her skirt and find purchase on her cunt, gathering the slick leaking from her arousal. Her scent spikes as she bucks up her hips and, to Heeseung’s own surprise, he recoils from the smell of it and breaks the kiss. The girl doesn’t stop her advances, switching to kiss down his long neck instead.
He subconsciously scrunches up his nose, his finger halting its movement for a second.
“What perfume are you wearing?” He asks, voice hoarse from the makeout session. He tilts his head back, allowing access and finding stimulation, but the usual thrill is a bit dull tonight.
“My pheromones,” she manages between kisses, “you like it?”
It’s quite the opposite, to be honest. Heeseung finds himself hating it. It’s too sweet. Too sharp. It sits wrong in his nose, burns at the back of his throat, like inhaling smoke for the first time. His eyes water.
There’s something wrong. He’s not enjoying this.
And to make things worse and more confusing, his chest hurts. It constricts, like his lungs decide to shrink into a ball of unexplained pain. Heeseung’s breath stutters, almost doubling over. His mind is a frantic buzz of noise, chanting something that he can’t seem to fully register yet.
Not my omega. Not daisies. Not honey.
Heeseung feels something twist in his gut.
The nameless omega—he forgot to ask for her name—doesn’t notice the shift yet, the way Heeseung is already a frozen statue of confusion and frustration in her embrace. She continues, trailing down hot, wet kisses along the prominent line of his collarbone and sucks the tender skin.
“Ow!” Heeseung yelps, instinctively pushing her away. The spot stings like a pulsing heartbeat, void of any pleasure that it usually would give. He staggers backwards once.
The girl frowns, clearly not happy being pushed like that. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”
“I—” Heeseung hisses, his shirt sitting wrong on his skin, her scent smelling wrong in his nose. He shakes his head. “Shit. I’m sorry, I—I have somewhere to be.”
The girl scoffs, disbelieving. “What?! Heeseung, you can’t just—”
But Heeseung can, and he already does. The alpha is out of the room in the next minute, deliberately the calls of his name and the strings of insults that come from behind him. He makes a run for it.
What the fuck did just happen? Heeseung is never one to refuse a good time with omega, but his wolf is quiet tonight. Too quiet, like it’s being silent on purpose in solidarity for something he’s yet to know—or yet to realise.
The hazy image comes back to his mind, slowly becoming sharp and clear. Heeseung thinks his lungs have turned into bricks when he realises that he’s been imagining you. That his head has been loud with the thoughts of you, even when he’s with someone else.
Why? Why is this happening? Why you?
Heeseung makes a turn to where the locker room is, planning to grab his duffel and leave, when he bumps into Riki and Jay, freshly out of the shower.
“Heeseung hyung?” A shirtless Riki calls his name, then raises a brow when he sees his condition. “Was wondering where you were. But those lipstick stains told me enough.”
Heeseung wipes his neck harshly. Wordlessly, he yanks his locker open and checks himself out in a mirror. He turns his face left and right, yanking down his under eyes, then sighs. Riki and Jay exchange looks. The air is slowly thickening with the pheromones of a distressed alpha, coming from none other than Heeseung.
“You good, mate?” Jay decides to ask him. Heeseung doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he’s as good as he wants himself to be. The alpha lets out another sigh and slams the door closed.
“I think something is definitely wrong with me.”
“Is it practice?” Jay softens his voice, already switching on his therapist-friend mode. “Hee, today’s just that day. Everybody was losing their shits, it’s not just you.”
Heeseung leans his back on the locker and tilts his head upwards. “It’s not that. I mean it biologically. Ever since—” Heeseung pauses, suddenly unsure if saying out loud would make things right. But Riki and Jay have already caught onto it.
“Ever since what?”
Heeseung chooses to deflect. “Look, I was trying to make out with this one pretty omega just now. But no matter how much kissing we did, I just couldn’t enjoy it.” Heeseung points to his sweatpants. Riki and Jay curiously follow with their eyes. “She was practically sucking my tongue and I’m not even bricked up, man!”
Riki furrows his eyebrows. “Not even a spark?”
Heeseung shakes his head. “I couldn’t feel anything. At all. Only,” he swallows harshly. “I only felt disgusted. By her.”
Silence hangs in the room at his revelation. Riki’s expression morphs into something akin to genuine surprise, while Jay only stares at him with a gaping mouth before he starts typing on his phone.
“This is dead serious. You can’t have sex without your dick. That's like a banana cake without bananas.”
Heeseung and Riki grimace. “Please don’t ever compare my dick to a banana again.”
“Or a banana cake.” Riki slaps his shoulder. “That’s my favourite, hyung. Don’t be gross.”
Jay waves a dismissive hand, eyes still glued on his phone. “Right, right. Anyway, I texted Sunoo.”
Heeseung’s eyes go wide like saucer plates at the name and groans. “Sunoo?! Jay, you know he’s still mad at me.”
“I know, but he’s the only one who probably knows the answer to this.” Jay smacks his lips when he reads a new text from Sunoo. “He’s staying back for a lab session. Let’s go to the medicine building.”
And that’s how Heeseung finds himself cramped into a tiny booth of a ramyeon stall, located by the road near the faculty of medicine. A pouty Sunoo is sitting across from him, shooting him his foxy side-eyes as he whines at Jay.
“Jay hyung, why did you bring this traitor with you?” Sunoo pulls at the sleeves of Jay’s hoodie, sulking away from Heeseung. It’s only the three of them since Riki had gone home with his girlfriend just now. “I thought the three of us would include you, me, and Riki.”
Jay sighs exasperatedly. “I had to, Sunoo. That traitor is having a critical dick malfunction and he needs your help.”
The waitress arrives with three bowls of steaming ramyeon. Jay and Sunoo pause their not-so-quiet argument and help her place the bowls on their table. She clears her throat awkwardly, and takes a quick glance at Heeseung before leaving. Heeseung groans internally.
Great. Now words about him and his dick problem will spread around the campus.
“Is STD finally catching up with you?”
Heeseung should know that it was never that easy to get Sunoo off his back. That boy is a professional pouty sulk-er, he’ll never let Heeseung go easily. Not after harassing him with his sass, at least. Heeseung holds back a sigh, already resigned and defeated.
With a grim voice, he apologises to the brown-haired alpha. For the fifth time.
“Sunoo, I am so sorry. I know it was my fault, but for the record, I didn’t know you were serious about pretending to be an omega. Why would you even do that, anyway?”
“Because I like the attention!” Sunoo is fast to defend himself, his pout only deepening. “And because alphas will only spoil me if I was their pretty little soft omega—which I am not! And you exposing my secondary gender to that alpha just ruined my chance to be with him. Who would even call their friend, ‘my cutie little fake omega’, anyway?!”
“I was drunk!”
“A drunk traitor is still a traitor!”
Heeseung turns to Jay, sending him signals to help him out. But his best friend deliberately ignores him, too engrossed in his own bowl, pretending to be a wall. Heeseung rolls his eyes and looks back at Sunoo.
It might not be that easy to console the sulky boy, but Heeseung is labelled a sweet talker for a reason.
“You’re already a pretty alpha, Sunoo. Prettier than any omega I know. Anyone would drop everything for you even if they knew you weren’t an omega.”
Like a switch being flipped, the frown on Sunoo’s melts away, replaced by a beam so wide it shows off his perfect teeth.
“Aw, Heeseungie hyung. You’re now forgiven. Now tell me about this dick problem of yours.”
Jay and Heeseung look at each other and relax into their chairs in relief. Heeseung sends him a look of, ‘That was easy,’ to which Jay raises his eyebrow, ‘Why hadn’t you done it sooner?’
Now, with Sunoo not threatening to kill the burgundy-haired alpha anymore, Heeseung can finally enjoy a few bites of his untouched ramyeon. It’s already a bit cold and soggy, but the broth makes up for it. He retells the story to Sunoo between bites, watching the ever expressive boy react to it with various expressions.
“It’s not uncommon, though. But since it’s you, it must have felt very concerning.” Sunoo hums in thought, tapping his full lips with the thinnest tips of his chopsticks. “Well, Heeseungie hyung, did you imprint on any omegas?”
Heeseung hesitates for a moment before he shakes his head, feeling Jay’s eyes on him.
“No.”
“Hm, okay. Even if it’s due to imprints, it has to come from both sides,” Sunoo rubs his chin, now looking every bit a live action of Detective Conan, minus the glasses. “Did you conjure a bond with anyone? Maybe accidentally?”
Heeseung’s lips part. “I…would’ve known, right?”
“Right.” Sunoo nods firmly, then tilts his head. “Did you scent one of your hookups, then?”
“An almost-hookup,” Jay cuts in, clearly enjoying this interrogation. Heeseung shoots him a look. Jay is always out to rat him out and he’s actually so close to disowning him.
He grunts. “Just…someone.”
Sunoo smiles in amusement. “So you did scent someone. Was it someone you like?”
“Define like.”
“Like them enough to want to kiss them. Like them enough to want to fuck them. Like them enough to even want to scent them to begin with.” Sunoo shrugs. “Pick one.”
Heeseung closes his eyes. Does he like you? Wanting to kiss and fuck someone don’t equal to liking them. Because if that was true, then there’s no other explanation to Heeseung ‘liking’ every omega he has fucked other than him having an insanely big heart—which he doesn’t. He liked the sex and their company; that was all there was to it.
Which leaves him option number three.
Heeseung’s never the guy to sit with his feelings—at least not the romantic kind. You’re an unfamiliar territory; something that he deliberately avoids his entire life, simply because he never sees settling down with a mate as a desirable goal or accomplishment. And, perfectly hidden under his fuckboy persona is also a thin layer of fear.
Fear of getting hurt by the thing that’s supposed to be love.
But does he like you?
Maybe he does. He’s always liked the way you laugh; you always cover your mouth with one hand when you do, like your smile is only visible in the privacy of those who really know you. He’s always noticed the way you touch the tip of your nose when people’s eyes are on you. He’s always thought the natural blush that you have when you’re shy is adorable.
In that one single minute, Heeseung realises that he’s been paying attention to you more than he thought he did.
Fuck. He does like you.
But does liking have to lead to being mated?
That responsibility is way taller and heavier than him and Heeseung is beyond freaked out.
“Earth to Heeseungie hyung?”
“Why does it even matter? What does it even have to do with me not getting a boner during a makeout session?” Heeseung demands, frustration bleeding into his voice. Is Sunoo punishing him for being the reason he fumbled that tall, hot alpha two weeks ago? Will Sunoo truly ever forgive him? He already apologised five times!
Sunoo, seeing enough of his hyung’s suffering, finally relents. “Geez, relax. I wasn’t playing with you. I asked because most of the time this happens,” he gestures at Heeseung and his crotch. Heeseung instinctively closes his long legs. “It’s because the wolf has already liked one omega. An omega they recognise as their mate. It’s the only explanation why you felt disgusted just now.”
Mate. That cursed word again. Beside Sunoo, Jay is whistling.
“Sorry. You mean my wolf, my alpha, likes one omega and decides I shouldn’t fuck around anymore?”
Sunoo nods. “Basically, yeah. But it usually isn’t that easy, hyung. A bond has to have been conjured between your wolf and their wolf by any kind of markings.”
“Like?”
“Like biting. Or scenting.”
Scenting. Heeseung didn’t just do scenting with you, he was scent-marking you.
“But that’s impossible,” Jay interrupts, confusion etching onto his handsome features. His leaning forward now, his empty bowl pushed to the center of the table, which reminds Heeseung of his own bowl. The alpha quickly finishes his noodles. “Scenting between unmated alpha and unmated omega will only conjure a temporary, fragile bond. It should’ve been gone by now—the scenting happened five days ago.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I can detect some floral scent in Heeseungie hyung’s pheromones.”
Heeseung almost chokes on his noodles. “You do?”
Sunoo leans forward, squinting his eyes at him like he’s some kind of lab specimen. “Yeah. It’s faint, but it’s there. Sweet. Floral. Clingy.” He tilts his head again. “It’s weird.”
Across from him, Heeseung is frozen. His grip on the chopsticks tightens. He swallows harshly.
Jay leans back, arms crossed. “But if it’s still there after five days—”
“It doesn’t automatically mean fated mates,” Sunoo cuts in quickly, tone sharper this time. He shoots Jay a look before turning back to Heeseung. “Don’t jump to that conclusion. That’s, like, extremely rare. And also very dramatic.”
Heeseung exhales, shoulders dropping just a little.
Right. Dramatic. His alpha begs to differ.
“It could just be a stronger-than-usual temporary bond,” Sunoo continues, more thoughtful now. “Maybe your alpha overdid it when you scented them. Or the omega was in a heightened emotional state, so the bond lasted longer.”
Jay hums, not entirely convinced.
“But the whole not getting turned on thing?” He gestures vaguely. “That still doesn’t explain it fully.”
Sunoo taps his chin again. “Mhm. That part’s interesting.” He levels Heeseung with a curious look. “Who is this girl, anyway? You seem pretty fucked over her.”
Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can you not say it like that? Like I’m some kind of a broken alpha?”
“You kinda are right now,” Sunoo says bluntly.
“Sunoo.”
“I’m serious!” He leans forward again, eyes lighting up. “Your body is rejecting other omegas. That’s not normal for you. Like, at all.”
Heeseung slumps deeper into his seat. As if it’s not already obvious enough, Sunoo just had to spell it out loud.
“I noticed,” he mutters, defeated.
Sunoo softens slightly at that, sighing as he rests his chin on his palm. “Okay. Look. Don’t panic yet.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re literally here because your dick stopped working.”
“…Okay, I’m a little panicked.”
Sunoo waves his chopsticks dismissively. “It’s probably not fated mates. If it were, you’d be way worse right now.”
Heeseung stills. “Worse?”
“Yeah,” Sunoo shrugs. “You’d be obsessing. Unable to stay away. Your senses would go crazy. You’d feel everything they feel, more or less.”
Jay slowly turns to look at Heeseung. Heeseung immediately avoids his gaze. That fucker is always eager to catch his ‘Gotcha!’ moment, it irritates him to the core.
“That doesn’t sound like me,” he says a bit too quickly, the lie tasting acidic on his tongue.
Sunoo mustn't know about the knot of uneasiness in his chest. Sunoo mustn’t know about the face that comes to his mind when he’s kissing someone else. None of his friends mustn’t know that he’s obsessing right now, itching to flee and find you in the middle of the night.
“Exactly,” Sunoo nods, unaware of his friend’s turmoil. “So relax. I’ll look into it more, yeah? Might be some weird hormonal response or delayed imprint reaction.”
Heeseung lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay.”
“Or you can do a try-and-error,” Sunoo suggests, reaching over to pat Heeseung’s shoulder. “Just do what you always do—try hooking up with different omegas. Maybe the one you made out with tonight was just a bad compatibility for you.”
Heeseung perks up at that. Sunoo and Jay, not noticing the shift in the air, are already moving forward with a different topic, completely oblivious to the newly-lit determination now burning up his body.
Just do what you always do.
Right. Heeseung has a high body count for a reason. He decides, with a final resolution, that he should solve this his own way.
If Heeseung spends every night for the next two weeks trying to bed different omegas, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.
If Heeseung fails each time, unable to enjoy every kiss and friction, Sunoo and Jay don't have to know.
If the pain in his chest worsens every time he leaves the barely-warm beds, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.
If Heeseung avoids looking at you, avoids bumping into you, avoids speaking to you—he hopes you don’t know about it.
A quiet voice from his wolf whispers something that he refuses to acknowledge: He hopes you’ll forgive him for being unfaithful.
You’ve been sick for two weeks.
At first it was subtle, like a faint throb in your heart that makes you stop whatever you’re doing. The first time it happened, you were in the middle of a group discussion for an elective subject.
A quiet alpha, or a wolf hybrid named Sunghoon, to be exact, had noticed the way you winced from the pain. He didn’t say anything, but you guessed he told an omega about what he saw because right before you exited the library, one of the girls had passed you a free menstrual pad.
He thought you were experiencing period cramps. You wished it was just period cramps.
Then, it gradually grew to something worse. A sudden stabbing pain in your chest. A twist in your gut, like you were expecting something bad to happen. Sometimes it was random palpitations, where your heart was skipping huge beats, as if you were about to go down on a roller coaster.
Each time it happened, you only placed your palm over your heart, hoping it’d go away. You never understood why, but those pains only came at night, preventing you from getting any good sleep and rest. And each time you tried to close your eyes, there was only one face flashing behind your eyelids.
Heeseung.
Yujin had dragged you to the clinic, but the doctor came to a conclusion that you were just having pre-heat symptoms—which couldn’t be further from the truth, because you just had your cycle one month ago. You’re not supposed to go on your quarterly-cycle of torture for another two months.
“Oh my Goddess, you’re burning up.” Yujin’s palm is cold against your forehead. Her face is pulled into a tight expression. “Let’s just skip today’s classes, okay? I’ll stay with you.”
You weakly nod, barely registering Yujin’s movement around the room. Your body feels like a furnace, the heat simmering in your veins almost rivaling a volcano’s lava. You discard the blanket to get some sort of relief, only to shiver in the cold when the air touches your skin.
After a few minutes of exiting and entering your room, Yujin finally sits by your bed. She helps you with a glass of water and a dosage of paracetamol, careful to wipe any loose drops like a concerned mother. It doesn’t get better, but at least your throat doesn’t feel like it’s being scrubbed with sandpaper anymore.
“How’re you feeling now?”
“Dying, but a bit less dramatic.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to give Suho from True Beauty a run for his money, would we?”
You chuckle softly, though it sounds more like a seal with a sore throat.
“But seriously, though. It’s been two weeks.” Yujin purses her lips, the worriness still marring her beautiful face. “I’m so worried, Y/N. What’s happening to you?”
You don’t answer right away. “It’s my omega.”
Yujin’s eyebrow jumps. “What about her?”
You also wonder the same thing. Swallowing, you finally let your friend in on the torturous days you have been going through. “One night, after our practice ran quite late two weeks ago, she went a bit hysteric. I couldn’t stop vomiting.” You recalled, eyes distant in memory. “She kept yelling something about a traitor, about rejection. I don’t know, really. But that’s how it started.”
“Two weeks ago, at night, you say?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Yujin is quiet for a few extended minutes, caressing her thumb over your knuckles. The motion puts you at ease, and slowly, you feel the pills begin working their chemicals.
“Did you, perhaps, hear about anything that happened that night?” You shake your head, unsure if your cheerleader squad had mentioned anything. Yujin hums. “Because I think I did.”
“What?”
“So I’m friends with this one omega named Sunoo from my faculty. A pretty boy and a petty gossiper.” Yujin starts, now treading her words slowly as if walking on eggshells. “He knows everyone on this campus. Especially the hot stuff, you know—student body, athletes, cheerleaders.” Yujin eyes you but not unkindly. “He knows you too. Just the basic stuff.”
“Like?”
“Your name, your major, your Instagram account.”
You let out a breath, a bit unsure where this is heading, but listen anyway. “Okay.”
“And because of his impeccable knowledge of gossip, I heard from him about a cheerleader breaking down in the group chat after a certain alpha left her mid-making out, all slicked and horny while he didn’t even pop a borner.”
You hold onto her every word, but for some reason, a dread has settled deep in your bones, like your body is already anticipating some bad news. Your heart, previously beating fast, is now sprinting like it might escape your rib now.
“And that alpha was Heeseung.”
It hits before you can even think.
A sharp, twisting pain lances through your chest, knocking the air out of your lungs like you’ve been struck. Your fingers curl into the sheets, clutching at nothing.
Your omega whines—hurt, betrayed. And suddenly, you understand why. The cries about betrayal. His face haunts you every night, like a painful reminder of the destiny you're subjected to.
You try to swallow once, then twice, before you find your voice back.
“Heeseung?” You try. His name now tastes bitter on your tongue.
Yujin, ever the empathetic, senses it, and tightens her hold on your hand. “Yeah,” she nods. She lets a moment of quiet pass, fidgeting and swallowing like you. Like the news has more stories that she’s yet to tell; an extended part to a nightmare that’s been keeping you up at night. You brace yourself.
“And two nights ago I saw him at Jake’s frat party with a girl. Doing sexy stuff. The usual.” Yujin can’t look at your face, choosing to stare at your intertwined hands instead. “The frat boys told me that he’s been at it almost every night. For two weeks.”
Is it possible to hurt someone this much in a span of five minutes? Getting shot multiple times would’ve hurt less than this.
There’s a heavy silence, then there’s your small, quiet voice, laced with unfiltered hurt.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“I’m saying, Y/N, that you might be facing bond rejection symptoms right now.” Yujin licks her lips. “I’m saying that you and Heeseung just might be fated mates. That night he scented you? You guys conjured a half-bond. And him fucking around with other omegas like this hurts your wolf because she knows—only this kind of bond can do that.”
Is having a fated mate supposed to hurt like this? Like your chest is caving in, collapsing under the torment of unwanted love. Can you even call it love? Whatever it is that you and Heeseung unknowingly have been sharing—Is it even love?
It’s not. It’s just…fate.
You shake your head. There’s hot pain behind your eyes, a sign of an impending doom. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in.”
A drop of tears rolls down your face and in the next blink, everything is already blurry. “I—I think I already knew it.” Your voice is wet from despair, the pain almost feels tangible. “He never meets my eyes anymore and—and every time I see him, I feel like I might die.”
A warm pair of arms pulls you close, and instantly the scent of green tea fills up your senses. Your roommate holds you tight, letting you rest your head in the crook of her neck as you sob into her chest.
Your wolf, the contradict that she is, hopes that it was Heeseung embracing you. Still hoping it was the alpha comforting you, soothing you with his voice and that calming pheromones of his. Still foolishly longing for him despite everything.
You feel pathetic.
Your crying subsides after a while, still curling up against Yujin like a hurt puppy. You’re already losing track of time, if it’s still proper to have breakfast or if it’s already time for lunch. It is Yujin who finally speaks first.
“Do you hate it?”
You let the question linger in the air, turning it over in your thoughts like what you’ve been doing the past hour since you woke up. “I don’t hate the bond. Nor him.”
You pause, gnawing at your lower lip. Then you exhale.
“I just hate that I was never given a chance to do this properly.”
Yujin pulls away and makes you face her. She wipes your tears using her sleeves, murmuring sweet words as you feel your chest slightly loosening at her kind gesture. “You might still have it. Go and talk to him, Y/N. If he’s avoiding you like this, he might’ve felt something too, right?”
“If he’s avoiding me like this, he might just not want anything to do with me.” A humourless chuckle escapes your lips. “And to think that I thought I had a chance.”
“Wait, I never asked you this. Do you like Heeseung? Both of you; your wolf and you.”
You don’t answer right away. The question sits between the two of you, heavy and fragile; like a mark refusing to be looked over.
Do you like Heeseung?
Your wolf stirs immediately. Yes, I like him.
The answer is quick. Certain. Definite.
But you purse your lips, forcing yourself to think harder, deeper. Forcing yourself to think about you, not her. You can only come to one conclusion.
“I don’t know,” you whisper, honest. It sounds weak even to your ears. Beside you, Yujin keeps rubbing small, grounding circles over your hand.
“I already know my omega likes him,” you admit softly. “She decided that the moment he stayed and took care of me that night.”
Oh, how pathetic is it to fall for someone for doing something as mundane as staying and taking care of you?
It’s laughable. But it makes your chest ache even more, like your heart was an empty can and fate was crushing it with its tight grip.
“But me…” you continue, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know him like that.”
You shake your head, frustration flickering through your expression.
“I don’t know what he’s like when he’s not surrounded by people, or when he’s not—” you gesture vaguely, like you can scoop up every rumour tied to his name. “That version of him everyone talks about.”
You stare at your hands. “But I wanted to.”
Yujin follows, voice soft. “Wanted to?”
“I wanted to get to know him,” you continue, voice trembling. “When I first found out how my wolf feels for him, I thought it could be like how I’ve always imagined having a fated mate would be: slowly falling in love with them. With him.”
A wistful smile graces your beautiful features, soft and vulnerable. “I wanted to know which game he remembers the most. I wanted to know if the number on his jersey means anything. Silly things like that. Not this.”
Your hand moves to your chest unconsciously, rubbing the surface softly.
“Not like this. Not when it hurts every time I—” you cut yourself off, breath shaking. “Not when it hurts every time I look at him.”
You still remember, after one grueling routine, when the pain was still kind enough to let you come to practice. The players had just finished their practice too, slicked with sweat and looking exhausted as ever. Among the tired alphas, your eyes locked onto Heeseung’s.
You had the instincts to go to him and pass him the cold mineral you’d unknowingly saved for him. But the look in his eyes—it was unreadable. Cold. An abyss that was enough to make you stay rooted in your place.
Then, without even a graze of a smile, he looked away, taking a bottle from Riki’s hand.
It had hurt more than you’d like to admit.
“I think…” you try again, more carefully this time. “If things were different, I would’ve liked him.”
Your throat tightens. This time, you’re reminded of that night before everything turned cruel like this. The warmth of his embrace that lingered. The spice of his scent that clung. The safety of his company that comforted you.
Was any of it real?
“And if things were the same…I think I would've still liked him anyway.”
That’s the truth. A quiet, terrifying truth that settles deep in your chest like an unshakeable ground. The kind of truth that makes even your most grounding friend sit still in your bed.
“And that’s what makes it worse,” you whisper.
Because now it’s not just your omega.
It’s you, too.
The one-week intervarsity basketball tournament has finally begun. Around seven universities have sent their representatives, leading to a flood of humans in different-coloured jerseys wandering around on your campus, its official host.
You’re excused from the whole week’s classes, seeing your cheerleaders and bunches of alphas more than you have ever seen your classmates since the tournament started. It was exciting at first, to participate in such a prestigious tournament that is always the talk of town. But the tight schedules between games is becoming more taxing and demanding.
It doesn’t help that the bond rejection symptoms have only gotten worse, hindering you from giving your best potential at each routine. Which, of course, catches the attention of your captain, and she’s not very amused with it.
“Y/N. If you’re not telling me what is wrong with you, then don’t make me find excuses to put you on the bleachers.” Narin once whispered to you on the third day of the tournament. You merely nodded, trying hard not to scrunch your noise at the sour smell of bubblegum and burnt cotton candy. She eyed you up and down, before she scoffed.
“Don’t get too butt-hurt that Heeseung’s fucking other cheerleaders,” she grunted. You froze. “At least you got your round that night. He fucking rejected me.”
What? The confusion must be clear on your face, because then Narin rolled her eyes, fixing the blue ribbon in her hair before she turned to face you.
“You smelled like him for weeks, Y/N. Don’t think people didn’t know that you two fucked after they won against that eastern university that night.” And then she left, leaving a dumbfounded you in the hallway, standing still like a lifeless statue.
Realisation starts settling in. Did people think you and Heeseung—fuck. You should’ve known.
No wonder many eyes were on you during those days when you still smelled like Heeseung. You thought it was just because Heeseung was one of the most sought after alphas on campus. Not this. Not whatever allegation this is.
Still, the bomb Narin had dropped wasn’t enough to stop yourself from pushing yourself past your limits. You don’t even know what your limits are anymore. They seem to keep expanding with every new pain that blooms in your chest.
You’re still a bit sluggish, but at least Narin is off your back. Whatever bitterness she harbours for you, though not forgotten, is at least tamed on the last day of the tournament.
You knew she wouldn’t understand, but you couldn’t help it if the pain worsens. You wish, for once, that Heeseung would take it slow with the cheerleaders from the opposing teams. Because the pain has become unbearable; cracks turning into holes of emptiness in your heart, faint pulsing turning into straight-up invisible stabbing in your gut. You’re actually surprised that you’re not already bleeding from how real it has felt.
However, deep down, there’s a small, barely-there gratitude for Heeseung for not doing it in front of you. At least you can spare yourself from whatever possible torment this fate has destined for you to face if you had to watch Heeseung fucking another omega in the empty locker room.
But you guess it’s time you finally, actually reach your limit, and your body can’t seem to be more dramatic to choose the last game as its last straw. As Heeseung hoops in the last score for the team, sealing their title as the champion, the audience erupts into the loudest cheer you’ve ever heard. You quickly get to your feet to perform the celebratory routine, but the world is spinning and your head is light when you stand up. You stagger backwards.
“Oh my Goddess, are you alright?” One of your cheerleader friends catches you in her arms, shaking you out of your pained daze.
“I…” you cough, your voice only scratching at your throat. “I just need to. Sit. Yeah. I need to sit down and talk to Heeseung.”
“Heeseung?” The girl, who you finally recognise as Rei, looks over at the center of the court, where almost the whole school is hooting and hollering in joy. “Wait—let me sit you down first. You’re pale as hell, damn.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you’re finally seated. Rei has passed you a bottle of mineral water and fans you with her pink hand-fan. She stays by your side, looking after you as the rest of the world celebrates the first champion of your university team. You’re painfully grateful to her for it.
“Hey. Can I call one of your friends? Or maybe, do you have an alpha I can contact?” Rei starts when you’re not speaking, too focused on not focusing on the pain to remember to talk. “You asked for Heeseung just now. Is he your alpha?”
Is he?
You wish you knew the answer to that too.
Instead, you shake your head. “He’s not my alpha. I just…need to have a few words with him.”
Rei purses her lips, clearly not pleased with your priority at the moment but obliges anyway. “Alright. Let me text my cousin real quick.” She says, already rummaging inside her bag for her phone.
Her statement intrigues you. “Cousin?”
“Nishimura Riki. And he’s not replying. Gimme a sec.” You watch as Rei presses the call button on her phone and puts the device over her ear. You follow her line of sight as she turns to look at the court again. The crowd hasn’t calmed down from the high of the win yet.
“Hello, adopted fuck. I need you to read my text ASAP—Nobody’s stealing your girlfriend, Riki! You can go back to kissing her face after you read my text—Okay, okay! My friend, Y/N, needs to talk to Heeseung. President-level urgent.” Rei pauses, taking a quick look at you before she continues. “Yes. It seems very important. Just get his ass here fast. Yeah—Congrats, by the way. I’m not buying you that Chrome Hearts chain. Bye.”
Rei sighs as she pockets her phone. “Heeseung will be here in five minutes. You good? Do you still need anything? I feel like I should call someone else. You’re friends with Ahn Yujin, aren’t you?” She rambles on. For someone who barely speaks to you, Rei sure is a caring omega.
You give her a small smile.”I’m alright, Rei. I’ll rest after seeing him.”
Rei hums, checking her phone when it vibrates. “Aight, if you say so. I’ll be around here until they move to celebrate at Jake’s frat tonight.” She gathers her stuff and stands up, brushing her pleated skirt with practiced elegance that you know is instilled in every cheerleader’s demeanour.
“You take care of yourself. And I better not see you at the party.”
“Thank you, Rei.” You wave at her and watch as the lines of her frame get smaller, disappearing into the crowd.
Now alone, the weight of reality is finally hitting you square in the chest. You curse, pulling your hair when you realise your stupid, impulsive decision, made in the whim of desperation to get the pain go away.
“This is stupid,” you whisper. Without thinking further, you grab your bag and stand to leave. But before you can flee the scene, a heavy presence with the familiar scent of spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze drifts into your senses.
“Y/N?”
The sound of your name leaving his lips has locked you in place. The haunting familiarity of his voice, one that follows you into your restless sleeps and every waking hour, engulfs you almost like the night he held you in his arms.
Except this time, there’s a piercing pain in your heart that comes with his presence. A dull, throbbing ache that’s been a constant company to you, manifested into the shape of the man that your wolf yearns for.
Lee Heeseung.
“Y/N?” He repeats, but you don’t dare to face him just yet. “Riki said you wanted to, uh, talk to me.”
Licking your dry lips, you turn to Heeseung, and the sight has almost rendered you breathless.
Heeseung’s still wearing his jersey, standing tall to his height like he’s dominating the air around him. His burgundy hair looks softer under the light, some small strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. His shoulders are squared up, still lined with pride and the high from winning the tournament. He looks at you calmly, but the edges of his eyes are somewhat gentler; if the lights weren’t tricking your eyes.
You gulp, already losing the battle before it has even started. Why does he have to look so handsome?
You force yourself to say something. “Yeah. I did. I mean, I do. It’s important. I think.”
Heeseung is patient. If your nervousness is something unusual to him, he doesn’t comment on it. After all, you’re indeed known as a shy girl among the cheerleaders.
“I’m…I’m going straight to the point and be honest with you.” Is this really happening? You’re scared that if you were to speak more, your heart might leap out of your mouth from how hard it is pumping behind your ribs. You hold your bag tighter, trying to ground yourself.
“I’m listening,” he hums.
The words are simple. His voice is calm. Too calm, like he’s unaffected, like he doesn’t have a clue about what you’re about to say. It almost makes you falter.
For a second, you just stare at him. At the same face your mind has been haunted for weeks, at the same eyes you’ve been avoiding because they make everything feel too real.
Except everything is actually real. You’re just not ready to admit it yet.
Your fingers curl tighter around your bag.
“Did you…feel anything?” you ask, voice smaller than you intended. “That night.”
Heeseung’s brows pull together, confused. “What do you mean?”
Your throat burns. Stop. Turn around. Leave.
“When you helped me,” you stubbornly continue, ignoring the self-preservation act your wolf’s pulling. “When you scented me. Did you feel something? Anything?”
There’s a shift in the air. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Heeseung’s shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens a fraction. A flash of something that leaves your heart hopeful crosses his face, but it leaves as soon as it comes.
“I was just helping you,” he finally says, almost too quickly. “You were in a bad state.”
The ache in your chest pulses, turning alive with each passing second.
“I know that,” you nod, almost too fast, the throbbing in your head comes back. The headache is well-guaranteed after this, you’re sure of it. “I know. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I just—I just need to know if you felt it too.”
“Felt what?”
You stare at him. God, he’s really making you say it. Is he truly clueless or is he playing with you? Whatever he is trying to do, he’s succeeding at making you feel smaller and…desperate.
“The pull,” you whisper after a while, “the connection.”
Silent stretches between the two of you. Heeseung returns your gaze, but his black eyes reveal nothing about his thoughts.
You try again. “You felt it too…right?”
There it is. For a fleeting second, you think you see it. That flicker in his eyes. The subtle hesitation. The twitch in his jaw. It almost makes you feel hopeful.
Heeseung exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair.
“Y/N,” he starts slower this time, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “There’s no such thing as that.”
If your heart was made of lead, you’re sure it’d clang to the floor so loud for how fast it drops.
“What?”
“Fated mates. Bond. Whatever you’re thinking.” He shakes his head, like he’s making a show of how ridiculous you sound. “That’s not real.”
The cracks finally shatter, allowing a big, gaping hole filled with utter anguish to take place in where your heart used to reside. Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens.
“But—” you try, voice undeniably trembling now. “Then, what is this?”
Your hand presses weakly against your chest.
“Why does it hurt like this? Why does,” your voice cracks, your omega thrashing wildly inside you, “why does it hurt so much?”
For a split second, panic flashes across his face. There’s a change in his scent. A sharp, biting spice that’s stinging your nose and thick, briny salt that leaves your throat itchy.
Because he knows. He knows this isn’t normal. He knows how he almost went psychosis the moment it happened to him three weeks ago.
But Heeseung’s always been good at leaving—it’s the one thing that’s been keeping his heart in a safe chest without any chances of getting hurt. It’s almost cruel that he never really cares if leaving right after sex would hurt any of the omegas, but he’s never felt bad enough to stop.
And you feel like someone who will make him stay.
So he does what he knows best.
“It’s in your head,” he says, firmer now. “Probably just your heat cycle messing with you. Or stress.”
The moment those words leave his mouth, your chest feels hollow. Your omega, previously hysterical and angry, is now awfully quiet and wounded.
Right. It’s just stress, he said.
You wish it was just stress.
“Oh,” is the only word you can utter. Heeseung nods, as if convincing himself too, and takes a step back.
But for you, it feels too much like a line being drawn.
“Maybe you should get some rest. You look kind of pale,” he suggests, though his voice is slowly getting small the longer he watches the changes in your expression. You’re not looking at him now, just staring at your feet with trembling fists.
The wilting flowers are back in his senses, filling up his nose and beating at his heart like a bat. Heeseung bites his lips, swallowing down the guilt.
“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”
The sight of his retreating back…why is it so blurry?
“You are so fucking stupid, Heeseung.”
Heeseung’s always wondered how his best friend’s citrusy pheromones are going to smell like when he’s mad. Because Jay never gets mad at him. His friend has so much patience that every playful banter always stays as just a playful banter.
But tonight, Heeseung finally senses it. Jay smells bitter, like overripe lemon left too long in hot water. There’s a sharp, metallic tang to it too, representing the control that he’s trying so hard to keep in check. In response to the alpha’s irritated scent, Heeseung’s dominant wolf is itching to draw his claws out, sensing it as a threat.
They’re standing at the backyard of the frat house, where the pool is glowing blue and the night sky is blinking stars. It’s quieter here, with less people hanging around. Many guests have preferred to dance inside, still in celebration mode post-winning.
“What the fuck were you thinking, trying to get into someone else’s pants right after her—her confession?” Jay scoffs in disbelief. He has his back facing Heeseung, the tense muscle of his shoulders visible through the outline of his Polo shirt.
Heeseung, on the other hand, looks more disheveled. The collar of his shirt is misplaced, and there are faint lipstick marks staining his neck and the corner of his mouth. Jay had heard from Riki about what happened between Heeseung and you and the alpha was determined to drag Heeseung out of the bedroom, not before muttering a small apology to the omega he was with. It was all shouts and aggressive whispers between the two alphas until Riki managed to shoo them out.
Which brings them to this moment, where Jay is a ticking bomb and Heeseung is trying his best to calm down. Jay didn’t exactly know who she was, just that he’d seen her face among the cheerleaders. While Heeseung, well, he’s too worked up to explain.
“Confession? What made you think—”
“You guys are fated mates, Heeseung. Can’t you fucking see it?” Jay whips his head around. “This pull you’re feeling is because you guys are fated mates. There’s no other explanation to it.”
Heeseung clenches his jaw. “Those things don’t exist, Jongseong. Not to me.”
“Oh, come on. Then explain your sex problem.” Jay hisses, his eyes turning sharper. “You think I don’t know that you still can’t get your dick wet with other omegas?”
The burgundy-haired alpha doesn’t blink. “It’s none of your business.”
“It is when she could’ve died!” Jay snaps, his scent flaring with his nose. Heeseung grits his teeth, feeling challenged.
Then, softer, like vulnerability leaking through his anger, Jay continues: “You could’ve died, Heeseung.”
Heeseung stills. “What?”
Jay lets out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think so little of this matter, don’t you?” His voice drops, tight and furious. “A half-bond between fated mates when left too long can cause death. And with the speed you’re going with all these nameless omegas, I bet it’ll be her turn to die first.”
Heeseung scoffs, but it’s weaker now. There’s a new fear settling in his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” Jay cuts in sharply. “You’re being stupid. I saw her just now. She’s pale as fuck.”
Heeseung’s quiet for a moment, staring into his friend’s eyes with almost the same amount of resentment. “It has nothing to do with me.”
Like a punishment to his lie, something twists sharply in his chest. But Heeseung is quick to mask his pain under a calm facade, gritting his teeth so hard he might break his jaw. Jay scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“Oh, so you’re doing this again.” Jay steps closer, not backing away. “You’re running away again, like the coward that you are. You’ll just run and run, deflect and disappear. Typical Heeseung.”
Jay knows he’ll hit a spot if he says it, but he couldn’t care less. He watches as the expression on Heeseung hardens, giving away the emotions he kept locked in his chest.
“Don’t.”
But Jay doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t.
“You think I don’t see it?” Jay presses, voice rising. “Every time something starts to mean something, you bolt. New omega, new bed, new distraction—anything to avoid actually feeling something real.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what this is!” Jay gestures wildly, frustration spilling over. “You found your mate, and instead of dealing with it, you’re out there fucking anything that moves just to prove you’re still in control.”
Silence slams between them, heavy and ugly. Both alphas are holding back from spiraling, neck straining from self-control and simmering anger.
Heeseung’s laugh this time is cold. “Mate?” he repeats, like the word tastes disgusting. “You really believe in that shit?”
Jay stares at him, disbelief flickering across his face. “I believe in what’s right in front of me.”
“There’s nothing in front of you,” Heeseung shoots back. “She’s just an omega I helped. That’s it.”
“Then why her?” Jay fires immediately. “Why can you find her in a crowd? Why does your scent stick to her for days—for weeks? Why can’t you even touch another omega without looking like you’re about to throw up?”
Heeseung falters, his words failing him as Jay hits him with those facts. His shaky stance doesn’t go unnoticed by the alpha, though. He’s quick to seize the chance.
Jay inhales sharply. “You know I’m right, Heeseung. You and Y/N share a bond.”
“So what?!” Heeseung snaps, frustration finally cracking through. “So what if there’s a bond? You want me to just—what? Drop everything? Play house? Act like I’m suddenly someone I’m not?”
Heeseung meets Jay’s fiery gaze head-on and shoves his friend harshly. “Stay out of it, Jay. I swear to fucking God.”
“And what? Watch you let her die because you couldn’t care less to acknowledge the bond?” Jay lets out a hollow laugh, pushing Heeseung back just as hard. “And then I watch you die?”
“Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about this.”
Their scents clash; sharp citrus and aggressive spice filling up the space like a warning siren. It almost turns physical, Riki almost bursts through the door when he sees their chests almost touching. But it is Jay who stops first.
Not because he wants to. But because he’s thinking of you.
“My parents are fated mates, Heeseung.” Jay starts, quieter, his voice losing its harsh edges. “Doesn’t mean you don’t believe in it, it isn’t real to other people.”
Heeseung remains quiet, his chest still moving rapidly.
Jay’s eyes turn glassy. He retreats one more step away from Heeseung. “If you don’t want her, reject the bond properly,” he says, breathing hard. “You’re letting someone know that you don’t want her as your mate. At least have the decency to be kind about it.”
Jay unclenches his fists.
“Don’t drag her through this half-assed bullshit where you keep hurting her just because you can’t make a decision.”
Heeseung freezes. Out of all words being shouted tonight, it is this quiet resignation from Jay that hits his heart the hardest.
Am I being cruel? Heeseung lowers his gaze. Am I a coward?
Heeseung doesn’t wait too long for an answer.
“Stop being a coward, Heeseung. I beg you.”
The words hang between them, like unwanted vines curling around a trunk of a tree. Heeseung’s gaze stays rooted to the ground, trying to find his voice.
But he doesn’t get the chance to.
“...Heeseung?”
Your voice, soft as it is, cuts through the air like a blade. Both alphas turn to where you’re standing by the door. The faint light spilling from the moon only highlights how pale your face is, void of any warmth and colour.
You stand there, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, your other pressed weakly against your chest. Your eyes, God, your eyes. They’re glassy, unfocused, yet locked onto him like you’ve found something you’ve been searching for your entire life.
Beside him, Heeseung can sense the way Jay’s body tenses the way his does.
“Heeseung…” you call for him again and move to get closer.
But then you flinch. Your entire body recoils, your nose scrunches.
There, lingering around Heeseung like an unwanted mark, is a scent you know too well. Fruity bubblegum and cloying cotton candy; a scent that flashes pink in your head, turning into a female rage that hits too close to home. Your gaze catches the shape of someone’s mouth staining his golden skin, and something inside you breaks.
Narin.
Heeseung smells like Narin.
Your hand instinctively goes to cover your nose, eyes slowly going wide. The room goes silent, holding its breath as Heeseung feels it.
The fleeting second where something inside you shatters.
Heeseung steps forward. “Y/N—”
But you retreat faster, away from him like he’s a disease that could kill you.
“No,” your voice cracks, shaking your head as if trying to physically deny what your body is already registering. “No, no, no…”
Your breath comes out in shallow bursts, your fingers clawing at your shirt.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
It’s like every system in your body is collapsing, failing to cope with the ultimate rejection that comes in the scent of another woman. Your fist hits your chest, forcing the air to flow in because it suddenly feels almost impossible to breathe.
Heeseung feels it now—really, really feels it. The bond is thrashing, frantic, like it’s holding onto something that’s slipping through its grasp. The pained scent of withering daisies starts filling up the air, suffocating both alphas instantly. Jay shifts uncomfortably, looking back and forth from Heeseung to you in alert.
“Hey, hey—Y/N,” Heeseung tries again, softer this time, reaching out instinctively. “Look at me. Y/N—”
“Don’t!” Your voice spikes, sharp with fear. Heeseung freezes, his throat closing up when he sees something you’re yet to realise.
That’s when you feel it—something warm trickling down your nose. You instinctively wipe it and stare at the red liquid smearing your fingers.
Blood. Then another drop falls on your palm. Before you can react properly, it already spills down your chin, past your fingers, dripping onto the floor, tainting the white tiles like a crime scene.
“Fuck.” Jay curses under his breath, his wolf perking up in alarm.
Beside him, Heeseung is beyond agitated. “Y/N!”
He doesn’t think. Heeseung lunges forward, longing to be close to you at that moment. But you’re already shaking your head rapidly, tears spilling uncontrollably now.
“Stop!” you gasp, pale lips trembling like dying petals. “I can’t do this—I can’t—”
Inside you, your omega is screaming in pain. In betrayal. In self-preservation. Her voice, raw and jagged, torn by pain, echoes in your head.
An instinct, primal and desperate, takes over your being.
Cut it off.
Cut it off before it kills you.
You clutch at your chest, lungs burning up like a wildfire. Tears spill out freely, drenching your face in anguish and agony.
Cut it off!
And finally, you let go.
Across from you, just a few paces away, Heeseung feels it like a force, stopping him in his tracks.
It doesn’t come gradually, or slowly. It rips through his body. A violent, invisible force tearing straight through his chest like something sacred being forcibly severed. His breath is knocked out of him.
“Fuck!” Somewhere behind him, Jay is also spiraling, realising what’s going down.
But Heeseung doesn’t know. He staggers, his knees almost giving up as excruciating pain spreads from the scent gland in his neck down to his chest. Something inside him—something he never fully acknowledges—finally snaps. He almost screams.
A thick veil of tears wells up instantly, blurring his vision faster than he could process it.
“Y/N,” his voice breaks, the cracks showing up like poison in daggers. Across from him, you’re already sobbing.
It’s loud and raw, a wailing that stops even the loud music from inside. Your scent, bitter and beyond distressed, is now flooding the space like a broken dam. Your body folds in on itself as if trying to contain something that’s already shattered beyond repair.
Inside of you, your omega goes silent completely.
And it terrifies him. A lot.
Heeseung clutches his neck, where his scent gland is pulsing violently, throbbing in an indescribable pain that feels like it could kill him. And when his eyes find yours, he realises with dread that the pull is no longer there.
He can’t feel you. His wolf can’t feel your wolf.
The constant, aching thread that’s been tying him to you; it’s gone.
You cut the bond from your side.
The half-bond, already fragile with doubt and cowardice, is hanging by its loose thread. If it was a red string like many people had said, Heeseung’s sure it’d waver pathetically by his finger, trembling like a thread losing its kite.
“What…What did you do?” he whispers, voice hollow and shaky.
Heeseung takes a step forward again, ignoring Jay’s warning voice from behind him. His focus becomes singular on you, not minding the many pairs of eyes watching from the other side of the door.
This time, his step is slower and careful, like approaching something fragile. Something that is already broken.
Someone wounded.
You don’t move toward him. You don’t even spare him a look. You just cry, quietly, as now it feels empty where the bond used to be. You can’t feel him.
You can only feel pain.
“Y/N…”
“...I want to leave.”
You wipe your nose, the blood still fresh and wet. You lean on the door for support, still trying to hold yourself up despite the urge to just collapse. Heeseung has to force restraint on himself, holding himself back from running to you. He searches your face, trying to catch your eyes, terrified beyond reason.
The silence is deafening.
At last, you lift your gaze, misty eyes meeting misty eyes.
“I ended it.” Your voice, used to be soft and warm, is now cold. Heeseung feels his lungs stop functioning.
all heeseung has ever known is women throwing themselves at him and endless money. so what happens when his parents bribe a poor girl to marry him for one year to teach him a lesson? Can he adapt to the poor lifestyle or will he fail before the 365 days are over?
Warnings: mentions parental death and illness, heeseung's parents suck, heeseung is a major dick at first, they fight alot, Heeseung has jealousy issues, slow burn AF
What was only 9 days of waiting was really two months for me 🥲This took me from January until yesterday I won't lie I kept getting stuck and then after the announcement I obsessively wrote the rest. you guys do not understand the genuine rage I dealt with all day from 7 AM to 11 PM of trying to post this stupid fake because of the Tumblr rules of how long a paragraph can be and how many “paragraphs“ can have you can only have 1000 and I spent hours adjusting this and having to copy and paste a paragraph by paragraph to be able to get all of this in 😭
ao3 version - wattpad version - Last chance AU
WC: 23k
The strong smell of antiseptic was giving you a headache. The elevator wouldn’t move fast enough, and the doors wouldn’t open fast enough. Your feet slammed the ground as you rushed through the hallways of the hospital, eyes darting between the number plaques on the walls until you reached the room you were looking for.
Inside the room, your mother lay in a hospital bed, pale and hooked up to monitors. You couldn’t hear the beeping of the machines over your heart pounding in your chest.
“Mom..” your voice cracked, tears finally spilling. You dropped your bag, basically throwing yourself to her bedside, tightly grasping her hands in yours. Her head fully turned towards yours, exhaustion clearly written on her features.
“Y/N..” Her hand shakily stroked your head once before slipping back down to her side. A mix of anger and sadness brewed in your chest. “I told you to rest. I can handle the restaurant myself.”
She coughed lightly, and you noticed the faint tremor in her fingers. “I’m… trying, sweetheart. But the medicine… It’s expensive. Too expensive for us.”
The words hit you like a punch. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the weight of the world pressing down. One month’s rent, the ingredients for the restaurant, her bills… it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
You shook your head frantically, desperation rising. “There has to be a way, Mom. I’ll work more shifts, I’ll save… I’ll—”
She cut you off softly, her voice weak but firm. “Y/N… I can’t ask you to risk yourself more than you already do. I just… can’t.”
A sudden knock caught your attention. Looking towards the door, a nurse with a clipboard. “A special patron is asking to speak to...” She looked down at the papers, flipping between them for a moment, “the daughter of Miss Sunja.”
Slowly, you rose to your feet, heart hammering in your chest. Who would be asking for you?
"That would be me.” A deep voice cut.
Your eyes snapped to locate the voice. It belonged to a tall man in a suit. Standing next to him was a woman. Every detail about them screamed wealth—polished shoes, designer clothes, you could even smell the woman’s expensive perfume from feet away.
The man’s eyes burned holes into your skin as he looked you up and down. Suddenly, you felt slightly insecure about your worn clothes.
“Can I speak to you in the hallway?” It was a demand framed as a question.
You hesitated for a moment, staring at him. Swallowing, you gave a quick nod. “Fine.”
He gestured toward the hallway, and cautiously you stepped out, keeping your hands in front of you. As soon as the door closed behind you, the cold air of authority hit harder.
“My family donates generously to this hospital. We've been informed about your… Situation.” Heat rose in your chest at the mock pity in his tone describing your current life. “I have a proposition.”
Suspicion filled you. “What do you want from me? I don't have anything to offer.”
“My son needs to learn a lesson. He’s lived comfortably for far too long. No responsibility. No consequences. He wastes money because he’s never had to think about earning it.”
Heat crept up your neck. “And that has something to do with me?”
His gaze sharpened. “Everything. For one year, you marry him. He lives without access to our money. No allowance. No safety net. He will live your life—your village, your routines, your reality.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “You want to use me to discipline your son?”
“I want to give him perspective,” he corrected calmly. “You’ll give him structure. Humility. Reality.”
Anger flared bright and sudden. “So I’m what? some kind of punishment? You think using me—someone poor, struggling—is the way to teach him?”
He let out a soft, amused laugh. “Struggling? Oh, my dear, this is struggling?” He gestured vaguely at the hospital, at your hands, at the way your posture carried years of hard work. “I have to admit, it’s… quaint. Charming, almost. But far too inconvenient for my son. He’ll live your life for a year. Perhaps then he’ll stop acting like the world revolves around him.”
Heat rose in your chest. “So I’m supposed to be your… your lesson plan?”
“Not supposed to,” he said, voice smooth, almost cutting. “You are. Your misery, your poverty, your… quaint little life—everything about you—is the perfect antidote to the arrogance of my spoiled heir.”
Your jaw tightened. “You think my life is a joke.”
He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Oh, it’s more than a joke. It’s an experience. And for him, it’s necessary. For you… Well, it’s an opportunity—one year. Your mother’s treatment is paid for. Top-tier care. And perhaps, if you’re clever, to make it out without losing your dignity entirely.”
Your hands clenched at your sides. Pride screamed at you to walk away, to spit in his face for the condescension. But your mother’s pale, fragile form in the hospital bed—the bills stacking impossibly high—kept your feet planted.
You swallowed hard. “…I’ll do it,” you said, voice low but resolute—one year. I can survive for Mom.
The man’s smirk widened, sharp and satisfied, as if he’d won some private game. “Excellent. Bold, clever… and desperate enough to matter. I like that. One year. That’s all we need.”
And as his gaze lingered, cold and assessing, you realized: this man—this wealthy, arrogant monster—saw everything about your life as trivial, pitiful… and yet, he expected you to survive it, for his son.
The hallway fell quiet after his words, the weight of the agreement settling heavily on your chest. Before you could say anything else, the click of polished shoes echoed down the corridor.
Slow. Unhurried. Confident.
You turned instinctively.
He arrived like he owned the building.
Lee Heeseung was tall—taller than you expected—and dressed far too well for a hospital hallway. A black coat draped effortlessly over his shoulders, his hair perfectly styled despite the sterile setting. He looked bored, almost amused, as if this were just another inconvenience added to his day.
His gaze flicked from his parents to you.
And lingered.
Not politely. Not kindly. Slowly. Assessing. Taking in your worn clothes, the tension in your posture, the way your hands curled into fists like you were bracing for impact.
“So,” he said lazily, voice smooth and rich with arrogance, “this is her?”
Something about the way he said her made your skin crawl.
You straightened instinctively, lifting your chin. “I have a name.”
His lips curved—not into a smile, but a smirk. “Do you?” His eyes flicked briefly to his father. “You didn’t think to mention that.”
His mother sighed softly. “Heeseung.”
“What?” He shrugged. “I just expected someone… different.” His gaze swept over you again, unapologetic. “You look smaller than I imagined.”
Heat flared in your chest. “And you look exactly like someone who’s never worried about paying a hospital bill.”
That earned you his full attention.
For the first time, the amusement in his eyes sharpened into something alert. Interested.
“Well,” he chuckled, tilting his head, “this is already more entertaining than I thought.”
His father stepped forward. “Enough. This is the woman you’ll be marrying.”
Heeseung blinked once. Then laughed.
A real laugh. Disbelieving. “You’re joking.”
“No,” his father said flatly. “One year. No access to family funds. You’ll live with her. Her life. Her village.”
Heeseung’s smirk slowly faded as the words settled.
“…You’re serious,” he muttered.
You watched the realization hit him in stages—confusion, disbelief, irritation, and finally something darker.
He looked back at you. Really looked.
“You?” he said, incredulous. “This is the lesson?”
Your jaw tightened. “Trust me. I didn’t ask for this either.”
Something flickered across his face at that. Not guilt. Not sympathy.
Annoyance.
“So let me get this straight,” he said coolly. “I’m supposed to give up my money, my home, my life… and move into whatever hole-in-the-wall village you crawled out of?”
Your breath hitched—but you didn’t look away.
“Yes,” you said evenly. “And if you can’t survive one year of my ‘hole-in-the-wall’ life, then maybe you really are as useless as your parents think.”
Silence.
His mother sucked in a quiet breath.
His father’s lips twitched—almost approving.
Heeseung stared at you, eyes darkening. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer until you were standing toe-to-toe. He smelled expensive—cologne, wealth, entitlement.
“You’re brave,” he murmured. “Or stupid.”
You met his gaze without flinching. “I’ve survived worse than you.”
For a moment, something unreadable passed through his eyes.
Then he smiled.
Sharp. Dangerous.
“Fine,” he said. “One year.” His gaze dipped briefly—possessive, calculating—before returning to your eyes. “But don’t get it twisted. I don’t lose.”
Your heart pounded—but you refused to back down.
“Neither do I.”
His father adjusted his cufflinks as if this were nothing more than another business meeting concluded. “Everything will be arranged. Her mother’s treatment will begin immediately.”
“And my things?” Heeseung asked sharply. “My car. My phone.”
“You won’t need them,” his father replied without looking back. “You’ll have what everyone else has.”
Then they were gone.
No driver appeared. No black car pulled up to the curb outside the hospital. Just the automatic doors sliding shut behind them, leaving the two of you standing under harsh fluorescent lights.
Heeseung exhaled slowly. “…You’re kidding.”
You followed his gaze to the empty entrance. “About what?”
“The car,” he said flatly. “This is a joke, right?”
“They were serious,” you replied, already turning toward the exit. “One year. No money. No help.”
He scoffed. “You expect me to walk?”
“No,” you said. “We’re taking the bus.”
That finally snapped something in him.
“The—” He stopped himself, rubbing his face in disbelief. “I don’t do buses.”
You didn’t slow down. “Then you’re going to have a rough year.”
Outside, the evening air was cold and damp. The bus stop sat across the street—a metal bench, faded route map, a small cluster of people waiting quietly. An old man. A woman holding groceries. A student with headphones in.
Heeseung stopped dead.
You noticed.
The way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, the cracked pavement, the crooked bus schedule taped to the glass.
“This is disgusting,” he muttered. “Do people actually live like this?”
You turned sharply. “Watch it.”
He blinked, startled by your tone.
“I mean—” he gestured vaguely as a bus roared past, exhaust filling the air. “There’s no space. No privacy. It smells like—like metal and oil.”
“And survival,” you snapped. “It smells like people getting to work.”
The bus pulled up with a hiss. Doors folding open. People shuffled forward.
Heeseung didn’t move.
“You’re not serious,” he said again, quieter now. “I’m wearing designer shoes.”
You stepped onto the bus, swiping your worn transit card without ceremony. Then you turned back and met his eyes.
“Then stay here,” you said simply. “But my mom doesn’t get her medicine if you don’t get on.”
That did it.
His jaw clenched. Pride warred openly with disbelief.
Finally, with obvious disgust, he stepped on.
The bus lurched forward almost immediately. He grabbed the nearest pole, grimacing as someone bumped into him. His coat brushed against a stranger’s sleeve, and he recoiled.
“This is unbelievable,” he muttered. “People are touching me.”
You took a seat by the window. “Get used to it.”
The ride was long. Loud. Cramped.
Heeseung refused to sit, staring at the scuffed floor like it personally offended him. Every bump made him scowl. Every stop earned a sharp exhale.
At one point, he leaned down toward you, voice low.
“You live like this every day?”
You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
He straightened slowly.For the first time since he arrived, he had nothing to say.
When the bus finally pulled into your village stop, the doors hissed open again. Darkness stretched beyond the streetlights—uneven roads, small houses tucked close together.
You stood. “This is us.”
Heeseung stepped off behind you, shoes crunching against gravel.
He looked around.
Then back at you.
“This,” he said flatly, “is where I’m supposed to survive for a year?”
You met his gaze without flinching.
“This,” you said, “is where you’re going to learn.”
And as the bus pulled away—taking the last trace of his old life with it—you saw it finally sink in.
Lee Heeseung had never been this powerless before.
And he hated it.
The walk from the bus stop was quiet.
Not peaceful—just heavy.
Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you led the way down the narrow road, streetlights flickering inconsistently overhead. The village had settled into its nighttime rhythm: doors shut, lights dim, the distant hum of a television through thin walls.
Behind you, Heeseung walked stiffly, every step careful, irritated by the uneven ground. His shoes were already dusted, his coat brushing too close to fences and walls for his liking.
“So,” he said after a few moments, breaking the silence, “how much farther is this?”
“Not far,” you replied, not slowing.
He scoffed softly. “You know, in Seoul this would barely qualify as a road.”
You didn’t respond.
You stopped in front of a small, weathered house. One floor. Peeling paint near the door. A single light glowing faintly from inside.
“This is it,” you said.
Heeseung stared.
“This?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He looked around again, as if expecting the real house to appear behind it. “You’re telling me… this is where you live?”
You unlocked the door. “If you don’t like it, the bus stop’s still open.”
The inside was warm—but cramped.
One small bedroom off to the side. A narrow bathroom barely large enough to turn around in. The kitchen and living space blended into one another—a small table, two mismatched chairs, a worn couch pushed against the wall.
Heeseung stepped inside and immediately froze.
“You’re joking,” he said, disbelief sharp in his voice. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“There is no rest of it.”
He turned slowly, eyes darting. “This is… everything?”
“Yes.”
His face twisted. “How do you breathe in here?”
You kicked off your shoes and moved past him, setting your bag down by the table. “You get used to it.”
He exhaled loudly, shrugging off his coat like it had offended him. “I’m starving, by the way. We didn’t eat.”
You didn’t look at him. You went straight to the sink to wash your hands, then to the cupboard.
“I’m serious,” he added, irritation creeping in. “I haven’t eaten since—”
“I heard you,” you said calmly.
You pulled out a small bag of rice and a few vegetables—onions, zucchini, and a single carrot. Nothing fancy. Nothing extra.
He watched you in disbelief. “That’s it?”
You ignored him, rinsing the rice carefully, the practiced motions automatic. You set a pot on the stove, poured in water, and turned the flame on low.
Heeseung wandered the space restlessly, opening cabinets without asking.
“Why do you have so few plates?”
“Why is everything so old?”
“Is this table going to collapse if I lean on it?”
“Don’t touch that,” you snapped when he reached for a loose cabinet door.
He lifted his hands. “Relax.”
He wandered toward the bedroom, peering inside. “Where do you sleep?”
“There,” you said flatly.
“And me?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
He frowned. “There’s only one bed.”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you carefully sliced the vegetables and added them to the pot as it began to simmer. The soft bubbling filled the room, grounding you.
He leaned against the counter, watching you now, quieter.
“…Where’s your dad?” he asked suddenly.
Your hand stilled.
“What?” you said, not turning.
“I mean,” he shrugged, “your mom is in the hospital, and no mention of a dad. So where is he?”
The room felt colder.
“He’s dead,” you said simply.
He froze.
“Oh.”
Silence stretched.
You kept cooking, stirring the pot slowly. “He died when I was sixteen. Heart attack. No insurance.”
He didn’t say anything for once.
The soup finished cooking not long after. You ladled it carefully into two small bowls, measuring portions. Rice on the side.
You set the bowls on the table.
Heeseung stared at them.
“…That’s it?” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
He laughed once, incredulous. “You’re kidding. This wouldn’t even qualify as an appetizer.”
Something in your chest snapped.
“This is dinner,” you said sharply.
“For who?” he scoffed. “A child?”
You slammed the ladle down harder than necessary. “This is what we eat.”
He looked up at you, startled by the edge in your voice. “You expect me to survive on this?”
“I’ve survived on it my entire life.”
He gestured to the bowl. “This is barely enough for one person.”
Your hands curled into fists. “Then don’t eat it.”
He blinked. “What?”
“If it’s not good enough for you, don’t touch it,” you snapped. “But don’t stand there and insult the only food I can afford.”
The room went quiet.
Heeseung looked at you—really looked at you this time. Your clenched jaw. The way your shoulders were tense. The anger barely masking exhaustion.
“…You’re serious,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” you replied. “Dead serious.”
For the first time that night, he didn’t complain.
He sat down slowly.
And ate.
The bowls sat drying on the counter, water droplets clinging to their rims. The house felt quieter now—too quiet—like it was holding its breath. The old clock above the fridge ticked steadily, each second loud in the cramped space.
You wiped your hands on a towel and glanced toward Heeseung. He was still standing by the table, shoulders tense, like he wasn’t sure whether to sit, pace, or complain again.
“So…” he said eventually, dragging the word out. “Sleeping.”
You already knew this was coming. “What about it?”
He gestured vaguely around the house. “There’s one bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“And one couch,” he added, eyes narrowing as he actually looked at it this time. “If that thing qualifies.”
You crossed your arms. “I sleep in the bed.”
He blinked. “That was fast.”
“It’s my house.”
“We’re married,” he shot back.
“In paperwork,” you replied coolly. “Not in reality.”
He scoffed, dragging a chair back and sitting down heavily. “You don’t seriously expect me to sleep on that.”
You walked over, pulled open a cabinet, and retrieved a folded blanket—thin, faded, but clean. You placed it on the couch and gave it a small pat.
“There. That’s yours.”
He stared at it like it might bite him. “That’s not a blanket. That’s a suggestion.”
“It works.”
“For you,” he muttered.
You turned toward the bedroom, already done with the conversation. “You can take it, or you can stand all night. I’m going to sleep.”
“…There aren’t even sheets,” he complained.
“There’s one pillow. Use it wisely.”
He let out a dramatic sigh, collapsing onto the couch experimentally. It dipped immediately, springs creaking in protest.
“Oh, this is fantastic,” he deadpanned. “I’m going to wake up folded in half.”
You stepped into the bedroom and closed the door most of the way, leaving it cracked just enough to let light through. The room was barely bigger than the bed itself. You changed quietly, the familiar routine grounding you. When you lie down, the mattress dips softly, springs sighing beneath you.
Outside, you heard Heeseung shifting again. The couch groaned.
“This thing hates me,” he muttered.
You smiled faintly despite yourself.Minutes passed. Then more.
“…Do you always sleep this early?” he asked, voice softer now.
“Yes.”
Another pause. The fridge hummed.
“…It smells like soup in here,” he said. “Not bad. Just… different.”
You turned onto your side, staring at the wall. “My mom used to make it when I was little. Said it helped you sleep.”
The couch creaked as he adjusted. “Guess she was right.”
Silence settled again—thicker this time, but not as sharp.
“…Hey,” he said quietly.
You hesitated. “What?”
“…I’m not used to this.”
You didn’t ask what this meant. You already knew.
“I know,” you said instead.
Another long pause.
“…Goodnight,” he said, awkward and almost unsure.
You closed your eyes. “Goodnight.”
The house creaked softly as it settled around you—small, imperfect, but warm. Outside, the village was quiet, wrapped in darkness. Inside, two lives collided under one fragile roof.
On the narrow couch, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of detergent and soup, Lee Heeseung stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. Uncomfortable. Out of place.
But for the first time that night, not entirely angry.
And in the small bedroom, you lay listening to his breathing through the thin walls, knowing tomorrow would be hard—but for now, the quiet was enough.
-
The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m.
The sharp, tinny sound cut through the quiet like a blade. You reached for it instantly, slapping it silent before it could ring twice. The last thing you wanted was to wake him—but the damage was already done.
You sat up slowly, muscles aching, eyes heavy. Dawn hadn’t even begun to lighten the sky yet. The room was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. You pulled on a hoodie, changed quickly, and tied your hair back with practiced movements. This was your routine. You’d been doing this long before Heeseung entered your life.
You slipped out of the bedroom and froze.
Heeseung was sitting upright on the couch, hair a mess, blanket tangled around his waist. His expression was thunderous—jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief as he took in the room again. The cracked table. The tiny kitchen. The thin blanket.
“What the hell is this?” he snapped.
You paused, one hand on your bag strap. “Morning to you, too.”
He rubbed his face hard, like he was trying to wake himself up. “No. No—this isn’t real. I fell asleep somewhere awful, and this is just a nightmare.”
You exhaled slowly. “It’s real. And you’re awake.”
He stood abruptly, the couch springs screaming in protest. “You expect me to believe that I actually slept here?” He gestured wildly. “On that thing? With that blanket?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even warn me I’d wake up at the crack of dawn,” he added, glancing toward the window where the sky was still pitch-black.
“I didn’t wake you up on purpose,” you said flatly. “I have work.”
“At five in the morning?” His laugh was sharp and humorless. “Doing what? Punishing yourself?”
Your grip tightened on your bag. “I run the restaurant.”
He blinked. “Run it?”
“I open it. I prep. I cook. I serve. I clean. Every day.” You stepped past him toward the kitchen, reaching for the kettle. “Some of us don’t get to sleep in.”
“That’s insane,” he snapped. “You’re telling me this is your life? This—” He looked around again, disgust curling his lip. “This miserable schedule, this place—”
“Watch it,” you warned, voice low.
He ignored you. “My father said I’d live your life, not be tortured.”
You turned to face him fully now, eyes blazing. “You think this is torture?”
“Yes!” he shouted. “This is humiliating. I wake up in some shoebox, starving, sore, freezing, and now you’re just leaving me here?”
“I don’t have a choice!”
“You always have a choice,” he snapped back. “You just like pretending you don’t.”
The words hit harder than he intended—or maybe exactly as hard.
You went still.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said quietly.
“Then explain it to me!” he shot back. “Explain why you’re letting my family walk all over you. Explain why you’re okay with this—why you’re okay being dragged down!”
That did it.
You slammed your bag onto the table. “Dragged down?” you repeated, incredulous. “This is my life, Heeseung. This restaurant? It keeps the lights on. It paid for my mom’s medicine before your father ever opened his mouth. You don’t get to call it being dragged down just because it’s not wrapped in money.”
He faltered for half a second—but his pride surged back just as fast.
“You’re acting like this is noble,” he scoffed. “It’s pathetic. You’re working yourself to death and calling it responsibility.”
“And you’re waking up on a couch and calling it suffering,” you shot back. “I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen.”
Silence cracked between you.
His eyes narrowed. “So what—this is how it’s going to be? You disappear all day and I just… rot here?”
“You can come to the restaurant if you want,” you said sharply, grabbing your jacket. “But you’re not going to stand in my house and insult my life.”
“Your house?” he echoed.
“Yes. Mine.”
He stepped closer, towering over you. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
You met his gaze without flinching. “I absolutely do.”
“Do you know who I am?” his fists checked at his side.
“Remember. Your status here means nothing.”
For a moment, it felt like neither of you would back down. The air was thick, charged, buzzing with anger and exhaustion.
Then you broke eye contact first—not because you were weaker, but because you were running out of time.
“I’m leaving,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “There’s food in the fridge. Eat it or don’t. I don’t care.”
He laughed bitterly. “Unbelievable.”
You stopped at the door, hand on the handle. “Get used to it. This is your life now, too.”
You didn’t wait for a response. The door shut behind you with a final, hollow click.
Left alone in the dim, silent house, Heeseung stood frozen, chest heaving. The smell of rice and vegetables still lingered in the air. The blanket lay crumpled on the couch where he’d slept.
Slowly, the anger ebbed—just enough for something else to creep in.
This wasn’t a nightmare.
And for the first time, that realization scared him more than anything else.-
The bell above the restaurant door chimed softly as you unlocked it, the sound far too gentle for the storm brewing inside you.
You shoved the door open harder than necessary, flipping the sign to OPEN with a sharp snap. The place was still dark and quiet, smelling faintly of yesterday’s broth and rice. You dropped your bag behind the counter and stood there for a moment, hands braced against the wood, head bowed.
What the hell did I do?
Your chest rose and fell unevenly as you stared at the familiar space—the scuffed tables, the worn stools, the faded menu handwritten by your mother years ago. This place had always been your anchor. You're constant. And now it felt… contaminated. Like something foreign had been dragged into your carefully balanced life and knocked everything off-kilter.
Married.
To him.
You scoffed under your breath, running a hand through your hair. “Unbelievable,” you muttered to the empty room. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
The argument from that morning replayed in your head whether you wanted it to or not—his anger, his disgust, the way he looked at your house like it was something he’d stepped in by accident. Your jaw tightened.
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve walked away
You moved mechanically, turning on the lights, tying on your apron. The familiar motions usually calmed you, grounded you. Today, they did nothing.
“One year,” you whispered to yourself bitterly. “I agreed to ruin my life for one year.”
You slammed a pot down on the stove harder than needed, the clang echoing through the restaurant. The sound made you flinch—and then laugh humorlessly.
I could still end it.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and tempting. You froze, hands hovering over the ingredients.
I could go back. Tell his parents I changed my mind. Tell them I won’t do it. I won’t be humiliated in my own home. I won’t babysit a spoiled man-child who thinks my life is a joke.
Your heart started to race as the idea grew roots. The relief it promised was intoxicating.
Then your mother’s face flashed in your mind—pale against white sheets, fingers trembling, eyes tired but still so gentle when she looked at you.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“…Mom,” you whispered.
The guilt hit like a wave, heavy and suffocating. Ending the arrangement meant ending her treatment. No more medication. No more stability. No more time.
You pressed your palm flat against the counter, breathing through the ache in your chest. “I can’t,” you murmured. “I can’t do that to her.”
So you swallowed it. The anger. The regret. The resentment. You shoved it all down where you’d always put things you couldn’t afford to feel.
Just endure it, you told yourself. Just survive one year.
The bell over the door chimed again—louder this time.
“Y/N-ah!” a familiar voice called out cheerfully. “You’re open already?”
Mrs. Kang stepped inside, bundled in her cardigan despite the warming morning, followed closely by two other regulars. The quiet was shattered instantly.
You straightened, forcing a smile onto your face. “Morning.”
They all paused, looking at you a little too closely.
“…You look tired,” Mrs. Kang said, eyes narrowing with concern—and curiosity.
“I didn’t sleep well,” you replied, turning back to the stove.
“Well,” another woman chimed in, grin spreading, “I hear you had company.”
Your hand stilled.
Company.
You felt it before they even said it—the buzz, the barely contained excitement.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Kang added knowingly. “The handsome young man. Tall. Expensive-looking. That one.”
Your stomach dropped.
So it already spread.
You kept your back turned. “People talk too much.”
The women laughed.
“In a village this small?” one of them teased. “Of course they do! You bring home a husband like that and expect silence?”
“Husband?” Mrs. Kang echoed, delighted. “Is it true, Y/N? You got married without telling us?”
You turned slowly, irritation flashing across your face. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” another auntie said, waving her hand. “We saw him. So handsome. Like a movie star! Where were you hiding him all this time?”
Heat rushed to your face. “I wasn’t hiding anyone.”
“Is he rich?” someone asked bluntly.
“Does he treat you well?” another added.
“Does he eat properly? He looked thin,” Mrs. Kang said, already worrying.
Your head started to pound.
You set a bowl down harder than necessary. “Please,” you said sharply. “Can we not do this?”
The chatter faltered.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The aunties exchanged looks—surprised, confused, a little hurt.
“Oh,” Mrs. Kang said softly. “We were just teasing…”
“I know,” you replied, voice strained. “I’m just… tired.”
An awkward silence settled. One by one, they moved to their seats, murmuring apologies; the excitement dampened.
As you worked, their whispers faded, replaced by the familiar clatter of bowls and spoons. But the damage was done.
You stared into the simmering broth, jaw clenched.
Great. Not only did I sell my life for a year, but now the whole village knows about him, too.
You imagined Heeseung waking up in your house again. Complaining. Judging. Existing in your world like he didn’t belong.
Your grip tightened on the ladle.
“I really messed up,” you whispered to yourself.
And yet—despite everything—you kept cooking. Kept serving. Kept moving.
Because that was what you always did.
The lunch rush had finally tapered off. The clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the stove, and the chatter of regulars faded to a comfortable hum. You wiped down the counter, tying your apron a little tighter as you tried to shake off the lingering exhaustion from waking so early.
“Y/N-ah!” came the familiar teasing voice. You looked up to see Taehyun at the door, smiling as if he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hair slightly messy from rushing over.
“You came again,” you said, half-smiling, half-exasperated.
“Of course I did,” he replied, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I had to make sure my favorite chef was surviving the chaos you call a morning.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m surviving. Barely.”
He smirked. “Barely is better than not at all.”
You shook your head, laughing softly. There was a comfort in his presence, a lightness that made the heaviness of your life momentarily lift. It had always been like this when he came by—flirting, teasing, playful—but never overstepping.
As you cleared some plates from a table, Mrs. Kang popped her head around the corner with a sly smile. “Ah, Y/N, speaking of favorites…” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I was just telling Taehyun here that you have a husband now.”Your heart skipped. You froze mid-step, hands gripping the plate.
Taehyun’s brows shot up. His eyes flicked between his mother and you. “Husband?” His voice was quiet, but something in it—hurt, surprise, disbelief—made your chest tighten.
“Yes,” Mrs. Kang said, oblivious to the tension she’d created. “Married last week, apparently. Handsome, apparently very rich. The whole village has been talking about it.” She winked and disappeared before either of you could respond.
Silence stretched. Taehyun’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Congratulations,” he said finally, voice careful. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding looking directly at you.
“Thanks,” you said softly, unsure of what else to say.
He hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. “I still want to walk you home after your shift,” he added, a small, tentative smile playing at the edges of his lips. “If that’s… okay.”
You felt your cheeks warm. It was like nothing had changed, even though everything had. “…Yeah,” you said softly. “That’s fine.”
The day dragged on, and the afternoon rush felt heavier than usual. Every time you caught Taehyun glancing your way, your chest tightened. When the last customer left, you leaned against the counter for a moment, rubbing your sore shoulders.
“You ready?” Taehyun asked gently, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.
You nodded, grabbing your bag. Together, you stepped out into the crisp evening air, the street quiet except for the distant hum of the village.
They walked side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing. Taehyun kept the conversation light, teasing about small things—the way Mrs. Kang fussed over the customers, the stubborn regulars who never finished their soup, even joking about how you were the hardest worker he’d ever met.
You laughed softly, thankful for the distraction, and for the few stolen moments where it felt like things could almost be normal.
“So… how’s married life?” he asked after a while, careful in his tone, but the faint curiosity in his voice made your stomach twist.
You froze, glancing at him. “…It’s… fine. Complicated,” you said lightly, hiding the truth about Heeseung and the arrangement for your mom’s medical bills. It wasn’t a story you wanted to share.
He nodded slowly, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “I see. Well… good for you, I guess. You deserve to be happy.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for his kindness, though a pang of guilt stabbed through you.
As the two of you neared the narrow gravel path that led to your house, your chest tightened. The lights from your small home cast a soft glow across the front yard—and there, leaning against the wall near the door, was Heeseung.
The same clothes he’d arrived in yesterday. His expression dark, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp. He didn’t move as you approached, but the tension radiating from him made your skin prickle.
Taehyun’s steps faltered slightly, and your hand brushed against his as you slowed. You didn’t know if Heeseung had seen the way you laughed at something Taehyun said, or the way you had leaned slightly toward him during the walk—but the moment your eyes met Heeseung’s, something cold and unreadable passed across his features.
Before you could say anything, he spun on his heel, storming inside without a word. The slam of the door echoed sharply in the quiet evening, and the warmth of the small home suddenly felt suffocating.
You stood frozen on the path, Taehyun by your side, watching the door close, your chest tight and shoulders tense.
“I… guess he doesn’t like company,” Taehyun said quietly, his voice softer now, tinged with awkward concern.
You forced a small laugh, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “That’s one way to put it,” you muttered, watching the door as though it might reopen at any moment.
The walk home had been peaceful moments ago, but now, with Heeseung inside waiting, the air felt charged. And even though you didn’t know how he’d act next, you were already bracing yourself.Because nothing about this year was going to be easy.
The door creaked softly as you pushed it open.
The house was dim, the only light coming from the small lamp near the couch.
He was exactly where you expected him to be.
Heeseung sat rigidly on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as if he were holding himself back from saying something he might regret. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.
He didn’t look up when you stepped inside.
But you knew he knew you were there.
You slipped off your shoes quietly and set your bag down by the table. The air inside felt heavier than when you left, thick with tension.
Still, he said nothing.
Fine.
You walked past him into the kitchen area without acknowledging him. If he wanted to sulk, he could sulk. You had bigger things to worry about than a spoiled rich boy’s bruised ego.|
You washed your hands at the sink, the water running loudly in the quiet house. From the corner of your eye, you could see him shift slightly on the couch.
Still not looking at you.
You opened the fridge and pulled out what little you had—half a zucchini, a small onion, leftover rice from the morning. Your movements were calm, practiced. Knife against cutting board. Vegetables sliding into a pan.
The quiet stretched.
The soft sizzle of oil filled the room.
Behind you, the couch creaked. You didn’t turn around.
Heeseung finally spoke. “…Who was he?”
Your knife paused mid-slice.
You kept your voice neutral. “A friend.”
Silence.
Then a short, humorless laugh.
“Right.” You ignored him and kept cutting—another pause. “Friends usually touch your hand like that,” he said.
You turned the stove flame down slightly, still not looking at him. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not blind.”
Neither am I, you thought bitterly, remembering the way he’d stormed inside earlier like a jealous child.
But you didn’t say it.
The pan hissed softly as you stirred the vegetables.
He shifted again, irritation radiating off him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I did,” you replied simply.
“You avoided it.”
“I don’t owe you explanations.” That did it.
The couch groaned as he stood abruptly.
“You’re my wife.”
You turned slowly to face him, unimpressed.
“On paper,” you said. “For one year.”
His eyes flashed. “That still means something.”
“No,” you said calmly. “It means my mother gets treatment. That’s it.”
For a moment, he just stared at you. The anger in his expression faltered—only slightly—but you caught it. Then his pride snapped back into place.
“So you’re just going to parade guys around while I’m stuck here?” he muttered.
You blinked in disbelief.
“Parade?” you repeated.
“Yes.”
Your laugh was sharp.
“He walked me home.”
“And you were smiling.”
You set the spatula down with a quiet clack.
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you’re avoiding the point.”
“There is no point!” you snapped. “Taehyun has been my friend for years. He walks me home because the streets are dark and because he’s a decent person.”
The words hung between you.
Something unreadable flickered across Heeseung’s face.
“…Taehyun,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
He scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, clearly annoyed that he’d learned the name.
“Whatever.”
You turned back to the stove, done with the conversation.
The silence returned—but it wasn’t the same as before.
Now it buzzed with something sharper.
You finished cooking quickly, spooning the rice and vegetables into two bowls before placing them on the small table.
“Dinner’s ready,” you said flatly.
He didn’t move.
You sat down and started eating.
After a few seconds, the chair across from you scraped the floor.
Heeseung sat down.
Still scowling. Still clearly irritated. But he picked up the spoon anyway.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was the quiet clink of metal against ceramic.
Then, out of nowhere, he muttered under his breath—
“…You smiled more with him.”
Your spoon stopped halfway to your mouth.
You slowly looked up.
He was staring down at his food like he hadn’t said anything at all.
Like the words had slipped out by accident.
“You’re jealous,” you said bluntly.
His head snapped up immediately. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I barely know you,” he scoffed.
“Exactly,” you replied calmly. “Which makes this even weirder.”
His jaw clenched. “I’m not jealous,” he repeated. “I just don’t like looking like an idiot.”
“You looked like an idiot because you slammed the door like a child.”
That hit its mark. His eyes narrowed.
“You brought him to our house.”
“I didn’t bring him anywhere. He walked me home.”
“And you let him.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You do realize you sound insane right now.”
He opened his mouth to argue—but stopped.
Because deep down, he probably knew you were right.
The tension slowly drained out of him as he leaned back in the chair, running a hand through his messy hair.
“…This place is too small,” he muttered after a moment.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I can hear everything,” he said. “Every step. Every door. Every breath.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“And?”
“And it’s annoying.”
You rolled your eyes and returned to your food.
After a few more quiet bites, he suddenly spoke again.
“…Your friend.”
You sighed. “What now?”
“He likes you.”
You didn’t even look up.
“He’s nice.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You shrugged lightly. “Maybe he does.”
His spoon hit the bowl a little harder than necessary.
“And you’re just… okay with that?”
You finally lifted your eyes to meet his.
“What exactly are you asking me, Heeseung?”
The room went quiet.
For a moment, he looked like he actually didn’t know how to answer that.
His gaze dropped back to the table.
“…Nothing,” he muttered.
You watched him for a second longer before shaking your head slightly and finishing your dinner.
When you stood to rinse your bowl in the sink, you felt his eyes follow you again.
But this time, there was something different in his expression.
Not just irritation or pride.
Something quieter. Something conflicted.
And even though neither of you said another word that night, one thing was painfully clear.
Living together was starting to affect him far more than he wanted to admit.
Morning sunlight crept slowly through the thin curtains, pale gold lines stretching across the worn wooden floor. The house was unusually quiet. No alarm. No rush. No frantic morning routine.
But you were already awake.
Years of waking before dawn had trained your body too well. Even on your rare day off, sleep refused to hold you.
You sat at the small kitchen table, a chipped mug of tea warming your hands. A pencil rested between your fingers as you scribbled numbers across the back of an old receipt. The paper was already covered in crossed-out totals and small circles where you’d tried to make the math work.
Rent. Utilities. Restaurant supplies. Bus fare.
Your brow furrowed as you added another column.
Groceries.
You exhaled slowly, circling the smallest number you could manage beside vegetables. It still felt like too much.
The couch's quiet creak broke your concentration.
You didn’t turn around right away, but you knew he was awake.
You could almost feel the confusion radiating off him.
Heeseung slowly pushed himself upright on the couch, blanket tangled around his legs like he’d fought it in his sleep. His hair stuck out in different directions, and his expression was somewhere between exhausted and offended by his surroundings.
He blinked a few times, squinting toward the window where soft morning light had begun to leak through.
“…Why isn’t the alarm screaming?” he asked groggily, voice thick with sleep.
You took a slow sip of your tea before answering.
“Because I turned it off.”
His eyebrows knit together.
“…Why?”
“I have the day off.”
That seemed to wake him up more than anything else.
“You get days off?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Sometimes,” you replied dryly, tapping your pencil against the paper.
He leaned back against the couch cushions, stretching his arms over his head. The movement lasted all of two seconds before his face twisted in pain.
“…My back is ruined.”
You didn’t even look up.
“That’s what happens when you sleep on a couch.”
“That couch is a medieval torture device,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck like it had personally betrayed him.
“Yet you survived.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a complaint about lawsuits and human rights violations.
After another moment of sulking, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered toward the kitchen area. His steps were slow, like he was still half asleep and unsure where exactly he was.
“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning slightly against the counter.
“Making a list.”
“For what?”
“Groceries.”
His eyes drifted down toward the small piece of paper in your hand. He leaned a little closer, squinting at the short list.
“That’s it?” he asked.
You glanced down at the paper.
“Yes.”
“That’s barely anything.”
“It’s what I can afford.”
His mouth opened slightly, like the usual sarcastic comment was waiting to come out—but then he stopped himself. His gaze lingered on the list for a second longer before he looked away.
You folded the receipt neatly and stood from the table, grabbing your worn jacket from the chair.
“When do you get groceries?” he asked.
“Now.”
You moved toward the door, sliding your shoes on.
Behind you, the couch creaked again as he straightened up.
“Wait.”
You paused and turned slightly.
Heeseung was already pulling on his coat.
“…I’m coming.”
You blinked slowly.
“No, you’re not.”
“Ye,s I am.”
You stared at him.
“Why?”
He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I need food too.”
“There’s food here.”
“That soup again?” he said, horrified.
“It’s called leftovers.”
He ignored you completely and slipped his arms through his coat.
“I’m not staying in this shoebox all day.”
“You don’t even know how to grocery shop.”
He scoffed, pushing his hair back. “It can’t be that hard.”
You crossed your arms. “Have you ever bought groceries before?”
He hesitated for exactly half a second. “…I’ve been inside a store.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
But he had already grabbed the door handle.
“Well,” he said as he pulled it open, “today you can educate me.”
Cold morning air rushed into the house immediately.
You watched him for a moment, studying his stubborn expression. “You’re going to hate it,” you warned.
“Probably.”
“It’s crowded.”
“Fantastic.”
“And you’re carrying the bags.”
His confidence flickered.
“…How many bags?”
You smiled faintly.
“Enough.”
—A few minutes later, the two of you were walking down the narrow gravel road toward the village market.
The morning air was crisp and fresh, carrying the faint scent of wet grass and distant cooking fires. Birds chirped somewhere in the trees overhead, and a few villagers were already outside sweeping their front steps or watering small gardens.
Heeseung walked beside you with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. His eyes moved constantly, scanning everything around him with thinly veiled disbelief.
“…People really live like this,” he muttered.
You rolled your eyes.
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I’m still shocked.”
As you approached the market, the quiet village sounds gradually gave way to the low hum of voices and movement.
Stalls lined the street beneath colorful cloth canopies. Wooden crates overflowed with vegetables—green onions, cabbage, peppers stacked neatly in piles. Baskets of apples and pears glowed in the morning light, and the smell of fresh bread and grilled fish drifted through the air.
Heeseung stopped walking.
“What is this?” he asked slowly.
You looked back at him.
“The market.”
“This is outside.”
“Yes.”
“Where are the carts?”
“There are no carts.”
His expression darkened.
“…You’re joking.”
You walked straight toward the vegetable stand.
“Morning, Y/N!” the old vendor greeted warmly.
“Morning,” you replied with a small smile.
Behind you, Heeseung hovered awkwardly, looking deeply out of place among the bustling stalls and chatting villagers.
You picked up a cabbage, turning it carefully in your hands.
“Two thousand won,” the vendor said.
You handed over the money.
Beside you, Heeseung looked horrified.
“…You’re touching all of them.”
“I’m checking which one’s fresh.”
“There are no gloves.”
The vendor blinked slowly at him.
You sighed. “Relax.”
He leaned slightly closer to you, lowering his voice. “Do people just… grab things here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s barbaric.”
The vendor snorted loudly.
You kicked Heeseung lightly in the shin. “Behave.”
He glared at you, rubbing his leg. “You kicked me.”
“You deserved it.”
You moved to the next stall, picking up eggs and tofu. Heeseung followed behind you like a reluctant shadow.
But after a few minutes, something changed.
His expression slowly shifted from disgust to curiosity.
“…Why are those cheaper?” he asked, pointing to a pile of slightly bruised apples.
“Because they’re ugly,” you said simply.
“But they taste the same?”
“Yes.”
He stared at the apples like he’d just discovered a flaw in the universe. “…That’s stupid.”
“Welcome to grocery shopping.”
You paid for the apples and handed him the bag without warning.
He fumbled it awkwardly, clearly not used to carrying anything heavier than a phone.
“…You weren’t kidding about the bags.”
“We’re not done.”
His eyes widened. “Not done?”
You were already walking toward the next stall. “Come on, city boy.”
He sighed dramatically but followed after you, the grocery bag dangling from his hand.
Yet as he walked beside you through the lively morning market—listening to the chatter of vendors, watching the small negotiations over prices, smelling the mix of fresh produce and warm street food—something unfamiliar settled into his expression.
Not anger. Not disgust. Just quiet curiosity.
The market grows busier as the two of you move between stalls. You moved through it all easily, greeting people with small nods and quiet smiles, picking up the last few things on your list.
Behind you, Heeseung followed with noticeably less confidence.
The bag of apples hung awkwardly from his hand as he tried to keep up. Every few steps, someone brushed past him, and each time, he stiffened like he’d been personally insulted by the concept of crowded spaces.
“Do people not believe in personal space here?” he leaned down, muttering quietly.
You didn’t even turn around. “No.”
He let out a long sigh but kept walking.
You were reaching for a bunch of green onions when a voice suddenly rang out across the market.
“Y/N-ah!” Your hand froze mid-reach.
Slowly, you turned your head.
Three familiar figures stood a few stalls away, staring in your direction with expressions that could only be described as delighted shock.
Your stomach sank immediately.
Mrs. Kang stood in the middle, her cardigan buttoned up despite the warming weather. On either side of her were two other village aunties, their heads already leaning together as they whispered excitedly.
Their eyes weren’t on you.
They were locked directly onto the tall man standing behind you.
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Kang gasped softly.
“That must be him,” one of the other women whispered.
“He’s even taller than they said!”
Before you could even think of escaping, the three of them began marching toward you with determined steps.
You closed your eyes for half a second.
This is going to be a disaster.
“Y/N!” Mrs. Kang said brightly as they stopped right in front of you. “What a surprise seeing you here this morning!”
You forced a polite smile. “Good morning.”
But the women barely acknowledged your greeting. Their attention had already shifted completely. Three pairs of curious eyes turned slowly toward Heeseung.
He froze instantly.
The bag of apples nearly slipped from his hand as he suddenly found himself the center of intense scrutiny.
“Ahhhh,” one auntie hummed thoughtfully, looking him up and down with open interest. “So this is the husband.”
Heat rushed to your face.
Heeseung blinked.
“…The what?”
“The husband,” Mrs. Kang repeated cheerfully, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
You cleared your throat quickly. “Yes… this is—”
But the women had already surrounded him.
“Oh my, he’s very handsome.”
“So tall too.”
“He looks like one of those actors from television!”
Heeseung’s ears started turning red almost immediately.
He looked completely caught off guard, glancing at you quickly like he was silently asking for help.
You suddenly found the cabbage in your hands extremely interesting.
“Are you eating well?” one of the aunties asked him kindly.
“Does Y/N cook enough for you?”
“Are you adjusting to village life?” another chimed in.
The questions came so quickly that he barely had time to process them.
“I—uh—”
“You have very nice shoulders,” one auntie added approvingly.
Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly.
His cheeks were noticeably pink now.
Another auntie reached out and lightly poked his arm, testing the muscle there.
“Oh!” she laughed. “Strong too!”
Heeseung looked like he might actually short-circuit.
His gaze flicked helplessly toward you again.
You pressed your lips together tightly to stop yourself from laughing.
“And look!” Mrs. Kang suddenly exclaimed, pointing at the bag in his hand.
They all gasped dramatically.
“You’re carrying the groceries!”
“Oh, what a good husband!”
“Such a hardworking man!”
“Most men wouldn’t even hold one bag!”
Heeseung stared down at the apples like they had betrayed him personally.
“This?” he said slowly, lifting the bag slightly. “This counts as hardworking?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Kang said proudly.
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly embarrassed by the sudden praise. “…It’s just a bag,” he muttered.
But the aunties looked thoroughly impressed.
“Oh, he’s humble too,” one of them whispered loudly.
You nearly choked trying not to laugh.
“Oh, Y/N,” another auntie said teasingly, leaning closer to you. “You hid him from us for so long!”“I didn’t hide anyone,” you protested weakly.
“But he’s so handsome,” she insisted. “Where did you find him?”
Heeseung muttered under his breath beside you.
“She didn’t find me.”
Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Kang heard that.
“What was that?”
Heeseung immediately straightened up slightly, clearly realizing he had to play along now.
“…Nothing,” he said quickly.
The women exchanged amused looks.
“Well,” Mrs. Kang said warmly, patting his arm again, “you must take good care of our Y/N.”
The touch made him stiffen slightly again.
But this time, his expression shifted just a little.
“…I will,” he said quietly.
The words came out before he seemed to realize it.
Your head snapped toward him slightly.
He noticed.
His ears turned even redder.
The aunties, however, looked absolutely delighted.
“Ahhh,” one of them sighed dramatically. “Young love.”
You almost dropped the cabbage. “It’s not—”
But they were already moving away, whispering excitedly among themselves again.
“I told you he was handsome.”
“And polite too!”
“Such a good husband!”
Their voices slowly faded as they continued down the row of stalls.
Silence settled between you and Heeseung.
He slowly turned his head toward you.
His expression was somewhere between exhausted and mortified. “…That was terrifying,” he said quietly.
You couldn’t hold it in anymore.
You burst out laughing. “They like you.”
“They interrogated me.”
“That means they like you.”
He glanced down at the grocery bag again. “…They called me hardworking.”
You smirked. “You should hear what they call the men who don’t carry bags.”
He ran a hand through his hair, still looking a little flustered. “…Your village is weird.”
But as the two of you continued walking through the market, he didn’t let go of the grocery bag.
And this time, when another elderly woman passed by and smiled knowingly at him—
He lowered his head slightly. Just a little bashful.
The days after the market trip began to slip into something neither of you had expected.
Routine.
Not the kind that arrived suddenly with some grand realization or dramatic change. It crept in quietly, settling into the small spaces of everyday life. At first, you barely noticed it happening. The tension between you still lingered, still sharp in certain moments, but the constant friction slowly started to wear down. The days began to flow in familiar patterns, and before long, the house started to feel less like a place where two strangers were forced to coexist… and more like a place that simply held both of you.
Mornings were still early.
They always had been.
Your body had long since grown used to waking at the same hour, trained by years of responsibility and necessity. Even on mornings when your bones felt heavy with exhaustion, your eyes would still open before the alarm had the chance to ring.
Still, the alarm buzzed softly beside your bed.
The sound was sharp in the quiet house.
Your hand reached out automatically, turning it off before it could wake the entire neighborhood.
At first, that sound had been enough to wake the person sleeping in the living room.
Every morning.
From the couch, Heeseung would groan loudly, his voice muffled beneath the blanket as he buried his face deeper into the pillow.
“Why does it ring like the building’s on fire?” he would complain, his voice thick with sleep and irritation.
You would roll your eyes quietly while tying your hair back into a loose ponytail.
“It’s called an alarm.”
His response usually came immediately. “People shouldn’t be awake at this hour.”
You would sling your bag over your shoulder, glancing toward the living room with a flat expression. “People with jobs are.”
At the beginning, that exchange usually started an argument.
Not always a big one.
But enough for the morning air to fill with the familiar edge of annoyance. He would complain about the hour, about the noise, about the cold floor when his feet touched it. You would snap back about responsibility, about work, about how some people didn’t have the luxury of sleeping all morning.
But after a few days, something about those arguments began to soften.
The sharpness in his voice slowly faded.
The complaints didn’t disappear entirely, but they grew quieter… shorter… almost half-hearted.
Some mornings, he still groaned, but more often, he simply rolled over and pulled the blanket higher over his head, letting you move around the house without another word.
And sometimes…
When you stepped out of the bedroom, ready to leave for the restaurant, you would find something unexpected.
He would already be awake.
Sitting on the couch with messy hair sticking out in every direction, his shoulders slouched slightly forward as he stared blankly at the wall like his brain hadn’t quite caught up with his body yet.
The first time you saw him sitting there, you stopped in the doorway.
“Why are you up?” you asked, confused.
He rubbed his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light. “The alarm woke me up.”
“Then go back to sleep.”
He shrugged lazily, leaning back into the couch. “Too late now.”
You watched him for a moment longer than necessary.
Something about the quiet way he sat there made the house feel… different. But you pushed the thought away quickly and left for work.
At the time, it didn’t seem important—just another strange habit. But as the days passed, more small changes began to appear.
By the end of the first month, the couch blanket was folded neatly every morning.
The first time you noticed it, you thought you were imagining things.
You returned home late in the afternoon, the familiar ache of a long shift settling into your shoulders. The house was quiet as usual, sunlight stretching through the window and across the living room floor.
Your eyes drifted toward the couch automatically.
The blanket was folded.
Neatly.
The pillow had been placed carefully on the armrest instead of being tossed aside like usual.
You stood there for a moment, staring at it.
“…Did you do this?” you asked slowly.
From the table, Heeseung looked up, his expression completely casual. “Do what?”
You gestured toward the couch. “The blanket.”
He glanced at it briefly before shrugging. “It looked messy.”
You blinked. “…You folded it.”
“Yeah?” His tone carried a hint of confusion, like he couldn’t understand why it mattered.
You turned slowly back toward the kitchen, still processing the sight. “…Weird.”
But despite the word leaving your mouth, something warm flickered quietly in your chest.
—
A few days later, you came home to something else.
The dishes were done. Not perfectly. One bowl still had a faint streak of soap clinging to the side, and the pan had clearly been rinsed more than properly scrubbed. But they were clean.
You stood in the kitchen doorway staring at the drying rack, momentarily stunned by the sight.
Two bowls.
Two spoons.
One pan.
All washed and sitting carefully beside the sink.
“…What happened here?” you asked cautiously.
From the couch, Heeseung didn’t even look up. “I washed them.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Why?”
He shrugged lazily. “You cooked.”
You stared at him for a long moment. “…That’s it?”
“Is there supposed to be another reason?”
His tone was so simple that it caught you off guard. You didn’t answer.
But something about the quiet fairness of it loosened the tight knot that had been sitting in your chest since he first arrived.
Eventually, he started coming to the restaurant.
Not every day.
Just… sometimes.
The first time he showed up, he stood awkwardly in the doorway like someone who had accidentally walked into the wrong building.
The regular customers noticed immediately.
“Y/N-ah!” Mrs. Kang called loudly from her seat. “Your husband is here again!”
You groaned quietly behind the counter, pressing your palm against your forehead.
Across the room, Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly still not used to being publicly announced like that.
“I was bored,” he muttered when he finally approached the counter.
You slid a bowl of soup toward him without looking up. “Sit down.”
He did.
At first, you assumed he would eat quickly and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he stayed. Sometimes for hours.
He sat quietly in the corner, watching the small chaos of the restaurant unfold around him—the steady rhythm of customers coming and going, the loud conversations between regulars, the clatter of dishes and spoons against bowls.
Occasionally, your eyes would flick toward him. And every time, he was watching the room with quiet curiosity. The lunch rush finally began to slow.
The restaurant fell into one of those rare quiet moments where the air itself seemed to exhale after the chaos. Only a few customers remained, finishing their meals slowly while chatting softly among themselves.
Behind the counter, you stood wiping down a stack of bowls, your movements slower now that the rush had passed.
Your shoulders looked heavy. Across the room, Heeseung watched you carefully, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.
The thought returned. It had been circling his mind for days now. He could ignore it. Pretend it didn’t exist.
But every time he saw the faint exhaustion in your movements, it pushed itself forward again.
Finally, before he could overthink it, he stood up. You noticed immediately. Your head lifted from the counter the moment his chair scraped softly against the floor.
Your eyes followed him as he walked over, suspicion already settling into your expression. “What?” you asked.
Your tone carried that familiar edge, the one you used whenever you expected him to say something annoying.
He leaned his elbows against the counter, hesitating for just a second. “I’ve been thinking.”
Your eyebrows rose instantly. “That’s concerning.”
Under any other circumstances, he would have rolled his eyes. But this time, he didn’t. “…Let me work here.”
For a moment, the world seemed to pause.
Your hand froze halfway through wiping the bowl. Your brain struggled to process the words. “…What?”
He straightened slightly, repeating himself more clearly. “Let me work here. At the restaurant.”
You stared at him like he had just suggested something completely insane. “You want to… work here.”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
You slowly set the bowl down on the counter, your mind racing.
Out of all the things you expected him to say…
This had not been one of them.
“…Why?” you asked.
He shrugged lightly, but there was something awkward about the movement, like he wasn’t entirely comfortable explaining it. “You clearly need help.”
You scoffed immediately. “I’ve been doing it alone for years.”
“And you’re exhausted.” The bluntness of his answer caught you off guard.
Your lips parted slightly. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Because the worst part was…
He wasn’t wrong.
But admitting that felt like admitting weakness. “I’m fine,” you said quietly.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that annoyingly observant way he had developed recently. “No, you’re not.”
Your chest tightened. You opened your mouth to argue again, but he continued before you could.
“I’m here anyway,” he said simply. “I might as well do something useful.”
Something about the way he said it made your heart stumble slightly.
Not dramatic. Just… unexpected.
You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to regain control of the conversation. “You’ve never worked in a restaurant.”
“So teach me.”
“You don’t know how to cook.”
“I can carry bowls.”
“You don’t know the menu.”
“I can learn it.”
You crossed your arms tightly. “And when you get bored after two days?”
His jaw tightened just slightly. “I won’t.”
The quiet certainty in his voice made you pause. This didn’t sound like one of his impulsive ideas. He had actually thought about it. For a moment, the two of you simply stared at each other across the counter.
Your mind raced through every possible reason this could go wrong.
He would hate the work.
He would complain.
He would quit after a week.
And yet…
You thought about the folded blanket.
The washed dishes.
The way he had started carrying bowls during the lunch rush without being asked.
Maybe…
Maybe he was serious.
You sighed softly, rubbing your hand across your forehead. “…This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” he admitted easily.
“But you’re still asking.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between you again. Your eyes drifted around the restaurant—the empty tables. The dishes are waiting to be cleaned. The quiet exhaustion still lingering in your arms.
When you looked back at him, he was still standing there. Waiting. Not impatient. Not smug. Just… steady.
You exhaled slowly. “…You’d have to start small.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Small?”
“Cleaning tables. Carrying dishes. Taking simple orders.”
“That’s fine.”
“And if you mess up, I’m yelling at you.”
He gave a small shrug. “You already do that.”
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched slightly. “Don’t get used to it,” you muttered.
He leaned back from the counter, something like quiet satisfaction settling into his posture. “So that’s a yes?”
You hesitated for half a second. Then you sighed. “…Come in tomorrow morning.”
For the first time since the conversation began, a small smile appeared on his face. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… genuinely pleased. “Alright.”
As he turned to walk back toward his table, you watched him carefully. Your chest felt strangely warm. Because when he had first appeared in your life, bringing nothing but trouble and frustration with him…
The last thing you ever imagined was this. The two of you standing in the same small restaurant…
Working toward the same thing.
Together.
The next morning, Heeseung officially started working at the restaurant, and the village somehow found out before the doors had even opened.
You weren’t sure how news traveled so fast in such a small place. Still, by the time you unlocked the front door and flipped the sign to OPEN, two familiar aunties were already sitting at their usual table, whispering excitedly to each other like they had front row seats to something important.
Heeseung stood behind the counter, staring at the room with a mixture of determination and mild dread. “You didn’t say there would be an audience,” he muttered under his breath.
You didn’t even look at him as you tied your apron. “It’s a village. There’s always an audience.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, mentally preparing himself. But nothing could have prepared him for the aunties.
The moment he stepped out from behind the counter carrying his first tray of bowls, Mrs. Kang clasped her hands together dramatically.
“Ahhh! Look at him!”
The other auntie gasped loudly.
“He’s really working!”
Their voices carried easily through the small restaurant.
Heeseung froze mid-step. His ears immediately turned pink.
You leaned against the counter, watching the scene unfold with poorly hidden amusement.
“He’s so tall carrying those bowls,” another woman said.
"And so polite!”
“He’s helping his wife!”
At that word—wife—Heeseung nearly tripped over his own feet.
“I’m not—” he started automatically. But he stopped himself halfway through the sentence. Because the moment his eyes flicked toward you, he realized something strange.
You weren’t correcting them anymore. Not like you used to. Instead, you simply sighed softly and continued chopping vegetables behind the counter. “…Just put the bowls down,” you murmured to him.
He cleared his throat awkwardly and did exactly that.
Over the next few days, the restaurant somehow became even busier than usual.
Word had spread through the village that your “husband” was helping at the restaurant now. And the villagers were very interested.
Especially the aunties.
Every afternoon, they filled the tables like a small council of gossip and curiosity, watching Heeseung work with thinly veiled delight.
“Ahhh, look at him wiping the tables!”
“Such a hardworking young man.”
“Y/N is so lucky.”
Every time they said something like that, Heeseung’s ears turned red again.
At first, he tried to argue.
But the aunties never listened.
Eventually, he gave up. Instead, he focused on the work. And to his own surprise… he started getting better at it.
He learned the menu faster than you expected. He stopped spilling soup. He learned how to balance multiple bowls on one tray without looking like he was performing a dangerous circus act. And slowly, working beside you began to feel… natural.
You moved around each other easily now, slipping past one another in the narrow kitchen space without bumping shoulders. Sometimes your hands brushed briefly when you both reached for the same utensil. Each time it happened, something strange flickered through his chest.
He never said anything about it. But he noticed.
Every time.
–
The air carried the faint scent of the fields outside, mixed with the comforting smell of rice already cooking in the kitchen.
You stood by the stove stirring the pot slowly, still half lost in the calm of the early morning. Behind you, you could hear Heeseung moving around the house. The soft creak of floorboards. The sound of the back door opening and closing. He had gotten into the habit of starting the day with you now.
At first, you had thought it was strange—Heeseung waking up early in a quiet village after spending most of his life in the city—but somehow he had adapted faster than either of you expected.
You glanced over your shoulder just as he walked back into the kitchen. Your breath caught slightly. He had clearly just come in from outside. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, his hair slightly messy from the morning wind, and there was a faint sheen of sweat along the back of his neck from carrying the crates of groceries.
For a moment, you forgot to stir the pot.
When did he get this… handsome? It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed before. Heeseung had always been good-looking. But lately it felt different.
Maybe it was the way he moved now—comfortable in the small space of your home as he belonged there.
Maybe it was the way his shoulders filled out the simple shirts he wore when working. Or maybe it was the quiet focus on his face whenever he was concentrating on something.
He set the crate down on the counter beside you. “These were the last ones,” he said.
You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. “Oh… thank you.”
Your voice came out a little softer than you intended. Heeseung didn’t notice.
He was already reaching for a knife to start cutting the vegetables, his movements easy and familiar now after weeks of helping in the restaurant.
You watched him from the corner of your eye. The way his hands worked. The way his brows furrowed slightly when he focused. The faint muscle in his jaw shifted as he concentrated. Your chest felt strangely warm.
He looks good doing something so simple. It was ridiculous. He was just chopping vegetables. But somehow he made even that look… attractive.
You quickly looked back down at the pot before he could notice you staring.
Across the counter, Heeseung felt your gaze for a moment. He didn’t say anything. But the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
Later that afternoon, the two of you were at the restaurant. The lunch rush had arrived in full force.
Customers filled nearly every table, voices overlapping with the clatter of bowls and chopsticks.
The aunties sat at their usual table near the window, whispering and giggling like they always did whenever Heeseung walked past.
“Oh my, look at him,” one of them whispered loudly.
“He’s such a good husband.”
“Handsome too,” another added.
You tried very hard not to react.
Heeseung, meanwhile, had turned slightly pink. He carried a tray of bowls across the room, his shoulders stiff with embarrassment as the aunties continued to gush.
“Such broad shoulders.”
“That face could be in a drama!”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile pulling at your lips because they weren’t entirely wrong. From where you stood behind the counter, you watched him move around the restaurant.
The way he greeted customers politely. The way he carefully balanced the trays. The way he bent slightly to listen when the older villagers spoke to him.
Your chest warmed again. He really does look like he belongs here now.
It was strange remembering how tense things had been between you at the beginning. Now the two of you moved around each other effortlessly.
When he passed the counter, his arm brushed lightly against yours. Neither of you pulled away.
Later, when the restaurant finally quieted down, Heeseung leaned against the counter beside you with a tired sigh. “Your aunties are terrifying,” he muttered.
You laughed softly. “They like you.”
“They stare at me like I’m a zoo animal.”
You glanced at him sideways. “Well… you do give them something nice to look at.”
He turned his head quickly. “…What?”
Your face immediately grew warm. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud. You quickly looked down at the dishes. “I didn’t say anything.”
But Heeseung was already staring at you. His heart beat a little faster.
Because hearing you say something like that, even accidentally, made something warm spread through his chest. And for the rest of the afternoon, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Meanwhile, you tried very hard not to look at him again. Because now that the thought had crossed your mind…
It was impossible not to notice.
The way his sleeves rolled up when he worked. The way his hair fell into his eyes. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you. And every time you caught yourself staring—
Your heart skipped just a little.
–Your shared day off didn’t happen often.
Running the restaurant meant that most mornings bled into long afternoons and quiet evenings of cleaning, planning, and preparing for the next day. But today the restaurant door remained closed, the sign read "closed for the day," and for the first time in weeks, neither of you had anywhere to be.
The morning air in the village was cool and gentle, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant fields as you and Lee Heeseung walked slowly along the small dirt path that wound between houses and shops.
For once, neither of you was rushing.
Your hands were loosely clasped behind your back as you walked, occasionally stopping to greet villagers who passed by. The older residents smiled warmly at the two of you, some offering small waves while others gave knowing looks that made you pretend not to notice.
Heeseung walked beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.
At first, he focused on the path. On the quiet sounds of the village. On the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you.
But slowly… his attention drifted because you looked different today. Not in a dramatic way.
You weren’t dressed up, and you certainly weren’t trying to impress anyone. Your clothes were simple—just a soft sweater and a long skirt that moved lightly with the breeze.
Your hair wasn’t tied back the way it usually was when you worked in the restaurant. Instead, it fell loosely around your shoulders, shifting gently every time the wind passed through the narrow streets.
Heeseung glanced at you once. Then again. And before he realized it… he had started staring.
Since when was she this pretty?The thought arrived suddenly and refused to leave. Maybe it was because he was so used to seeing you busy and focused in the restaurant—hair tied up, sleeves rolled, hands constantly moving.
Seeing you like this felt different. Softer. Lighter. More… you.
You stopped suddenly in front of a small fruit stand. Heeseung nearly walked right past you before realizing you had paused. “You’re not paying attention,” you said casually as you looked over the fruit.
“I am,” he replied quickly.You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
Heeseung tried to pretend he hadn’t just been staring at you for the past five minutes. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitated. Because the honest answer would be about how pretty you look today. And somehow saying that out loud felt far more terrifying than dealing with the aunties at the restaurant. “…Nothing important.”
You hummed softly but didn’t press further. Instead, you reached out to pick up a peach from the stand, turning it over in your hands as you examined it. Heeseung watched you again.
The sunlight fell across your face in soft gold, catching faintly on your eyelashes. When you smiled politely at the shop owner, your whole expression seemed to brighten in a way that made something warm twist in his chest.
She smiles like that all the time… how did I never notice it before?
The realization made his heart beat a little faster. Because lately, it felt like every small thing about you stood out more.
The way you laughed quietly at the aunties’ jokes. The way your voice softened when you called his name from the kitchen. The way your hand brushed his when you passed bowls across the counter. It was all suddenly impossible to ignore.
You turned slightly toward him, holding up the peach. “Do you think this one is good?”
For a moment, they didn’t answer. He had been too busy looking at your face again.
“…Heeseung?”
He blinked quickly. “Yes—yeah, it looks good.”
"You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You didn’t even look at it.”
“I did.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” You handed the peach to the shop owner anyway.
Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
Why was it suddenly so hard to act normal around you?
As you continued walking through the village together, your shoulder brushed lightly against his.
The contact was brief. But it sent a small jolt through his chest. He looked down at you again. The wind lifted a few strands of your hair, and you absentmindedly tucked them behind your ear as you walked.
Your expression was relaxed.
Peaceful.
Happy.
And suddenly the realization settled heavily in his chest.
I like seeing her like this. Not tired from work. Not stressed from the restaurant. Just… enjoying the day.
Heeseung’s heart softened slightly as he watched you. Because somewhere along the way, the quiet life you shared here had started to mean more to him than he ever expected.
And walking beside you through the peaceful village streets, he couldn’t stop thinking the same thing over and over.
She’s really… beautiful.The thought made his chest feel warm. And strangely nervous at the same time. Because the more he noticed things like that…
The harder it became to pretend his feelings weren’t growing deeper every day.–
The quiet afternoon had settled over the restaurant like the slow exhale after a long breath.
After the rush of lunch, the small space had relaxed into one of those rare peaceful moments where everything softened. Sunlight streamed through the front windows in warm golden beams, stretching across the worn wooden floor and catching the faint steam still drifting from the kitchen.
The smell of broth and rice lingered warmly in the air.
The village aunties sat near the window, their teacups resting between wrinkled hands as they whispered to each other, occasionally glancing toward the counter where you stood drying bowls.
Your arms ached faintly from the hours of work, but the calm after the rush always made it easier to breathe.
Across the room, Lee Heeseung wiped down one of the tables. At this point, the restaurant almost felt like his place, too, which was strange.
A few months ago,o he wouldn’t have imagined himself here at all—standing in a small village restaurant, wiping tables and carrying bowls like it had always been his job.
But somewhere along the way, the routine had become… comforting. And if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t the restaurant that kept him coming back every day. It was you.
He glanced up from the table without meaning to.
You stood behind the counter, focused on drying the dishes, your hair slipping slightly loose from its tie. The sight made something warm stir in his chest.
Then the bell above the door chimed. The moment you looked up, everything shifted.
Your hands stilled around the bowl. Your shoulders tensed.
Heeseung noticed instantly. Something uneasy curled in his stomach. Slowly, his eyes followed yours toward the door.
A man stood there.
Tall. Composed. Familiar.
Kang Taehyun stepped inside, the door closing quietly behind him.
The moment his eyes landed on you, something in Heeseung’s chest tightened.
“Y/N.” Taehyun said your name softly. Too softly. Like he had said it a thousand times before.
“…Taehyun.”
You hadn’t expected to see him here. For a moment, you forgot that Heeseung was standing just a few feet away.
“It’s been a while,” Taehyun said gently.
“Yes,” you replied. Your voice sounded calmer than you felt.
From across the room, Heeseung watched the two of you carefully. The way Taehyun looked at you made something unpleasant twist in his chest.
It wasn’t obvious.
But there was familiarity there.
Something comfortable.
Something that clearly existed long before Heeseung had ever appeared in your life.
Taehyun’s gaze drifted around the restaurant before landing on Heeseung. Recognition flickered across his face. “So you’re the husband.”
Something about the way he said it made Heeseung’s jaw tighten. “And you are?” Heeseung asked.
Taehyun gave a small,l polite smile. “Someone who knew Y/N before you.”
The words made something uncomfortable settle in Heeseung’s chest. Taehyun turned back to you. “I came to see you.”
Your arms folded lightly. “…Why?”
For a moment, Taehyun didn’t answer. Then he said quietly: “I wanted to see if you were actually happy in your marriage.”
The words hit the room like a stone. Heeseung’s grip tightened around the cloth in his hand.
Actually happy?
A sharp flare of anger rose in his chest.
Before he could stop himself— “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
Taehyun glanced at him calmly. “It means exactly what it sounds like.”
Heeseung stepped closer without realizing it. “You came all the way here just to question our marriage?”
Taehyun didn’t look bothered. “I came to see how she was doing.”
His eyes flicked toward Heeseung. “And who she married.” The quiet tension stretched tight between them. “I know Y/N,” Taehyun added.
Something about those words hit Heeseung harder than they should have.
Because it was true, Taehyun knew you in ways he didn’t.
There were memories between you that Heeseung would never be part of.
And suddenly an unfamiliar feeling twisted painfully inside his chest.
Jealousy. Real, sharp jealousy.
Why does that bother me so much?
Heeseung clenched his hands at his sides.
Because hearing another man talk about you like that,
Looking at you like he still belonged in your life,
Made something protective and desperate rise in his chest.
Taehyun looked at you again, his voice soft. “You deserve to be happy.”
Before either man could speak again, your voice cut through the tension. “I am.”
Both of them looked at you. Your heart was beating faster than you wanted to admit because Taehyun’s question had forced you to face something you had been avoiding for weeks.
You met his eyes firmly. “I am happy.”
Taehyun frowned slightly. “You don’t have to say that—”
“I’m not lying.” Your voice was steady. But inside, your chest felt tight. Because saying the words out loud made something else painfully clear. Your eyes flicked toward Heeseung.
He stood there tense, jaw tight, clearly angry. But beneath that anger, you could see something else.
Something raw.
Something vulnerable.
“He works here every day,” you said quietly. “He helps with the restaurant. He handles customers. He fixes things when they break.”
Heeseung blinked in surprise.
You rarely praised him out loud. “But more than that,” you continued softly, “he chose to stay.”
Your chest tightened as you spoke the next words. Because they were the truth you had been trying not to admit. “I’m happy because of him.”
Silence filled the restaurant.
Heeseung’s heart stuttered painfully in his chest.
Because of… me?He stared at you like he had misheard. You avoided his eyes for a second, your fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.
Your thoughts raced.
When did this happen?Somewhere between the quiet mornings.
The shared dinners.
The way he laughed when the aunties teased him.
The way he always made sure you ate before the restaurant got busy.
Somewhere in those small moments—
You had fallen for him.Taehyun studied your face carefully. Then he sighed softly. “…Then I guess I have my answer.”
He glanced briefly at Heeseung. This time, his expression wasn’t skeptical. It was understanding. “I’m glad you’re happy,” he said.
When he turned and left, the bell above the door chimed softly again.
The restaurant fell quiet. The aunties slowly returned to whispering. But Heeseung barely noticed. Because his chest felt like it might explode. Your words echoed loudly in his mind.
I’m happy because of him.
Because of him.
A warmth spread through his chest so suddenly it almost hurt. But tangled inside that warmth was something terrifyingly clear. Because the jealousy he felt earlier—
The anger at Taehyun.
The fear that you might choose someone else.
None of that made sense unless one thing was true.
Slowly, Heeseung realized it. The truth settled into his chest with overwhelming clarity.
He loved you.
Completely.
And hearing you admit that your happiness came from him, even indirectly, made his heart feel so full it was almost painful.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. But in the quiet space between you, something had undeniably changed.
The restaurant didn’t suddenly get louder.
If anything, it felt quieter.
Too quiet.
The clinking of spoons, the low hum of conversation from the aunties—it all faded into the background like distant noise underwater.
Because all you could hear was your own heartbeat.
And him.
You swallowed, fingers still gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. You hadn’t meant to say it at all.
But now it was out there.
And he heard you.
Heeseung didn’t move at first.
He just stood there, staring at you like he was trying to piece something together—like everything that had happened over the past few months had finally clicked into place all at once.
“Y/N…” his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.
Not annoyed.
Not teasing.
Just… careful.
Your chest tightened. “What?”
You didn’t look away this time.
You couldn’t.
He took a slow step forward.
Then another.
Each step felt louder than it should’ve, like the whole room could hear it—even though no one was paying attention anymore.
“You said…” he started, then stopped, like the words didn’t come as easily as they usually did for him.
That alone made your stomach twist.
“When you said you’re happy because of me…”
Your breath hitched slightly.
“I didn’t mean—” you started quickly, instinctively, but he cut you off.
“Don’t,” he said softly.
You froze.“Don’t take it back.”
That made your chest ache.
Because you weren’t trying to take it back.
You were trying to protect yourself.
He finally reached the counter, close enough now that you could see the small shift in his expression—the way his usual confidence was gone, replaced with something more uncertain. More real.
“I need to know,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Was that true?”
The question sat heavily between you.
You could lie.
You could brush it off, laugh it away, say it didn’t mean anything.
That would be easier.
Safer.
But you were tired of pretending.
Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the counter.
“…Yeah,” you admitted quietly.
The word barely made it past your lips.
But it was enough.
Something in his expression broke—just slightly. Not in a bad way. Just… like something he’d been holding onto finally gave way.
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
And then he let out a small breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“…Good,” he murmured.
Your brows pulled together. “Good?”
A faint, almost disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah,” he said. “Because I don’t think I could’ve handled it if you said no.”
Your heart skipped.
“What are you talking about?”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And this time, there was no arrogance. No teasing. No distance. Just honesty.
“I was jealous,” he said simply.
You blinked. “I noticed.”
He huffed a quiet breath, almost amused. “Not just today. Not just because of him.” His jaw tightened slightly before he continued. “Every time someone looks at you. Talks to you like they know you better than I do.”
Your chest tightened.
“I hate it,” he admitted.
The words came out blunt. Unfiltered.
“I hate that there are parts of your life I wasn’t there for. That someone else was.”
Silence.
You didn’t know what to say to that.
Because part of you understood.
Too well.
“I didn’t understand it at first,” he continued, running a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into his voice—but not at you. At himself. “I just thought it was… pride. Or annoyance. Or whatever.”
He let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “But it’s not.”
Your heart started pounding harder.
Because you knew where this was going.
And it terrified you.
His eyes met yours again.
“It’s because I—”
He stopped.
For a split second, doubt flickered across his face.
And that alone was enough to shake you.
Because Lee Heeseung didn’t hesitate.
Not like this.
Not ever.
Your voice came out softer than you expected. “…Because you what?”
He swallowed.
Then said it.
“I like you.”
Your breath caught.
But he didn’t stop there.
“That’s not even it,” he added quickly, shaking his head like that wasn’t enough. “I’ve liked you for a while now.”
Your chest felt tight.
Too tight.
“And I didn’t realize how bad it was until I thought—” he paused, jaw clenching slightly, “—until I thought you might actually choose someone else.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the counter.
“…Heeseung—”
“I’m serious,” he said, voice firm now. “I don’t like the idea of you with anyone else. I don’t like seeing you smile at someone the way you smile when you’re comfortable. I don’t like feeling like I could lose something I didn’t even realize I had.”
Your heart was racing.
Because everything he was saying…
You felt it too.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he admitted more quietly now. “Somewhere between the mornings. The restaurant. You yelling at me for doing things wrong.”
You almost laughed through the tension.
“Hey—”
“But it did,” he said, cutting you off gently. “And now I can’t pretend it didn’t.”
Silence fell again.
But this time, it wasn’t heavy.
It was fragile.
Like something important was balancing between you, waiting to see if it would fall apart—or finally settle.
Your throat felt dry.
“…You’re making this complicated,” you whispered.
He shook his head slightly. “No. It’s already complicated.”
That was true.
A fake marriage.
A one-year contract.
Feelings that weren’t supposed to exist.
You looked down at your hands.“…We weren’t supposed to feel like this.”
“I know.”
“…This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I know.”
Your chest tightened.
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
That was the real question.
He didn’t answer right away.
For once, he didn’t have something quick or confident to say.
Instead, he leaned slightly against the counter, closer to you now than he had ever been before.
Close enough that you could feel the warmth from him.
Close enough that your heart wouldn’t slow down.
“…I don’t know,” he admitted.
Honest.
Again.
“But I know I don’t want to go back to how it was before.”
Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
“…Me neither.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
And the moment they did—
Something shifted.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just quietly.
Like two pieces finally falling into place.
Heeseung’s gaze softened.
And for the first time since all of this started…
Neither of you felt like you were pretending anymore.
“…We should get back to work,” you said quietly.
Neither of you moved.
“Yeah,” he replied.
Still nothing.
Your fingers tightened slightly against the counter. “Heeseung.”
“Mm.”
“You’re still standing there.”
“I know.”
You exhaled softly, something between a sigh and a nervous laugh. “This is weird.”
“…A little.”
But his voice didn’t sound uncomfortable.
If anything, it sounded… calmer than before.
That made your stomach flip.
Finally, you forced yourself to move—turning slightly, reaching for a stack of bowls just to give your hands something to do.
The moment you shifted, the space between you returned.
And somehow, that felt worse.
You focused on the dishes, trying to ignore the way your thoughts kept circling back to what he said.
I like you.Not teasing.
Not careless.
Real.
You swallowed.
Across from you, Heeseung picked up the cloth again, wiping down the counter—but his movements were slower now. Less automatic. Like his mind wasn’t fully there anymore.
“…So what now?” he asked after a moment.
You paused.
That question again.
It sounded heavier this time.
You set the bowl down carefully. “…I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Silence.
He leaned his weight slightly against the counter, eyes on you. “We can’t just ignore it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“But you’re not exactly doing anything either.”
You shot him a look. “What do you want me to do?”
He held your gaze.
And for once, he didn’t have a quick comeback.
That should’ve made you feel better.
Instead, it made everything feel more real.
“…This wasn’t supposed to happen,” you said again, softer now.
“I know.”
“…We made a deal.”
“One year.”
“And then it’s over.”
The words hung there.
Sharp.
Too sharp.
Heeseung’s jaw tightened slightly. “…Is that what you want?” he asked.
The question caught you off guard. Your brows pulled together. “What?”
“When the year ends,” he said, more slowly now, like he was choosing each word carefully, “do you actually want it to be over?”
Your heart stuttered.
You hadn’t let yourself think that far.
You weren’t supposed to.
This was temporary.
It had always been temporary.
But now—
The thought of him leaving felt… wrong.
Your grip on the edge of the counter tightened. “…I don’t know,” you admitted.
It was honest.
It was terrifying.
He watched you closely, like he was trying to read something you weren’t saying out loud. “…That’s not a no.”
You let out a small breath. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Read into everything I say.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips—but it didn’t fully form. “Too late.”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out weaker than usual.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
You were thinking about it now.
About the end.
About what it would mean to go back to a life where he wasn’t there—no early morning complaints, no quiet help in the kitchen, no presence filling the small space of your home.
Your chest tightened. “…You’d leave,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He blinked. “What?”
“When the year ends,” you clarified, trying to sound casual and failing slightly. “You’d go back to your life.”
“My life,” he repeated.
“Your real one.”
Something in his expression shifted. “…You think this isn’t real?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
You looked away briefly, gathering your thoughts. “…I mean… this isn’t where you’re supposed to be.”
He let out a quiet breath. “And where exactly am I supposed to be?” he asked.
“In the city. With your family. Your money. Your—everything.”
“And leave this?” he asked.
You looked back at him.
He gestured lightly around the restaurant. “…Leave you?”
Your heart skipped. “That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
“No,” you said quickly. “I just—this isn’t your world.”
He went still.
For a second, you thought you’d crossed a line.
Then—
“…Maybe it is now.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t say it loudly. He didn’t need to.
Because something about the way he said it—steady, certain—made it land harder than anything else he’d said so far.
“You really think I’m going just to walk away from this like it didn’t matter?” he continued.
You didn’t answer.
Because you didn’t know how.
“I hated it at first,” he admitted. “The house. The bus. The food. Everything.”
You huffed faintly. “I remember.”
“But that’s not what it is anymore.”
Your chest tightened again. “…Then what is it?” you asked quietly.
He held your gaze. “You.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
Simple.
Direct.
Dangerous.
Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out.
He took a small step closer again—not as close as before, but enough to make your heart start racing all over again. “This place matters because you’re here,” he said. “The restaurant matters because it’s yours. None of this feels like something I’m being forced into anymore.”
Your throat felt tight.
“So no,” he added softly. “I don’t think I’d just leave.”
Silence wrapped around you again.
But this time, it felt heavier.
Because now the line between “fake” and “real” had blurred beyond recognition.
“…You’re making this harder,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“…You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Why not?”
“Because,” you exhaled, frustrated, “this isn’t supposed to be real.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he stepped just a little closer.
Close enough that if either of you leaned even slightly—
You swallowed.
“…What if it is?” he asked quietly.
Your heart pounded.
“This—us,” he continued. “What if it stopped being fake a long time ago and we just didn’t want to admit it?”
You couldn’t breathe properly.
Because he was right.
And that made everything more complicated than you were ready for.
“…Heeseung,” you said softly, almost a warning.
But it didn’t sound like one.
It sounded like hesitation.
Like uncertainty.
Like something else entirely.
His gaze dropped briefly—to your lips—then back to your eyes.
And that tiny shift was enough to send heat rushing through your chest.
The air between you changed instantly.
Thicker.
Charged.
Neither of you moved.
But neither of you pulled away either.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“…Don’t.”He stilled.
“Don’t what?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer right away.
Because you didn’t even know what you were asking him not to do.
Don’t cross the line?
Don’t make this real?
Don’t make it harder to pretend later?
Your chest rose and fell unevenly.
“…Don’t make this something I can’t walk away from,” you finally said.
The words landed softly.
But they hit.
Hard.
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes.
Not hurt.
Not exactly.
But something close.“…What if I don’t want you to walk away?” he said.
Your heart clenched. “That’s not your choice.”
“Maybe not.” Silence. “But it’s not just yours either.”
You froze.
Because he was right again.
And that scared you more than anything.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then—
The bell above the door chimed.
Loud.
Sharp.
Real.
Both of you pulled back slightly, like the moment had been interrupted just in time.
A couple stepped inside, chatting casually, completely unaware of the storm they had just walked into.
You turned quickly, grabbing the nearest towel just to keep your hands busy.
“Welcome,” you said, your voice almost normal.
Almost.
Behind you, Heeseung let out a slow breath.
And for the rest of the afternoon—
Neither of you said another word about it.
But the tension didn’t fade.
If anything…
It settled deeper.
Because now you both knew.
There was no going back to how things were before.
And sooner or later—
One of you was going to have to decide what this really meant.
That night, the house felt different.
Not quieter.
Not louder.
Just… heavier.
Like something had followed you home from the restaurant and settled into the walls, into the air, into every small space between you.
You moved through your usual routine on autopilot—washing dishes, wiping the counter, setting things back where they belonged. Heeseung did the same, drying the last bowl beside you without being asked.
Neither of you brought it up.
Not what he said.
Not what you said.
But it lingered anyway.
It was there in the way your shoulders brushed once… and neither of you pulled away immediately.
In the way your eyes met for a second too long over something meaningless.
In the silence that wasn’t empty anymore—just full of things neither of you knew how to say.
Eventually, there was nothing left to do.
The lights dimmed.
The house settled.
And the moment you had been avoiding all evening finally arrived.
Sleeping.
You stood near the kitchen, hands resting lightly against the table, staring at nothing in particular.
Behind you, the couch creaked softly as Heeseung shifted, grabbing the familiar thin blanket. The same one he had complained about months ago.
Now he didn’t say anything. That somehow made it worse.
You turned slightly, watching him out of the corner of your eye.
The way he moved—quieter now, more used to the space. Like he had already accepted it.
Like he wasn’t expecting anything more.
“…You don’t have to sleep there.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
He froze, the blanket paused halfway in his hands. Slowly, he looked up at you. “…What?” he asked.
You swallowed, heart already starting to race. “I said…” You hesitated, suddenly very aware of how small the house felt, how close he was, how there was nowhere to hide from this. “…you don’t have to sleep on the couch.”
Silence.
Heeseung straightened slowly, the blanket slipping slightly from his grip. “…Where else would I sleep?” he asked, quieter now.
You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “The bed.”
The words hung in the air.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
For a second, he didn’t react at all.
Then—
“…With you?” he said.
Your face warmed immediately.
“It’s not a big deal,” you said quickly, even though it very much was. “There’s enough space. And the couch is—” you glanced at it briefly, “—terrible.”
A faint breath left him, almost like a laugh, but softer. “You just figured that out?”
You ignored that.
“I’m serious,” you added, voice steadier now. “You don’t have to keep sleeping there.”
Another pause.
He looked at you—really looked this time, trying to read something. “…Are you sure?” he asked.
And that question—
It wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t arrogant.
It was careful.
Like he knew this meant more than just sleep.
Your chest tightened again.
Because he was right.
It did.
You hesitated for half a second too long.
But then you nodded. “…Yeah.” Your voice came out softer this time. “I’m sure.”
Silence stretched.
Heeseung exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “…Okay.”
Just one word.
But it shifted everything.
You nodded once, turning quickly before he could see the way your expression changed. “I’ll—uh—change first.”
You disappeared into the bedroom faster than you meant to.
The moment the door closed behind you, you leaned back against it, pressing your hand lightly to your chest.
What are you doing?
Your heart was pounding too fast.
This was just sleeping.
That’s it.
Nothing else.
You changed quickly, hands moving faster than your thoughts could keep up. But your mind wouldn’t quiet.
You remembered the way he looked at you earlier.
The way his voice softened when he said your name.
The way he almost—
You shook your head, pushing the thought away.
Don’t think about it.
Just sleep.
You pulled the blanket back and climbed into bed, staying firmly on one side, leaving space.
A lot of space.
Just in case.
Outside, you could hear him moving.
Slower.
More hesitant than usual.
The couch creaked one last time—then stopped.
A few seconds passed.
Then the door opened.
You felt it before you saw him.
Your entire body tensed slightly as he stepped inside.
Heeseung paused near the doorway.
The room suddenly felt even smaller than usual.
“…You’re taking up half the bed,” he said quietly.
You stared straight ahead at the wall. “There’s still space.”
“Barely.”
“Then don’t move around so much.”
A small breath of amusement left him.
But he didn’t argue. Instead, he moved closer.
Each step felt louder than it should have.
The mattress dipped slightly as he sat down on the edge.
Your heart jumped.
Then—
He shifted.
And laid down.
Carefully.
Like he was trying not to disturb you.
The bed dipped again under his weight, the space between you shrinking instantly.
Not touching.
But close.
Too close.
The warmth from him was immediate.
You stared at the wall, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the sound of his breathing, the slight movement of the mattress when he adjusted, the faint scent of soap and something distinctly him.
“…This is better than the couch,” he muttered quietly.
You huffed softly. “Obviously.”
Silence.
But not the same silence as before.
This one was… charged.
Your hands rested stiffly against the blanket, unsure of where to go.
You could feel him beside you.
Every inch.
“…You’re tense,” he said after a moment.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m fine.”
A small pause. Then—
“…Relax.”
You almost scoffed. “Easy for you to say.”
“You invited me.”
Your face warmed again. “Don’t remind me.”
A quiet chuckle came from beside you. And somehow, that sound did more to settle your nerves than anything else. Your shoulders loosened just slightly.
Minutes passed.
Neither of you moved much. But slowly… the tension began to ease.
Your breathing evened out. Your body adjusted to the unfamiliar presence beside you.
And then—
Without thinking—
You shifted. Just slightly.
Your arm brushed against his.
Both of you stilled. The contact was light. Barely anything. But it felt like everything.
Your breath caught. You waited for him to move away.
He didn’t. Instead—
His arm shifted too. Just enough that it rested more comfortably beside yours.
Not pulling away. Not pulling you closer. Just… there.
Your heart started racing again. But this time, it wasn’t panic. It was something softer. Warmer.
“…Y/N,” he said quietly.
You swallowed. “…Yeah?”
A pause.
Like he was thinking.
Then—
“…Goodnight.”
You blinked.
That’s it?
Something in your chest loosened unexpectedly.
“…Goodnight,” you replied softly.
The room fell quiet again.
The kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy anymore.
Just… full.
Safe.
And as the minutes passed, your body slowly relaxed further, your eyes growing heavier.
Beside you, his breathing steadied.
And for the first time since all of this started—
You didn’t feel like you were pretending. You didn’t feel like this was temporary. You just felt…
Comfortable.
Your fingers shifted slightly against the blanket. Then, without thinking—they brushed his again.
This time, neither of you pulled away.
And somewhere between that quiet contact and the steady rhythm of his breathing—
You fell asleep. Together.
The room is quiet in that soft, fragile way that only exists late at night. You don’t mean to say it out loud.
Morning comes quietly.
Soft light slips through the curtains, pale and warm, brushing across your face.
You don’t wake up all at once. It’s slow—like your body realizes something before your mind does.
Warmth.
Weight.
Comfort.
Your fingers twitch slightly, and that’s when you notice it.
You’re not just close anymore. You’re curled into him.
Your face is tucked against his chest, one arm loosely wrapped around his side, your leg tangled with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arm is draped around you, hand resting securely against your back, holding you there even in sleep.
For a second, you freeze. Your heart stutters, then starts racing.
When did this happen…?
Carefully—very carefully—you tilt your head just enough to look up at him.
Heeseung is still asleep.
His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. No tension, no teasing smirk, no guarded look—just peaceful. His grip on you tightens slightly, almost instinctively, like he’s reacting to your movement even without waking up.
Like he doesn’t want you to go.
Your breath catches. Something warm spreads through your chest, unfamiliar and overwhelming all at once.
You should move. You know you should. But you don’t.
Instead, you stay there for a moment longer than you mean to, listening to his steady heartbeat under your ear, feeling the quiet comfort of being held like this—like you belong there.
Then, slowly, his breathing shifts.
His eyes flutter open. For a split second, he looks confused. Then he realizes. And freezes.
Neither of you move.
Neither of you speak.
But the space between you—gone now, completely gone—feels heavier than ever.
His eyes meet yours. And just like that, everything becomes real.
You’re still pressed against him. His arm is still wrapped around your back, holding you like he forgot how to let go. Your leg is tangled with his, your hand resting against his chest, where you can feel his heartbeat—fast now, no longer calm like it was moments ago.
Neither of you moves.
It’s like if either of you does, the moment will shatter.
“…Morning,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual, still rough with sleep.
You swallow. “…Morning.”
But neither of you makes any effort to pull away.
Your mind is screaming at you to move—to create space, to fix this, to make it less something—but your body won’t listen. Not when he’s warm, not when he’s looking at you like that.
Like he’s thinking the same thing you are.
Don’t move yet.
His fingers shift slightly against your back, barely there, but enough for you to notice. Like he’s becoming aware of what he’s doing… and still not stopping.
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he murmurs, a small, almost teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Your brows knit together. “I do not—”
“You do,” he interrupts softly. “You were all the way over there.”
His hand lifts just enough to gesture vaguely behind you before settling back against you again—like it belongs there.
“And then you just…” he hesitates, glancing down at the way you’re curled into him, “…ended up here.”
Heat rushes to your face.
“I didn’t mean to,” you mumble, suddenly very aware of everything—how close you are, how your hand is still resting on him, how his thumb is slowly, absentmindedly brushing against your back.
He hums quietly. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Your breath catches.
There’s a pause.
A long one.
The kind that stretches just enough to feel dangerous.
Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt. “We should probably—”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
But he doesn’t move.
You don’t either.
Instead, his gaze softens, drifting over your face like he’s memorizing it—like he’s noticing things he hasn’t let himself notice before.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks suddenly.
The question catches you off guard.
“…What?”
“Like this,” he clarifies, quieter now. “With me.”
Your heart pounds.
You should lie.
You should brush it off, laugh it away, make it easier for both of you.
But the words don’t come.
“…Yeah,” you admit softly.
His expression changes—just slightly, but enough.
Something in his eyes warms, deepens. “…Me too.”
The air shifts.
It’s not awkward anymore.
It’s something else.
Something softer.
Something a little harder to ignore.
His hand slides just a little more securely against your back, pulling you a fraction closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you feel it.
Enough that it means something.
You exhale slowly. “People are gonna talk if they see this,” you whisper, even though there’s no one around.
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Let them.”
Your heart stumbles.
That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does.
But it does.
And neither of you pulls away.
Not yet.
His gaze drops.
It’s subtle at first—just a flicker—but you notice.
From your eyes… to your lips.
And then back again.
Your breath catches, the shift so small but so loud at the same time.
Heeseung goes still.
Like he’s realizing it too.
Like he didn’t mean to look—but now that he has, he can’t stop.
The space between you suddenly feels thinner than ever. One small movement, and—
His hand tightens slightly against your back.
Not pulling you in. Not pushing you away. Just… holding.
Like he’s stuck in the middle of a decision he’s not sure he’s allowed to make.
Your heart is racing now, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. Your fingers curl more firmly into his shirt without you meaning to, like you’re bracing yourself for something that hasn’t happened yet.
He swallows. “…Y/N.” Your name sounds different coming from him like this. Quieter. Careful.
You don’t answer.
You’re not even sure you can.
His eyes flick down to your lips again, slower this time. Lingering.
And this time… he doesn’t look away right away.
You feel it—the hesitation, the want, the restraint.
He inches closer.
Barely.
So close you can feel his breath now, warm against your skin.
And then he stops.
Right there.
Like there’s an invisible line he’s afraid to cross.
His brows knit slightly, conflict written all over his face. “I don’t know if I should—”
But he doesn’t finish the sentence.
Because he already knows the answer.
Or maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe that’s the problem.
His thumb brushes against your back again, slower this time, grounding himself. “Say something,” he murmurs, voice low, almost unsteady. “Because if you don’t…” He exhales shakily. “…I’m not sure I’ll stop.”
The words hang between you.
Heavy.
Honest.
And so, so close to dangerous.
He doesn’t move any closer.
But he doesn’t pull away either.
He’s waiting.
For you.
You don’t say anything.
And somehow… that is your answer.
His eyes search yours one more time—like he’s giving you a chance to stop him, to pull away, to make this easier.
You don’t.
Your grip on his shirt tightens just slightly instead.
That’s all it takes.
Heeseung exhales softly, as if something in him finally gives way, and then he closes the distance.
The kiss is gentle.
Careful.
Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.
For a second, it’s barely there—just the soft brush of his lips against yours, testing, uncertain.
And then—
You melt into it.
Your eyes flutter shut, your hand instinctively sliding up from his chest to rest against his shoulder, holding onto him like you need something steady. The hesitation between you fades, replaced by something warmer, deeper, something that had been building long before this moment.
His hand shifts against your back, pulling you closer—this time without stopping, without second-guessing.
The kiss deepens, not rushed, not overwhelming—just… real.
Like he’s been wanting this.
Like you both have.
Your heart is pounding so hard it almost feels unreal, your thoughts completely scattered, reduced to nothing but the feeling of him—warm, close, here.
When he finally pulls back, it’s slow.
Reluctant.
His forehead rests lightly against yours, both of you breathing a little heavier now, like you just crossed something neither of you can undo.
Neither of you speaks at first.
You just stay there.
Close.
Too close to pretend this didn’t mean anything.
His thumb brushes softly against your side again, almost absentminded, but there’s nothing uncertain about him anymore.
“…So,” he murmurs, voice low, a little breathless. “That happened.”
A small, nervous smile tugs at your lips, even though your heart is still racing.
“…Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
Then his gaze softens again, something more certain settling in this time.
And instead of pulling away—
He leans in again.
Because now that he’s kissed you once…
He doesn’t want to stop.
–
Rain tapped softly against the windows, steady and quiet, like the world had decided to slow down for the night.
The house was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner and the faint glow from the kitchen. Everything felt warmer when it rained—closer somehow.
You sat on the floor near the low table, a blanket draped over your legs, carefully folding laundry that had long since cooled. It was a simple task, one you didn’t mind. It gave your hands something to do, your thoughts somewhere soft to land.
Heeseung, however, had been watching you for the past five minutes.
Doing absolutely nothing about it.
You could feel it without even looking up.
“…What?” you finally asked, not bothering to hide the small smile tugging at your lips.
There was a pause.
Then, casually, “Nothing.”
You glanced up.
He was stretched out on the couch, one arm behind his head, the other lazily draped over the edge—completely relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on you in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.
“You’ve been staring,” you said.
“Am I not allowed to look at my wife?”
You rolled your eyes softly, folding another shirt. “Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking too much.”
That made him smile.
He pushed himself up slowly, running a hand through his hair before walking over. The floor creaked lightly under his steps, and then he was right there—hovering just long enough to make your heart beat faster before he dropped down beside you.
Closer than necessary.
Always closer than necessary.
“You caught me,” he said quietly.
You didn’t look at him this time. “What were you thinking about?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, his hand found the edge of the blanket over your legs, absentmindedly smoothing it out—like he needed something to do while he figured out how to say it.
“…This,” he said finally.
You paused, fingers stilling on the fabric in your hands. “Folding laundry?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “No.”
His shoulder bumped lightly against yours.
“You. Here. Like this.” His voice softened. “It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”
Your chest tightened, just a little.
You set the shirt down slowly. “It’s real.”
“I know,” he said. “I just… didn’t think I’d get this.”
There was something honest in the way he said it. Not sad—just… genuine.
Like he was still adjusting to being happy.
You turned your head to look at him, really look at him. The softness in his expression, the way his eyes lingered on you like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away.
“You gave up everything,” you said quietly.
He shook his head immediately. “I told you—”
“I know what you said,” you interrupted gently. “But it’s still true.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The rain filled the silence for you.
Then, slowly, you reached over, taking his hand in yours. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like it was instinct now.
“Then I’ll just have to make it worth it,” you said.
His expression shifted—something deeper, softer.
“You already do.”
Your heart skipped.
He leaned in slightly, his forehead brushing against yours, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“You have no idea how much.”
The world outside kept moving—the rain falling, the wind brushing softly against the house—but inside, everything felt still again.
Safe.
Warm.
He tilted his head just enough, his nose brushing yours in that familiar, gentle way that always made you forget what you were saying.
“You’re distracting me,” you murmured, though your grip on his hand tightened.
“That’s the point.”
You let out a quiet breath, a small smile slipping through before you closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first—slow, familiar, like something you’d both learned by heart. But when his hand came up to cup your cheek, pulling you just a little closer, it deepened without thinking.
Not rushed.
Not uncertain.
Just… sure.
Like everything between you had settled into something steady and real.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his again, both of you lingering there like neither of you wanted to let go fully.
After a moment, he glanced down at the half-folded laundry.
“…We’re not finishing that tonight, are we?”
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Definitely not.”
“Good,” he said, already pulling the blanket further over both of you as he leaned back, taking you with him.
You didn’t protest.
Didn’t need to.
You just settled against him, your head resting comfortably against his shoulder as the rain continued outside.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Just the quiet. The warmth. The steady rhythm of something that felt like peace.
But then—
“…We should tell her soon.”
His voice was softer this time. Careful.
You stilled slightly against him.
You knew who he meant.
Your mom.
Your fingers tightened just a little in the fabric of his shirt. “I know.”
Another pause.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
You let out a small breath, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “A little.”
That felt like an understatement.
It wasn’t that you thought she’d be angry—no, that wasn’t it. It was the opposite.
She loved you. She worried about you. She had been through so much already.
And now you were going to stand in front of her and say: I got married.
Just like that.
Quietly.
Without her there.
“I don’t want her to feel left out,” you admitted.
Heeseung’s arm tightened around you instantly.
“She won’t,” he said gently. “She knows you. She knows this wasn’t… some careless decision.”
You swallowed.
“She’s going to cry.”
He huffed softly. “Yeah. She definitely is.”
Despite yourself, you smiled a little.
“And what if she doesn’t like you?” you added, glancing up at him.
He looked down at you, pretending to think about it.
“…Then I’ll just have to win her over.”
“You already did,” you murmured. “You just don’t know it yet.”
His expression softened at that.
“Then we’ll be okay,” he said.
You nodded slowly, letting your head fall back against his shoulder again.
“We’ll go tomorrow,” you said quietly. “Or… soon.”
“Soon,” he agreed.
His hand found yours again under the blanket, fingers lacing together like they always did.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Just steady.
The rain began to lighten outside, the soft tapping fading into something quieter, gentler—like the storm was passing.
And somehow, it felt the same for you.
There were still things ahead.
Conversations.
Reactions.
Change.
But here, in this moment, wrapped up in his arms with your future waiting just a little closer than before—
It didn’t feel overwhelming.
It felt possible.
And as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, holding you just a little tighter, you realized—
You weren’t afraid of it anymore.
Because you wouldn’t be facing it alone.
Your hand is still wrapped around Heeseung’s as you step inside, your thumb brushing faintly against his skin like you need the reassurance that he’s really here. That this is real.
“…You ready?” he murmurs.
You nod, even though your heart is beating a little too fast. “Just—let me talk first.”
He gives a small smile. “I’ll behave.”
You glance at him. “…You better.”
That earns a quiet huff of amusement, and for a second, it calms you.
Then you step into the sitting room.
Your mom is already there.
She looks up the moment she hears you, her eyes immediately softening when they land on you—like they always do.
But then she notices him.
Her gaze lingers.
Curious. Gentle. Careful.
“…You brought someone,” she says quietly.
You nod, stepping forward slightly. “Mom, this is Heeseung.”
She gives a small nod, but her attention is already shifting back to you—reading you, the way she always has.
“…What is this?” she asks, not harshly. Just… needing to understand.
You take a breath.
Your fingers tighten in his.
“We wanted to tell you something.”
Something in her expression softens further—like she already senses this matters.
“…Okay,” she says gently. “Tell me.”
Your throat feels tight.
But you say it anyway.
“We’re married.”
The words hang there.
Your mom doesn’t react right away.
She just looks at you.
Then at him.
Then at your hands.
And slowly… her expression changes.
Not to anger.
Not to shock.
But to something softer.
Something full.
Her hand lifts to her chest like she needs to steady her breathing. “…Married?” she repeats, her voice quieter now.
You nod.
“It’s been… a quiet romance,” you explain, glancing briefly at Heeseung. “We didn’t want to make it a big thing.”
Heeseung nods in agreement. “We just wanted it to be ours.”
Your mom’s eyes fill slightly.
And that catches you off guard.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, letting out a soft, emotional laugh as she wipes beneath her eyes. “I just—”
She looks at you again, really looks.
“You look… happy.”
Your chest tightens.
“I am,” you whisper.
She exhales shakily, smiling through the tears. “Then that’s all I needed to know.”
Relief hits you so suddenly that it almost makes your knees weak.
“Really?” you ask.
She nods, stepping closer.
“Really.”
Her gaze shifts to Heeseung again—but this time, it’s different.
Warm.
Welcoming.
“You must care about her very much,” she says softly.
Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
“And you’ll take care of her?”
His grip on your hand tightens just slightly. “Always.”
Something in her expression melts completely at that.
She reaches out, gently taking his free hand in both of hers.
“Then…” she says, her voice trembling just a little, “I’m grateful you found each other.”
You blink quickly, your vision blurring. “Mom…”
She pulls you into a hug without warning, holding you tighter than usual—like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than you realized.
“I’m so happy for you,” she whispers.
You cling to her, your heart full and aching all at once.
When she pulls back, she laughs softly again, wiping her eyes. “…I never thought I’d see the day.”
Then she looks at Heeseung, smiling warmly. “I suppose I have a son-in-law now.”
Heeseung blinks, a little surprised—but something soft settles in his expression. “…I’d like that,” he says quietly.
Everything feels… right.
Light.
Like maybe, just maybe, things are going to be okay.
—
Later, as you and Heeseung step outside, the evening air feels cool against your skin.
You exhale softly, your shoulders finally relaxing.
“That went better than I expected,” you admit.
Heeseung lets out a quiet breath beside you. “Yeah…”
There’s something in his tone.
Not doubt.
Just… awareness.
Like he knows things aren’t fully settled yet.
Your fingers tighten in his again.
“We’ll figure everything out,” you say softly.
He glances at you, a faint smile forming. “We will.”
Footsteps echo from behind you.
You turn—
And your heart drops.
Heeseung’s grip on your hand goes rigid.
His parents stand at the end of the path.
Watching.
Your stomach twists instantly.
His mother speaks first, her voice tight. “So it’s true.”
Silence crashes down.
Heeseung steps slightly in front of you—not fully, but enough.
“…What are you doing here?” he asks.
His father’s expression is unreadable. “We came to bring you home.”
“I’m not going back.”
The words come too fast.
Too certain.
“You disappear, you ignore your responsibilities, and now you show up here and say something like that? As if it’s nothing?”
“It’s not nothing,” he says, firmer now.
“Then what is it?” she demands. “A rebellion? A phase? Because I promise you, this—” her gaze flicks to you again, sharp and dismissive, “—this is not worth throwing your life away. All for some poor girl.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
Before you can stop yourself, your fingers twitch in his hand—but Heeseung squeezes back, grounding you, stopping you from pulling away.
“She's not just some poor girl, she's my wife,” he says, glaring coldly.
His father finally moves, stepping further into the room, his presence immediately commanding all attention.
“You will come home,” he says, voice low and final. “We’ll discuss this properly.”
“No.”
The word is quiet.
But it lands harder than anything else.
His father’s eyes narrow.
“…What?”
“I’m not coming back,” Heeseung repeats, more clearly now. “I’m staying here.”
Your breath catches.
His mother lets out a disbelieving laugh again, but there’s no humor in it now—just anger. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already have.”
“You’re being irrational—”
“I’m being honest,” he cuts in, sharper now.
The shift is immediate.
You feel it in the way his hand tightens around yours, in the way his shoulders square—not defensive anymore, but certain.
His father’s voice drops even lower. “You are not throwing away everything we have built for you over a girl you barely know.”
Something in your chest twists at that—but before you can react—
“I know her enough,” Heeseung says. There’s something dangerous in how calm he sounds. “And I’m not throwing anything away.”
His father takes another step closer. “You are if you stay here.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t worth keeping.”
The room goes completely still.
Even your breathing feels too loud.
His mother stares at him like she doesn’t recognize him anymore. “Listen to yourself,” she says, her voice trembling slightly now—not weak, but furious. “Your future—your career—everything you’ve worked for—”
“It was never mine,” he says.
That lands.
Hard.
“You don’t mean that,” she insists.
“I do.”
“You’re just confused—”
“I’m not confused,” he snaps, the first crack in his composure finally showing. “For once, I actually know what I want.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
His father exhales slowly, like he’s reached the end of his patience.
“…If you walk away from this family,” he says, each word deliberate, “you do not come back.”
Your heart drops.
You feel it—this is it. The line. The point of no return.
Heeseung doesn’t look at them.
He looks at you.
Just for a second.
And there’s so much in that glance—certainty, apology, something soft and unspoken that makes your chest ache.
Then he looks back at them.
“…I know.”
His mother’s composure finally cracks. “Heeseung—”
“I’m staying,” he says.
Final.
Unshakable.
His father’s expression hardens completely, any trace of emotion gone.
“Then you will have nothing.”
The words hit like a slap.
“No inheritance,” he continues coldly. “No financial support. No connection to this family whatsoever.”
Your stomach twists.
His mother doesn’t argue.
She just turns her face away, jaw tight, eyes glassy—but she says nothing.
That silence hurts more than anything.
“And when this falls apart,” his father adds, glancing at you with quiet disdain, “do not expect us to be there to fix your mistakes.”
Your chest burns.
But before you can react—
“Don’t,” Heeseung says, low and sharp.
It’s not loud.
But it’s enough.
His father pauses, eyes narrowing slightly—but he doesn’t continue.
Instead, he turns.
His mother hesitates for just a second—like she might say something, like she might reach for him—
But she doesn’t.
Then they're gone.
The night feels heavier now. Colder.
You look up at him, your heart twisting. “…Heeseung, I’m so sorry—”
He shakes his head immediately.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice softer now.
“But—”
“I meant what I said.”
His hand tightens around yours again, pulling you just a little closer.
“I’m staying,” he repeats.
Your eyes sting.
“You just lost everything…”
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
And something in his expression softens in a way that makes your heart ache even more. “…Not everything.”
Your breath catches. Behind you, the door opens.
Your mom steps outside, her expression shifting immediately when she takes in your faces—then the empty path where his parents had been.
“…What happened?” she asks softly.
You don’t answer.
You don’t need to.
She looks at Heeseung.
The way he's still holding your hand, at the quiet, heavy understanding in his eyes. And something in her softens even more.
She steps closer, gently placing a hand on his arm.
“…Then you’re not alone,” she says quietly.
Heeseung blinks, just slightly.
Your mom gives him a small, tearful smile.
“You may have lost something tonight,” she continues, “but you gained a family too.”
Your heart swells.
His fingers tighten around yours again.
And this time—
He doesn’t look back.
The house felt different after everything.
Quieter—but not in the hollow, lonely way it once had been. This quiet was warm. Lived in.
Sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains, painting soft gold across the wooden floors. You stood near the window, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your sleeve, still not entirely used to how calm your life had become.
No more hiding.
No more fear of being taken away.
No more pretending your heart didn’t belong to him.
Behind you, you heard the faint creak of the floorboards before familiar arms slipped around your waist, gentle but sure. Heeseung rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.
“Thinking again?” he murmured.
You smiled, leaning back into him. “Just… everything.”
His grip tightened slightly, like he was grounding himself—like he still needed to remind himself you were really here.
“We survived it,” he said softly.
You nodded, your gaze drifting toward the kitchen.
Your mom was there, moving slowly—carefully—as she stirred something on the stove. The sound of her quiet humming filled the space, softer than it used to be, but still there—still hers.
The medicine had helped.
More than anyone had dared to hope.
It hadn’t been easy—the cost, the waiting, the fear that it might not work—but somehow, it had. Enough to bring her home. Enough to give her color back in her cheeks, even if it was faint.
She was still weak. You could see it in the way she leaned a little too heavily against the counter sometimes, in how she tired more quickly than she used to.
But she was here.
And that was everything.
Your chest tightened slightly, but not with sadness—something softer. Something grateful.
Heeseung followed your gaze, his arms tightening around you just a little.
“She looks stronger today,” he said gently.
You nodded. “She is… because of you.”
He shook his head immediately, almost stubbornly. “No. Because she fought. I just… helped where I could.”
You turned in his arms, looking up at him. There was something different in his eyes now—not the polished confidence he used to wear, not the weight of expectation from a life he’d left behind.
This was lighter. Freer.
Happier.
“You gave up a lot,” you whispered.
Heeseung didn’t hesitate this time.
“I chose something better.”
His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin like it was something precious—something he still couldn’t believe was his.
“I chose you.”
Your heart stuttered, even now, even after everything.
“You’re my home,” he added quietly.
For a moment, all you could do was look at him. At the boy who had walked into your life unexpectedly, who had stayed when it was hard, who had chosen love when it cost him everything else.
And somehow, neither of you regretted it.
Not even a little.
You leaned in first this time, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—familiar now, easy, filled with something deeper than that first hesitant moment. He smiled into it, his arms pulling you closer like he always did, like he always would.
From the kitchen, your mom glanced over at the two of you, a soft, teary smile forming on her lips. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t need to.
That look said enough.
It wasn’t the life any of you had planned.
But it was yours.
Simple mornings. Careful steps. Shared glances. Quiet laughter. Hands always finding each other without thinking.
And love—steady, unwavering, chosen every single day.
Heeseung pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing briefly.
“Do you ever miss it?” he asked.
“The old life?”
You thought about it.
The fear. The loneliness. The distance.
Then you looked at your mom—still fragile, but alive. Still here.
Then back at him.“No,” you said, your voice certain. “Not when I have this.”
His smile was soft, but it held everything.
“Good,” he whispered.
Outside, the world moved on like it always did.
But inside, in that small sunlit home, time felt slower.
Kinder.
Like it had finally decided to give you all a chance to just… be.
Together.
warnings. Alpha/Omega dynamics, miscommunication, angst, heejay fight, jealousy, tension, smut, dubcon, rut sex, very rough & unprotected sex, breeding/pregnancy kink, possessive behavior, heeseung Alpha’ing the fuck out, alcohol mentioned, self-torture, restraints, blood, masturbation, scenting, marking, biting, love confessions, he’s a simp, big dick heeseung, knot fucking, squirting, oral, fingering. minors DNI.
preview—
Heeseung has to bite down on the backs of his teeth to stop himself from calling you cute for the thousandth time. Everything you do is so fucking cute. It’s ridiculous how endeared he feels watching you do the most mundane of things. The way you nervously scratch your nose, how much you whine when he stares at you for too long, and how often you raid his closet in search of his comfiest most oversized clothing that all sits too loose on you.
He’s..obsessed, to put it lightly.
“Ugh, you’re doing it again.”
Shaking his head and rapidly blinking his eyes, he apologizes. Rubbing at his nape as you scratch your nose. “Hard not to stare when you show up in my favorite hoodie.”
“Oh? You want it back?” You grin mischievously, skirting around him. Leaning in close to whisper against his ear. “Gonna have to fight me for it, Alpha.”
You’ll really be the death of him.
That’s the problem. You are really a problem, ever since your heat broke out a month ago, he’s been fighting you everyday. Fighting himself to control his Alpha, to ignore the venom acidic burn running through his canine teeth. The desire to claim you, never hear his friends question how he is the one that landed you.
You belong to him, there’s no need to question it.
And yet, here he is, too scared to tell you the truth..
premise: but the distance between you is miles and miles wide. he is of this land and you are of yours. he belongs to his people as much as you belong to yours. his mission is to use your people for his gain and your mission is to stop that from happening by all means.
notes: enemies to lovers, fantasy, VIOLENCE, IMPLIED MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, fem!reader, prince!heeseung, witch!reader, captor x captive, mild stockholm syndrome lol, grinding, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), dirty talk, public sex, reader and heeseung really have no business being together and yet the heart wants what the heart wants
a/n: loosely based on the jasad heir duology. (out of context notes) the horse was still there guys have some decorum
the clang of metal jolts you out of your semi-lucid stupor.
you grunt as your wrists dig into the metal cuffs that are keeping you in place. you’re curled up in the corner of your cell, your arms raised above your head as the traitorously short chain links the cuffs to the wall. the vague glow of fire slowly grows more defined as footsteps echo around the underground prison.
you squint as a figure stops in front of your cell, a torch in their hand. it feels like the sun itself is burning in front of you, given how long your eyes have been deprived of proper light. it’s hard to tell what the person standing on the other side of the metal bars looks like, but you figure it matters little, anyway. you’re far from home and you wouldn’t expect to see a friendly face any time soon.
you hear your cell door being opened before you see it happen. the person is still bathed mostly in darkness as they hold the torch away from their face, their tall frame towering over you as they step closer. you shrink away from their gaze, concealing your face behind your dull, unwashed hair.
finally, your eyes adjust incrementally to the light. the other person sets the torch into the scone on the far wall opposite you. better not to give you any ideas. not that you could do much, anyway.
the walls have been sapping your magic for days. you’re not exactly in a position to smite this unknown bastard out of existence.
the person crouches down in front of you, and it’s only in this moment that their identity is revealed.
Prince Heeseung of the North.
or more popularly known as the Magic Finder. the North King’s son and heir, his touch is rumored to end the life of any magically-abled person. it is said that heeseung can sense magic, even without laying a finger on the accused, that he can tell a southern witch or warlock just by looking at them.
you wonder if he can sense it in you now.
“are you comfortable?” heeseung asks. you can see, despite the deep shadows left on his face by the sputtering fire, the quick glance of his eyes towards the chain holding you up.
you want to laugh. you can feel a crude cackle bubble up in your chest at the question. comfortable? if capturing you and ripping you away from your family was comfort, then you must be the Witch Queen herself.
you spit right on heeseung’s boot, glowering at his stony expression. this doesn’t faze him, and you expect nothing less from the seasoned general of the most brutal anti-magic force on this continent. he has dealt fatal blows and sentenced gory deaths to more people than you can imagine. one witch’s tantrum is nothing to him.
“at least i know you’re alert and receptive enough,” heeseung muses, moving closer so he’s eye level with you.
you can’t help the involuntary flinch of your body as the general’s princely features finally come into light. this is a man feared by tens of thousands of people. and he is looking right into your eyes.
“what would you need to know that for?” you bite back. despite everything, your mouth still continues to lead you into potential danger. it’s what got you here in the first place.
he pauses for a moment before turning to exit your cell, leaving you to ponder what he just said.
information?
well, of course.
he isn’t keeping you captive for the fun of it. the royal family of the north is lavish and spendthrift, but they’re efficient. they dare not uselessly venture past of the huge wall they constructed between the north and the south just to pluck whichever witch or warlock they encounter. though, they definitely can, if they wanted to. but, no. that goes against the peace accords, and what kind of royals would they be if they were to abuse their power?
so they snatch up the ones that violate those same accords. the ones with the loose tongues, the vigilantes and vagrants that slip past the wall and back, smuggling supplies and infecting the north with their magic.
the ones who openly express their dissent towards their oppressors.
the ones like you.
heeseung returns to the cell, a short stool in hand. you cower even further against the corner. he places the stool directly in front of you and sits, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees.
for a few seconds, he says nothing. just stares. you have half a mind to growl, to bare your teeth, to spit at him again.
the prince chuckles, as if reading your thoughts.
“what’s your name?”
you’re startled by his question, your breath catching in your throat. you blink, unsure if you heard him right.
you don’t answer. instead, you turn away. as much as the cuffs will let you, that is.
a sigh escapes heeseung’s lips and you vaguely make out from the corner of your eye the way he straightens in his seat.
“you are promised a fair and unbiased trial after we are done with you. until then, you will be fed and cared for,” heeseung begins.
your eyes flash at him.
“fair? unbiased?” you feel yourself seethe with anger.
“how will i be fed and cared for, your highness? chained up? stale bread thrown at me or shoved down my gullet?”
heeseung’s face remains unmoving. it infuriates you even more.
“there is nothing fair or just about your people. it is lost on your nature to even think of being kind.” your voice echoes throughout the cavernous walls of the dungeon.
there’s a rush of adrenaline through your body and you feel as if your magic is about to bleed right out of you. but you know that’s impossible. these walls, these chains, were made specifically for people like you. to cripple the extra hand you’ve been dealt.
“if i were you, i’d just kill me and be done with it.” your voice drips with venom as you push each word out through gritted teeth.
heeseung turns his face, letting the fire illuminate more of his features. realization hits you like a sickening punch to your gut when you see that he’s smiling.
“now, why would i do that?” heeseung asks, as if you’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
a chill passes through you as the prince stands. this is it, you think. you’ve done it now.
he crouches down to your level, right within arm’s reach. if your arms were free, that is. but from where you sit, you could easily send him reeling with a strategically aimed kick to his crotch.
your leg barely shifts back before both your ankles are gripped firmly by heeseung’s gloved hands. rage flares through you as you rear both your feet back in an attempt to shake him off but he merely tightens his hold. pain shoots up your legs as he forces you to stay still.
“let’s be civil here,” heeseung suggests, leaning closer. he raises both eyebrows, as if daring you to make a move. to spit on him again, to curse him, to bash your head against his.
despite it all, despite the indignation and the contempt and the history between his people and yours, you know there is nothing you can do to him that won’t come back to you ten times worse.
“fuck you,” is all you manage, turning away as you wince. he’s still holding onto your legs. he could break them if he so pleased.
the pressure around your ankles eases up, and you scramble back against the wall behind you, head hung low and thoroughly defeated.
heeseung sighs softly, standing up and collecting the stool he sat on. he takes slow, measured steps towards the exit to your cell, as if he isn’t sure he wants to go just yet.
“we’ll try again once you’re fed and rested,” he says, pulling the heavy door open and stepping out. through the bars, you watch him fasten the lock before pocketing a ring of keys.
you realize with startling clarity that he left the torch with you.
-
you’re not sure when you fell asleep, but you know that you had. because there’s a single moment of panic that seizes you as you hurtle into consciousness, hands scraping against cold, damp stone.
wait, that’s not right.
you jolt upright, eyes squinting as you try to regain your bearings. your head swivels up, observing the dying torch on its scone, the embers flickering out as it burns its last. you run a trembling hand through your hair—
your hand!
with widening eyes, you stare at the faint outline of your hands in front of you. free. unrestrained. you reach up to feel up against the wall and sure enough, the chains previously holding you back have been unlocked, allowing you to roam your cell freely.
but why? and how come you weren’t aware when they set you free?
it must be the magic-draining walls. you’ve been sluggish and fatigued since you got here, and you can only attribute it to the clever way these northerners have figured out how to keep your people docile.
the faint scent of bread pulls you out of your thoughts.
but it can’t be.
we’ll try again once you’re fed and rested.
you cautiously crawl on your hands and knees, feeling around with your palms, trying to compensate for the lack of light down here. you can see the dark shapes of the things around you, barely illuminated by faraway torches further down the hall.
you eye the cell in front of yours through the metal bars. you’re not sure if it’s occupied, if some other poor southern witch or warlock is imprisoned here with you.
there could be more. there could be dozens of you. hundreds, even.
your hand knocks against something, a loud scrape echoing around you. you startle, pulling your hand back as if burned. but the smell of the bread is unmistakable now.
you tentatively reach out once more and your fingers brush something soft and warm. crumbs cling to your fingertips and you don’t even wait to see if you have water to wash your meal down; you pinch the bread between your fingers and bring it up to your mouth, tearing off a sizable bite with your teeth.
you’ve lost count of just how many days you’ve gone without food and drink. it occurs to you quite belatedly that this could have been poisoned. you freeze for a few seconds.
but nothing happens. you don’t taste anything amiss in the bread. so you swallow, relief washing over you despite the growl from your stomach, demanding more.
it turns out, there is water to be had. a small cup was deposited alongside the plate, and you readily gulp its contents until none remained.
the sound of a heavy metal door opening somewhere down the hall gives you pause. your ears strain for a second before picking up the soft, measured footsteps of someone walking your way. you scramble back from the plate and cup, stationing yourself in the far corner where you woke up.
the footsteps grow louder and with it comes the glow of fire. your eyes adjust quicker this time as heeseung stops in front of your cell. he takes in your appearance for a few seconds before unlocking the door and stepping inside.
you eye the hand that tucks the keys into his pocket.
“how are you feeling?”
you blink as the question registers. the silence stretches and heeseung sighs. you notice he has the stool with him again.
how curious. the mighty prince and general brings around his own personal effects without an attendant. you would think someone like him would have some poor servant following him around everywhere he went.
he sets the stool down in front of you before going to replace the burnt-out torch. he tosses the dead one into one corner.
“i did say we’d try again when you’re in a much more…comfortable state,” heeseung reminds, confirming that he had something to do with the bread and water.
“what trick is this?” you whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear.
heeseung smiles. “you’re the one well-versed in tricks here. not me.”
a flicker of indignation jolts you from the inside. “what i do aren’t tricks. they’re feats of magic that your bigoted brain couldn’t possibly begin to understand.”
heeseung seems unfazed by your outburst. he takes a seat, crossing his leg over the other languidly.
“then make me understand.”
“what game are you playing?” you sneer, only just remembering that no shackles held you back, that your captor was sitting in front of you, no visible indicators that he’s armed.
you doubt this, though. he’s brazen, not stupid.
your legs are shaky as you stand, an attempt to intimidate the man seated in front of you. but as it goes, the gods love a good joke. your knees immediately buckle, having been out of use for some time. you stumble back and hit your back against the wall before your body slides down onto the floor once more.
your cheeks and neck flare red and embarrassed tears sting your eyes.
what more, heeseung’s fingers loosely circle your wrist, perhaps in an attempt to steady you before you had your little blunder. you wrench your arm out of his grasp, fighting the urge to smack him right across his face.
“i’m not in the habit of playing games,” heeseung states, resting his hand back on his lap. “unless it’s to beat and show up my father.”
this earns a snicker from you, which you promptly mask with a scowl. heeseung smiles, planting both his feet back on the ground before leaning forward.
“oh yes. the North King can be bested. if only in a juvenile game of checkers,” he adds, as if the two of you are mere friends catching up over tea.
“why are you doing this?” you ask. you decide to take on a different approach. “i’m going to die anyway. i won’t survive long enough to reveal your grand plans to anyone. might as well share it with me.”
it’s heeseung’s turn to chuckle. “you’re not going to die. not soon, anyway.”
you pause, trying to make sense of what he just said.
“then why am i here?” you demand. you sit up a little straighter, crowding into his space. any more and you’d be kneeling by his feet.
“is it true you people experiment on us southerners? that those you capture are cut open so you can figure out where the magic comes from?”
heeseung doesn’t respond right away. he gives you a long, hard look. the lone torch illuminates one side of his face, much like yesterday, but it’s enough for your own eyes to see that this is no ordinary human. from his looks, to his posture, to the very air around him. there is something formidable and frightening about this man.
“we used to. they used to,” heeseung clarifies. “i don’t participate in such barbaric acts.”
confusion settles all over your face. “what?”
“we don’t do that anymore. at least, we’re trying not to,” heeseung explains. “you can only cut open a human body so many times before it becomes clear that the answers are not within intestines and innards.”
you cringe at his words. outlawed or not, too many of your people have suffered at the hands and knives of his.
“but i do want to know where the magic comes from,” he continues. “statistically speaking, one in every four southerners i meet will be a witch or warlock. i only want to know why that is.”
“you know why that is,” you say, eyebrows pinching together.
“well yes, everyone knows about the legends of the gods and how they split the continent into two,” heeseung interjects, referring to what you were already thinking. “the sun for the north and the moon for the south. the north would be for progress and technology, while the south is for divinity and spirituality.”
“i just want to further my knowledge of your people,” he concludes.
“you and your thirst for knowledge,” you let out through gritted teeth. “the legends say it as it is. there isn’t any more to that. it is the way of the world.”
you take in a deep breath before continuing. “i have magic in my veins because the gods willed it. i can turn your head into an onion if i wanted to. there is no explanation for that other than the gods wanted the world to be this way.”
heeseung laughs and annoyance pinches in your chest.
“what?” you demand.
“you can’t turn my head into an onion,” he says with a grin. even in this light, half of his face obscured by shadows, you can tell that his expression is meant to be warm. amused.
almost kind.
“witches and warlocks have specialized magic, yes?” heeseung states more than asks.
“tell me about yours,” he says.
his voice turns gentler. it irritates you, that he even knows to ask about it. how his and his people’s hubris allow them to believe that the legends, the very origin story of how the world was created, could be questioned and proven otherwise.
“i’m an elementalist,” you say.
it’s the truth. there isn’t a way to prove it with all your magic sapped out of you, but you bare your arm to him.
the mark of an elementalist is a triangle, with the wielder’s element inscribed within. an inscription with three lines curling into a wave is seared into your skin.
“water,” heeseung mumbles. his eyes meet yours as he reaches for your arm. you draw it back before he can go any further.
the two of you stare at each other once more. his eyes drop to your arm, where your tattered sleeve has covered your mark.
“it’s proven that water elementalists are especially powerful due to water’s connection to the moon,” heeseung says matter-of-factly.
“your power is closely tied with your creator.”
“so you do believe in the creation legends?” you counter, crossing your arms in front of you.
he doesn’t answer.
the way heeseung is eyeing you triggers an uneasy twist in your gut, so you tear your own gaze away and instead stare at his gloved hands.
“why do you always wear gloves?” you ask. “can you really feel someone else’s magic just by touching them?”
heeseung raises a brow. but he says nothing.
you let out a huff. “all the stories say you have your gloves on at all times. is that true?”
“not always,” heeseung responds.
“when do you take them off?”
“when i’m alone.”
your mind wanders.
what is Prince Heeseung of the North like when he’s alone? what facets of him have his bedroom walls seen that no one else has? has someone gotten close enough to see him without his gloves?
“you know, i’ve never seen a water elementalist in action.”
heeseung’s voice draws you out of your thoughts. you narrow your eyes at him.
“is this part of your experiments?” you challenge. “you watch a witch or warlock use their magic, ask them questions, make them do things, and when you have enough information, you put them down like some dog?”
heeseung shrugs. “yes.”
you expected as much. but it disgusted you no less.
“you may not cut our flesh as you used to, but you kill us for what we can offer you just the same,” you practically spat out.
“it’s the way of the world,” heeseung supplies, smirking.
there’s a flash of heat that shoots through your body and your arm moves back in preparation for a swing. you expect your hand to connect loudly with that pristine face of his, but one of his large hands intercepts before you can even come close.
“you know better than to try that,” heeseung says coolly.
you struggle against his hold but he doesn’t let go.
“you’re disgusting,” you seethe. “you’re evil and prejudiced and callous in how you treat us southerners.”
you let yourself fall limp in his hold and only then does he let you go.
heeseung pushes himself up to stand, snatching the stool up before picking up the charred torch from the corner.
“i want to bring you up,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you.
you blink. “bring me up?”
“so you can use your magic,” heeseung elaborates.
“you would let me use magic in your presence?” you ask incredulously. “all for the sake of your experiments?”
“you’ll be heavily guarded and safety measures will be in place, so you won’t hurt anyone. or yourself.” heeseung stands by your cell door, most of his figure swathed in darkness now that he’s away from the torch he delivered to you.
“how very thoughtful of you,” you respond sarcastically.
“i’ll come and get you tomorrow,” heeseung says. “is that okay?”
“do i have a choice?” you retort.
heeseung opens the door out of your cell. “i suppose not. i still want to hear you say it.”
humiliation and anger burn just beneath your skin.
“fuck you,” you mutter.
heeseung closes your cell door, slides the key in place, and locks you in for the evening. or, at least you think it’s evening.
“good night,” heeseung says.
-
“i will remove your restraints. any sudden movement and you die.”
you’re still trembling at the sheer disbelief of it all. you barely register heeseung’s words, but you nod nonetheless. the forest is loud around you, the air cool against your skin.
and in front of you is heeseung, in full view. in daylight.
“i’ll die, anyway,” is your response. there’s a near-imperceptible twitch of heeseung’s lips as he takes your wrists in his hands. a special key is handed to him, one that will undo the cuffs binding you.
the material of your restraints is made of the same stuff as the dungeon walls. meant to hold back your magic, to cage it.
“then let’s hope you’re power’s strong enough to kill me, too,” heeseung supplies, the key hovering where it’s meant to be slotted. “make it count. don’t miss.”
the prince has a sense of humor, it seems.
the restraints are undone, and you feel the power flood back into you. literally flood back. there’s water in the soil, in the sky, in the trees, in heeseung’s body, so close to yours. your eyes lock with his, and some manic side of you tells you to take the chance now. drain him of all he’s worth, suck the very life out of him.
but you refuse to have this pampered prince’s face be the last thing you see before your end.
so you drop your hands slowly to your sides.
about twenty muskets are aimed at you. you stifle a laugh. if they shoot at you now, they risk shooting their general. is his life really worth one single witch’s?
“what can you do with your magic?” heeseung questions, handing the cuffs off to one of his soldiers.
you contemplate whether to be completely honest.
“i can call the rain, and i can stop it,” you begin. your fingertips tingle as you pull nearby clouds to where you’re located.
the sky darkens faster than any of the soldiers around you have probably seen. they glance at each other nervously.
“i can push back the tide and pull it back in. i can breathe underwater,” you add.
heeseung nods pensively. he glances up at the sky. his lashes are dark and thick, visible even from this distance. not that there is much between the two of you.
your eyes wander down the prince’s face, to his neck, to his body. his clothes are in the royal family’s livery, red cloth and gold accents. his coat hugs his figure impeccably, his dark trousers tucked neatly into his leather boots. he is as much a prince as one can be.
“can you manipulate the water in a human’s body?” heeseung questions, returning his gaze to you. you draw in a breath as you realize you were staring.
“are you scared that i will?” you counter.
heeseung smirks. “so you can?”
“yes,” you deadpan. “but it takes decades of training to master it.”
heeseung hums. “can you pull water from the ground?”
“yes. wherever there is water, there is power.”
heeseung nods again. the clouds are gathered above you now. the sun’s rays are gone, replaced by the twilight-like dimness.
“call the rain,” heeseung commands.
you don’t have to be told twice.
you’re soaked in an instant, the torrent of water beating down on you and everyone around you. it’s almost unbearable. almost.
but to you, it feels like home. the warmth, the slide of raindrops down your face, your back, your arms.
“make it stop.”
heeseung’s curt voice grates against your ears and you scowl as you immediately obey.
the rain stops gradually, leaving you, heeseung, and the soldiers thoroughly soaked through your clothes. the leaves of the towering trees around you are heavy with rainwater, droplets continuing to fall onto the wet ground. the smell of the earth comforts you, at least.
heeseung reaches up and you flinch away on instinct. but he persists. he tugs wet strands of hair away from your forehead.
you feel your whole body heat up. whether from embarrassment or annoyance, you’re not quite sure.
he gives you a once-over and nods.
“that’s it for today.” he turns his back to you, which you know is a wrong move on his part.
so maybe he is a little stupid.
before you can think better of it, you command the near-invisible droplets of water around heeseung to freeze over, to crystallize, hardening to sharp little pinpricks. you command every shard to pierce his skin, to burrow themselves deep in his body. but it’s harder without a direct line, without a conduit. you attempt to lift your arm to aid in the process.
your hand hasn’t even raised past your thigh when you feel unimaginable pain explode in your leg.
you gasp, crumpling to the ground. your breath comes in ragged gasps, and you barely have enough strength left to twist and look at your injured leg.
those aren’t regular muskets, you realize. a tiny barb sticks out of your calf and you can physically feel your magic fading away along with your consciousness.
no wonder they were ready to aim all those guns at their general. it would do nothing to him. but to you, it’s lethal.
the last thing you see before you black out is heeseung’s face, pulled taut in what you can almost describe as worry.
-
you wake with a start, your entire world spinning almost instantly. you reach a hand out to steady yourself and your skin brushes against something soft, and scratchy, and warm.
you blink to clear your vision and your breath hitches as you see the stretch of fabric laid out under you.
it’s an old, faded carpet, fraying at the edges, but it’s thick enough to keep you from the chill of the stones beneath you. a threadbare blanket is bunched up by your feet.
remembering the events prior to waking up, you scramble to check your leg. the tightness in your chest disappears when you find nothing but smooth skin. your magic had done its job.
every witch and warlock’s magic heals them automatically when hurt, and as long as it isn’t fatal, any injury can resolve itself on a magically-abled person’s body.
a slow, painful gnawing claws through your abdomen, and you glance up to see if they left you something to eat.
and they did. another lump of bread and a cup full of water await you by the front of your cell and you crawl ungracefully towards your meal. you scarf it down in barely a few bites, the water soothing your throat as you swallow the bread down.
with a sigh, you sit back on your hands, stretching your legs in front of you.
you blink back your surprise when you realise that you’re in a fresh set of clothes. your dingy blouse is replaced with a new, albeit coarse one made of what you assume are old flour sacks. your skirt looks like a patchwork of scrap fabric but it’s longer and warmer, than the one you had before.
the one you were captured in. the one that had stains of your blood as you struggled to get away from the soldiers wrangling you onto the carriage.
you notice that the torch on the wall is new, too.
you barely react now that you hear the door to the dungeon open, the same familiar footsteps you’ve grown to know over the past two days making their way to you again.
heeseung stops outside your cell, a lantern in one hand this time, and his trusty stool in the other. you push yourself to your feet and succeed, fueled by your newly consumed food and a relatively better sleeping situation.
you watch as the prince sets his chair down, unlocks the door, then picks up the rickety piece of furniture once more. he pushes his way into your cell, walking over to where you’re pressed against the wall.
“may i?” he asks, gesturing to your sleeping area. you don’t respond, stomping over and plopping yourself down onto the old carpet.
heeseung follows and takes his usual seat in front of you, the lantern deposited at his feet.
“what happened?” you blurt out, not even bothering with any niceties. not that you previously tried with any of that with him before.
“what happened to me?” you quickly clarify, eyes boring into his as he adjusts himself on the stool.
“you passed out from the anti-magic dart,” heeseung reports mechanically. he brushes a strand of hair away from his face. you remember that under the light of the sun, his hair is a rich, deep brown. you couldn’t really tell inside this dark, dreary place.
“because you made an attempt on my life,” heeseung adds quickly, his expression morphing into amusement.
you cock an eyebrow. “were you impressed? were your findings to your satisfaction?”
“your magic is juvenile at best,” heeseung declares, shrugging. “a valiant effort, really, but amateurish all the same.”
you sit there, your lips curling down into a deep frown. you don’t even know what to be mad about. the fact that you failed in killing the force behind the death of so many of your people in recent years, or the fact that he’s right.
it was stupid and unremarkable and bound to fail.
you swear the next time you try, you won’t miss.
“what? no snarky remark? no pathetic swing of yo–”
heeseung stiffens as he catches your wrist in his hand, your left fist inches from his face. you were faster this time, bolstered by your anger and the replenished energy. his mouth parts to say something, some pitiful comment about your combat style, most likely, but you don’t give him the time. your right hand slashes viciously at his perfect face, your overgrown nails scraping deep against his cheek.
even you’re surprised by how well it worked out. you almost forget to dig your fingers deeper, burying your long, ugly, uncut talons into heeseung’s skin. he merely grunts, finally swatting your hand away from his face.
the world tilts on itself as you feel your body crash backward, a painful weight pressing into your sternum. your back hits the ground hard, the air knocked entirely out of you.
alarm overtakes you as you watch heeseung pin you down with his knee to your chest, his hands trapping your wrists beneath each of his palms. you struggle against him but his knee merely weighs you down even more.
you gasp for air, eyes wide in panic.
“w-why are you doing this?” you rasp, your breathing coming in quick, short gasps.
“you…give me a place to sleep, leave a warm f-fire by my bedside…and spare my life even when i threatened y-yours.”
heeseung peers down at you, face stony and devoid of any expression. he could kill you now if he wanted to. he could crush your lungs beneath his boot, bash your head against the stone, strangle you with one hand, if it so pleases him.
he can, but he doesn’t.
“you’re too important,” heeseung says simply, lifting his knee from your chest. he withdraws both his hands, and you gasp, sucking in the stale air of the dungeon, tears springing into your eyes.
“you’re too important to my cause.”
you barely hear him. your ears are ringing, your vision murky. you lay there, panting as a steady stream flows from your eyes down your temples.
“get out,” you whisper.
the silence is tense around you both, but you don’t wait for him to answer.
“get out!” you demand, turning to your side like a petulant child.
you’re in no position to make demands. you are a prisoner. a captive with no means of escape, destined to die by the hands of the man sitting in front of you.
but he obliges you, nonetheless. you hear him gather his things, his footsteps heavy as he exits your cell.
when you turn back an eternity later, you see that he took the torch with him and left the lantern with you.
-
the next time you wake up, heeseung is already there. his wounds have been treated, the scratches you left shallower than you expected. they look like angry kitten scratches, at best.
the door to your cell is wide open and a heavy cloak is draped on one of his arms.
“let’s go back up to the forest,” he offers, extending his arm with the cloak to you.
you push yourself onto your feet, remnants of sleep still clinging to you. but you gingerly take the cloak and pull it around your shoulders, fastening the string by your chest.
heeseung leads you out of your cell, a guard at the ready to fasten your restraints. you offer up your wrists and cuffs are immediately linked tightly around them. flanked by four guards, you and heeseung exit from the dungeon, walking the long, winding way through the castle basement and out of one of the many exits built into the foundation.
you emerge into the same canopy of trees you did the other day during your first excursion out.
the guards bow curtly towards heeseung before retreating back inside. you watch in stunned silence as the last guard disappears behind the hidden doorway, leaving you and the prince alone in the forest.
“what is this? what are you planning?” you ask, your whole body seizing up as he takes a step towards you.
“you can’t actually hurt me,” heeseung informs nonchalantly. “at least not with magic.”
he walks past you, heading down one of the many paths weaving through the forest.
you’re so dumbfounded that you find yourself following him, mouth agape in confusion and indignation.
“excuse me?” you say, falling into step beside him. he’s taller, and naturally, his legs cover more ground than yours so you have to scurry along to keep up.
heeseung sighs before halting abruptly in his tracks. you stumble over a fallen branch before righting yourself in front of him.
“hold out your hands.”
you stare daggers at him, at his big, bright, shining eyes and perfectly lined nose. you thrust your hands out to him and he takes one of your balled-up fists delicately into his gloved hand. he fishes a key out of his pocket with the other before slipping it into the keyhole of your restraints.
the cuffs fall away with a soft thud at your feet.
immediately, you feel the swell of magic within you. your limbs are lighter, your mind clearer as the energy pulsing around finds its home within you.
your gaze returns to heeseung, who is observing you with mild curiosity.
“what…what do you mean when you say i can’t hurt you?” you ask cautiously, rubbing the skin on your wrist where the cuffs were. heeseung follows this movement with his own eyes.
he steps closer and your magic zings sharply under your skin, ready to defend. heeseung peels the gloves off his hands, pocketing the swathes of fabric into his coat pocket.
“give me your hand,” he implores gently.
you blink. “what?”
“give me your hand,” heeseung repeats. “i will not hurt you.”
“you hurt me yesterday,” you argue, remembering the crushing pressure on your chest.
heeseung snickers. “you hurt me first.”
“hand,” he commands, reaching his own palm out to you.
finally, you give in. heat creeps up into your ears as you see just how badly you’re shaking. you’re about to hold direct contact with the general of the Northern Army, the man responsible for the death of hundreds of people, your people, and you’re doing it willingly, out of your own volition.
heeseung grabs your hand in his, steadying the tremors and you gasp. your magic drains out of you in an instant, leaving you powerless once more.
“that’s what i meant when i said you couldn’t hurt me,” heeseung explains, tightening his grip on you.
“one touch and you’re useless in a fight against me.”
“i-is that why you wear your gloves?” you inquire, your voice no louder than a whisper.
“yes,” heeseung affirms. his voice has grown tight. “my power is…a heavily guarded secret. those who i use my ability on usually die soon after.”
you gulp, eyeing where your hands are connected.
“i can just use my magic to escape,” you reason. as if to prove your point, you tug your hand free from his hold and the magic comes flowing back in.
he has surprisingly soft hands.
“or i can just bash your head in with a rock,” you continue. “or i can just use my magic to help myself out of here.”
“sure. be my guest,” heeseung shrugs, gesturing around the forest. “go on and escape. pray that none of my father’s men see you. or that the rabid animals in this forest don’t get to you first.”
“oh, and i doubt you can beat me in direct hand-to-hand combat,” he adds.
you scowl at the prince and surprisingly, he bursts out laughing.
your scorned expression drops, replaced with a puzzled look. heeseung is grinning down at the ground, shaking his head.
“it’s quite amusing when you do that,” heeseung points out, glancing up at you. “you look like a kicked puppy.”
“well then, i’m glad to be of amusement to his highness,” you bite back, bowing in a mock curtsy. this only adds even more mirth to the prince’s face.
“show me more of your magic,” he requests.
you pause. “you want to see more? you’re not afraid that i might use my magic to harm you?”
“any magic used against me won’t work,” heeseung says with a noncommittal shrug. “it’s not just the fact that i can drain it. i am quite literally immune. go ahead, try it.”
you don’t hesitate as you raise your hand towards him, doing now what you did the other day. you feel the water in the air solidify, minuscule crystals sharpening into pinpricks. but as you will them to pierce the prince, the magic drains away again from your body.
you try and try, and yet, when the subject of your focus is to hurt the prince, your magic simply refuses.
“how did you come by this ability?” you force out through gritted teeth, determined to take this chance, to finish what you started. “does every northerner have this?”
“no. just me,” heeseung informs. “you can stop now. i’m not sure your magic would know how to heal a burst vein in your head.”
you glower at him before you ease up on your magic, letting your muscles relax. he was right. it’s no use. no matter how hard you tried, your magic can never touch him.
“and how i got my ability is of no consequence to you,” heeseung adds, pulling his gloves back on.
“it is of consequence if it is part of the reason why i’ll die,” you reason.
“my ability will play no part in your death. that, i can assure you.” heeseung looks at you and you look back. he has moved closer, almost toe-to-toe with you.
“how very comforting,” you say.
“show me more of your magic, witch.”
for that alone, heeseung would be dead ten times over if it were up to you.
so for the next few hours, you indulge him in his wishes to see more of what your magic can do. you summon the rain once more, then dissipate it just as quickly. you pull the water out of the ground and let it suspend in the air for a moment before letting it dissolve into mist. you let the dew on the leaves around the two of you collect into large blobs before dropping them on the prince’s perfectly styled hair.
to his credit, the Prince of the North is a good sport about it.
it feels liberating to finally let yourself be as you were back home. to show who you really are and let the magic run free.
the joy is overwhelming. intoxicating. you almost forgot that there would be an end to this. and end to you.
-
your hair is damp and your clothes are sticking to your skin. you’re shivering, the draft inside the dungeon not helping at all with your predicament
it’s after sunset, or at least, it was after sunset when you and heeseung decided to retreat for the day. your restraints were slapped back on and you were escorted back here.
back to where the walls leech off your power.
heeseung is in front of you, opening your cell door for you. he steps aside and you shuffle past him back into the cramped space.
his gloves are back on but you can still see his hands in your mind. slender fingers. unblemished skin. veins creeping up his arm.
you blink as you hear his voice.
“good night,” he says. he pulls the cell door closed with a loud clang before locking it.
heeseung surveys you through the bars of your cell, lingering. he gives a quick glance to the guards beside him and they bow, hurrying off to leave him alone with you once more.
the dungeon door shuts and there is only silence.
“you haven’t told me your name,” heeseung points out, hands coming to rest on the metal bars that cage you in.
“you never asked,” you return, settling on the corner where my trusty rug lies.
“i did. but you were too busy cursing me out.”
you smile. for a moment, you can pretend that your life does not lie in this handsome devil’s hands.
you tell him your name.
-
that night, you dream of a forest. mist hangs heavily all over, but this doesn’t unnerve you. you know you’re safe. this is a forest you know, or at least, you think you do.
there is a silhouette in the mist, a man who beckons to you. you run to him and you’re greeted by wide brown eyes and soft brown hair that gives way under your touch.
you move to embrace him, but a heat blooms deep in your belly. then a burning sensation settles in, spreading all over. you peer down to see a dagger stuck deep in your abdomen, down to the hilt.
the man stares at you, unmoving. cold.
he apologizes, says it’s for the best.
and then, he vanishes.
-
you awake with a start and what greets you is the dark ceiling of your cell.
your heartbeat is loud in your ears and your hand immediately flies to your abdomen.
all good. no dagger there.
“bad dream?”
you stifle a scream as you bolt upright, backing yourself up into the corner. the lantern that heeseung left is still on, burning low but bright enough to fill the entire space.
in front of you is the prince himself, setting a plate and a cup down on the floor,
the smell of meat nearly knocks you back unconscious. and there’s something else. something sweet.
“is that wine?” you ask, peering at the food and drink that heeseung just placed down.
“yes,” he confirms. “and some leftover mutton.”
heeseung meets your eye in the dim light and your heart jumps wildly in your chest. he’s dressed similarly today, but his shirt under his coat is undone down to the third button. he straightens himself out, settling on the stool he always brings.
you startle when you realize he brought two.
you walk over to him, tentatively seating yourself on the other chair. you bring your plate onto your lap, observing the contents of your meal today.
bread, as always. and a few dry pieces of mutton. had the mutton been fresh, it would have been swimming in the sauce it probably came with. and lastly, a small bunch of grapes.
“this is more than what you’ve given me since i got here combined,” you observe, glancing at the prince.
“i noticed that you perform better when you’re in good spirits,” heeseung reasons, leaning back against the bars behind him.
“...right,” you reply, bringing a piece of mutton to your mouth. it’s surprisingly good.
so maybe that’s why he’s been pampering you these past few days. all for his ‘cause’.
“can you tell me more about your family?” heeseung asks.
you take a particularly unladylike bite of your bread and watch as heeseung’s face shifts into a tiny wince. you snicker, thoroughly satisfied.
“have you been bringing me my meals all this time?” you counter, ignoring his question.
“at first, no,” heeseung answers. “but after our first day in the forest, yes.”
“why?”
heeseung tilts his head, still focused on you. “i like to observe my experiments.”
“so you like to watch me sleep?” you ask mischievously, arching an eyebrow in his direction.
“yes,” he admits readily.
the air turns thick with something unknown as he says this. you cease in your chewing, and heeseung’s jaw clenches. you lower your plate back to the ground and retrieve the cup of wine instead.
you take a sip and a burst of sweetness lands on your tongue.
“how come your father never comes to see me? i would think the North King would like to be privy to his son’s whereabouts, especially when dealing with witches.” you survey the prince carefully and to your surprise and delight, his jaw seems to tick even harder.
“my father barely makes time to see me. what makes you think he’d care about a dirty witch like you?”
you’re stunned into silence, as if plunged into the cold, unforgiving sea. you feel as if you’ve been slapped.
your mistake. you’ve been too busy playing house with the Prince of the North that you forgot that he viewed your people as lesser beings.
“anyway,” heeseung begins once more, as if he didn’t just insult you. though, you remember that it matters little when he’s done worse things to other witches and warlocks.
“your family.”
“why would you be interested in a dirty witch’s family?” you remark snidely, your fingers tightening around the cup in your hand.
heeseung tilts his head, forehead creasing in confusion. after a few seconds, he sighs, bowing his head, as if embarrassed.
“i only meant–” the prince runs a hand through his hair. he lets out a nervous laugh.
“i was going to tell you that i’d arrange for a basin to be brought in after you eat,” he explains, gesturing to the half-eaten food.
“the last time you were bathed was after you were injured,” heeseung points out.
your face contorts into skepticism. “you meant that…literally?”
“yes,” heeseung sighs. “i’m sorry if i wasn’t clear about that.”
you almost burst out laughing yourself.
“it’s alright. a dirty witch like me is undeserving of your apology.”
heeseung looks up at you, perplexed. you can’t help the grin that settles on your face.
the prince starts chuckling and you join in soon after, both of you trying to suppress peals of laughter, lest the guards by the door hear you.
you’re sure they hear you. what they think of their general laughing with a prisoner is something you don’t wish to ponder on.
-
the third time heeseung brings you to the forest, it’s raining. storming, really. but not by your own doing.
heeseung is covered in his heaviest cloak but you’re in the same one he gave you a few days ago. he let you keep it and you’ve been using it as a pillow since.
your hood is down and your face is turned upward to the sky. you let the rain beat down on you, your magic shifting and swirling inside your very being.
you don’t need to be told what to do. and even though you still hesitate, unsure whether you’re giving away too much by obliging the prince, you decide that you care little for the consequences.
i’m sorry, mother. i’m sorry, father. i’m sorry to all my sisters and brothers in magic.
if you were to die soon, at least you spent the last few days doing what you loved the most.
you throw your arms wide and the rain veers away, falling into intricate patterns that you shape with your hands. the wind whips against your skin, plastering your hair against your face, but you give it no mind.
the rain suspends just above your heads and heeseung looks up in awe. the water collects into an invisible basin in which you’ve created. you glance at the prince and he looks back.
he appears just as exhilarated as you.
you move your hands up in a flourish, and the rainwater bursts into a scattered torrent, splashing down on both of you.
you laugh. truly laugh, letting yourself become untethered from this world. from its sufferings. there is only you and your magic.
you gesture with your one hand and the rain stops abruptly. clouds still hang over you in the sky, but what’s left is only the puddles on the ground and the streams of water traveling down from the towering trees.
“you’re going to end up flooding the whole forest,” heeseung grumbles, making his way towards you, trying to skirt around the shallow pools of water. he gives up about halfway when he realizes that he can’t walk around all the puddles.
he stomps his way to you, smirking as you flinch away from the splash of water.
“maybe you should bind me again,” you taunt, offering your hands to him.
heeseung glances down at your outstretched arms before looking back towards your face.
his hair is completely wet, slicked back by his impatient hands, no doubt.
his hands.
they’re devoid of gloves now, as they always have been when he’s in your presence since revealing his ability to you. he never touched you with his bare skin when you’re unbound. you wonder what it feels like for him whenever he drains the magic out of someone.
“take my hand,” you say, reaching for his. he flinches back and you gape at him, surprised.
heeseung’s expression hardens as he angles his face away from yours.
“it hurts, you know,” he muses, gazing at his upturned palms. “every time i drain someone’s magic, it’s like a million needles passing through me.”
your mouth hangs open, unsure of what to say. you expected a host of other things to happen to him whenever he used his ability. you expected him to absorb it somehow, absurd as it sounds. magic cannot be transferred to another person, you know that well enough. when magic is used on another individual, it’s by way of healing. or by way of hurting.
is that’s what’s happening to him?
“why do you have this ability in the first place?” you pry, stepping closer to heeseung. he inhales, peering down at you.
“i told you, it’s none of your–”
“you’ve asked a lot of me,” you interrupt. “it’s only fair i ask for something back.”
he chuckles humorlessly then. by now, he’s returned the gloves, the fabric snug over his fingers.
“i don’t think there’s anything fair about our situation, witch.” heeseung says the last word pointedly and you’re reminded once again of the distance between you two.
not the distance at present, barely a foot apart, where the specks in his eyes are visible to you. you may be close now, your hand twitching upward as if to…as if to what? to reach out to him? to touch him?
but the distance between you is miles and miles wide. he is of this land and you are of yours. he belongs to his people as much as you belong to yours. his mission is to use your people for his gain and your mission is to stop that from happening by all means.
“but you’re right,” heeseung continues, straightening his posture and settling his hands behind his back.
“you’ve revealed much to me and i haven’t been as forthcoming with you.”
he offers his elbow, jutting it out just so. you eye it suspiciously but heeseung merely nods. “it’s alright. it won’t hurt and i won’t be able to drain you. you won’t be making direct contact with my skin.”
but i want to.
you push the childish thought away and hesitantly loop your arm around his.
nothing happens, just as he said. you let the prince lead you away, back towards the castle. even after days spent out of here, you still can’t make out where in the world you are. sure, you’ve studied maps back home, pored over the smuggled ones from the north, studying each winding road, each patch of forest, each name scribbled over every spire that jutted out from the North Castle.
but being here disorients you in a way you can’t explain.
“you know that your people aren’t completely faultless, right?” heeseung says, walking slowly through the lightly flooded woods. his boots are muddy and so is the hem of your skirt.
you remain silent, pondering on his words.
it’s true enough. the first people who settled south, the first witches and warlocks who walked this continent, were the most powerful of all. during those years long past, there was a ruler who oversaw your people. the Witch Queen. every generation, the crown would be passed to one capable witch in her bloodline, continuing the legacy and upholding the mantle of her duty.
there was no wall separating the north and the south in the early days, only an unspoken rule that you must not cross the raging river that bisects the continent, unless you wanted a fight on your hands. without a physical barrier, tensions broke and things quickly turned hostile. the northerners deemed the south backwards and the southerners found the north controlling. the south shunned the north’s mission for progress and the north encroached on more and more land.
the Witch Queen at the time led a campaign against the north and things got ugly. thousands of people died on both sides. and from great turmoil came the peace accords and the abolition of the Witch Queen and her line. what remained were fractured tribes and villages in the south. and then, the wall went up.
but the damage was done and wounds run deep over the land and its people.
“i know that,” you respond after some time. the tree branches above you continue to drip water down, some of it landing on your head and face.
heeseung fixes his eyes on you and you’re torn between wanting to look away and urging yourself to hold his gaze. you’ve never stood this close to him. you can feel the heat beneath his sleeve, feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing as the two of you trek through the brambles and exposed roots on the forest floor.
the prince brings his other hand up to your face and you’re seized with a momentary panic. he brushes a stray raindrop from your cheek, the leather of his gloves cool against your skin.
to anyone who isn’t of this world, who didn’t know the histories of your people, the two of you would look like any other couple strolling through the woods. his hand on your cheek, your arm in his.
but even to those who know, to any pair of eyes that would see you now, even they wouldn’t fathom what it meant for both of you to stand this close together.
you are powerless in his presence and he is a hair’s breadth away from pain.
you render each other useless.
“how were you able to touch me that one time without your gloves?” you whisper. his fingers have trailed down to your jaw now. “how were you not in pain?”
“i was,” heeseung says and his breath lands warmly on your face.
you give him a quizzical look. “but how–”
“one learns to mask the pain when he’s plagued with it his whole life,” he murmurs, eyes trailing over your features.
“a few seconds of your hands in mine was worth the millions of pinpricks i had to endure.”
your breath stops completely in your throat and your vision starts to swim.
what did he just say? why would he say that to you?
“i was cursed,” heeseung declares abruptly. your eyebrows crease in confusion once more and you watch as a ghost of a smile lifts heeseung’s lips at the corners.
he reaches over and smooths the skin of your forehead with his thumb. your eyes flutter closed, and you take in a shaky breath.
“during the war, the Witch Queen was able to get close enough to the North King to curse him. and his bloodline,” he explains.
“every one hundred years or so, in the long line of North Kings and heirs, one would possess the ability i do now. it’s useful, crucial even, to our cause. but it’s a burden.”
heeseung sighs, pulling his hand back from your face. your eyes blink open and you nearly gasp at his proximity.
“a burden i have to carry,” heeseung concludes.
“what is your cause?” you question and heeseung’s eyes flit down to your mouth. you ignore the lurching in your stomach.
he doesn’t answer for a long time. he pulls away and starts walking once more. you nearly trip as you’re dragged along, your arm still tightly wound around his.
“for all the hatred my people have for your magic, it is something they covet greatly,” heeseung says, head hung low, as if it’s a fact even he’s ashamed of.
“if we can just learn more about it, perhaps we can use it to our advantage.”
you feel a laugh bubble up inside you.
of course. it all made sense now. what other nefarious reason would these greedy northerners have for capturing and torturing your people? the very same thing they detest in you is the thing that they seek most. all for their gain.
of all the things you wanted to say, the thousands of words and thoughts and curses you wanted to spew at the prince, what comes out is merely, “why are you telling me this?”
heeseung smiles and the lurching in your stomach returns.
it’s like a slap to the face. the realization that he is the most handsome man you’ve ever met. gentle when he does not need to be. kind where his forefathers were most likely not. curious, rather than judgmental.
but he is a prince of this land all the same. it makes the twisting in your gut even stronger.
“these admissions will die with you, anyway,” he says. “it’s good to have someone who listens.”
for some reason, this is what sets you off.
you tug your arm free from heeseung’s, ducking to swipe a stray rock on the ground. you’d spotted it from the corner of your eye and thought that it looked particularly sharp.
your magic may not work on him, but he is still human.
you swing your arm as hard as you can towards heeseung’s head, the familiar fury blazing within you.
how dare he? how dare they? how dare you?
how dare you start to entertain the inkling of affection you have for him? the Magic Finder, the General of the Northern Army, the North Prince, slayer of witches and warlocks, murderer of your brothers and sisters in magic?
your next-door neighbor, the baker down the street, your school teacher from when you were young, your sister’s friend, your aunt. a friend of a friend, someone you know knows someone. your own family.
all of them, dead at the hands of this man and his father and his father before him. how come his bloodline continues and so many of your people’s are cut off? obliterated in the blink of an eye?
the rock nearly makes contact with his temple when you hear a sickening crack. you think it’s his head, but excruciating pain explodes in your arm, and you topple over, the rock falling uselessly back to the ground. heeseung had struck your arm hard.
you cradle your mangled limb close to your chest, gasping for air as adrenaline pumps through your veins.
“you were always going to die. that was always the plan. or have you forgotten?” heeseung’s face was stony, the hard lines of his features easing into cool indifference.
you hear a dozen footsteps coming towards you. most likely guards coming to their general’s rescue. you always knew in the back of your mind that you were never truly alone with heeseung out here.
you feel a sharp prick on your other arm and you know it’s another one of those anti-magic darts. your already blurry vision darkens around the edges and it doesn’t take long before you promptly pass out.
-
your dreams are strange.
there is a cottage in the woods. it’s quaint but it buzzes with magic. you can feel it.
you walk towards the door, curious but also somehow familiar with all of it. you think you know this place.
maybe you live here.
the door swings open and there is a man in the doorway, peering out as if waiting for someone, as if waiting for you. he sees you and immediately smiles, stepping out with his arm outstretched.
you’re compelled to fall into his arms, into an embrace that you know will comfort you.
you approach him just as it starts to rain. both of you glance up and laugh.
the man has hair as dark as the ancient trees that line the forest around the cottage. he has eyes that remind you of the elegant deer you used to encounter back home.
home.
where is home?
the world begins to shake and you look to the man for help. he stares back helplessly, his lips moving. you can’t hear him.
-
“for the love of the gods, wake up, please!”
you gasp but it’s immediately cut off by a hand jamming itself against your mouth. you protest, legs kicking, but even those are quickly pinned down by a heavy weight on your thighs. you cry out as knees dig sharply against your flesh, keeping you in place.
you stop struggling long enough to see heeseung, hovering over you, his entire face pinched in worry.
you’re back in your cell, the lantern barely lighting the room. you stretch your arms and are relieved to find that your latest injury has healed.
“i need you to cooperate,” heeseung whispers, face impossibly close to yours.
“there is too much at stake, so i need you to listen carefully,” heeseung continues, tightening his hold even more on the lower half of your face.
you start to complain but heeseung shushes you.
“don’t make a sound. are you hearing what i’m saying? i’ve given up too much for it to just go to waste.”
indignation burns through you. even after everything, he’s still harping on his grand scheme, the noble cause he’s working on. you wish nothing more than your swift death.
“i’m helping you, so i need you to calm down and pretend you’re asleep,” heeseung instructs carefully, easing up his hold on you by a fraction.
“that’s all you have to do. close your eyes and don’t open them until i tell you so.”
the two of you stare at each other in the dim light for what feels like forever. he raises his brows at you, waiting for your compliance.
helping you? with what?
you sigh, letting your eyes close. you hear heeseung let out his own relieved breath. he removes his hand altogether and you fight the urge to peek at what he’s doing.
as if hearing your thoughts, he says, “promise me you won’t open your eyes. hold your pinky up so i know you mean it.”
you snicker, eyes still closed. you raise your hand up, pinky sticking up just as he told you to do.
heeseung hooks his own pinky with yours and squeezes briefly before pulling away. you let your hand go limp once more, your heartbeat loud in your ears.
you stifle a yelp as you feel yourself being lifted up. you’re thrown over heeseung’s shoulder like a sack of flour, your head dangling upside down behind heeseung’s back. he places a firm hold around your waist while his other hand supports your thighs.
half of you wants to kick him while the other half is reeling from the warmth of his touch.
he takes a few tentative steps, and when he’s sure you’re not about to slide off, his gait grows steadier, your body bouncing slightly with each step he takes.
you keep to your promise and remain as still as possible, your eyelids unmoving.
“do you need help, your highness?” a voice suddenly speaks and you almost jolt in surprise.
“i can manage,” heeseung answers. a door opens somewhere in front of heeseung and he starts walking again.
“are you sure, sire? will you be bringing her up to the examination room? we can assist–”
“i’m fine,” heeseung gruffly cuts off what you think is a guard. “i will need total privacy with the experiments i’ll be conducting.”
a chill runs through you at his words. experiments? total privacy?
heeseung squeezes particularly hard at your waist and somehow, you know this means ‘you promised. keep your eyes closed.’
you let the prince jostle you around a bit more as he walks and the temptation to take just a little peek nearly overwhelms you. but you stay true to your deal.
he stops for a moment and you think you’re in the middle of a cavernous hallway with the way his footsteps have been echoing for the past few minutes. everything is still and you hear only his breathing, heavier now after having to carry you around.
then he starts running.
you can’t help it; a tiny yelp escapes you but you quickly clamp your mouth shut. what on earth is he doing?
after another torturous minute of being lugged around like a beat-up shipment of potatoes, heeseung stops again and finally heaves you off his shoulder.
“good girl,” he whispers directly into your ear as he gently places you on your feet. your stomach flip-flops and you’re not sure if it’s from the sudden change in your position or from something else.
“you can open your eyes now.”
you follow, reaching up to steady yourself on heeseung’s shoulders as the world comes back into view. you’re in a dark hallway made of old stone, the same material used for the underground passages leading out into the forest.
heeseung’s hands go straight to your waist to support you. in the sparse light, you can just see the worried pinch of his eyebrows.
“what are you doing?” comes your terrified whisper.
heeseung’s expression softens, yet his hands grip you tighter. “i’m helping you get out of here.”
your heart falls straight to your feet.
“what?”
heeseung nods, pulling back. a tiny part of you is disappointed.
“yes. now hurry and put on those clothes. it’s much more comfortable than what we’ve been dressing you in.” heeseung gestures to a bundle on the ground.
“wait–”
“please,” heeseung implores, grabbing your hand. you flinch before realizing he has his gloves on.
your magic is intact. he would not be hurt.
but something gives you pause.
a shiny gold cuff glimmers on your wrist. you bring it up to inspect it and you’re startled to see that your other wrist is encased in an identical cuff.
“what is this?” you ask, glancing at heeseung. you try to pry the cuffs off but they’re bound tight.
heeseung takes in a deep breath. “i’m sorry. i had to do it.”
“do what?” you ask suspiciously. you yank at the cuffs but they won’t budge.
“it’s the only way i can touch you without hurting myself and without constantly draining your magic,” heesueng begins, reaching for the bundle of clothes by the floor. he starts to retrieve a shirt and loose linen trousers.
he shoves the clothes in your hands. “people know me for my gloves and with what i’m planning, i have to make sure i’m not identified by them. it’s a sacrifice i had to make for discretion.”
your mind is reeling. you take in your surroundings, your heartbeat picking up. you’re out of the dungeon, far away from the magic-sapping walls. you should have felt your magic come back; it should be within reach. but you realize now that you felt no such thing since leaving your prison cell.
“you…you cuffed my magic?” your voice trembles.
heeseung turns away from you, shrugging off his coat. you glance down to see another heap of clothing by his feet. it looks a bit like the livery of his personal guard.
“your highness,” you say, taking a step closer. he ignores you.
“heeseung.”
this gives him pause. he turns his head the tiniest amount toward you.
“you trapped my magic with cuffs that can’t be undone.” you work the words out of your mouth as best as you can.
you feel it all descend upon you. confusion, anger, hopelessness.
“only another witch or warlock can put these in place,” you accuse, walking into his line of sight. “who did this to me? why would you allow it?”
“the hows and the whys matter little,” heeseung responds, refusing to meet your eye. “i have to get you out of the castle undetected, and this is the best way to do so.”
heeseung rips his shirt off his shoulders, exposing himself to you. if you weren’t so furious, you’d probably find it in yourself to blush.
he picks a shirt up from the clothes on the floor and you realize that it is the uniform worn by the castle’s guards. you look at the shirt and trousers in your hands.
“get dressed,” heeseung says gruffly. he finally looks your way and sighs.
“i’ll explain everything when we’re in the clear.” he takes a step towards you but you scurry back, tears pooling in your eyes.
he might as well have permanently crippled you. he ripped away the only thing that set you apart from the rest of them. your magic was given to you, passed down from generations of witches and warlocks before you. and now they’re hidden beneath the garish ornaments of these gold cuffs.
“please,” heeseung begs, leaning down so he’s eye level with you. he grabs your arms before you can even react.
“you are the most pressing matter to me right now,” he says, shaking you lightly.
“i am getting you out of here one way or another.”
-
it turns out, the prince’s plan was simpler than you initially imagined.
after reluctantly getting into the garments he provided, he asked you to get into a large sack previously used to transport–you guessed it–potatoes.
you had protested and demanded to know the plan in full, but heeseung is nothing if not bullheaded. so you held your breath as you eased yourself inside the sack, with heeseung tying the opening shut. he reminded you to curl in on yourself and to look as potato-ish as possible.
you closed your eyes in an attempt to ward off the growing panic in your chest.
sporting the castle guard’s uniform, the prince lifted you once more into his arms and began walking. he walked for what seemed like forever. finally, after some time, you sensed the gentle blow of the breeze despite the rough fabric covering the entirety of your body.
you eventually felt yourself being deposited onto a hard surface. heeseung patted along your body, accidentally brushing your chest in the process and you let out an offended squeak.
“sorry,” the princed had whispered. “i was trying to find your head.”
you would have kicked him if you could.
“anyways, you’re in the back of a wagon,” he whispered. “we’re going to ride past the very back gate of the castle into the woods. the guards there don’t bother with checking what goes out. we should be okay.”
you let out a huff to confirm you understood.
“don’t move,” heeseung reminded.
so now you’re here, lying stiff on a wagon floor as the North Prince smuggles you out of the castle compound. the wagon slows to a stop and you can hear the faint chatter of conversation. you wonder just how heeseung will pull off not being recognized by his own guards.
a loud, grating sound startles the night air and you realize it’s a gate opening. all you hear is the clop of hooves as heeseung maneuvers the wagon out. you half expect the guards to yell out in alarm.
but a minute passes. and then another. you hear, further back now, the gate closing with a thunderous clang!
did he actually do it? are you out? are you free?
the slow trod of the wagon continues for a few more minutes. then, all of a sudden, you’re jostled around as the horse’s trot turns into a furious gallop. your shoulder bangs against the wood under you, eliciting a pained curse from you.
the sack feels tighter now. air comes out in short bursts in and out of your mouth.
all rational thought leaves you as you claw at the cloth around you.
this is ridiculous. i’m going to die inside a potato sack while the North Prince rides like a maniac.
the wagon skids to a halt but it does little to quell your panic. you’re gasping now, trying to find the opening.
the edges of your vision dim and you think this is it for you.
frantic footsteps approach you and the wagon shifts as someone scrambles onto it. a ripping noise distracts you momentarily but suddenly a rush of air fills your lungs. there’s an opening in the sack and hands reach in to pull you out.
you’re cradled against a warm chest, your cheek pressed against someone’s heartbeat.
steady. calming.
“are you alright?”
heeseung’s voice is shaky as he holds you to him. you attempt to calm yourself down enough to answer.
“i’m fine,” you manage. “c-can i be out in the open now?”
heeseung pulls back and studies your face. his hair is windblown, sticking up all over the place, so unlike his prim image back at the castle. he wears the castle guard’s uniform, a far cry from his finer garments.
under the night sky and the shade of the trees, he looks…younger. scared. unsure.
“yes,” heeseung breathes. “i think we’re far away enough from the castle. but we have to keep moving.”
-
an hour of riding while you pass through rocky patches and muddy clearings is not good for the joints. you may be precious cargo, but you’re cargo all the same.
the moon hangs high in the sky now, as you observe through the gaps between the ancient trees around you. you’re not sure what time it is. you haven’t been sure of the time for a while.
“we can set up camp here,” heeseung declares, coaxing the horse to a stop. it’s a mighty steed that seems beholden to the prince, its snout rubbing up against his hand as he gives it pats on the head.
“finally,” you grumble, pushing yourself up and off the wagon. you peer around at your surroundings.
you stand within a heavy cluster of trees, enough to provide you cover while still affording you visibility. heeseung unties the horse from the wagon and secures it at a nearby tree.
“how are you feeling?” heeseung asks, approaching you cautiously.
you shrug. “how does one even begin to answer that question?”
the prince smiles ruefully. he walks over to the wagon and undoes a latch on the floor. a panel of wood pops open, revealing a secret compartment.
“would food be enough comfort at least?” heeseung gestures to the now-visible space beneath the wagon.
you blink, eyes darting between the rickety old vehicle and the prince. he really planned this one out, it seems.
“perhaps,” is all you say.
heeseung grins, reaching into the space and producing a singular apple. he tosses it to you and you catch it with impeccable timing.
he closes the compartment before heaving himself up on the wagon. he gestures for you to follow.
“unless you want to sleep on the ground?” he asks, an eyebrow arched tauntingly.
you oblige him and climb back on. with him sitting in it, the space has now shrunk considerably. your knees knock against his as you sit across from each other.
you take a bite out of the apple. it’s crisp, sweet, and refreshing.
“are you going to tell me everything now?” you ask between mouthfuls. you eye heeseung carefully, the previous frustration bubbling back up inside you.
the mighty prince shifts, shoulders slumping, making him look impossibly small in the poorly fitted guard uniform he wears. his hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck.
“we…we have witches and warlocks in our employ,” heeseung begins, glancing up at you to gauge your reaction.
your mouth twitches, pulling down into a frown. you expected as much when you briefly pondered on the cuffs on your wrists. there had always been speculation that not all captured witches and warlocks die at the hands of the northerners.
“i commissioned the cuffs secretly. all they know is that it’s for a bigger experiment that i told them i meant to do on you,” heeseung trods on. “they activated it when you were unconscious in the dungeons after you…well, after you threatened my life. again.”
this earns a snicker from you. “serves you right.”
heeseung sighs but he chuckles soon after. “i suppose you’re right.”
your eyes meet and neither of you look away for a long time. his leg shifts, pressing against yours.
“why am i here?” you ask after a while. “why are you doing this?”
“i thought i was always meant to die?” you add hurriedly, relishing the way heeseung visibly cringes as you say this.
he looks at you, lips pursed as if deep in thought. he moves closer, reaching for your wrists. you fight the urge to push him away, to slap him, to claw at his eyes. your hands tremble as he takes them in his.
“you’re remarkable,” heeseung says. you feel your chest tighten.
he runs his tumbs over the intricate designs of the cuffs. you startle when you finally realize he doesn’t have his gloves on.
he’s touching you. touching you.
“it doesn’t hurt?” you ask, unable to stop yourself.
heeseung smiles, shaking his head. “no.”
he threads his fingers between yours. “you fought harder than any of the others i’ve encountered before.”
you blink, heart beating wildly. your brain is torn between processing the fact that he’s touching you–holding you–and the statement he just said.
“so you’re sparing me because i put up a fight?” you ask unsteadily. “because my brethren were more scared than i am? do you deem them weak? was it all a test? is this still a test?”
“no,” heeseung answers firmly. “for years i have endured being a tool to my father’s cause. i became the cause. i am complicit in your and your people’s pain, and nothing i do will ever absolve me of that.”
“but seeing you fight against it, fight against me, it opened my eyes to the possibility that perhaps i can do something to change the course of events. to maybe put a stop to all this.”
“do you trust me?” heeseung asks.
you can’t find it in yourself to answer.
“i understand,” he says after a while. “but i will get you back home even if it’s the last thing i do.”
your body goes rigid at that. you peer up at heeseung’s face, sharp angles and wide, beautiful eyes. his lips are pulled down in a pout that you can only ever deem adorable. his hand is still in yours.
“they’ll come looking for you. looking for me. we’re both fugitives now,” you remind him, pushing yourself closer to him. “and you’d be branded a traitor.”
“they won’t dare go beyond the wall. once you’re across, you’ll be home. you’ll be safe,” heeseung promises.
you want to believe it. every cell in your body is reaching out for the hope that you’ll make it home soon. that you’ll walk through your front door, to the warmth of your house, to the smell of your mother’s cooking.
“what about you?” you counter. your free hand reaches up tentatively. you hesitate, but only for a moment. you slide your hand over his cheek, cupping one side of his face.
heeseung’s eyes flutter shut. he leans into your touch, his lips coming in contact with your palm.
something flickers deep within your belly.
“don’t worry about me,” heeseung murmurs.
the two of you are still for a long stretch of time. eventually, heeseung’s eyes open back up and you see that his pupils are blown wide, staring straight at you.
“is it unfavorable timing to tell you now that you’ve undeniably, unexpectedly, unfathomably…become the object of my desire?” heeseung asks, gaze flitting down to your lips.
your breath hitches.
“there was no one else there to catch your fancy, i’m afraid,” you taunt lightly, nudging him with your knee. “i could not get you off my case even if i tried.”
this pulls a laugh out of heeseung.
“imagine falling for your captor,” you whisper, leaning forward. heeseung watches with rapt fascination as you climb over his lap.
“it’s infuriating. it’s disgusting. it’s unthinkable. someone like me holding affection for someone like you,” you complain, but your fingers are halfway through heeseung’s hair by now.
his hands are warm against your waist as he pulls you flush against him.
the air stills and time seems to stop. it’s as if the heavens above and the earth below conspired in suspending the universe in its movements. there is only you. there is only him.
your lips meet in a fiery collision.
your body feels both untethered and impossibly grounded; the feel of heeseung’s hands clutching at your sides is a contrast to your lightheadedness as you both deepen the kiss.
the wagon creaks beneath you but neither of you pays it any mind. your hands are already working the buttons of the stolen guard uniform. you caress the skin of his exposed chest, eliciting a soft groan from him.
getting both your trousers off poses a challenge and you complain as your legs tangle with his.
“you said these clothes would be easier to move in,” you grumble, finally tugging the linen pants off your legs.
“i was not expecting to fuck a witch in the middle of a forest, so apologies for that,” heeseung retorts, kicking off his own pants.
he pulls you closer to him, the heft of his cock snug against your wet cunt. you both moan in unison, dragging your unclothed sexes against each other wantonly.
your arousal coats his shaft in no time, the slippery feeling only adding to the pleasure. heeseung pants beneath you, grinding his hips against yours and adding to the friction between your bodies.
he kisses you fervently and your head spins even more. he tastes like mint and something stronger. you want more of it.
heeseung’s hands slide beneath your shirt, still intact and on your person after all this. his bare fingers smooth over your spine and you realize belatedly that he’s trembling. you pull back just enough to see that his lips are parted, his eyebrows scrunched together. his whole face is awash in awe.
“it’s okay,” you reassure him. “you can touch me. no pain, right?”
heeseung shakes his head lightly just as his hands come around to your front, cupping your breasts. you whine, his thumbs flicking over your nipples.
“you are…,” heeseung begins. he pinches both nubs between his fingers and you keel over.
“...the most beautiful person i have ever seen.”
you gasp next to heeseung’s ear as he shifts and angles his tip against your entrance.
it’s absurd. to be doing this in the middle of the woods, in northern territory, where your existence is deemed a stain on this earth. but there is a man beneath you. a regal, handsome, flawed man who has risked his status and his life for you. he tells you you’re beautiful and hauls you out of your prison and closer to freedom.
heeseung enters you and your body seizes, unfamiliar with the intrusion but set alight by it all the same. something pulses within you.
you pull back to look into the prince’s eyes.
“you’ve caused me great suffering,” you choke out. his hips thrust up into you, languid and almost lazy.
“you’ve trapped my magic with no way of undoing it,” you continue. “for that, i hate you.”
your world flips as heeseung maneuvers you down onto the wagon floor, the wood protesting once more. he cages you under his body, his arms braced on either side of your head. his hips snap up again and you moan wantonly.
“if there is a world where i can touch you freely without hurting myself and diminishing your power, i would gladly trade this realm for that,” heeseung grunts.
“you are my undoing, just as i am yours.”
heeseung tugs your leg up by the knee, hooking it over his shoulder. you shiver at the newfound deepness, your nails digging into the skin of his arms.
the prince is a capable lover, firm like the general he is, but talented, it seems, in the ways of the bedroom. this place is far from the chambers you imagine him having back in the castle, but the swivel of his hips lets you forget, even just for a moment, that you are not his lady being bedded on his plush mattress.
“heeseung,” you whimper, bringing his face down to yours. you kiss him fiercely, fingers tangling in his hair.
“say it again,” he whispers against your mouth. “say my name.”
his movements pick up in pace, drawing out a delighted little yelp from you.
“heeseung,” you repeat. you tug at his disheveled locks. “harder, my prince. if you are my undoing, then i need you to prove it.”
this seems to awaken a different beast in him. he grips your hip, slamming himself into you harshly. over and over, he repeats this, thrusting in and pulling out nearly the entire way before sheathing himself back. you’ve run out of coherent things to say. the view of the stars and the moon beyond the leaves of the trees turns blurry as you feel your climax approach.
heeseung seals his mouth over yours in another searing kiss, and this time, he lifts your hips up to meet his, plunging even deeper. the stretch, paired with the angle, unravels you. you cry out, burying your face in heeseung’s shoulder. he groans above you, stilling his body as he, too, comes undone.
the wagon is finally silent and so are you as you catch your breath. heeseung drops onto the space beside you, his arm automatically winding around your waist.
later, after some struggle to keep both your eyes open, you manage to retrieve your clothing and the blankets beneath the wagon floor. you snuggle close, the temperature dropping as the night grows deeper.
“i’ll keep watch,” heeseung promises. his fingertips trace lazy shapes on your arm.
“how will you keep watch, my prince? cuddled to my chest while you dream happily?” you grin.
“precisely,” he answers.
-
you dream again.
there is a room. a soft humming emanates through the space. sunlight filters through the curtains, bathing everything in a golden glow.
a chair rocks back and forth by the window, and a man sits in it. you push yourself up from where you were previously slumbering: a plush bed that feels like a warm hug.
the man holds something to his chest. a bundle of sorts.
the bundle starts to coo.
the man turns to you, surprised to see you awake. he asks if you’d like to join them by the window.
“come,” he says. he holds the bundle out to you.
your own eyes look back at you, but it is the man’s nose and the man’s lips on the child’s face.
the man starts to hum again.
-
you wake up to the sound of shouting.
you’re hauled upright before you can even process anything else. for a moment, you forget where you are. the sky is a muted blue, still dark and splotchy in places. just before dawn, maybe.
torches light up the woods around you and uniformed guards stand at attention, muskets and steely eyes aimed at you.
a guard drags you from the wagon, ignoring the way your legs give out under you. the rough foliage and stray rocks scratching painfully at your skin through your thin trousers.
“unhand me! i am your general!”
your head snaps up at the sound of heeseung’s voice. he’s being dragged the other way, his arms pulled behind his back. he falls to his knees as the soldiers kick them out from behind. heeseung’s eyes find yours and anguish takes over his entire face.
it was never going to work. if you had only kept going. if you had not stopped to indulge your twisted, carnal desires. if he had just left you alone to die.
you feel another pulse within you. this time, it’s concentrated at your wrists. you realize with a start that it’s your magic. it must be fighting against the cuffs. you try to reach for it, to channel it out, but it remains just far enough for you to know that it’s there, but just a little too out of reach.
the horse heeseung brought along whinnies anxiously from where it’s still fastened to the tree.
two soldiers raise their muskets and take aim at heeseung. one of them starts talking.
“Prince Heeseung of the North, General of the Northern Army and Heir to the Northern Throne, you have been charged with high treason. confess your crimes and you will be tried fairly before the eyes of the royal court. refuse and your execution will be carried out promptly.”
“NO!” you thrash wildly against the hold of the soldier behind you. your shoulders strain from how hard you’re struggling.
heeseung raises his head high, looking straight at you. tears are streaming steadily down his face.
the mighty general, Prince of the North, executioner of hundreds of witches and warlocks. brought to his knees and at death’s door because of you. because of a witch.
the sight should gladden you.
it only rips your heart in half.
the pulsing is growing stronger. your sight turns blurry, overcome with the red fury filling you.
this was not supposed to happen. you were set to die, and heeseung should have lived on with barely a memory of the prisoner he took after some chance encounter his guards had near the wall.
heeseung refuses to speak, even as his sentence is repeated to him. confess and live and go to trial. refuse and die.
you taste salt on your lips. your tongue bleeds with how hard you’re biting down.
another pulse. the cuffs vibrate around your wrists.
the muskets are raised to level with heeseung’s head. through his tears, he manages a smile.
and then—
a loud crack shatters the silence of the woods. you fall onto your knees as torrential rain beats down everywhere.
it almost hurts, the raindrops like bullets hitting your skin. but you endure. this is your magic, after all. it would never hurt you.
the cuffs lay shattered on the ground, gold pieces glimmering as the soil quickly floods with rainwater. thunder cracks above and bolts of lightning come, casting trees down faster than you can anticipate.
you’re not supposed to be able to do this. the wind howls in response. your magic is only limited to the rain. the water.
perhaps grief has transformed you.
soldiers run, panicked and disoriented around you. they would have no visibility at all with how hard it’s raining. some of them crawl on the quickly flooding ground. some try to run. others are crushed under the weight of fallen trees.
you make a mad dash towards where you know heeseung was last.
a tree blocks your way, uprooted and charred from the lightning. it was an old one, trunk thick and gnarled. you climb over it, stumbling down as you emerge on the other side. you gasp as your hand lands on something warm on the ground.
heeseung’s prone form is still, nearly submerged in water. his leg is caught under the fallen tree, most likely crushed and beyond saving. your magic roars within you and the rain stops—but only around you and heeseung.
“no, no, no, no,” you mumble, heaving his upper half onto your lap. the water continues to rise around you and trees are still falling.
you don’t know how to stop it. you don’t want to stop it.
heeseung coughs and immediately he groans out in pain. his eyes shoot open and fear fills every one of his features.
“you can’t–you have to run. you have to go!” heeseung urges, fingers grasping at your shirt. “what are you doing? you have to escape!”
you shake your head. “i can’t leave you—”
“i’m dead! i will die here or i will die at my trial. if not, and you miraculously save me, i will die on the way south without someone to heal me,” heeseung points out, words rapid even as his lips lose color.
“you have to go,” he repeats.
you can’t believe what you’re hearing.
heeseung pauses and looks around, his face forming into a wistful smile. “quite the job you’ve done out here.”
he turns back to you.
“go! i’ve brought you this far. you’re free from the cuffs. you can go home.”
you reach for his face but he flinches away.
“don’t. it will—it’ll hurt.” your hand stops short of his cheek as you remember that indeed, the cuffs are gone and your bare skin will bring him immense pain.
heeseung smiles wider but there’s an obvious strain beneath it.
“at least we had that one night together,” he says. “now, please. leave this place.”
heeseung shoves you back, his hand briefly brushing your arm. he cries out and you hurriedly scramble to your feet, effectively startled.
the soldiers are mostly gone now. but you know that won’t be for long. the woods are vast and you have a long way to go.
the prince lies beneath a small, clear patch of sunlight, illuminated by the soft rays of the rising sun. a shield from your monstrous powers. the only consolation you can offer him. around him is rain of a magnitude previously unknown to man. his eyes are closed now, his chest barely rising.
you turn, sprinting through the rain. you can feel your magic subside within you, rearing back as your mind shifts to the task at hand.
the rain eases up, little by little. but still, you run.
❝ I once believed love would be black and white But it's golden ❞
°❀࿔ PAIRINGS. (이희승) x 𝒻 !reader
°❀࿔ SUMMARY. You came to Castillo Creek, Texas with a suitcase and a job offer you took because it was the furthest thing away from everything you knew. You didn’t come for the man who owns Sunrise Ranch and has the gorgeous smile. You didn’t come for his gap-toothed, too-perceptive young boy. But Castillo Creek has a way of giving you what you need before you know you need it. And some people, it turns out, are worth staying for.
°❀࿔ WARNINGS. angst with resolution, mild angst, brief mention of a broken engagement, past relationship, brief emotional manipulation from an ex, themes of running from your past, slow burn tension, explicit sexual content (+18 minors dni), penetrative sex, kissing, soft domestic content, found family themes, mentions of abandonment, fluff to the max
°❀࿔ WORD COUNT. 29.6k
°❀࿔ LACEYS NOTE. this has been brewing in my drafts for at least a week and i finally bothered to finish it. took me so long bc of the news about heesueng but i wish him well on his solo journey and will still support him! ENHAOT7! anyway, i hope this fic heals something within you all and the domestic bliss of it makes me so happy and giddy. comments, feedback, reblogs and likes keep me writing, feel free to send ask too! enjoy honies!
The bus drops you at the edge of nowhere.
That’s not entirely fair — the sign reads Castillo Creek, Pop. 412 in sun-bleached letters, and there is, technically, a street. One of them. It runs maybe four blocks before it gives up and dissolves into dust and open sky, flanked on either side by a hardware store, a diner with a hand-painted sign, a church with a crooked steeple, and a general store with a rocking chair out front that currently holds an old man who has not looked up from his newspaper since the bus wheezed to a stop.
You step down onto the road and the heat hits you like a physical thing.
Chicago in September is crisp. Leaves turning, wind off the lake, the smell of the city sharpening into something almost bearable. You have lived your whole life in that particular kind of autumn and you are standing here now in what should by all rights be the tail end of summer and the ground is baking. The sky is enormous. There are no buildings tall enough to interrupt it, nothing to cut the blue into manageable pieces, and for a moment you just stand there with your suitcase at your feet and your hat in your hand and feel very, very small.
“You the new schoolteacher?” You turn. A young man — can’t be more than nineteen — is leaning against the side of the bus stop with his arms crossed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite a smile but is clearly thinking about becoming one.
“That obvious?” you say.
“You’ve got a suitcase and a look on your face like you’re trying to figure out if you made a terrible mistake.” He pushes off the wall and picks up your larger bag before you can protest. “Riki. I work out at Sunrise Ranch but I’m in town most days. Mr. Lee sent me to check if you’d arrived.”
You blink. “Someone was expecting me?”
“Mrs. Calloway at the boarding house would’ve had your room ready since Tuesday,” he says, already walking. “Small town. News travels.”
You pick up your smaller case and follow him. Mrs. Calloway. The name lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there, inert. Just a name. A common enough name. You are done flinching at common names. “I’m Y/N,” you say.
“I know,” Riki says, not unkindly. “Everyone does.”
—
Main Street — the only street, really, though two dirt roads branch off it like afterthoughts — is quiet in the way that feels inhabited rather than empty. A woman sweeps her front step and nods at you. Two men outside the hardware store pause their conversation to watch you pass with open, unapologetic curiosity. A little girl with two braids chases a dog around the side of the church and neither of them pays you any attention at all, which you find oddly comforting.
The diner is called Park’s and it has a specials board in the window that reads Tuesday: Peach Pie in chalk letters, and through the glass you can see red vinyl booths and a long counter with spinning stools and a man behind it who catches your eye through the window and raises a coffee pot in greeting like he’s been expecting you too. “That’s Jay,” Riki says, following your gaze. “He’ll want to talk your ear off. I’d give yourself a day before you go in or you’ll never get unpacked.”
“Is everyone here this—” you search for the word.
“Friendly?” Riki offers.
“I was going to say informed.”
He considers this. “Yeah,” he says. “Both.”
The boarding house sits at the end of the main street where the road widens slightly, a two-storey white clapboard building with a porch and a wind chime and flower boxes in the windows. It is, you think, the most aggressively quaint thing you have ever seen in your life. You grew up in an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like other people’s cooking and city rain and you are trying very hard not to let your face say anything impolite about wind chimes.
Mrs. Della, the landlady — not a Calloway, you exhale quietly — is a broad warm woman in her sixties with silver hair and flour on her apron who opens the door before you knock and says “There she is” like you’re something she ordered and is pleased to find arrived undamaged. “Come in, come in, you must be half dead from that bus.” She takes your smaller case clean out of your hand. “Riki, you staying for supper?”
“Can’t,” he says, setting your larger bag inside the door. He looks at you briefly, something almost like reassurance in it. “You’ll be alright here,” he says, which is a strange thing to say and which you believe immediately, and then he’s back down the porch steps and heading up the road with his hands in his pockets.
“Good boy,” Mrs. Della says, watching him go. “Lee Heeseung took him in two years back, gives him work and a roof. That man would give you the shirt off his back.” She says it the way people say things that are simply true, established fact, no elaboration required, and ushers you inside before you can ask who Lee Heeseung is.
Your room is small and clean and has a window that looks out over the back garden and a field beyond it and then nothing but flat land and sky all the way to the horizon. The bed has a quilt on it in yellow and white. There is a writing desk and a lamp and a hook on the back of the door.
You sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle around you. In Chicago there is always noise — traffic and neighbours and the radiator banging in winter and the el train every twelve minutes rattling the windows. You have slept to that noise your whole life. This quiet is a different texture entirely. Crickets, somewhere. Wind moving through something dry. The distant low sound of what might be cattle.
You think about the apartment you gave up. The life you gave up — or that was given up on — and the way the story circulated, the whispers at the school where you’d taught for three years, the way your mother had said maybe if you’d been less difficult, Y/N, as though your own broken engagement was a character flaw you’d displayed in public. You’d applied for twenty-seven jobs in towns you’d never heard of. Castillo Creek, Texas was the one that wrote back.
You lie back on the yellow quilt and look at the ceiling and think: New soil. See what grows.
In the morning Mrs. Della makes you eggs and biscuits and coffee so strong it makes your eyes water and tells you that the schoolhouse is two blocks north, that school starts Monday which gives you four days to settle, that the previous teacher Miss Hargrove retired to be closer to her sister in San Antonio and left her lesson plans in the desk drawer, and that if you need anything at all you are to ask and not to be proud about it. “We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she says, refilling your cup. “You’ll find people are plain. They say what they mean.”
“That’s refreshing,” you say, and mean it more than she knows.
“You’ll fit in fine,” she says, in the same tone Riki used last night, that same easy certainty, and you don’t know yet whether Castillo Creek is simply a town full of optimists or whether they can see something in you that you can’t currently see in yourself.
After breakfast you walk the street. Slowly, no destination, just learning the shape of the place. The hardware store is run by a man named Gus who shakes your hand and calls you ma’am and means it respectfully. The general store has everything from canned peaches to horse liniment arranged with cheerful illogic on its shelves. The church noticeboard has a harvest dance announced for the first week of October, hand-lettered on card. A tabby cat sleeps on the post office step and does not move when you step over it.
You end up at Park’s because you are not made of stone and the peach pie in the window has been watching you since yesterday. The bell above the door chimes when you push it open. The diner smells like coffee and something frying and woodsmoke and the particular warm smell of a place that has been feeding people for a long time. Three of the booths are occupied — two older men playing cards over the remains of breakfast, a young woman nursing a baby and reading a magazine, a teenager staring out the window like he’s being paid for it.
The man behind the counter looks up and grins like you’ve just won something. “There she is,” he says, which is apparently how everyone in this town greets you. He’s handsome in an easy, untroubled way — dark eyes, an apron over his shirt, the kind of smile that has probably never caused him a day’s trouble because it is entirely, disarmingly genuine. “Jay Park. Welcome to Castillo Creek, and more importantly, welcome to my diner. Sit anywhere. Coffee?”
“Please,” you say, sliding onto a counter stool. “Y/N.”
“I know.” He’s already pouring. “The whole town knows. Don’t let that spook you — it’s not menacing, we’re just starved for news.” He sets the cup in front of you. “You surviving Mrs. Della’s biscuits?”
“They’re extraordinary.”
“Don’t tell her I said this but mine are better.” He leans on the counter. “How are you finding it so far?”
“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.”
“First impressions.”
You wrap your hands around the coffee cup. Outside the window the main street sits quiet in the morning sun, dust turning gold where the light hits it, a man on horseback moving slow at the far end of the road, hat low against the glare. “It’s very quiet,” you say.
“City girl.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“The accent gives you away a little,” he says, not unkindly. “Chicago?”
“Born and raised.”
He nods like this explains something. “You’ll either love it here or you’ll be back on the bus in a month. There’s not usually an in-between.” He tilts his head, studying you with the frank, comfortable curiosity of a man who talks to everyone and has learned to read them quickly. “My money’s on love it.”
“Why?”
“You ordered coffee before you ordered pie,” he says. “Practical. And you’re still here instead of back at the boarding house wondering what you’ve done. Means you’re the kind of person who walks toward things.”
You look at him for a moment. “You do this with everyone?”
“Do what?”
“Make them feel like you’ve known them for years.”
Jay grins, unabashed. “Only the interesting ones.” He reaches under the counter and produces a plate with a slice of peach pie on it, sets it in front of you without asking. “On the house. Welcome to town.”
You eat the pie. It is, genuinely, one of the best things you’ve ever tasted, which you tell him, and he looks so pleased about it that you find yourself smiling for what feels like the first time in a long time — the real kind, not the composed kind you’ve been wearing since spring.
You are still there an hour later when the bell above the door chimes and a man walks in. You notice the hat first. Worn tan leather, shaped by years and weather, pushed back just enough to see his face.
Then the face — and it is, unfairly, a lot of face: dark eyes, jaw that belongs in a painting, and a smile that appears when he spots Jay like the sun deciding to come out from behind something. He is tall and lean in the way of men who work with their bodies, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled and boots with actual dust on them, and he moves through the diner like a man who is completely comfortable taking up space, not arrogantly, just — naturally. Like the room fits him.
Half the diner looks up when he walks in. You notice this and then notice that he doesn’t seem to notice it. “Heeseung,” Jay says. “You’re late.”
“Riki let one of the mares out this morning,” the man says, dropping onto the stool two down from you. “Had to get her back in before she ate the garden.” His voice has the particular warm drawl of a man who has lived in Texas his whole life, the vowels long and unhurried. He glances over — and for just a moment, before the smile arrives, you see him register you. A quick, frank, unguarded look. Then the smile.
It is, you think distantly, a remarkably good smile. “You must be the new schoolteacher,” he says.
“So I’ve been told,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh and extends a hand across the empty stool between you. “Lee Heeseung. I run Sunrise Ranch, out east of town.” A pause, then, easy as breathing: “Welcome to Castillo Creek, darlin’.”
The darlin’ lands warmly, casually, the way he probably says it to everyone. You shake his hand. His grip is firm and his palm is calloused and he lets go at exactly the right moment. “Y/N,” you say.
“Pretty name,” he says, and turns back to Jay to ask about the lunch special, and that is that.
You finish your pie. You say goodbye to Jay, who tells you to come back tomorrow, and nod to Heeseung, who tips his hat slightly without looking up from his coffee, and you push out into the dry Texas morning with the bell chiming behind you and the sky enormous overhead. You think: new soil.
You walk back toward the boarding house and do not think about the smile. (You try.)
—
The schoolhouse is a single rectangular building painted white, sitting back from the road behind a low wooden fence with a gate that sticks. There is a bell above the door on a rope, a covered porch with two steps, and six windows along each side that let in long rectangles of morning light. Inside: four rows of desks, a blackboard, a bookshelf with a sadly depleted top shelf, a globe with a crack running through the Pacific, a teacher’s desk at the front with a chair that wobbles on its left leg, and the lesson plans Miss Hargrove left in the drawer, written in such small precise handwriting that you have to hold them close to the lamp to read them.
You spend the weekend getting acquainted with it. You rearrange the desks slightly — four rows feels regimented for fourteen children ranging from five to eleven — into a looser configuration that won’t make the little ones feel like they’re waiting to be sentenced. You find chalk in the wrong drawer and a box of coloured pencils in the right one. You fix the gate with a piece of wire you find coiled on the porch. You read Miss Hargrove’s lesson plans and her notes on each child, written in the margins in that same small hand: Clara D. — very bright, reads above her level. Tommy H. — struggles with numbers but never says so. Eli L. — clever, restless, tests limits. Handle firmly but don’t let him know you’re doing it.
You read that last one twice. Eli L.
You’d heard the name once already, briefly, the way you hear a lot of names in a town like this — someone mentioning someone else in passing, the social web of a small place where everyone is connected to everyone by approximately two degrees. Riki worked at Sunrise Ranch. Sunrise Ranch belonged to Lee Heeseung. Lee Heeseung had a son. Clever, restless, tests limits.
You put the lesson plans back in the drawer, look at the rearranged desks.
Monday morning arrives with the particular clarity of a sky that has not clouded in weeks. You are at the schoolhouse by seven-thirty. You write your name on the board — Miss Y/N — and you stand at the front and look at the empty desks and do something you haven’t let yourself do since you stepped off that bus: you feel, briefly and privately, afraid. Not of the children, not of the job — you have been a teacher for three years and you are good at it, this you know — but of the starting over. Of the standing in a room and introducing yourself to people who don’t know you yet and hoping that this time, in this place, what they learn about you is something you’ve chosen.
You take a breath. You put your composed face on. You go stand on the porch to watch them arrive.
They come in ones and twos, mostly walked by mothers who linger at the gate with polite curiosity to get a look at you, a few by fathers, one or two on their own who are clearly old enough to have decided they don’t need walking. The little ones are solemn and wide-eyed. The older ones are watchful. They file onto the porch and past you with varying degrees of shyness, and you smile at each of them and say good morning, and most of them say it back.
The boy who doesn’t say it back arrives at eight on the dot, alone. He is small for seven — wiry and dark-haired with his father’s eyes and a gap where one of his front teeth used to be — and he walks through the gate with his lunch pail swinging and his chin up with the specific energy of a child who has decided in advance that he is not going to be impressed. He stops at the foot of the porch steps and looks up at you.
You look down at him. “Good morning,” you say.
He considers you. His gaze is frank and assessing in a way that reminds you immediately, disconcertingly, of his father. “You talk funny,” he says.
Behind him, two of the other children go very still in that particular way children do when someone has said the thing everyone was thinking. “I do,” you agree pleasantly. “Good morning.”
He blinks — he was expecting something else, you can tell — and then, almost against his will: “Morning.” He goes inside. You allow yourself precisely one second of satisfaction and then follow him in.
Their names, as you learn them through the morning: Clara, Tommy, Ruth, Beau, Ida, Jesse, Mae, Henry, Grace, Daniel, Lottie, Patrick, Susie, and Eli. Fourteen children, five to eleven, in one room with one teacher, which is simply the way of it in a town this size and which you knew going in and which presents itself as exactly the specific beautiful chaos you anticipated.
The little ones need different work from the older ones, the older ones need to be trusted enough not to resent the time you spend with the younger, and the whole arrangement requires a kind of orchestrated independence that takes most new teachers a month to establish.
You have it running by lunch. This is not arrogance. It is three years of practice and the lesson plans of Miss Hargrove, who clearly knew what she was doing, and the children themselves, who are — beneath the shyness and the staring — genuinely good. Clara reads to the two youngest while you work arithmetic with the middle group. Tommy, who struggles with numbers and has clearly been told by someone who loves him to hide it, relaxes visibly when you kneel beside his desk and show him the same problem three different ways without making it a thing. Grace, who is eleven and takes her seniority seriously, helps you hand out the coloured pencils for the afternoon drawing exercise with the gravity of someone performing a civic duty.
Eli sits in the second row and does exactly enough work to be technically compliant and spends the rest of the time studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s deciding whether to bother solving. He is not disruptive. He does not cause trouble, exactly. He just — watches. And occasionally says something, not quite under his breath, that makes the children near him stifle laughter, and when you look at him he is already looking at the ceiling or his pencil or the middle distance, expression perfectly innocent.
At half past two he raises his hand for the first time. You are, cautiously, relieved. “Yes, Eli?”
“How come you don’t say cahn’t like us?” he says. “You say can’t like it’s short.” The room goes quiet with interest.
“Because I grew up in Chicago,” you say. “People talk differently there.”
“Why?”
“That’s a good question. Different places develop different ways of speaking over time depending on who settled there and where they came from originally. It’s called a dialect.”
He turns this over. “So you’re not talking wrong, you’re just talking different.”
“That’s exactly right.”
He seems to file this away somewhere. He looks at his desk, then back up at you. “My dad says Chicago’s real big.”
“It is.”
“Did you like it?”
There is nothing loaded in the question — he is seven, he is simply curious — but the room is listening and you have a composed face for exactly this and you use it. “I did,” you say. “But I like it here too. Different things to like.” You hold his gaze for just a moment. “Good question, Eli.” He ducks his head in a way that might, if you’re reading it right, be pleased.
You let them out at three o’clock. They pour off the porch like water and scatter in every direction — some toward the main street, some down the side road, a few collected by waiting parents at the gate. You stand on the porch and watch them go with the pleasant exhausted satisfaction of a good first day, the kind where you know the shape of things now even if the details are still forming.
The last child through the gate is Eli, lunch pail swinging again, cap pushed back on his head. He pauses at the gate and turns back. “Miss?” he calls.
“Yes?”
He looks at you for a moment, that assessing look. Then: “You fixed the gate.”
“It was sticking,” you say. He nods, apparently satisfied with this. And then he’s gone, off down the road at a trot, and you lean against the porch post and look at the empty yard and the long afternoon light making everything gold and think that clever, restless, tests limits is right but that the note should have also said watching everything, deciding what to do with it.
Jay brings you pie. Not in the diner — he appears at the boarding house at half past five with a covered plate and the energy of a man who has been wanting to ask you about your day since approximately eight that morning. Mrs. Della lets him in with the equanimity of someone accustomed to Jay Park appearing with baked goods and sets an extra cup on the table. “Well?” he says, sitting down across from you with the plate between you, which you note he has not uncovered, clearly operating on the pie as leverage.
“Well,” you say.
“First day.” He tilts his head. “Good? Bad? You still here, which is promising.”
“Good,” you say honestly. “They’re good kids.”
“They are.” He uncovers the plate — cherry, this time. “Any trouble?”
You think of dark eyes and a gap-toothed grin and you talk funny. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Jay smiles, something knowing in it. “Eli Lee give you a hard time?”
“He was perfectly behaved.”
“That’s almost worse, honestly.” He leans back in his chair. “He’s a good kid. He just — tests people. Wants to know if you’re going to stay.” He says it lightly but you hear something underneath it, something careful. “His last teacher, Miss Hargrove, he adored her by the end. Took him a month.”
“I’ve got time,” you say.
Jay looks at you the way he did that first morning at the counter, that frank easy assessment. “You know Heeseung came into the diner after you left Friday,” he says, with the absolute casualness of a man deploying information he has been sitting on for days.
You cut into the pie. “Did he.”
“Asked how you seemed. Whether you looked settled.” Jay’s expression is the picture of innocence. “Just being neighbourly.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Mm.” Jay drinks his coffee. “He doesn’t usually ask.”
You eat your cherry pie and look at Jay Park over your fork and decide that you like him enormously and that he is also going to be an absolute menace and that these two things are entirely compatible. “Thank you for the pie,” you say.
Jay grins. “Anytime, darlin’.”
The word lands differently in his mouth — friendly, careless, the way you’d expect. The way it probably sounds from everyone. You eat your pie and don’t think about the way it sounded Friday morning on a counter stool two seats down from you, unhurried and warm, like the man saying it had all the time in the world.
Wednesday afternoon you are erasing the board after the children have gone when you hear the gate. You turn, chalk dust on your hands, and Heeseung Lee is coming through it.
He has his hat in his hand this time — held at his side, the gesture you will come to learn is his version of courtesy, the small deliberate thing he does when he’s on someone else’s ground. He is in his work clothes, boots dusty, shirt with the sleeves rolled like the first time you saw him, and he is looking at the schoolhouse with a particular quiet expression that you can’t read yet. “Mr. Lee,” you say from the porch.
He looks up. “Miss Y/N.” The smile comes easy and unhurried, the same one from the diner, and you are annoyed to find that it works just as well the second time. “Hope I’m not disturbing.”
“Not at all.” You dust the chalk from your hands on your apron. “Is something wrong?”
“No, ma’am.” He reaches the foot of the steps and stops there, which you note — he doesn’t come up onto the porch uninvited, just stands at the bottom with his hat in his hand. “Eli mentioned you fixed the gate.”
You blink. “It was sticking.”
“I know. I kept meaning to get to it.” He looks at the gate briefly and back at you. “Just wanted to thank you. And to say — he told me about the dialect conversation.”
“Oh?”
“He came home and used the word dialect four times at supper.” Something warm moves through his expression. “He hasn’t stopped asking questions about Chicago.”
You lean against the porch post. “He’s very bright.”
“I know,” Heeseung says, quietly, the way parents say things about their children when they’re proud and trying not to make a production of it. “He can be a handful.”
“He’s been fine,” you say, and mean it. “He’s testing me. I don’t mind being tested.”
Heeseung looks at you for a moment — that same brief, unguarded register you caught in the diner, there and then gone. “Miss Hargrove said the same thing about him.” A pause. “She was right, and so are you.” He puts his hat back on, settling it with the ease of long habit. “I won’t keep you. Just — thank you. For the gate and for the patience.”
“It’s my job,” you say.
“The gate wasn’t,” he says simply, and tips his hat, and walks back through it — and you notice, as he goes, that he lifts the handle the right way so it doesn’t stick on him. He knew how it worked. He just hadn’t gotten to it.
You stand on the porch for a moment after he’s gone, chalk dust still on your apron, the afternoon light going gold and long across the schoolyard. Alright, you think. But it’s a different alright than the one on the bus.
—
You learn the rhythms of Castillo Creek the way you learn anything new — by paying attention. Monday through Friday the main street wakes slowly, the diner first, Jay’s lights on before six and the smell of coffee reaching the boarding house if the wind is right. The general store opens at seven, the hardware store at eight. The church bell rings at nine for no reason anyone can explain except that it always has.
Afternoons are quiet in the way that heat makes things quiet, everyone retreating into shade, and then around four the street comes back to life — horses at the post, trucks pulling in, the sound of voices carrying in the dry air. Evenings on the boarding house porch: crickets, the occasional distant sound of music from the diner where Jay sometimes puts a record on after hours, the sky going colours you don’t have names for yet.
Weekends the ranch hands come into town. This is when you first understand that Sunrise Ranch is not a small operation. Saturday morning and there are three trucks parked outside the general store and Jay’s counter is full and the voices are different — louder, easier, the particular looseness of men at the end of a working week. You are becoming a recognisable figure on the main street now, two weeks in, and people nod or wave or say morning, Miss Y/N with the comfortable familiarity of a town that has decided you belong, or is at least willing to extend the provisional assumption.
Riki finds you at the general store on the second Saturday, reaching for a tin on a high shelf. “Here,” he says, getting it down for you without ceremony.
“Thank you.” You put it in your basket. “How’s the mare?”
He blinks, then remembers. “Back in her paddock. She does it once a month like clockwork.” He falls into step beside you toward the counter, hands in his pockets. “How’s Eli?”
“Getting there,” you say.
Riki’s mouth twitches. “He told me you knew what a dialect was.”
“He told his father the same thing four times at supper, apparently.”
“Five times,” Riki says. “I was there. Mr. Lee made him use it in a sentence correctly before he could have dessert.” Something soft moves through his expression — fond and private, the look of someone describing a home. “He does that. Makes it a game so Eli doesn’t know he’s being taught.”
You look at him. “You live at the ranch?”
“Have done for two years.” He picks up a paper bag of something from the counter and adds it to your basket without asking, then pays for it along with his own things before you can protest. “Mr. Lee offered me the room off the stable when I first got here. Said I could work it off.” A pause. “I haven’t worked it off yet. I don’t think he’s keeping count.”
You think of the gate. Of a man standing at the foot of porch steps with his hat in his hand, not coming up unless invited. “He seems like a good man,” you say, carefully.
Riki looks at you with the frank, uncomplicated assessment of a nineteen-year-old who has not yet learned to be oblique. “He’s the best man I know,” he says simply. And then the door opens and two of the other ranch hands come in and Riki’s face shifts back into something easier and the conversation moves on, but you carry that best man I know out of the store with you and into the bright Saturday morning and find that you believe it without quite knowing why.
The invitation comes through Eli. It is a Thursday, three weeks into term, and Eli has — incrementally, perceptibly, in the way of a child who makes decisions slowly and then commits to them entirely — decided that you are acceptable. This has manifested in: asking you approximately forty questions about Chicago over the course of various lunchtimes, showing you a drawing he did of his horse with the air of someone bestowing an honour, correcting Tommy’s arithmetic before you can get there and then looking at you to see if you’ll mind, and most recently appointing himself the unofficial distributor of coloured pencils, a role Grace has had to be diplomatically persuaded to share.
On Thursday he stays behind after the others have gone.
You are at your desk reviewing the week’s work when you become aware that he is still in his seat, lunch pail on the desk in front of him, regarding you with his father’s eyes and an expression of elaborate casualness. “Yes, Eli?” you say, without looking up.
A pause. “My dad says you should come see the ranch.”
You look up. He is studying his lunch pail. “He said if you wanted. He said don’t make it a thing.” He glances up at you briefly. “I’m supposed to say it like it’s my idea.”
You press your lips together very firmly. “Whose idea was it?”
Eli considers the ethics of this for a moment. “Both,” he decides. “I said you’d like the horses and he said he’d been meaning to ask.” He picks up his lunch pail. “Saturday morning. Riki said he’d make sure the good horses are out.”
You look at this seven-year-old boy with his gap-toothed earnestness and his father’s dark eyes and the absolute transparency of a child who is not yet old enough to be a convincing liar and feel something in your chest do something inconvenient. “Saturday morning,” you say.
Eli nods, satisfied, and slides off his chair. At the door he pauses. “Miss?”
“Yes?”
“Dad said wear boots if you have them.” A beat. “Do you have boots?”
“I’ll manage,” you say. He looks doubtful but lets it go.
You do not have boots.
Mrs. Della solves this problem on Friday evening by producing a pair from somewhere in the back of a wardrobe that fit you well enough and have clearly belonged to several people before you, worn in and comfortable in the way of things that have been used properly. She does not make a fuss about it. She sets them by your door and says “for your visit to the ranch” with the serenity of a woman who knew this was coming before you did, which you are beginning to understand is simply Mrs. Della’s relationship with information.
Saturday morning is cooler than usual, a thin cloud cover cutting the worst of the heat, and you walk the road east of town with Mrs. Della’s boots on your feet and the particular feeling of a person going somewhere they haven’t decided how to feel about yet.
Sunrise Ranch announces itself before you reach it. The land opens up, the scrub giving way to fenced pasture, horses moving slow in the morning light — four, five, you count seven in the near paddock — and then the gate with Sunrise in iron letters across the top, and beyond it a long low ranch house in weathered timber, a stable block, a water tower, a barn with its doors open, and the general cheerful disorder of a working property.
Eli appears from nowhere, running. “You came,” he says, like this was uncertain, and then immediately: “You have boots.” He looks at them. “They’re okay.”
“Thank you,” you say gravely.
“Come see Maple.” He is already walking, assuming you’ll follow, which you do. “Maple’s mine. Dad got her for me last year. She’s brown.” He says this last detail with enormous authority, as though colour is the primary criterion for horse quality.
“Is she,” you say.
“She’s the best one.” He pushes open the stable door. “Don’t tell Riki’s horse.”
The stable smells of hay and horses and something warm and animal that is not unpleasant, and the light comes through the high windows in long dusty bars, and Maple is indeed brown and does indeed regard you with the large patient eyes of a creature who has learned that humans are mostly harmless if you wait them out. Eli shows her off with the proprietorial pride of a small boy who has been trusted with something real, and you let him lead you through every detail — her feeding schedule, her preferred brushing side, the way she does something with her ears when she’s happy — and listen properly, because he is telling you something important about himself by telling you about the horse. “She’s beautiful,” you say, and mean it.
Eli glows. “Yeah,” he agrees. He strokes her nose. “Dad taught me to ride on her. Well — on her and Scout. Scout’s too big for me yet but I can get on him if someone helps.”
“Who’s Scout?”
“Mine,” says a voice behind you. You turn. Heeseung is in the stable doorway, hat on, a coffee cup in one hand, backlit by the morning in a way that is doing no one any favours. He looks at you with that easy unhurried expression and then at Eli. “You showing her around properly?”
“I was getting to the rest,” Eli says, with dignity.
“Sure you were.” Heeseung’s gaze moves back to you. “Morning. Glad you came.” He says it simply, no particular weight on it, and holds out the second coffee cup that you hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Mrs. Della said you take it black.”
You take the cup. “She told you that?”
“Jay told me. Mrs. Della told Jay.” He lifts a shoulder. “Small town.”
You drink the coffee. It is good — strong and dark and made by someone who takes it seriously. “Thank you.”
“Thank Eli,” he says. “It was mostly his idea.”
“He told me,” you say.
Heeseung looks at his son with an expression of fond resignation. “Did he.” Eli, sensing this conversation is edging toward accountability, has become very interested in Maple’s left ear.
He shows you the ranch himself, Eli orbiting ahead and behind like a satellite, Riki appearing occasionally from whatever task he’s been given and nodding at you with the quiet approval of someone whose opinion you hadn’t realised you were seeking.
Heeseung walks beside you with his coffee and talks about the land with the ease of a man who has known it his whole life — the pasture his father planted, the fence line he extended six years ago, the water table, the horses by name and temperament, the rhythm of the seasons out here where seasons are more about rain than temperature. He is not performing. That is the thing you notice, watching him from the corner of your eye as he points out the far ridge where the light hits different at sunset. He is simply telling you, the way people talk about things they love when they’re comfortable enough to let it show. “How long has your family been here?” you ask.
“Three generations,” he says. “My grandfather broke the land. My father ran it until—” a brief pause, easy enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention “—until I was ready to.” He looks out at the pasture. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“I used to think that about Chicago,” you say, before you mean to.
He glances at you. “What changed?”
The morning light is warm on the fence rail where you’ve stopped. The horses move slow in the paddock. Eli is attempting to convince Riki to let him ride something he’s probably not supposed to, and Riki is maintaining a very patient no. “Things do,” you say. “Change.”
It is not an answer and you both know it. But Heeseung doesn’t push — just nods once, slow, and looks back out at the pasture, and the silence that follows is the comfortable kind. The kind you don’t feel obligated to fill.
“Scout,” he says, after a moment. You follow his gaze. A large grey horse has appeared at the paddock fence — appeared is the right word, horses move quietly for their size, you’re learning — and is regarding you with the same patient assessment as Maple, though with more authority behind it.
“He’s enormous,” you say.
“He’s a gentleman,” Heeseung says. “Come here.” You follow him to the fence. Scout watches you approach with ears forward. Heeseung holds out his hand and the horse drops his nose into it with the ease of long familiarity, a small exhale of breath like a greeting. “Give him your hand,” Heeseung says. “Palm up.”
You do. Scout sniffs your palm, his breath warm and grass-scented, and then shifts his nose slightly to nudge at your wrist, which makes you laugh — actually laugh, surprised out of it, the unguarded kind. Heeseung is watching you when you look up. He looks away just a moment too late, back to Scout, and settles his hand on the horse’s neck. “He likes you,” he says.
“Or he wants something.”
“Same thing, with horses.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He rubs Scout’s neck once and steps back from the fence. “You ride?”
“No.”
“You want to?”
You look at Scout. Scout looks at you. He is very large and very calm and the morning is soft and there is coffee going warm in your hand and no one in this field knows anything about you except that you fixed a gate and knew the word dialect and took your coffee black. “Yes,” you say.
He doesn’t put you on Scout — that comes later, he says, and something in the later is easy and assuming in a way that you notice and don’t examine — but on a smaller bay mare named Honey who is, in Eli’s expert opinion, basically a chair, she’s so calm, which Heeseung overrules diplomatically.
He helps you up with one hand steadying the stirrup and one hand briefly at your waist — functional, impersonal, the practiced efficiency of someone who has helped people onto horses many times — and then steps back and talks you through it. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip with your knees. Breathe.
You walk Honey around the paddock twice with Heeseung at her head and Eli on the fence calling encouragement that is mostly suggestions about how you’re holding the reins wrong. By the third pass Heeseung drops back and lets you go alone, and there is a specific feeling in that — in him deciding you’re ready, stepping back, watching from the fence with his arms resting on the top rail and his hat low — that you don’t have a name for but that sits somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. “You’re a natural,” he calls.
“She’s a chair,” you call back, and hear him laugh from across the paddock, a real one, the kind that alters the whole shape of his face.
Eli says “I said that” with great indignation.
You stay until noon. It isn’t planned. It is the accumulation of small things: Eli deciding you needed to see the barn cat’s new kittens, the kittens being an objectively compelling argument for staying, Riki appearing with a plate of something Mrs. Lee — Heeseung’s housekeeper, an iron-haired woman named Bea who has been with the ranch for twenty years — had left covered on the kitchen table. You all eat on the porch in the late morning sun, Eli wedged between you and Heeseung with a kitten in his lap that he has named Chicago with the satisfied look of someone cementing an inside joke.
It is — easy. Unreasonably easy for a woman who has spent two months being careful about everything.
Heeseung sits with his ankle crossed over his knee and doesn’t push any conversations and doesn’t fill silences that don’t need filling and listens when you talk in the particular way that makes you feel actually heard rather than waited out. Once, when Eli says something that makes you laugh, he catches it — the laugh — in that peripheral way, not staring, just noticing, and then looks deliberately at something else. You notice him noticing. You look at something else too.
He walks you back to the gate at noon. Eli has been redirected to afternoon chores with the selective enthusiasm of a child who has negotiated the terms. Riki raises a hand from the stable door. The horses stand easy in the afternoon quiet.
At the gate Heeseung stops and holds it open — it swings cleanly, well-oiled, this one — and tips his hat. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Eli’s been talking about this since Thursday.”
“Only since Thursday?” you say.
He smiles. God, that smile. “Since Tuesday,” he admits. “I told him to wait.”
You step through the gate and turn. He’s on the other side of it, hat tipped forward, the morning light going warm gold over the ranch behind him. Scout visible in the paddock beyond, Maple beside him. “Thank you for the coffee,” you say. “And the riding lesson.”
“Anytime,” he says. And then, easy as breathing, the way he always does it, like it costs him nothing: “You’re welcome here, darlin’. Any time you want.”
You walk the road back to town with the borrowed boots and the feeling of a morning that opened up something you hadn’t known was closed. Behind you the gate swings shut, clean on its hinge. New soil, you think. See what grows.
—
October arrives like an exhale. The heat doesn’t break exactly — you’re learning it doesn’t really break here, not the way it does in Chicago where summer ends with a week of storms and then suddenly you need a coat — but it softens. The mornings are cooler now, the light coming in at a different angle, and the scrub on the edge of town goes colours you weren’t expecting: amber and rust and a dry pale gold that isn’t quite like anything you’ve seen before. Mrs. Della puts a second quilt on your bed. The church noticeboard updates the harvest dance announcement with a date: Saturday, October 12th. All welcome. Bring a dish.
You have been in Castillo Creek six weeks. You know, now, which floorboard in the schoolhouse creaks and how to avoid it during silent reading so you don’t startle the little ones. You know that Tommy is left-handed and was made to switch and that this is why his numbers come out backwards sometimes, and you have quietly, without making it a thing, begun letting him work with his left hand and watching his shoulders drop two inches with relief. You know that Clara will read anything you put in front of her and that the shelf of books in the schoolhouse is genuinely inadequate and that you have written to the county school board about this and received in response a letter of such elaborate non-commitment that you have started a separate fund from your own salary, small but growing. You know that Eli Lee will behave perfectly for four days and then on the fifth do something just left of the line — not malicious, never malicious, just testing — and that the correct response is to look at him steadily and say his name once, and he will subside, and on day six he will be angelic in a way that is clearly an apology.
You know that Jay’s cherry pie is better than his peach, that Riki takes his coffee with enough sugar to make your teeth hurt, that Bea at the ranch makes the best biscuits in Texas and would probably agree with you about this if you said so, that the tabby cat on the post office step is named Gerald and will accept exactly one ear scratch before moving to bite you. You know that Heeseung Lee tips his hat to every woman on the main street and that it means something different when he does it to you, and you have not examined this too closely because you are being careful and new soil takes time and you are not here to start anything. You are just noticing. That’s all.
Eli asks you about your family on a Tuesday. It is lunchtime, the other children spread across the yard in the October sun, and Eli has taken to eating his lunch on the porch steps near where you stand with your coffee. This started without announcement — one day he was in the yard, the next he was on the steps — and you have not remarked on it because remarking on it would make him self-conscious about having done something soft. “Do you miss Chicago?” he asks, through a mouthful of whatever Bea has packed him.
“Sometimes,” you say. It’s true. You miss the lake. The particular smell of the city in November. The diner near your old apartment that made pierogi on Thursdays.
“What do you miss?”
“The lake,” you say. “Lake Michigan. It’s enormous — like an inland sea. You can stand at the edge and not see the other side.”
Eli processes this. “We have the creek,” he offers.
“I know. I like the creek.”
He nods, satisfied that the comparison comes out even. Then: “Do you have family there?”
“My parents,” you say. “A brother.”
“Do they visit?”
You think of your mother’s voice on the telephone — the one call you’ve made since arriving, standing in the general store with the receiver pressed to your ear, your mother saying when are you coming home in the tone that meant you’ve made your point now. “Not yet,” you say.
Eli swings his feet against the step. “My grandma visits sometimes. Dad’s mom. She lives in Austin.” He picks at his lunch. “I don’t have a mom,” he says, with the casual directness of a child who has been saying this long enough that it no longer feels like a wound, just a fact. “She went away.”
Your chest does something careful and quiet. “I know,” you say, gently. “I’m sorry.”
“Dad says she got sick,” Eli says. “But I think—” he stops. Looks at the yard. Starts again: “I think that’s not the whole story. But he doesn’t want me to be sad so he says it that way.” He looks up at you with those dark perceptive eyes. “Do you think that’s bad? To say a not-whole story?”
You look at this seven-year-old boy who is so much older than seven in the specific ways that loss makes children old, and you think about not-whole stories and composed faces and she wanted a simpler life and how many versions of the truth are actually just the parts you can bear to carry in public.
“I think,” you say carefully, “that sometimes people tell not-whole stories because they’re trying to protect someone they love. And I think when you’re older you’ll understand the rest, and your dad will tell it to you when you’re ready.” You meet his eyes. “Does that make sense?”
Eli thinks about it seriously, which is the only way he thinks about things. “Yeah,” he says. Then: “You’re smart.”
“Thank you.”
“Dad thinks so too.” He says it with absolute offhand innocence and takes a large bite of his sandwich and looks at the yard, and you look at the middle distance and drink your coffee and say nothing at all.
The thing about a small town is that the architecture of people’s lives is visible in a way it never is in a city. In Chicago you could live next door to someone for three years and know nothing about them. Here the walls are thin by design — not maliciously, just the natural result of everyone’s business being conducted in the same four blocks, the same diner, the same church on Sundays, the same post office queue. You learn things about people without trying. You learn them through Jay, who is a font of town history delivered in the register of casual conversation, and through Mrs. Della, whose knowledge of Castillo Creek extends back forty years and who shares it in the same tone she uses to describe the weather — matter of fact, no particular drama.
This is how you learn that Heeseung Lee has been running the ranch alone since he was twenty-six. That his father died the year before Eli was born, and his mother moved to Austin to be near her sister, and Heeseung stayed because someone had to and because the land was in him the way some things get into people.
That Clara — his wife, Eli’s mother — left when Eli was two. Jay tells you this on a Wednesday evening when you’ve stayed past closing, helping him wipe down the counter because you were in the middle of a conversation and neither of you wanted to stop it, and he says it quietly, without the gossipy relish he sometimes deploys for lesser information. He says it like he’s trusting you with something.
“She wasn’t unhappy,” Jay says, wiping the same spot twice. “Or — she was, but not because of him. She was a person who needed more than this place could give her and she stayed too long trying to want what she had and then she left.” He sets down the cloth. “Eli was two. Heeseung — he didn’t fall apart. That’s the thing about him. He just. Kept going.” He looks at the counter. “He hasn’t let anyone close since. Not like that.”
You are quiet for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jay looks at you with his frank dark eyes and the expression of a man who has thought carefully about what he’s going to say. “Because you’re going to be around for a while,” he says. “And I think you should know who he is. The real shape of him.” A pause. “And because he asked about you again today.”
“Jay—”
“He asked if you seemed settled,” Jay says. “Same question as before. He asks it like it’s nothing.” He picks the cloth back up. “Heeseung doesn’t ask about people, is the thing. He notices them. He listens. But he doesn’t ask.” He looks at you. “He’s asking about you.”
You go home to the boarding house and sit at your writing desk for a long time without writing anything.
—
The week before the harvest dance, Eli presents you with a drawing.
This is not unprecedented — he has given you two previous drawings, one of Maple and one of what you eventually identified as the schoolhouse, rendered in the bold confident lines of a child who draws from feeling rather than observation. This one he places on your desk at the end of Friday with the elaborate casualness he deploys for things that matter to him.
You wait until the room is empty before you look at it. It is two figures. One small, one tall. The small one has a gap in its teeth rendered in careful pencil. The tall one has long hair and is wearing — you look closer — a dress with a collar, which is clearly you. They are standing in front of something you take a moment to identify as the paddock fence, and between them, taking up most of the page, is a horse. Brown. Maple, you think, though the horse has been given an expression of benevolent authority that transcends species.
At the bottom, in the large uneven letters of a child still mastering the relationship between thought and handwriting: MISS YN AND ELI. FRIENDS.
You sit with that for a long moment. Then you take a piece of tape and put it on the wall beside the blackboard, where you can see it from your desk, and you go home for the weekend with something warm sitting in your chest that you don’t try to name.
Saturday, the day before the harvest dance, you are in Jay’s diner mid-morning when Heeseung comes in. This is not unusual. He comes in most Saturday mornings, sometimes with Riki, sometimes alone, and you have in six weeks arrived at a kind of comfortable parallel presence with him — you are often there, he is often there, you talk easily when you talk and don’t force it when you don’t, and Jay watches the whole thing with the serene satisfaction of a man who has predicted an outcome and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Today he comes in alone and sits at the counter and orders coffee and then turns to you with his hat on the stool beside him and says: “You going to the dance tomorrow?”
“Mrs. Della seems to think I’m obligated,” you say.
The corner of his mouth. “She’s not wrong. First harvest dance as a Castillo Creek resident is non-negotiable.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands. “It’s good. They do it right.”
“Do you go every year?”
“Every year.” He pauses. “I usually take Eli for the first part. He passes out around nine and I bring him home and come back.”
“Who looks after him?”
“Bea stays late.” He glances at you sidelong. “She has opinions about the dance. Mostly that someone should be dancing and it might as well be me.”
You smile. “Sound advice.”
“Mm.” He is quiet for a moment in the comfortable way he does quiet. Then: “Would you want to — go over together? You and me and Eli. He’d like that.”
The way he says it: simple, direct, no particular performance of casualness but no weight on it either. Just an offer, made plainly. You look at him. He is looking at his coffee cup with the expression of a man who has said the thing and is now waiting without making it a big deal either way. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like that.”
He nods, once, and drinks his coffee, and Jay behind the counter turns to do something at the back shelf that absolutely does not require his attention, and the diner is warm and smells of coffee and something frying and outside the Texas October is going gold in the morning light.
That afternoon you go back to the boarding house and sit on the edge of the bed and look at the window.
Outside: the field, the flat land, the sky. You think about Richard. You do this less than you used to — the thinking about Richard — which is itself a kind of measurement of how much has shifted in six weeks. He is still there, the way a bruise is there: faded but present when you press on it, the particular combination of shame and anger that comes from having your own story told about you rather than by you. The thing he did was not dramatic. That is almost the worst of it. He simply — ended the engagement, and then explained it in a way that made people look at you, and you could not stay in a city where everyone was deciding what version of you to believe.
You think about what Jay said: He asks about you. You think about Eli’s drawing on the wall beside the blackboard. You think about a gate that swings clean on its hinge, and a man who knew how it worked all along.
You are being careful. You are allowed to be careful. A woman who has had her story taken from her is allowed to be careful about who she gives it back to. But you are also — and this is newer, tentative, growing in the way things grow in new soil when they finally get enough light — you are also here. Present, in this room, in this town, in this life that is beginning to feel less like a retreat and more like an arrival.
You look at the field and the sky until the light goes gold and then rose and then the soft dark blue of a Texas evening. Tomorrow there is a dance. Heeseung Lee is going to take you and his son and bring you home after, and this is a simple thing, a neighbourly thing, a Castillo Creek thing where everything means less than it would mean somewhere else.
Or it means exactly as much as it means, and you’re just going to have to find out.
Eli arrives at the boarding house at six o’clock exactly.
You hear him before you see him — the gate, then footsteps on the porch, then a knock that has clearly been practiced for being the right amount of grown-up. You come downstairs to find Mrs. Della already at the door with the expression of a woman who has been waiting for this moment since approximately Tuesday.
Eli is in a white shirt with the collar buttoned and his hair combed flat in a way that will not survive the evening. He is holding his hat in both hands the way his father holds his, you notice — at his side, turned slightly. He looks up at you and his face does something he can’t quite control, a brightness that he immediately tamps down into dignity. “Dad’s outside,” he says.
“You look very smart,” you tell him.
He stands slightly taller. “Bea made me tuck in,” he says, in the tone of a man who has suffered and endured. Behind you Mrs. Della makes a sound that is definitely not a laugh.
You have worn the blue dress. You own three dresses suitable for an evening out and the blue one has a collar and buttons down the front and a skirt that moves when you walk and it is the one that makes you feel most like yourself, which is the only criterion that matters tonight. You have your hair down, which you don’t do at school, and Mrs. Della’s good earrings which she pressed on you with the firmness of a woman who will not be argued with about earrings.
You step out onto the porch. Heeseung is at the foot of the steps. He is in a dark shirt, clean boots, his hat. He looks up when you come out and there is a moment — brief, unguarded — where his expression does something he doesn’t quite catch before the easy steadiness comes back. His eyes move over you once, quickly, and then he looks at Eli.
“Hat,” he says. Eli puts his hat on. “Good.” Heeseung looks back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Miss Y/N,” he says. “You look real nice.”
“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”
He makes a small sound, not quite dismissive, like a man who doesn’t know what to do with a compliment offered plainly and has decided not to examine it. He offers his arm — an old-fashioned gesture, natural on him — and you take it, and Eli immediately takes your other hand with the confidence of someone who has decided this is simply how the arrangement works, and the three of you walk down the road toward the lights and the music already drifting from the community hall at the end of the street.
The harvest dance is, as advertised, done right. The community hall is a low timber building you’ve walked past without knowing what it was, and tonight it is strung with lanterns and smells of sawdust and food and the particular excitement of a town that doesn’t get many occasions. Tables along the walls hold enough food to feed Castillo Creek twice over — Mrs. Della has contributed a peach cobbler, which you carried over earlier, and it is already half gone. A four-piece band is set up at the far end: fiddle, guitar, upright bass, a woman on piano who plays with her whole body. The dancing has already started, couples moving on the cleared floor, children weaving between adult legs at the edges.
The town turns to look when you walk in. Not unpleasantly — it is the small-town version of a head-turn, curious and warm, the collective noting of Heeseung Lee with the new schoolteacher that you can feel passing through the room like a current. Several women note it with expressions ranging from warmly approving to something more carefully neutral, which tells you what Jay has already told you about the general feeling toward the man beside you.
Heeseung appears to notice none of it. He steers you toward Jay, who is leaning against the far wall with a plate of food and the expression of a man who has been looking forward to tonight for reasons that are entirely about watching other people. “Well,” Jay says, looking between you with magnificent restraint, “don’t you both clean up nice.”
“Food’s good,” Heeseung says, ignoring this.
“I made the cornbread.”
“I know. I already had some.” He looks at Eli, who has been scanning the room with the efficient tactical assessment of a child locating friends. “Stay where I can see you.”
Eli is already gone. Heeseung watches him go with the particular expression of a parent who knows better than to fight it and has positioned himself where he can see the whole room.
The evening unfolds the way good evenings do: without agenda, in the accumulation of small moments. You eat. Jay introduces you to people you haven’t met, which turns out to be fewer than you expected — you know more of Castillo Creek than you realised, the six weeks of main street mornings and school gate conversations having done their quiet work. Mr. and Mrs. Holt from the farm to the north, who have a daughter in your class — Ruth, the one who does everything left-handed and ambidextrously, a fact you have been admiring for weeks. Old Pete from the hardware store, who shakes your hand and says “you fixed the school gate” with the respect of a man who rates practical competence above most other virtues. The minister’s wife, who is warm and enormous and has clearly decided you are good people and broadcasts this to the room through sheer force of conviction.
Heeseung stays near you without being beside you constantly — he moves through the room the way you’ve noticed he does, at ease everywhere, known to everyone, the smile given genuinely and the name remembered for everyone he talks to. Women approach him with the practised ease of long familiarity and he is warm and kind to all of them and doesn’t linger with any of them and drifts back in your direction after each one with the reliability of water finding level. Jay watches this and eats his cornbread and says nothing, which from Jay is extremely loud.
Eli reappears at intervals to report on things of importance: that Tommy has had four pieces of pie, that someone’s dog has got in and is under the far table, that the fiddle player has a hole in his boot which Eli finds compelling for reasons he can’t fully articulate. Each time he appears he is slightly more dishevelled — the collar loosened by degree, the hair no longer remotely flat, a smear of something on his cuff that you choose not to investigate.
The ninth time he appears he is pulling someone by the hand. “Miss Y/N,” he says, with great ceremony, “this is my friend Cody. Cody, this is my teacher. She’s from Chicago and she knows what a dialect is.”
Cody, who is approximately Eli’s age and has the look of a child who has eaten too much pie, nods with solemnity. “What’s a dialect?” he asks you. You explain it, briefly, and both boys listen with their heads slightly tilted, and Heeseung beside you makes a sound very low in his chest that is a laugh he has decided not to have.
The boys disappear again. You look up at Heeseung. He is already looking somewhere else, but his mouth is still doing the almost-laugh. “He’s been telling people that for weeks,” he says. “The dialect thing.”
“I know,” you say. “Grace told me he explained it to the minister’s wife.” The laugh escapes this time, quiet and genuine, and the shape it makes of his face is something you file away without meaning to.
The band shifts tempo around eight. The faster songs have been running for most of the evening — the kind of music that makes your feet move without asking — and now the fiddle drops into something slower, longer, the bass underneath it steady and low. Couples move differently on the floor. The children at the edges drift toward the food tables.
You are by the lantern at the far wall when Heeseung appears beside you. “Dance with me,” he says.
Not would you like to or may I have this — just dance with me, quiet and direct, the way he says most things, like an offer that trusts you to say no if you want to. You look at him. The lantern light is warm on his face, the hat casting a slight shadow, and he is watching you with the patient steadiness that is simply how he is — unhurried, undemanding, there. “Alright,” you say.
He takes your hand and leads you to the floor and puts his other hand at your waist, and you are aware of the warm weight of it through the blue dress, and you put your hand on his shoulder and you dance.
He is good at it. Not showy — he doesn’t have the look of a man who thinks about whether he’s good at things — but easy and sure, the same way he moves through everything. He leads without being heavy about it, and after the first few measures you stop thinking and just follow, and the music goes slow and the lanterns are warm and the whole room is soft at the edges. “You’re surprised I can dance,” he says.
“A little,” you admit.
“My mother’s doing.” Something fond in it. “She said a man who can’t dance is a man who doesn’t know how to listen.” He tilts his head slightly. “She’s right about most things.”
“She sounds formidable.”
“She’d like you.” He says it simply, without apparent awareness of what it implies, and you think: he means it exactly as plainly as he said it, which is somehow more significant than if he’d been trying.
You dance without talking for a while. The fiddle goes somewhere low and sweet. Around you other couples turn slowly, and across the room you can see Jay watching with the expression of a man witnessing the inevitable and finding it satisfying. “Can I ask you something?” Heeseung says.
“Yes.”
“Why Castillo Creek?” He looks at you — not the look he uses on everyone, the warm social look, but something quieter and more direct, the look you’ve caught a few times when he doesn’t know you’re watching. “Of all the places.”
“It was the furthest,” you say. You’ve given this answer before, half-answer that it is, and you feel him register the incompleteness of it.
He doesn’t push. He nods once, slow. “Were you running from something?” he asks. Gently. No judgment in it, just the question, open-handed.
The music turns. You consider him — the steadiness of him, the patience, the careful way he holds you on the dance floor like something he doesn’t want to break but also doesn’t want to handle too gingerly. “Yes,” you say. First time you’ve said it plainly.
He absorbs this. “You don’t have to tell me what,” he says.
“I know.”
“But if you ever want to—” he stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere. Said so simply, with no particular weight on it, just a fact, and yet it lands in you somewhere deep and quiet and stays there like something settling.
“Thank you,” you say. He nods. You dance.
Eli falls asleep in a chair at half past eight. Not gracefully — he is mid-sentence, apparently, Cody reports, about something to do with the dog, and then he simply isn’t anymore. He is curled in the chair with his hat over his face in a pose of complete unconscious dignity, and Heeseung looks at him for a moment with an expression that is purely and simply love, uncomplicated by anything else. “I’ll take him home,” he says.
“Of course.” You help him get the boy upright — Eli stirs briefly, says something about the dog, and goes back under — and Heeseung lifts him with the ease of long practice, the boy’s head dropping onto his shoulder.
“Come back,” Jay says, appearing from nowhere.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Heeseung says. He looks at you over Eli’s sleeping head. “Will you—” a pause, something careful in it. “Will you still be here?”
“Yes,” you say. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he nods, and carries his son home through the warm October night, and you go back to Jay and the music and the lanterns and the feeling of a hand at your waist that you can still feel even though it’s gone.
“Well,” says Jay.
“Don’t,” you say. He puts his hands up, peaceable, and hands you a glass of lemonade. But he is smiling.
Heeseung is back in eighteen minutes. You are talking to Mrs. Holt when you see him come through the door, hat resettled, and he finds you in the room immediately — doesn’t scan for you, just finds you, the way you find a light when you walk into a dark room. He comes over and Mrs. Holt makes a gracious excuse and leaves, and he stands beside you and accepts the glass of lemonade you’ve been holding for him without either of you remarking on why you knew to have it.
The band starts something slow again. Heeseung looks at you. You look at him. “Again?” he says.
“Again,” you say.
This time when he puts his hand at your waist you don’t catalogue it, don’t file it, don’t hold it at a careful distance to examine later. You just — let it be what it is, warm and steady and real, his hand and your shoulder and the fiddle going slow and the lanterns burning low, and if the space between you is slightly less than it was the first time then neither of you mentions it.
You dance until the band stops for a break and then you get food and eat it on the hall steps in the cool October night and talk — easily, unhurriedly — about nothing much and everything, the ranch and the classroom and things you’ve read and things you’ve seen, the way a conversation goes when two people discover they have more to say to each other than they anticipated.
At some point you become aware that the music has started again inside and neither of you has moved to go back in. At some point after that you become aware that your shoulders are nearly touching on the step and neither of you has moved apart.
The night is clear, stars enormous in that Texas sky that has too much room in it, the music muffled through the wall, and Heeseung is talking about the ranch in winter and you are listening and also listening to the warm unhurried sound of his voice and the night is soft and something is very quietly happening, the way things happen in new soil: without announcement, without drama, just the steady irresistible work of growing.
He walks you home at eleven. The street is quiet, the dance still going distantly, the air cool and smelling of dust and something dry and sweet. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and you walk with your arms crossed against the chill and at the boarding house gate you stop. He is looking at you.
The porch light is on — Mrs. Della — and in it his face is all warm shadow and that particular steadiness, and you are aware that this is a moment, the kind that has a before and after, and that you are both standing in it. “I had a good night,” you say.
“Me too,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. A pause. The street is empty. The stars are doing what they do.
He reaches out — slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity — and tucks a strand of hair back from your face, his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and it is such a small thing, so careful, and it takes your breath in a way that no grand gesture ever has. He drops his hand. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says. Soft. Just yours.
“Goodnight,” you say. He tips his hat and walks back down the street and you watch him go and then you go inside and you sit on the edge of your bed in the dark and you press your fingers to your cheek where his hand was.
Outside the stars are enormous. New soil, you think. Something’s growing.
—
Nothing is said. This is the thing about Heeseung Lee — he does not press. He does not arrive at the schoolhouse the next morning with declarations or at Jay’s diner with meaningful looks or at the boarding house gate with anything that requires you to respond to it formally. He simply — continues. Being present in the way he is always present, warm and steady and unhurried, and the only difference after the harvest dance is a slight calibration in the frequency with which he finds reasons to be near you, and the way the darlin’ sounds when it’s only the two of you, lower and more deliberate, like a word that has been renegotiated.
You continue also. Teaching, reading, eating Jay’s pie, watching the season turn. But you are aware of him now in a way that has moved past noticing into something more like — waiting. Not anxiously. Just the particular heightened attention of a person who has begun to understand that something is being built, slowly, with care, and who has decided to trust the pace of it.
Eli notices. Of course Eli notices. He is seven and perceptive and he has his father’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything directly — he is too clever for direct — but the quality of his watching changes. He begins positioning himself as a reason for the two of you to be in the same place. Dad, can Miss Y/N come see the new foal. Miss, Dad says you should have Bea’s recipe for the cornbread. The transparent architecture of a child conducting an operation he believes to be covert, and which you and Heeseung have both silently agreed to treat as such because he is seven and it is working and no one is going to be the one to make him stop.
The new foal is three weeks old when Eli invites you to see it, and it has not yet decided what its legs are for. Eli brings you to the ranch on the second Saturday of October — I asked Dad and he said yes and also that it was fine if you were busy but you’re not busy, right? — and the foal is in the small paddock nearest the stable, bewilderingly long-limbed, a dark bay that will probably lighten as she grows. She looks at you when you approach the fence with the expression of a creature that has been in the world twenty-one days and has not yet accumulated the patience to find humans interesting. “She doesn’t have a name yet,” Eli says. “Dad said I could name her.”
“What are you thinking?”
He has clearly been thinking about it for days and has not decided, which is unusual for him — he is not generally a boy who holds back opinions. He leans on the fence rail and watches the foal with unusual gravity. “It has to be right,” he says.
“It does,” you agree. Heeseung is on the other side of Eli, his arms resting on the fence, watching the foal with the particular quiet warmth he reserves for the ranch and for his son. He glances over Eli’s head at you and something passes between you — amusement, tenderness, the shared appreciation of a child being serious about something — and it is so easy, so natural, that for a moment you don’t know what to do with how easy it is.
“What about Chicago?” Eli says. Casually. You look at him. He is studying the foal. “The horse you name,” Heeseung adds. “The barn cat?”
“The barn cat’s name is Chicago,” you tell Heeseung.
“I know,” he says. He is looking at the foal. His mouth is doing the thing. “He named it the day you came to the ranch.”
Eli has achieved maximum innocence, his face a study in disinterest.
“I think Chicago is a good name,” you say. The foal, as if in response, takes three uncertain steps and sits down abruptly.
Eli looks at his father. His father looks at you. You look at the foal, sitting in the dirt with its legs at improbable angles and its ears pricked forward as if this was entirely the plan. You all three start laughing at the same moment.
Riki makes coffee. This has become a thing — the coffee on the porch, the late morning sun, the ranch quiet around you. You have been to Sunrise Ranch four times now and each time it has arranged itself into the same comfortable shape: Eli showing you something, Heeseung nearby, Riki appearing and disappearing like a benevolent ghost, Bea’s food involved at some point, the afternoon light eventually demanding that you walk back to town.
Today Riki sits on the porch steps with his cup and looks out at the paddock where Chicago the foal is attempting, again, to organise her legs. “She’s going to be good,” he says, about the foal. “Look at the shoulder on her.”
“You know horses?” you ask.
“Mr. Lee taught me.” He says it simply, the way he says most things about Heeseung, with that uncomplicated weight of someone describing a fact that is also a debt he’s decided he’s glad to owe. “When I first came here I didn’t know anything about any of this. I just needed work.” He drinks his coffee. “He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said: here’s the work, here’s the room, the rest we’ll figure out. And then he just — showed me things. Every day. How to work the land, how to read a horse, how to fix what breaks.” A pause. “He does that. Shows rather than tells.”
You think of the riding lesson. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip. Breathe. And then stepping back and watching from the fence to see what you’d do on your own. “Yes,” you say. “He does.”
Riki glances at you with his dark eyes and the particular directness of someone who is not quite nineteen yet and hasn’t learned to be oblique about what he observes. “He’s happy,” he says. “More than usual. I thought you should know.”
You look at your coffee cup. The morning is warm and still.
“Thank you, Riki,” you say. He nods and goes back to watching the foal, and the matter is settled, and you sit on the porch of Sunrise Ranch in the October sun and feel the particular quiet terror of something you want very much beginning to feel possible.
—
The almost-kiss happens on a Wednesday. It is not planned. It is not even exactly an almost-kiss, which is perhaps the most honest thing about it — it is more a moment in which a kiss becomes a possibility that both of you become aware of simultaneously, and the awareness itself is so charged that it amounts to nearly the same thing.
You have stayed late at the schoolhouse marking reading assessments, the kind of work that requires the particular quiet of an empty room, and you are still there at five when you hear the gate and look up to see Heeseung coming through it with something in his hand. He stops at the foot of the steps. “Bea sent this.” He holds up a cloth-wrapped parcel. “She made too much.”
Bea, you have come to understand, always makes too much. This is not accidental. “Tell her thank you,” you say.
“You tell her. She likes you more than she likes me.” He comes up the steps — this is newer, the coming up the steps, the crossing of the porch — and you open the door and he follows you inside because the light is going and neither of you suggests he leave.
He sets the parcel on your desk and looks at the wall beside the blackboard. Eli’s drawing. He looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. “He gave it to me on a Friday,” you say. “I put it up that evening.”
Heeseung is quiet. In the low afternoon light his profile is — you don’t look directly. You tidy the papers on your desk. But you are aware of him in the specific physical way you have been aware of him since the harvest dance, a warmth that doesn’t require proximity to function, that exists simply because he is in the room. “He doesn’t give drawings to people,” Heeseung says, finally.
“I know.”
“He gave one to Jay once.” A pause. “Jay cried.”
“Did he?” You let out an amused breath.
“He’ll tell you he didn’t.” He turns from the wall and the small distance of the schoolroom is between you, both of you standing in the last of the afternoon light through the windows, the assessment papers on the desk and Bea’s parcel beside them and the drawing on the wall. “You’ve been good for him,” he says. “For Eli.”
“He’s been good for me,” you say. Heeseung looks at you. The directness of it, steady and warm and something beneath it that is no longer entirely hidden from you — something careful and wanting and very, very controlled.
He takes a step. Just one. The room is small and one step is a significant renegotiation of the space between you, and you are aware of your own stillness, the way you are not moving away, the way you are — you realise — leaning, fractionally, toward him.
His hand comes up. The same gesture as the gate night — slow, deliberate, no ambiguity about the intention — and his fingers brush your jaw, not your cheek this time but your jaw, tilting your face up very slightly. He looks at you. You look at him. The moment is right there, the exact shape of it, and you can feel his breath and the warmth of his hand and the whole quiet room holding itself still— the gate.
You both hear it. A second later: footsteps on the porch, and Eli’s voice, Dad? Riki said you came here, and the door opens.
Heeseung’s hand drops. He steps back — not hastily, not guilty, just back — and turns toward the door as Eli comes through it with his schoolbag still on his shoulder from wherever he’s been, looking between the two of you with eyes that miss nothing.
“Bea sent food,” Heeseung says.
Eli looks at the parcel. Looks at you. Looks at his father. He is seven years old and he has the perceptive assessment of someone three times that age and you watch him put something together behind his eyes and decide, with great and deliberate charity, not to say it. “Okay,” he says. He drops his bag. “Can I have some?”
—
November comes in quietly. The cold arrives properly now, the mornings sharp, the light later. You have a proper coat from the general store — Castillo Creek wool, practically indestructible, Mrs. Della’s recommendation — and your own boots now, bought from the hardware store with the heel worn to fit your foot. You are, you realise one morning walking to the schoolhouse in the frost, no longer performing belonging. You just — belong. In the small ordinary way of someone who knows which floorboards creak and which gate sticks and which order to say good morning to the main street in. This is a thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.
The children change too — they are yours now, fully, in the way a class becomes yours when they’ve stopped watching you to see if you’ll stay and started simply assuming you will. Tommy does his arithmetic left-handed and his numbers come out clean. Clara has read everything on the bookshelf and you’ve started lending her your own. The new books arrived last week from the county — three boxes, more than you expected, apparently the board received two letters — and the morning you unpacked them Eli said did you write two letters? and you said the second one was more strongly worded and he looked at you with pure satisfaction and said good.
Grace organises the shelf. Eli helps whether or not he’s asked. The little ones treat the new books with the reverence of sacred objects, which is the correct response.
The second time it almost happens is on your porch. Heeseung walks you home from the diner on a Friday — you’ve fallen into this, the Friday evenings at Jay’s that end with him walking you the two blocks home — and at the gate he stops, as he always does, and you turn, as you always do.
But tonight is different. Maybe it’s the cold, the way it makes the air sharp and close. Maybe it’s the week that’s been — Eli had a difficult day on Tuesday, something about a boy from another farm saying something about his mother, and he’d been quiet for three days until this evening when he’d appeared at Jay’s with Heeseung and been loud enough to make up for it, and you’d watched Heeseung watch his son come back to himself and felt something in your chest pull tight with feeling.
Maybe it’s just that you’re tired of the careful distance and your body is making decisions your head hasn’t approved.
You are at the gate and he is looking at you and the cold is making your breath visible between you and you say, before you’ve decided to: “You could come in.” He goes still. “For coffee,” you say. “Mrs. Della makes it before bed. She won’t mind.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The street is empty and dark and cold and the porch light is on and he is — you watch him weigh something, watch the careful consideration of a man who has learned the cost of moving without thinking, and you wait, and you don’t take it back.
“Not tonight,” he says. Quietly. Not as a rejection — the quality of it is entirely different from rejection, warm and regretful and something else, something that sounds almost like not yet. His eyes hold yours. “But—” he stops.
“But?” you say.
His hand finds yours, briefly, in the cold — not holding, just his fingers over yours for a moment, warm against the chill, a contact so small it might be nothing and is absolutely not nothing. “Soon,” he says.
You look at your hands. His fingers over yours. “Okay,” you say.
He squeezes once and lets go and steps back. Tips his hat. “Goodnight, darlin’.”
“Goodnight.” You go inside. You stand in the hallway for a moment with your hand held against your chest. Soon, you think.
Outside, his footsteps on the road, going home.
Tuesday in the third week of November, after school, after everyone has gone, the room is empty and the light low and you are at your desk and Heeseung has come — ostensibly to fix the wobbling chair leg, he appeared with a tool and a particular determined expression — and has fixed it and straightened up and you are still at the desk and the room is quiet and the space between you is approximately nothing.
He looks at you. You look at him. You say: “Heeseung.” Just his name. No question in it, no instruction, just the sound of it in the empty room, and something in him — the careful controlled something — gives way.
He crosses the room and his hands find your face and he kisses you.
Gently. Almost unbearably gently for a man who has been waiting this long — his mouth soft on yours, one hand curved around your jaw and one in your hair, the kiss slow and thorough and so tender that you feel it behind your eyes. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, like he’s been thinking about exactly this and is in no hurry now that he’s here.
You make a sound, quiet and involuntary, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair — controlled, so controlled — and then he pulls back just enough to look at you, your face between his hands, his forehead almost touching yours. “Been wanting to do that,” he says, low, “since the diner.”
“The first morning?” you say. Your voice is not entirely steady.
“The first morning,” he confirms.
You pull him back down. This kiss is different — less tender, more certain, the both of you having established the territory now and moving through it with more confidence. His hands stay in your hair and at your jaw and you have one hand in his shirt and one on his arm and the chair leg is fixed and the school room is empty and the afternoon is going dark outside the windows.
Eventually — reluctantly — you separate. He rests his forehead against yours. His breathing is not entirely steady either, which you find deeply satisfying. His thumb moves along your jaw, once. “Eli’s at the ranch,” he says.
“I know.”
“Riki’s with him.”
“I know.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly. The expression on his face is something you haven’t seen before — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but with something warmer beneath it, something that has stopped being controlled.
You look at him. This man who fixes things slowly and holds gates open and walks beside you without filling every silence and has been waiting, you realise, as carefully as you have — the both of you circling something real at a respectful distance because you both know the cost of getting it wrong. “Not here,” you say. “Not yet.”
He nods immediately, no argument, no pressure. “No.” He straightens. His hand drops from your jaw to your shoulder, rests there for a moment. “Soon.”
“Soon,” you agree.
He kisses you once more — brief, deliberate, a punctuation — and steps back and picks up his tool from the floor. At the door he pauses with his hand on the frame. “Fixed the chair,” he says.
“Thank you,” you say.
The corner of his mouth. He puts his hat on. He goes. You sit in the fixed chair in the empty schoolroom with your fingers at your lips and the particular feeling of someone standing at the very edge of something they’ve been walking toward for a long time.
You don’t see him come in — you’re at the schoolhouse, mid-morning, working fractions with the older children while the little ones do their letters — but the town sees him, which amounts to the same thing. A black car, which is the first thing, because nobody in Castillo Creek drives a black car, everyone drives trucks with dust on them, and a black car with city plates sitting outside the boarding house is the kind of thing that travels the length of the main street in approximately four minutes.
Jay tells you at lunch. He appears at the schoolhouse gate during the midday break with his hands in his apron pockets and the expression of a man who has information he doesn’t want to deliver but will, because not delivering it would be worse. “Someone checked into Mrs. Della’s this morning,” he says.
You are eating a sandwich on the porch steps. “Who?”
“Man from Chicago.” He watches your face. “Name of Calloway.”
The sandwich stops being something you’re interested in. Jay sees it — the thing that happens to your face, the quick controlled shutting-down of it, the composed face coming up like a shutter. He sees it and his expression does something careful and angry on your behalf. “Richard,” you say. Not a question.
“Mrs. Della said he asked for you by name.” Jay’s voice is even, but only just. “Said he was an old friend.”
You set the sandwich down on the step beside you. In the yard the children are playing — Eli is attempting to teach Cody something that involves a great deal of running, unclear objective, self-invented rules — and the sound of them is bright and ordinary and very far away from the thing that is happening in your chest. “How long is he staying?” you say.
“Didn’t say.” Jay pauses. “You don’t have to see him. I mean it. You don’t have to do a single thing.”
“I know, Jay.” You look at the yard. Eli has apparently won whatever the game was and is explaining this to Cody with both hands. “Thank you for telling me.”
Jay looks at you for a long moment with the expression of a man who wants to say more and knows you well enough to know not to. “I’ll be at the diner,” he says. “All night if you need.” He goes. You sit on the steps and watch the children play and breathe.
You see Richard in town at four o’clock. You don’t plan it — or rather you plan to not plan it, to go home the back way and avoid the main street, but you have never been a person who runs from things indefinitely, which is different from a person who retreats to regroup, which is what Castillo Creek was supposed to be, and the distinction matters to you.
So you walk the main street at four. He is outside the general store. Six months since you’ve seen him and he looks exactly the same, which is the particular cruelty of certain kinds of men — Richard Calloway at thirty has the same easy handsomeness he had at twenty-five, the good jaw and the good clothes and the way of standing that broadcasts money without appearing to try. He is talking to Mr. Gus from the hardware store with the particular charm he deploys on strangers, warm and attentive, and Mr. Gus, who is a perfectly reasonable man, appears to be finding him perfectly reasonable.
Richard sees you at the same moment you see him. “Y/N,” he says. He says it the way he’s always said your name — with a kind of ownership, like the name is his to use, like he coined it. Six months ago that sound did something to you. Now it does something different: a cold clarity, like being fully awake.
“Richard,” you say. Mr. Gus, sensing something, makes a gracious excuse and goes inside.
Richard crosses the distance between you with that easy unhurried gait. He is looking at you the way he always looked at you — the assessing look, cataloguing, deciding what he’s working with. He looks at your coat, your boots, the dust on them. “You look well,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
No preamble. His expression flickers — he expected something else, you can tell, some version of the composed uncertainty he knew how to work with — and then recalibrates. “I wanted to see you.” He tilts his head. “I’ve been worried. Your mother has been worried.”
“My mother knows where I am.”
“She knows where you are.” He glances around — the main street, the hardware store, the distant sound of the diner — with an expression that is almost too carefully neutral. “She’s less certain about why.”
“I am,” you say. “Certain about why.”
Something moves through his expression. Not hurt — Richard doesn’t do hurt, exactly, he does the performance of it — but something more like recalculation. He has come here with a script and you are not following it and he is deciding which page to go to next. “Can we talk?” he says. “Properly. Not — here.”
“Not today,” you say.
“Y/N—”
“I need to get home,” you say. “I have work to do.” You walk past him. You feel his gaze on your back the whole length of the street and you keep your spine straight and your pace even and you do not look back, and you turn the corner to the boarding house and you stand in the hallway for thirty seconds with your hand flat against the wall.
Then you go upstairs and sit at your desk and write lesson plans for the following week with the particular furious focus of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly why.
He stays.
This is what you didn’t account for — or what you knew, somewhere, and didn’t want to know: that Richard Calloway does not come somewhere and leave without getting what he came for, because Richard Calloway has not, in thirty years of life, not gotten a thing he came for. He is patient in the manner of a man who has never had to be truly patient, which is a different thing from Heeseung’s patience — Heeseung’s patience is the patience of someone who understands that good things take the time they take. Richard’s patience is the patience of someone who is simply waiting for the situation to arrange itself correctly.
He is in the diner on Friday morning when you come in. He has clearly been there a while — Jay’s expression when you walk in tells you everything, the tight professional smile of a man maintaining composure in his own establishment — and Richard stands when he sees you with the automatic courtesy of old money and gestures at the booth across from him like you’ve just arrived somewhere he owns.
You sit at the counter instead. Jay puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes to the back. Richard slides onto the stool beside you. “Your friend doesn’t like me,” he says pleasantly.
“Jay doesn’t know you,” you say. “He’s good at people.”
A flicker. “I see you haven’t lost your—” he pauses, finds the word “—sharpness.”
“I’ve been busy,” you say. “Teaching.”
“Yes.” He turns his cup in his hands. This is a gesture you know — he does it when he’s choosing his approach, the hand movement while he thinks. “You’re a good teacher, Y/N. You were always good at it. You could be doing it in Chicago. Somewhere with—” he doesn’t finish it but you hear it: resources, standing, people like us.
“I like it here,” you say.
“You’ve been here two months.”
“Ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks,” he says. “In a town with four hundred people.” He looks at you sidelong. “Is this really what you want? Or is it just — the furthest you could get?”
The question lands because he knows you well enough to know it might. You drink your coffee.
“Both,” you say. “And then it became what I wanted.”
He is quiet for a moment. Then, lower, the charm dialed back, something more direct underneath: “I made a mistake.” You look at him. “The way I handled things,” he says. “The way I — let people talk.” He meets your eyes. “I should have been clearer. About what happened.”
“What did happen, Richard?” you say. “Tell me your version.”
Something careful moves through his face. “We weren’t right for each other. I should have said that, instead of—”
“Instead of implying that I was unstable,” you say pleasantly. “Instead of telling your mother that I had become erratic, which she told her friends, which—” you stop. The composed face. “You know what was said. You know what it cost me.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I want to make it right.”
“By coming here,” you say. “To this town with four hundred people where I have managed, without your help, to make a life.”
He looks at you. His jaw is set slightly. “Come home,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking. Come home and we can—”
“No,” you say. Quietly. No drama. Just no, the way you should have been saying it for the two years you spent trying to become something that would satisfy him.
You finish your coffee. You put the money on the counter. You stand. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” you say. “The peach pie is very good.” You walk out. Behind you the bell chimes.
You don’t tell Heeseung. This is the thing you’ll come back to later — not telling him. It’s not deception, exactly, or you tell yourself it isn’t. It is the particular guarded instinct of a woman who has had her story taken from her once and is not ready yet to hand it to someone else to hold, even someone she trusts, even someone whose hands are the careful kind.
But Castillo Creek is four hundred people and a black city car parked on the main street and Richard Calloway has his father’s charm and the town is talking.
Jay doesn’t tell him either — you don’t have to ask, Jay simply knows — but Jay also cannot control what a town talks about, and towns talk.
You are outside the schoolhouse at half past four, gate latched behind you, walking toward the main street, and Richard is there.
He has been doing this — appearing at the edges of your day, not enough to be a confrontation, enough to be a reminder. Outside the general store, at the end of the street when you’re walking from the diner, once at the boarding house gate, though he didn’t approach that time, just stood at the end of the road as you went in.
Today he is at the corner near the schoolhouse and when you come through the gate he falls into step beside you. “I need you to stop,” you say.
“I just want to talk.”
“We’ve talked.”
“Y/N.” He takes your arm. Not hard — he’s never hard, that’s not how he operates, Richard operates through persistence and charm and the slow rewriting of reality until you can’t find the original — his hand on your arm, a familiar gesture from a thousand ordinary moments, the gesture of someone who knows where your arm is.
“Let go,” you say.
He does. Immediately, palms up, the gesture of a reasonable man. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Richard.” Quietly. Firmly. “Go home.”
You step around him and walk. You don’t see Heeseung at the end of the street. But he sees you.
He doesn’t come to the diner on Friday. This is the first Friday in all the weeks you’ve been here that he doesn’t come. Jay notices — of course Jay notices, Jay notices everything — and he watches the door and watches you and keeps your cup full and doesn’t say anything, which from Jay means he is thinking very carefully about what not to say. You notice the absence like a change in weather. A front coming in.
He doesn’t come on Saturday either. Eli is in town — you see him outside the general store with Riki, who gives you a look you can’t fully interpret, something complicated — and Eli waves but doesn’t run over, which is so unlike him that something cold and certain settles in your stomach. You go to Jay. “What does he think he saw?” you say.
Jay is wiping the counter. He wipes it for a while. “Man from the city with his hand on your arm,” he says finally. “Outside the schoolhouse.”
“Richard grabbed my arm. I told him to let go. He did.”
“I know that.”
“Heeseung doesn’t.”
Jay sets down the cloth. He looks at you with the expression of a man who cares about two people who are being stupid at each other and has to navigate this carefully. “He didn’t ask me,” he says. “Which tells you something. If he thought it was nothing he would’ve asked.” You look at the counter. “He’s not angry,” Jay says. “He’s just — he’s gone back inside himself. The way he does.” He pauses. “You know about Clara.”
“I know she left.”
“He watched her talk to someone for a week before she told him she was going. He came home one day and she was packed.” Jay says it plainly, not for drama, just because you need to know the shape of what’s happening. “He doesn’t — he doesn’t do this consciously. It’s just where he goes. When it looks like someone’s about to leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” you say.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t know why Richard is here.”
“No.”
You are quiet for a moment. The diner is warm around you, the smell of coffee and the distant sound of the radio, and outside the window the main street is grey and cold under the November sky. “I should have told him,” you say.
“Yes,” Jay says, not unkindly. “You should have.”
—
Riki appears at the boarding house in the early morning of Sunday with his hands in his pockets and the look of someone who has decided to do something and is committed to seeing it through. You sit on the porch together in the cold and he looks at the street. “He’s not eating properly,” Riki says.
“Riki—”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because you should know what’s happening over there.” He looks at his hands. “He got up at four this morning and went out to the fence line and I don’t know when he came back.” He pauses. “Eli asked him why you hadn’t visited and he said you were probably busy. Eli didn’t believe him. He’s seven and he didn’t believe him.” You close your eyes briefly. “The man from the city,” Riki says. “Who is he?”
“My ex-fiancé,” you say. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What Heeseung saw—” you stop. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
Riki is quiet for a moment. “He won’t ask,” he says. “He’ll just—” he does a gesture, a closing-in, both hands coming together. “He’ll just decide it’s already over and start making peace with it. He does it fast. He had a lot of practice.”
The cold is sharp on the porch and the street is empty and you think about a man up at four in the morning walking a fence line alone. “I’m going to the ranch,” you say.
Riki stands. “Good,” he says. Simply. And goes back down the porch steps and up the road, and you watch him go and then you go inside and put your coat on.
The ranch is quiet in the Sunday morning. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you come through the gate — you know his shape at this distance now, the particular way he stands, the hat — and he turns when he hears you and goes very still. You walk toward him. The cold air is clean and the horses move slow in the paddock and the sky is white and enormous.
You stop at the fence beside him. He looks at you — that careful, closed look, the inside-self look that Jay described, and underneath it something that is trying very hard to be nothing and isn’t.
“His name is Richard Calloway,” you say. “He was my fiancé. He ended our engagement and made sure the story that circulated made me look like the problem. I came here because I needed to be somewhere no one knew that story.” You look at the paddock. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What you saw — he took my arm. I told him to let go. He did. And then I walked away.” Heeseung is very quiet beside you.
“I should have told you he was here,” you say. “I know that. I was—” you stop. Find the honest word. “I was holding it. My own story. I’ve had it taken from me before and I wasn’t ready to hand it to someone else yet, even someone I—” you stop again.
The paddock. The white sky. Chicago the foal, visible at the far end, picking her way through the grass. “Even someone I trust,” you finish.
A long silence. “He’s gone?” Heeseung says. His voice is careful. Controlled.
“He left yesterday morning,” you say. “Mrs. Della told me.”
Another silence. You can hear him breathing beside you, and the sound of it — the slight unevenness of it — tells you more than anything he’s said. “I thought—” he starts. Stops. Jaw tight. Starts again: “When I saw him with his hand on your arm I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” you say, gently. “I know why you thought it.”
He looks at you then. The inside face, still there, but cracking slightly at the edges. “I don’t do this well,” he says. “The—” he stops. “I’m not good at trusting that people—” another stop. He takes his hat off and turns it in his hands, looking at the brim. “I had six years of practice at being fine on my own and I got good at it.”
“I know,” you say.
“And then you came here,” he says. Quietly. “And Eli drew you on his wall.” Your chest does the thing it does. “And I started—” he stops again. The hat in his hands. “Getting bad at being fine on my own.”
You reach out and put your hand over his on the fence rail. Just your hand over his, the way he did at the boarding house gate in the cold, that same small warm contact. He looks at your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “I fixed the gate. I’m staying.”
Something in him — the closed, careful, six-years-practiced something — gives. Not all at once, not dramatically. Just a breath, long and slow, and his hand turning under yours so his fingers can close around it. “Okay,” he says.
You stand at the fence in the cold white morning with his hand around yours and the horses moving slow in the paddock and the whole quiet ranch around you.
“I have to tell you something else,” you say.
“Alright.”
“I’ve been in love with you since approximately the harvest dance,” you say. “Possibly since the coffee in the stable. I’m not sure of the exact date.”
Heeseung is quiet for one moment. Then he makes a sound — low and startled and something that becomes a laugh, helpless, the kind that alters his whole face — and he pulls you toward him, one hand at the back of your head, and presses his mouth to your hair, your temple, and holds you there against the paddock fence in the November cold. “The coffee in the stable,” he says, into your hair.
“You’d already made two cups,” you say. “You knew I was coming.”
He laughs again, quieter. His arm is around you and his chin is on your head and across the paddock Chicago the foal is watching you both with enormous disinterested eyes. “Since the diner,” he says. “The first morning.”
“I know,” you say.
“You know?”
“You looked at me before you smiled,” you say. “Just for a second. Before the smile came. That’s when I knew.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His expression — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but warm all the way through now, nothing held back. “Lord,” he says softly. “You see everything.”
“I’m a teacher,” you say. “It’s the job.”
He kisses you. Right there at the paddock fence in the cold, his hand in your hair and yours in his coat, and it is nothing like the gentle kiss in the schoolroom — it is certain and warm and long and he kisses you like a man who has been holding something carefully for a very long time and has finally been told he can put it down.
When you separate, eventually, you are both slightly breathless. “Darlin’,” he says, low, the word doing what it does when it’s just yours.
“Yes?” you say.
“Come inside,” he says. “Bea made enough breakfast for six people and Eli is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you.”
You laugh. You take his hand. You go inside and Eli does, in fact, lose his mind. Not loudly — he is not a loud child, not in the way of tantrums or theatrics — but in the specific Eli way, which is a brightness that takes over his whole face before he can manage it, and then the immediate, instinctive suppression of it into dignity, and then the dignity failing completely because he is seven and some things are too good to be dignified about.
He is at the kitchen table with Bea when you come through the door behind Heeseung, still holding his hand, which Eli clocks immediately with the particular alertness of a child who has been waiting for exactly this data point. His eyes go to your joined hands. Then to your face. Then to his father’s face. Then back to your hands.
Bea, who misses nothing and reacts to nothing, sets a plate on the table. “Sit down,” she says. “Food’s hot.” Eli sits down. He is vibrating slightly.
You sit across from him. Heeseung sits beside you, easy, his knee against yours under the table. Bea puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes back to the stove. Eli looks at you. “Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he says. Carefully. Then, unable to help it: “Are you staying for breakfast?”
“If that’s alright.”
“It’s alright,” he says, very quickly. He picks up his fork. He puts it down. He looks at his father with the expression of a child requiring confirmation of something he doesn’t want to ask directly. Heeseung looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says.
Eli picks up his fork again. He eats a bite of egg with enormous composure. Then: “I told Cody you’d probably end up friends.”
“Did you,” Heeseung says.
“I said probably.” He cuts a piece of biscuit with careful precision. “Cody said maybe.” He looks at you. “I was right.”
“You usually are,” you say.
This pleases him so deeply that he has to look at his plate to manage it. Bea, at the stove, makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but contains one.
Breakfast at Sunrise Ranch on a Sunday morning. This is what it is: the kitchen warm from the stove, the windows fogged slightly at the corners, Bea moving with the unhurried authority of someone who has run this kitchen for twenty years and will run it twenty more. Eli eating and talking and eating and talking, a stream of school information directed primarily at you — Tommy can do multiplication now and Clara finished the new books already, both of them and Grace thinks she should be in charge of the globe but the globe has a crack in it so it seems unfair — and Heeseung beside you, knee against yours, drinking his coffee and listening to his son with that expression, the open unguarded one, the love-without-complication one.
Once, while Eli is telling you about the globe, Heeseung’s hand finds yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. He is looking at Eli. His thumb moves once across your knuckles and stays. You look at Eli and listen about the globe.
After breakfast Eli disappears outside — Riki materialises to take him to the stable, the easy choreography of a household that has its rhythms — and Bea goes to do something elsewhere in the house with pointed discretion, and you are alone in the kitchen with Heeseung and the remains of breakfast and the Sunday morning quiet.
He refills your coffee. He sits back down, closer this time, turned toward you slightly, his arm along the back of your chair. “Tell me about him,” he says. “If you want. Richard.”
You look at your cup. “I don’t want to spend the morning on Richard.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I want to understand what he did. What you were carrying when you came here.” His voice is even. “Not for any reason except I want to know what it cost you. Because I think it cost you a lot and I don’t think many people asked.”
You look at him. The steadiness of him, and underneath it now, openly, the warmth. You tell him. Not everything — there is no everything yet, some things need more time and more trust before they become speakable — but the shape of it: the engagement, the ending of it, the way the story moved through their social world with Richard’s fingerprints invisible on it, the school where you’d taught finding reasons to see you differently, your mother’s voice on the phone saying maybe if you’d been less. The twenty-seven job applications. Castillo Creek writing back.
Heeseung listens the way he always listens — completely, without filling the pauses, without deciding what your story means before you’ve finished telling it.
When you’re done he is quiet for a moment. “He came here thinking you’d go back,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you—”
“I was never going back.” You look at him. “I think I knew that before he arrived. I think Castillo Creek stopped being a retreat and started being — this — weeks ago. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”
Heeseung nods, slow. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same careful deliberateness he always uses — the gesture that gives you time to move away, that assumes nothing — and leaves his hand curved at your jaw. “He doesn’t get to have this,” he says. Quietly. “What happened to you back there. He doesn’t get to have the last word on it.”
“He doesn’t,” you agree.
“You fixed a gate,” Heeseung says. “You wrote two letters to the school board. You put a drawing on your wall.” His thumb at your jaw, the lightest movement. “You’re not someone who needed rescuing.”
“No,” you say. “I’m not.”
“Good,” he says. And kisses you, soft and brief, like a conclusion.
—
The weeks that follow are the best of your life.
You will think this later and it will surprise you — not the fact of it but the simplicity of it, that best can be made of such ordinary material. Morning coffee. The schoolhouse. Eli’s questions at lunch. Jay’s diner on Friday evenings. The ranch on Saturdays, your boots by the stable door, your coffee cup with the small chip in the handle that has become yours without anyone saying so.
Heeseung walks you home from the diner on Fridays and comes in now — Mrs. Della receives him with the satisfaction of someone whose predictions are being validated in real time — and they drink coffee at the kitchen table, all three of them, and talk until late, and then he walks back to the ranch and you watch him from the porch.
He kisses you in ordinary places: at the boarding house gate, in Jay’s diner when Jay has turned to the back shelf, at the paddock fence with one arm over the rail and one around you. He kisses you like someone who is very aware of what he has and intends to be careful with it. Tender, deliberate, thorough. You are, you think, going to have to do something about the thorough.
It happens on a Saturday in early December. Eli is in town with Riki — a deliberate arrangement, you’ll think later, with the particular transparency of a child who is also operating a long game — and Bea has gone to her sister’s for the weekend, and the ranch is quiet and cold and yours.
You come over in the morning with the box of marking you’d told yourself you’d do at the kitchen table, which is true, and which you do, for approximately forty minutes while Heeseung works at the desk in the adjoining room doing ranch accounts. The domestic ordinariness of it — the scratch of his pen, the occasional sound of a horse outside, the winter light — is the kind of thing you want to press into memory and keep.
Then the pen stops. You hear his chair. His footsteps. He appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame and looks at you. “You’re not working,” you say, without looking up.
“I finished,” he says.
“I haven’t.”
“How much is left?”
You look at the stack. “Some.”
“Y/N.” You look up. He is in the doorway with his arms crossed and that expression — the warm one, the open one, the one that has nothing controlled about it — and the morning light behind him and the whole quiet ranch around you.
“Come here,” he says. You put your pen down. You go.
He kisses you in the hallway, backed against the wall with one hand braced beside your head and one at your waist, and it is immediately different from all the careful public kisses — there is nothing held back in it, nothing managing itself, just his mouth on yours and the warmth of him and the knowledge that there is no gate, no Eli, no diner bell, nowhere either of you needs to be.
You pull him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound low in his chest — something between a groan and an exhale, the sound of a man whose patience has run its full course — and his hand moves from your waist to your hip and presses there, firm and deliberate. “Heeseung,” you say, against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says. Like he knows.
“Bedroom,” you say. He pulls back enough to look at you — checking, the way he always checks, that you mean what you say — and you look back at him clearly, no ambiguity, and he makes that sound again and takes your hand and takes you there.
His bedroom is the ranch made interior: worn timber, a quilt in faded colours, the window looking out over the paddock. Clean and spare and entirely his. It smells like him — something warm and outdoor and specific, the smell you’ve catalogued without meaning to over months of being near him.
You sit on the edge of the bed and he stands in front of you and you reach up and take his hat off and set it on the nightstand. He looks down at you with that open expression, the warmth all the way through. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says.
“Since the diner,” you say. “The first morning.”
He laughs, surprised out of it, and cups your face in both hands and tilts it up and kisses you — but then he slows, and the kiss goes gentle again, the unbearable gentleness, and you feel it in your throat. “I want to take my time,” he says, against your mouth. Low. Deliberate. “That alright?”
You think about six months of composure and careful distances and soon and not yet. “Yes,” you say. “But you should know I’m not going to be patient about it.”
The corner of his mouth, close to yours. “That a fact.”
“Fair warning.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft place below your ear, taking his time as advertised and apparently fully at peace with the consequences of this, and you grip his shirt and close your eyes and let him.
He undresses you slowly.Each button on the front of your dress — his fingers finding each one, unhurried, like he has nowhere to be in the world except here — and watching his face while he does it: the focus, the deliberateness, the slight tension in his jaw that tells you the patience is real but not effortless. “You’re staring,” you say.
“Yes,” he agrees, without apology. When the dress is off he looks at you in the winter light from the window and the expression on his face — unhidden, unmanaged — does something to you more immediately than any touch. “Lord,” he says, soft. Same word as the paddock. Different weight.
“Your turn,” you say, and reach for his shirt buttons. He lets you. He watches you work through them with the stillness of a man exercising enormous self-control, and when you push the shirt off his shoulders you let your hands sit on his chest for a moment — warm skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms — and look up at him.
“Hi,” you say. Something breaks open in his face. He pulls you up and against him and holds you there, skin to skin, his arms around you and his face in your hair, and you feel him breathe.
“Hi,” he says. Into your hair. Low and wrecked and yours.
He keeps his word about taking his time. He lays you back and moves over you and learns you slowly — his mouth at your throat, your collarbone, lower, taking inventory with the thoroughness of a man who intends to know exactly what he’s doing and is not embarrassed about the methodology. He finds the places that make you make sounds and stays there, patient, deliberate, until you are gripping the quilt. “Heeseung—”
“Mm,” he says. Not a response. A sound of someone occupied.
“I said I wouldn’t be patient—”
“I heard you.” He looks up at you from where he is, and the look on his face — dark-eyed, certain, that half-smile with intent behind it — dismantles you completely. “I’m getting there, darlin’.”
The darlin’. In that voice, in this room, low and deliberate. Just yours. “You are going to be the death of me,” you say.
“Not the plan,” he says, and goes back to what he was doing.
When his fingers find you you are already slick and wanting, six months of tension and patience and soon and careful distances arriving at this, and the sound you make is entirely involuntary. He stills. “Okay?” he says.
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
He watches your face while he works — that focused look, reading you the way he reads everything, paying attention — and his fingers are skilled and patient and exactly right, and you are aware of him watching you come apart under his hands and aware that you don’t mind, that the composed face is nowhere and you don’t miss it. “That’s it,” he says, low, when your hips lift toward him. “There you go.” The voice. The drawl. The absolute certainty of him.
You come with his name in your mouth and his hand at your hip steadying you and his eyes on your face the whole time, and he works you through it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything else, and when you’re done he presses his mouth to your temple and stays there. “Good?” he says.
“Don’t be smug,” you say.
He laughs. “Not smug.”
“You’re a little smug.”
“Maybe a little.” He pulls back to look at you, and the smugness is there, yes, but underneath it something so warm and open that it cancels the smugness out entirely. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Simply. The way he says things that are just true. You reach up and pull him down. You have him on his back.
This is where you reclaim the pace — you swing your leg over and sit up and look down at him and watch his face do something entirely new, an expression you haven’t seen before: surprise, quickly followed by want, and underneath both of them something that is trying to be collected and isn’t. “Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he says. His hands find your hips. He is, you note with satisfaction, not as composed as he was.
You move — slowly, deliberately — and watch his jaw set and his hands tighten on your hips and his head press back into the pillow. There is a specific pleasure in this that has nothing to do with the physical, or not only — the pleasure of watching Lee Heeseung, who is patient and steady and controlled, lose every one of those things because of you. “Lord,” he says, choked.
“Mm,” you say. His own syllable, returned.
“Y/N—”
“I heard you,” you say. “I’m getting there.”
He makes a sound that is half a groan and half a laugh and his grip on your hips tightens and his hips roll up to meet you and the laugh is gone, replaced by something lower and more urgent. “You’re—” he starts.
“I know,” you say.
“No, I mean you’re—” he stops again, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking up at you with the expression of a man whose vocabulary has been significantly reduced. “God, darlin’—”
His hand leaves your hip and finds your hair and pulls you down and kisses you deep and then his arms wrap around you and he rolls you over and you go, laughing, and then the laughing stops because he is looking at you with that expression still, wrecked and warm, and moves and you stop thinking about anything at all.
Afterward the ranch is quiet around you. You are in the faded quilt and his arm is around you and your head is on his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, slower now, and outside the paddock the horses move in the winter afternoon. His hand is in your hair, a slow absent movement. “That wasn’t what I expected,” he says.
“What did you expect?”
A pause. “Not that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
You prop yourself up to look at him. He is looking at the ceiling with an expression of serene disbelief. “You look like a man who’s had a revelation,” you say.
“Something like that.” He looks at you, and the expression shifts into the warm open one, the real one. “You’re something else,” he says.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No,” he says. Definitively. “Not even close.”
You lie back down. His arm comes back around you. “Eli’s back at four,” you say.
“I know.”
“I should probably be at the kitchen table with my marking.”
“Probably,” he agrees, and makes no move to change the current arrangement. You lie in the quiet ranch afternoon and listen to his heartbeat and the horses and the winter silence and feel — you take inventory carefully, the way you do when something feels too good to trust yet — feel, genuinely and completely, right. In this room, in this town, in this life that was built from the furthest-job-offer and a broken gate and a man who made two cups of coffee because he knew you were coming.
“Heeseung,” you say. “I’m staying,” you say. “I know I said it at the fence. I’m saying it again.”
His arm tightens. Just once. “I know,” he says.
“I want you to know it,” you say. “Really know it. Not — hope it. Know it.”
A silence. His heartbeat steady under your ear. “I know it,” he says. Quietly. And then: “I’m not going anywhere either.”
I’m not going anywhere. First time he said it, at the harvest dance, it was an offer. Now it is something else — an answer, a matching of weight, the both of you putting the same thing down on the same table and deciding to trust it.
Outside: the paddock, the winter sky, Chicago the foal grown enough now to move with some authority, her dark coat catching the low December light.
Inside: the quilt, the heartbeat, the quiet. New soil, you think, for the last time that way. Because it isn’t new anymore. It’s just — yours. The roots are in. The thing has grown.
You stay exactly where you are until three forty-five, and then you get up and go back to your marking, and when Eli comes home at four and finds you at the kitchen table with your papers and his father making coffee at the stove he looks between you both with the assessment of a child who has gotten what he wanted and finds the result satisfactory.
He sits down across from you and opens his schoolbag. “I have reading,” he announces.
“Do it, then,” his father says.
Eli opens his book. You mark your papers. Heeseung brings coffee and goes back to the stove. The kitchen is warm and smells like dinner starting and outside the winter light is going gold over Sunrise Ranch. Eli reads three pages and then looks up. “Miss?” he says.
“Mm?”
“Are you staying for dinner?”
You look at Heeseung. He is at the stove and not looking at you but the back of his neck says everything. “If that’s alright,” you say.
Eli looks back at his book with an expression of profound satisfaction. “It’s alright,” he says.
—
December in Castillo Creek is cold and clear and strung with the particular quiet of a place that doesn’t make much noise about the holidays but means them deeply. The church puts candles in its windows. The general store gets a pine wreath on the door. Jay hangs lights along the diner’s front awning — coloured glass, old, the kind that have been on the same string for fifteen years and still work because Jay is meticulous about the things that matter to him. Mrs. Della bakes for a week straight and distributes the results to the whole street, appearing at doors with tins and brooking no argument.
The schoolhouse gets a paper chain. This is Eli’s doing — he arrives one Monday in the first week of December with a paper bag of coloured strips and announces to the class that they are making a paper chain, his tone suggesting this is non-negotiable, which it is. Grace organises the distribution of strips by colour. Tommy figures out the interlinking system and explains it to the little ones with unexpected patience. Eli and Clara argue about whether it should go across the windows or along the beams and settle on both, and by Friday afternoon the schoolhouse has been transformed by fourteen pairs of hands into something festive and faintly chaotic and entirely theirs.
You stand at the back of the room on Friday and look at it. Two months, you think. Ten weeks. The number Eli’s father said and you corrected, that first confrontation with Richard outside the general store that feels like it happened to someone in a different chapter of a different book.
You have been here three months now. You look at the paper chain and the drawings on the wall — Eli’s has been joined by two others, unsolicited offerings left on your desk on separate Mondays, one from Lottie of what appears to be you and a horse, one from Tommy of the schoolhouse with everyone standing outside it, their names printed carefully above their heads — and something in your chest is so full it has nowhere to go. You put your coat on and lock up and walk home in the cold.
Heeseung takes you riding properly for the first time on a Saturday in the second week of December. Scout this time — not Honey, not the chair — and you get on him in the yard with Heeseung holding the bridle and talking you through it, that same teaching voice, patient and specific and trusting you to get there. Scout is large and entirely calm and turns out to have a gait so smooth it borders on considerate.
“Told you he was a gentleman,” Heeseung says, walking beside you for the first few minutes.
“You can let go,” you say.
“I know.” He does. Steps back. Watches. You ride Scout to the end of the paddock and back, and then around the perimeter, and somewhere in the second circuit you stop thinking about what your hands are doing and just ride, and the feeling of it — the size of the animal beneath you, the cold air, the ranch open around you in the winter morning — is the kind of feeling you didn’t know you were missing until it arrived.
Heeseung is at the fence when you come back, arms resting on the rail, watching you with that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something and not performing it. “Well?” he says.
“He’s better than Honey,” you say.
“Don’t let Honey hear that.”
You dismount — not elegantly, but functionally, which is an improvement — and Scout drops his nose to Heeseung’s shoulder in greeting and Heeseung rubs his neck without looking away from you. “There’s a place I want to show you,” he says. “If you’re up for a longer ride.”
“How long?”
“Hour out. Hour back.” He tilts his head. “Worth it.”
You look at Scout. Scout looks at you with patient equine agreement. “Alright,” you say.
He takes you east, past the fence line, up into the low hills where the land changes from flat scrub to something rougher and more interesting, the winter grass pale gold, the sky enormous and white-edged. They ride side by side where the terrain allows and single file where it doesn’t, Heeseung ahead on the narrow parts, and he doesn’t talk much on the way, just rides, and you learn something about him in the riding — the ease of it, how completely at home he is moving through this land, how he and Scout communicate in small adjustments with no visible negotiation.
The place he wants to show you is at the top of the second hill. It is, simply, a view: the whole of the valley below, Castillo Creek visible as a cluster of shapes in the distance, the ranch a paler geometry of buildings and fence lines to the west, and beyond everything the flat enormous Texas horizon going all the way to where the sky meets the earth. You sit on Scout at the top of the hill and look at it. “Oh,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
The winter light is doing something particular to the valley — low and golden and very clear, the kind of light that makes everything look more itself than usual. You can see the creek, barely, a dark thread through the scrub. You can see, or imagine you can see, the white corner of the schoolhouse.
“My father used to bring me here,” Heeseung says. Beside you now, Scout and his horse standing easy. “When I was Eli’s age. Said if you ever got confused about what mattered you could come up here and look at it.”
“Does it work?”
“Every time.” He looks at the valley. “I came here a lot after Clara left. Trying to—” a pause “—get the proportion of things right.”
You look at him. He is looking at the valley with that quiet expression, the one that belongs to this land and this ranch and the private life he’s lived in them. “Did it help?” you say.
“Eventually.” He glances at you. “Took a while.”
You look back at the valley. Castillo Creek in the winter light. The white edge of the sky. “I want to bring Eli here,” you say. “When he’s old enough to—” you stop, aware suddenly of what you’ve just said — the assumption in it, the future in it, the easy taking-for-granted of a thing that is still, technically, new.
But Heeseung isn’t looking at the valley anymore. He is looking at you. “He’d like that,” he says. Simply. No performance of casualness, no careful management. Just the statement, meaning everything it means.
You look at him. He looks at you. The horses stand easy in the winter wind. “I love you,” you say. First time, on a hilltop in December with the whole valley below you, because it is true and it has been true for long enough that not saying it has become its own kind of dishonesty.
Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the space between the horses and finds your hand and holds it, his thumb moving across your knuckles in the way it does. “I love you,” he says. “Been a while since I said that to anyone.” He looks at your joined hands. “Feels different this time.”
“Different how?”
He considers this with the seriousness he brings to things that matter. “Steadier,” he says. “Like saying something I already knew instead of something I was hoping would be true.”
You look at the valley and his hand around yours and the winter sky and the whole quiet particular life you have landed in, with its paper chains and borrowed boots and gap-toothed boy and a man who makes two cups of coffee because he knows you’re coming. “Steadier,” you agree.
Christmas at the ranch. This is not planned either — or it is planned by everyone except you, you discover, Mrs. Della and Bea and Jay all operating in quiet coordination, the whole thing arriving complete and inevitable on Christmas morning when Heeseung appears at the boarding house at ten with Eli and Riki and the truck and says “come to the ranch” in the same simple offering voice he uses for everything. Mrs. Della has already sent the cobbler ahead.
The day is the kitchen and the table extended to fit everyone — Jay materialises at noon with cornbread and the particular satisfaction of a man in his preferred social configuration — and Eli opening things with the focused efficiency of a child who has been patient about this for weeks, and Riki eating more than anyone else and not being asked about it, and Bea’s food, and the fire in the front room where you end up in the afternoon, the cold coming down outside and the ranch warm and close around you all.
Eli falls asleep in the armchair at four, his new book open on his chest. Jay catches your eye across the room and very deliberately does not look at Heeseung beside you on the sofa, which is Jay at his most ostentatious.
Riki carries Eli to bed with the long-practiced ease of someone who has done it before. Bea goes home to her sister. Jay stays for dinner and then takes himself off with the timing of a man who knows exactly when he’s no longer needed, and then it is just you and Heeseung in the front room with the fire going low.
He has his arm around you. Your feet are tucked up on the sofa. Outside the ranch is quiet and cold and dark. “Good day,” he says.
“Very good day,” you say.
He presses his mouth to your hair. “Stay,” he says. “Tonight. Eli’s asleep. You can take the—”
“Yes,” you say.
A pause. “I was going to say the spare—”
“I know what you were going to say,” you say. “Yes.” His arm tightens. He laughs, low and warm, into your hair. You don’t take the spare room.
—
January comes cold and clear. The new year settles over Castillo Creek with the quiet confidence of a place that has seen many of them and expects to see many more. The schoolhouse reopens the second week of January and the children arrive back with the particular energy of people who have been inside for two weeks and have run out of patience with it. Eli is approximately three inches taller, which you mention, and he tells you seriously that Bea measured him on the door frame and he grew one inch and you are not to exaggerate.
Tommy’s numbers are clean and confident now, left-handed from the start, and you watch him work through a column of addition with the ease of someone who has finally been given the right tool for the job, and feel the specific satisfaction of a teacher who has solved the right problem.
Clara has started writing stories. She brings you the first one on a Thursday in a folded piece of paper, her best handwriting, three pages, a story about a girl who goes on a journey and comes back changed. She stands by your desk while you read it and doesn’t pretend not to care about your response, which you respect enormously. It is good — genuinely good, the instinct for story already there, the voice already hers. “This is wonderful,” you tell her.
“Really?” she says, in the voice of a child who already knows but needs to hear it.
“Really.” You set it on the desk. “Have you shown your parents?”
“Not yet.” She folds the paper back up carefully. “I wanted to know if it was good first.”
“It’s good,” you say. “Show them. And write me another one.” Clara goes back to her seat with her story in her hand and the particular glow of a person who has been given something real to carry.
On the last Friday in January, Jay closes the diner early. He does this without explanation, just turns the sign and pours three glasses of something that is not coffee and sets them on the counter, and looks at you and Heeseung on opposite stools and says: “I want to make a toast.”
“Jay,” Heeseung says.
“I’m serious. I’ve been waiting for the right moment and I’ve decided this is it.” He picks up his glass. “To the new schoolteacher. Who fixed the gate,” Jay says, overriding you. “And stayed when she didn’t have to. And who—” he stops, and something moves through his expression that is not the easy social warmth but something deeper and more real “—who is good for this town. And for the specific people in it who needed good things to happen to them.”
He looks at Heeseung when he says the last part. Heeseung is looking at the counter. The back of his neck does the thing. “To Castillo Creek,” Jay says. “And to people who stay.”
You pick up your glass. Heeseung picks up his. “To Castillo Creek,” you say.
Jay grins. You all three drink. “Right,” Jay says, setting his glass down with a decisive click. “Now. Heeseung. Are you going to ask her or are you going to make me wait another six months.”
The diner goes very quiet. Heeseung looks at Jay with the expression of a man who is going to have a word with his best friend at a later date. Jay looks back with the expression of a man who has no regrets. “Ask me what?” you say.
Heeseung turns to you. He is — you watch the careful management dissolve, replaced by something undefended, the real face he’s been showing you more and more since December, since the hilltop, since steadier. He looks at you for a moment and then he does something you haven’t seen him do: he reaches into his shirt pocket. “I was going to do this differently,” he says.
“Jay ruined it?”
“Jay ruined it,” he agrees, without looking at Jay, who has the good grace to say nothing.
What’s in his pocket is not a ring box — not the velvet-and-presentation kind. It is a ring wrapped in a piece of cloth, unwrapped in his palm: gold, simple, a small band with a detail you can’t quite see yet. His mother’s, you’ll learn later. The one his grandmother brought from her own mother and passed down and which his mother pressed into his hand the Christmas before last and said when it’s right, you’ll know. He holds it in his palm and looks at you. “I know this is fast,” he says.
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s been since the diner.”
The corner of his mouth. “Since the diner,” he says. “I’ve been—” he stops. Tries again. “I don’t have a speech. I thought I’d have one by now but I don’t.” He looks at the ring in his hand. “I know what kind of person you are. I’ve watched you for four months and I know.” He looks up at you. “You fixed things that weren’t yours to fix. You stayed when it would have been easier to go. You put a drawing on your wall.” He closes his hand briefly around the ring, then opens it again. “My son thinks the sun rises and sets with you, which is—” his voice does something “—which is not a small thing. Coming from him.”
You are doing everything in your power to hold your face together and succeeding imperfectly. “I love you,” he says. “And I would very much like you to stay. Not just in the town. Here. At the ranch.” He holds the ring out toward you, steadily, his hand not moving. “With us.”
The diner. The coloured lights along the awning. Jay, very carefully, looking at the ceiling. You look at Heeseung Lee with his mother’s ring in his palm and his whole face open and waiting and none of the patience effortless anymore, all of it visible, the hope and the care and the barely-controlled terror of a man asking for the thing he wants most. “Yes,” you say.
Jay makes a sound. Heeseung lets out a breath that has been held since approximately November.
He puts the ring on your finger — it fits, which is either luck or fate or Bea, who you will later determine took one of your gloves to a jeweller in the next town, bless her — and then he holds your hand and looks at it and then at you, and the expression on his face is something you will carry for the rest of your life: unguarded and certain and entirely, quietly, happy. “Finally,” says Jay, with enormous feeling.
“I’m going to fire you,” Heeseung says.
“You don’t employ me.”
“I’m going to stop eating here.”
“You were here yesterday and you’re here now.” You are laughing, you realise. Both of you are laughing, your hand in both of his, and Jay is pouring more of the not-coffee and the diner lights are warm and outside Castillo Creek is cold and dark and going about its business.
Eli knows before you tell him. You don’t know how — this is simply a thing about Eli, that he knows things — but when you and Heeseung sit down with him on Saturday morning at the kitchen table with the specific parental gravity of people who have something to say, he looks at you both and then at your hand and then back at you and says: “Are you going to live here now?”
“If you’re alright with it,” you say.
He looks at his cereal. He stirs it. He does this for long enough that something uncertain stirs in you, the awareness that this is a seven-year-old boy whose mother left and whose life is about to change and who is allowed to have feelings about that. “Eli,” Heeseung says, gently. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”
Eli looks up. His face is doing several things. “I just,” he starts. Stops. “I named the foal Chicago,” he says. “Before. I named it before because—” he stops again. Stirs his cereal. “I wanted you to stay from the beginning,” he says, quickly, like getting a thing out before he can change his mind. “I knew you were good before Dad did. I told Riki.”
“What did Riki say?” you ask.
“He said he knew too.” Eli looks at you. “Are you going to be my—” he stops at the word, turns it over, decides something. “Are you going to be my mom?”
The kitchen is very quiet. You look at this boy — gap-toothed, dark-eyed, too perceptive for his own good, who named a foal after a city to make you feel at home, who put FRIENDS at the bottom of a drawing in careful uneven letters — and your composed face is absolutely nowhere to be found. “I would very much like to,” you say. “If you want that.”
Eli looks at his cereal for a moment. Then he gets down from his chair and comes around the table and climbs into your lap, which he has never done before, and sits there with the specific decision of a child who has made up his mind. “Okay,” he says. You put your arms around him.
Across the table Heeseung has his hand over his mouth and is looking at the ceiling, which is the composed face losing, and you have never loved him more than right now. Eli, from your lap: “Can I still call you Miss at school?”
“You have to call me Miss at school,” you say.
“Good,” he says. “’Cause Cody would be weird about it.”
Riki takes the news with characteristic economy. He looks at your hand. He looks at Heeseung. He looks at you. He nods once, slowly, like a man confirming a long-held suspicion. “I told Eli in October,” he says. “That you were going to stay.”
“You told me in October,” you say. “That he was happy. More than usual.”
Riki looks between you both. “Yeah,” he says. He picks up his coffee and goes back toward the stable. Then, over his shoulder, not quite casually enough: “About time.”
February. The foal is four months old and has decided what her legs are for and uses them constantly, her dark coat catching the winter light where it falls across the paddock. Eli visits her every day before and after school and maintains a detailed running report on her progress that he delivers at the dinner table with the authority of someone who considers herself the foremost expert on Chicago specifically.
Your things have migrated slowly from the boarding house to the ranch over the course of January, the natural movement of a life toward where it belongs — books first, then the rest, Mrs. Della receiving each removal with the particular warm satisfaction of a woman who considers herself personally responsible for the outcome and is not incorrect.
Your coat is on the hook by the ranch door. Your coffee cup — chipped handle, yours — is in the cupboard. Your books are on the shelf in the front room, mixed in with Heeseung’s without ceremony, which is the most domestically intimate thing you’ve ever done and which undoes you slightly every time you look at it.
The drawing is still on the schoolhouse wall. It will stay there. You’ve decided this. Miss Y/N and Eli. Friends. Let every child who comes through that room see it — the evidence that teachers are people who belong somewhere, that belonging is a thing that can be built, that a drawing on a wall can be the most important document in a room full of books.
The last Friday in February, you and Heeseung are at Jay’s after closing. This is the usual arrangement — Jay with his counter, you on the stools, the diner warm and the street dark outside. But tonight Jay has put a record on, something slow, and the coloured lights along the awning are on outside, and it is, you think, the same scene as nearly five months ago except that nothing is the same at all. “Dance with me,” Heeseung says. The same words as the harvest dance. The same quiet directness. You get off the stool.
He takes your hand and you dance in Jay’s empty diner to the slow record, your hand on his shoulder and his at your waist and the ring on your finger catching the light when you turn. Jay watches from behind the counter with the expression of a man who has everything he wanted from this situation and finds it entirely satisfactory. “First dance,” you say. “You said your mother taught you.”
“She did.”
“I want to meet her.”
His hand at your waist, warm and firm. “She’s coming in March,” he says. “She’s been asking since October.”
“October,” you say.
“Eli told her about the dialect conversation.” His mouth at your temple. “She said anyone who could get Eli to use the word dialect correctly in a sentence was worth meeting.”
“High bar,” you say.
“For her, yes.” He pulls back slightly to look at you. The expression — open, warm, steady all the way down. “She’s going to love you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says. Simply. “She knows people. Runs in the family.”
You think of a seven-year-old boy naming a foal Chicago in October. Knowing before anyone else. “Apparently it does,” you say. He smiles — the real one, the full one, the one that you catalogued on a diner stool on your first morning in Castillo Creek and have been cataloguing ever since, the one that is different when it’s just yours — and turns you slowly on the diner floor.
Outside: Castillo Creek, cold and clear, the stars doing their enormous Texas thing. The main street quiet, the church dark, the boarding house where you no longer live, the schoolhouse with its paper chain long since taken down and its drawing still on the wall. Inside: the music, the lights, the man, the ring, the dancing. New soil, you think, for the very last time and immediately think: no. Not new anymore. Just home.
—
Spring comes to Castillo Creek the way it comes to places that have earned it. Not dramatically — no single morning where you wake and everything is different — but incrementally, the way the best things happen: a degree warmer each week, the scrub going from pale gold to something greener at the edges, the creek running higher with the snowmelt from somewhere distant and northern. The horses grow restless in the way of animals that can smell a season changing. Chicago the foal gallops the length of the paddock every morning for no reason except that the air tastes different and her legs are finally, fully hers.
The schoolhouse gets its windows opened for the first time since October. This is a significant event. The children treat it as such, orienting their desks subtly toward the new rectangles of warm air, their attention drifting pleasurably to the sounds coming in — birdsong, wind, the distant sound of someone on the main street calling to someone else. You allow this. Spring arriving through classroom windows is an education of its own kind.
Eli sits at his desk on the first warm Friday and tilts his face toward the window with his eyes closed and the expression of a person receiving something they’ve been waiting for. “Eli,” you say.
“I’m thinking,” he says, without opening his eyes. You carry on.
Margaret Lee arrives on a Tuesday in the second week of March. She is not what you expected, which means you had built an expectation without realising it — some composite of your own mother and the idea of a woman who raised Heeseung, formidable and warm. Margaret Lee is both of these things and also neither of them, which is the way of people who exceed the categories you’ve prepared.
She is small. This is the first surprise — Heeseung is tall and she is small, barely to his shoulder, which he accommodates with the automatic ease of someone who has been bending toward her his whole life. She has grey-streaked hair and her son’s dark eyes and the particular posture of a woman who has decided exactly who she is and arranged herself accordingly. She steps down from the bus and looks at the main street of Castillo Creek and then at you, standing beside her son at the bus stop, and her face does something quick and assessing and then opens entirely. “There she is,” she says.
Heeseung looks at you. You look at Heeseung. “I feel like people keep saying that to me,” you say.
Margaret Lee laughs — genuine and sudden, the same quality of laugh as her son’s, the kind that alters the whole face — and takes both your hands in hers. “Lee Heeseung has been talking about you since October,” she says, without preamble. “He didn’t know he was doing it. He thought he was just giving me news from the town.” She pats your hands and releases them and looks at her son. “He mentioned you in every single letter.”
“Mama,” Heeseung says.
“The schoolteacher fixed the gate,” she says, in a perfect impression of neutrality. “‘The schoolteacher came to see the ranch. The schoolteacher can ride.’” She picks up her bag. “Every letter, Lee. Every one.”
“I’m aware,” he says.
“He thought I didn’t notice,” she tells you.
“I’m standing right here,” he says.
“I know, baby.” She pats his arm and walks toward the truck. You fall into step beside her and catch, from the corner of your eye, Heeseung’s expression — the exasperated tender helpless expression of a man who loves his mother and is entirely at her mercy and has made his peace with both of these facts. You like her immediately and completely.
She stays two weeks and in those two weeks she does the following: reorganises the kitchen at the ranch in a way that Bea approves of and Heeseung adapts to without complaint, teaches Eli three card games of increasing moral dubiousness, tells you four stories about Heeseung’s childhood that he would prefer you not to have, sits with you on the porch every morning with coffee and talks to you the way women talk when they’ve decided to trust each other — plainly, without ornament.
On the fourth morning she says: “Tell me about before.” You look at the paddock. Chicago the foal. The pale spring sky. “Before Castillo Creek,” she says. “If you want. You don’t have to.”
You think about before. The specific weight of it, which has changed — not lighter exactly, but different, the weight distributed differently now, held up by more points of contact so no single place takes all of it. You tell her.
She listens the way her son listens — completely, without deciding what it means before you’re done. When you finish she is quiet for a moment. “My husband left me once,” she says. “Heeseung’s father. We were young, we had a fight about something I can’t even remember now, and he left and I thought — that was that.” She looks at the paddock. “He came back in three days. But those three days I understood something I didn’t know before. That some people leave to see if you’ll chase them. And some people leave because they’re gone.” She looks at you. “The man you described sounds like the second kind.”
“He is,” you say.
“Good,” she says. “Those ones you let go.” She drinks her coffee. “My son is the staying kind. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know,” you say.
She looks at your ring. “My mother wore that for fifty-three years,” she says. “She said the secret was that you had to choose each other every day. Not just at the beginning.” She looks up at you. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” you say. Without hesitation.
She nods. She looks at the paddock. “Good,” she says again. And that is that, and you drink your coffee together in the spring morning, and when Heeseung appears in the doorway looking for his mother she looks at him with the expression of a woman who has conducted her own assessment and is satisfied with the results, and he looks between you both with the wariness of a man who knows he has been discussed and decides not to ask.
The last week of March brings something you didn’t anticipate: a letter from the county school board. You open it at your desk on a Thursday afternoon while the children are doing their reading, and it takes you two passes through it to understand what it says, and then you put it down flat on the desk and look at the middle distance.
“Miss?” Eli, from the second row. The class has the particular sharpening of attention that occurs when a teacher does something unexpected.
“Keep reading,” you say. You pick up the letter and read it a third time.
A school is being built. A larger one, two rooms, in the next town along — not Castillo Creek, but a town of similar size twenty miles east. The county board is expanding provision across the region. They need a head teacher for the new school. They have, they write, been impressed by the correspondence and the results from Castillo Creek. They are writing to offer the position to you. You fold the letter.
You teach the afternoon out. You fix a disagreement between Patrick and Beau about a coloured pencil. You listen to the little ones read and hear in Grace’s oral assessment that her comprehension has jumped significantly since January and make a note to tell her parents. You let them out at three and stand on the porch and watch them go.
Then you go home to the ranch. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you arrive. He turns when he hears the gate and reads something in your face immediately — not worry, just attention, the way he attends to you when something is different. “What happened?”
You hand him the letter. He reads it. His face is careful while he reads, the deliberate neutrality of a man withholding response until he understands what he’s responding to. He folds it when he’s done and holds it and looks at the paddock. “Twenty miles,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Head teacher.”
“Yes.”
He turns the folded letter in his hands. He looks at the horizon, the flat Texas line, and then at you. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet,” you say honestly. “I only just read it.”
He nods. He unfolds the letter and folds it again the other way, a thinking gesture. “It’s a good offer,” he says.
“I know.”
“The children here—” he starts.
“Would have a new teacher,” you say. “Someone good. Someone who needs a start.”
Like you needed a start. Neither of you says it but it’s there. “Twenty miles is a commute,” he says. “Not impossible.”
“No.”
He looks at you steadily. “Whatever you want to do,” he says. “I mean that.”
“I know you do.” You take the letter back, fold it into your pocket. “I need to think.”
He nods. He turns back to the paddock and after a moment his arm comes around you, easy and present, and you stand at the fence together while Chicago runs the length of the paddock for the joy of running and the spring evening comes down gold over Sunrise Ranch.
You think for three days. You think about the schoolhouse and the paper chain and Tommy’s clean left-handed numbers and Clara’s stories and Eli’s drawing on the wall. You think about fourteen children who have become yours in the particular way children become yours when you’ve solved them, when you know which problems are the real ones underneath the presenting ones, when you know who reads above their level and who is covering for a difficulty and who is going to do something surprising one day.
You think about what it would mean to build something from the beginning. Two rooms. New intake. The particular freedom and weight of being the person who sets the tone before there is a tone. You think about twenty miles and a commute and a husband with a ranch and a son who is eight in May. You think about what you came here to do and whether you’ve done it and what comes next.
On the third evening you tell Heeseung. “I’m going to turn it down,” you say.
He is at the kitchen table. He looks up. “Because of us?” he says, carefully.
“No,” you say. “Because of me.” You sit down across from him. “I came here to start over. And I have. And this—” you gesture, vaguely, at the kitchen, the ranch, the everything “—this is what I was starting over toward, even when I didn’t know it. I’m not done here. Castillo Creek isn’t done.” You look at him. “Clara is going to be a writer. I’m not done with Clara.”
Heeseung looks at you for a long moment. “You’re sure?” he says.
“I’m sure.”
He nods. Something in him settles — not the relief of a man who was afraid you’d go, because he’s past that, but the quieter thing, the satisfaction of a man watching someone he loves make a choice that is fully hers. “Write them a good letter,” he says.
“I will,” you say. “Strongly worded.” The corner of his mouth.
You write the letter on Saturday morning at the kitchen table, Eli doing his homework across from you with the focused efficiency of a child who has been told that homework-before-fun is a rule and has decided to take it seriously, Heeseung somewhere on the ranch, the spring morning coming through the window.
You thank them. You decline clearly. You recommend, in the final paragraph, that they consider expanding the library provision at existing schools before building new ones, and include three specific data points about reading outcomes, because some habits are simply who you are now. You seal the envelope. Eli looks up. “Done?”
“Done,” you say.
“What was it?”
“A job offer,” you say. “A bigger school.”
He looks at you. “Are you going?”
“No.”
He looks back at his homework. He does another line of arithmetic. Then, without looking up: “Good,” he says, in the tone of a person confirming the correct outcome. You put the letter in your pocket and drink your coffee and watch the spring morning come through the window, and outside Chicago the foal runs the paddock in the new warm air, her legs entirely hers, her name written on the sky.
May brings Eli’s birthday. He is eight. This is a serious number, he has informed you, because eight is when you can help with the real work on the ranch, not just the small stuff, and Heeseung has responded to this with the expression of a man who knows his son and has been quietly preparing for this specific negotiation for some time.
Riki gets up at dawn to decorate the stable on the day — this is Riki’s doing entirely, streamers in the ranch colours, a sign that says 8 in letters that are clearly Riki’s work and not a calligrapher’s but are heartfelt — and Eli discovers it at six-thirty when he goes to check on Chicago and comes back into the kitchen with the expression of a person who has been given something real.
Jay brings cake. Margaret, who has come back for the occasion — this is not a small thing, the coming back, and you watch Heeseung receive his mother at the bus stop with the quiet particular gratitude of an adult child who is still his mother’s, will always be — Margaret brings a present wrapped in brown paper and a ribbon, which Eli opens with the concentrated focus of someone who intends to remember the opening.
Inside: a pocket watch, old and gold, with an inscription on the back. Eli reads it. His lips move. He looks at his grandmother. “What does it say?” you ask him, gently.
He holds it out to you. You take it and read the back: Go steady. Go kind. Go far.
“It was your grandfather’s,” Margaret says. “And his father’s before that.”
Eli takes it back. He holds it in both palms and looks at it for a long moment with that Eli expression, the one where he is processing something bigger than seven-going-on-eight years of life have quite prepared him for. Then he closes his hands around it and looks at his grandmother and says: “Thank you.” No gap-toothed performance. No dignity management. Just the real thing, plain and clear.
Margaret cups his face in one hand. “You’re welcome, baby,” she says. Heeseung, beside you, takes your hand.
After the cake and the streamers and the stable and Riki being beaten at three card games by an eight-year-old, after Margaret and Jay have gone and Riki has taken himself off to give the evening its shape, you are at the paddock fence with Heeseung in the last of the May light.
Eli is with Chicago. He has had his horse for a year now and the relationship has settled into its permanent form: mutual trust, complete understanding, the particular bond between a child and an animal that is its own language. He is telling her something, pressed to her neck, and she is standing completely still with her ears forward in the way that means she is listening. “He’s going to be extraordinary,” you say.
Heeseung looks at his son. “He already is,” he says. He says it simply, no performance of it, just the fact. You lean into him. His arm comes around you.
The May evening is warm and going golden, the long Texas light doing what it does to the land, making everything more itself, more vivid, more worth looking at. The ranch in the evening — the fence lines, the water tower, the barn with its doors open, the horses in the paddock, Chicago standing still for an eight-year-old boy who is telling her his secrets. “Thank you,” you say.
“For what?”
“For the coffee,” you say. “That first morning. For making two cups.”
He looks at you. The smile — the full one, the real one, the one that is different when it’s just yours, that has been yours since a diner stool in September. “You noticed that,” he says.
“First morning,” you say. “I noticed everything first morning.”
He shakes his head slightly, the almost-laugh. His arm tightens around you. “Jay cried when I told him,” he says. “About the coffee.”
“Jay cried about Eli’s drawing.”
“Jay cries about a lot of things,” Heeseung says, affectionately.
“He does,” you agree. “It’s one of his best qualities.”
Eli has turned from Chicago now and is watching you both from across the paddock with the expression of a child conducting a quiet and ongoing assessment of the results of his work. He catches you looking and raises one hand in a small wave. You raise your hand back. He turns back to Chicago. Heeseung presses his mouth to your temple. Stays there. “Darlin’,” he says.
“Mm.”
“Come inside,” he says. “Bea left dinner.” You stay exactly one more minute — the warm arm around you, the evening light, the boy and the horse, the whole quiet extraordinary ordinary life of it — and then you go inside together, through the gate that swings clean on its hinge, into the ranch that smells like dinner and woodsmoke and home.
Behind you the sun goes down over Castillo Creek in all the colours you don’t have names for yet.
You’re staying. You’ll learn them.
This is home.
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SUMMARY: When L/N Jiwoo and Lee Sooah set foot into Evercore School, they became inseparable. At 4, they shared everything from crayons to secrets. At 18, they cried in each other's arms upon realizing they would attend Harvard together. At 25, they built their houses next to each other. So when Y/N and Heeseung were born, their friendship was inevitable. If their mothers had it their way, they would one day marry. Y/N and Heeseung were inseparable, and everyone knew they were in love—until the summer before 9th grade, when everything changed. Before Y/N could make sense of it, Heeseung went from the sweet, shy boy who never missed any of her recitals to one who skipped school to get high with his friends and joined the football team just to sleep with the cheerleaders. The same Evercore staircase where Y/N once bandaged his scraped knees and rested on his shoulder when she was too tired to play at recess had become the place they walked past each other without a single glance. Y/N thought she could leave that painful chapter behind after high school—until she finds out Heeseung would be at Harvard too—where the truth begins to unravel.
WC: 29K
PAIRING: ex-childhood bestfriend!heeseung x fem!reader
GENRE/WARNINGS: mdni ꩜ nsfw ꩜ unprotected sex (don't do it) ꩜ oral (fem receving) ꩜ spitting ꩜ overstimulation ꩜ ex-childhood best friends ꩜ college au ꩜ elite private school ꩜ high society ꩜ y/n and heeseung are chaebols ꩜ cliques (heeseung becomes a popular jock) ꩜ angst ꩜ jealousy ꩜ resentment ꩜ family secrets ꩜ partying ꩜ drinking ꩜ smoking ꩜ cursing
A/N: hey loves! this is a re-upload of my fic before i deleted my account, which was way before heeseung left enhypen :( due to being busy with my internship. i have a lot to say about heeseung's departure, but i'm going to believe it was his decision despite the suspicious timing. i don't even know if i should be re-uploading this, but i'm not going to erase heeseung. let's continue to support him and the boys!!! miss my dada sm ugh. also, i had no idea there were so many grammatical mistakes lol. i made some edits, but i gave up so sorry if there's still a lot! when i initially uploaded this fic, it was so rushed because i was being ambushed in my inbox lol and i added and took some stuff last min. anyway, enjoy and i miss you so much hee <3
Seven Years Ago
Your hair is pulled into a bun so painfully tight it tugs at your scalp, stretching your eyes upward. Your limbs tremble as your teacher has spent the last hour etching into your brain that, “Your toes curl like a damn gecko. How many times do I have to remind you to point them properly?” as if you're stupid. Your tutu is delicate and soft, a stark contrast to the bodice cinched so tightly you swear it's rearranging your ribs, forcing your posture straight and perfect. Always perfect.
Perfection extends beyond ballet. It’s your life. But you love ballet because as hectic and unforgiving as it is, it makes you feel instrumental, not ornamental. In the media, you’re reduced to a spoiled chaebol—heiress of your father’s international conglomerate. And your mother? She's the granddaughter of the man who shaped modern Korea, controlling the land, the capital, and the industries that help put Korea's economy on the map. Your family isn't just wealthy, they're ingrained into Korea's foundations and history.
So it's only natural that there are always people lurking, watching, waiting for you to slip. Even at fourteen, you’re expected to smile perfectly, speak perfectly, and dress perfectly. Mistakes are simply not allowed. You learned early on to be careful, even when you don't want to be. Every word is analyzed. Every reaction is observed. Even now, it’s hard to tell whether someone wants to know you or if they just want access to your world. But in ballet class, your teachers are indifferent to your family’s status. They’ll still heckle you to your face when correcting your mistakes, and on stage, you’re not an accessory. You're an integral part of the art.
But most of all, it’s the way Heeseung looks at you when you’re pouring your heart into your performances. His gaze is undivided, conveying love, devotion, and something far more personal, far more intimate. It would be foolish to say you dance for him. You don't do anything for a boy. Still, there's something grounding about knowing he's there, watching. Seeing you not as the heiress, not the legacy, not the expectation, but just Y/N, the talented, passionate ballerina. And also the girl he's been in love with since before he could name the feeling. It's funny because every time you ask him when he started having a crush on you, he gives the same answer. "I don't know," he says. "I think I've always had one."
Heeseung has never been late or missed a performance of yours. Until today. There are 10 minutes left before you go on stage, and you still haven’t seen him in the audience. Worse, you haven't heard from him in over a week. The frustration coils tight in your chest, tangled with confusion, adding to your nerves. Of all days, he chooses this one to be absent? Tonight, you're performing your solo at the Varna International Ballet Competition, one of the most selective ballet competitions in the world, inviting only the top companies to participate. To be chosen to represent your company at such a prestigious, career-defining competition is an honor few ever receive.
Maybe it’s childish to rely on Heeseung’s presence for reassurance, but if he can show up for every other performance, why on earth wouldn't he be here for this one? With all this added pressure from your teachers and teammates, you need his support more than ever.
As you begin to walk on stage, you scan the audience for him, but you only recognize your family and friends. Before the song plays, doubt creeps in. Then your eyes land on your parents and your mother’s best friend, Sooah, who also happens to be Heeseung’s mother. They're all perched at the edge of their seats, pride written all over their faces as they wait for your performance to begin. Your mother and Sooah wink at you, while your father gives you two enthusiastic thumbs up. The smiles on their faces immediately puts you at ease. God, you love them so much.
Then you spot your friends. Yunjin is fiercely cheering you on, howling your name repeatedly as heads turn toward her in disbelief. You can’t blame the people who are baffled by her behavior. Ballet is meant to be graceful and refined, her behavior anything but. You shove down your laugh. Beside her sits Sunoo. As a model and actor, he always looks impossibly polished, yet he looks so exhausted today, but you know why. He spent the entire week trying to track down Heeseung, making sure he’d show up today. Before your stomach can twist further at the thought of Heeseung, you notice Sunoo smacking Niki’s arm as he makes the most ridiculous, borderline grotesque expressions imaginable. Niki is a year younger than than the rest of you and definitely acts like it. He’s silly and never spares a moment to be unserious, but you know he’s doing it to make you smile, to distract you from the pressure and Heeseung’s bizarre absence. Then you notice Jungwon recording you. It's touching, especially when he’s too busy with his side projects to leave his house as an optimistic fourteen year old kid with a freak brain. The fact that he's here feels like a miracle. Still, when it comes to you four, Jungwon always shows up.
Despite the anger and betrayal simmering and ready to burst, you remind yourself that you can't allow Heeseung to affect your performance, not when so many people believe in you. After all, you're one of the few dancers who were selected by your ballet company to represent them here. With that surge of confidence, you execute your routine flawlessly. And yes, you did point your feet exactly the way your teacher wanted. Cheers erupt as you hold your last pose, your gaze immediately seeking out your family and friends. Still, even after dancing so well, you can’t stop thinking about Heeseung, about how he's usually first to stand, the loudest to cheer. You try to push these thoughts aside and exit the stage with practiced elegance. Once you're fully covered by the curtains backstage, you collapse into your teacher's and teammates’ arms.
When you meet up with your parents, Sooah, and your friends, they immediately surround you, showering you with praises. After handing you your favourite flowers, pink tulips, Sooah's expression softens with something unmistakably sad. “You did amazing, kiddo. Uncle Minsuk’s busy with work and couldn't make it… but I'm so sorry about Heeseung. I know how much you wanted him here, but he’s been so down lately—shutting everyone out, even his father and me. I know this doesn’t make it any less disappointing, but please don’t take it personally. You know how much he loves you.” You nod quickly, fighting the tears threatening to spill.
“God, he’s such a dick—oh. No offense, Mrs. Lee,” Yunjin blurts. Your parents facepalm. Sunoo shoots her the nastiest side eye imaginable. Jungwon shakes his head, and Niki starts cackling so loudly, drawing attention from others nearby. You shoot Yunjin a pointed look before nudging her, warning her to apologize to Sooah. Sooah just laughs. “Don’t apologize, Yunjin! I totally agree. Teenage boys can be a nightmare.”
After catching up with everyone, you head back to the stage as the award ceremony is about to begin. As you’re walking away, you hear your mother’s concerned voice. “Sooah…what’s going on with Heeseung? He’s never been like this.”
“I don’t know what to do, Jiwon. He hasn’t left his room all week,” Sooah replies, completely tired and defeated.
—
You've never competed against this many high-caliber dancers before. Even though your confident in your dancing, the competition is brutal with talent everywhere you look. You're dedicated and disciplined, but not entirely certain you even want to become a professional ballerina. So, when it comes to placing, you don't let yourself hope too much. As the judges begin announcing the top five solo performances, you start to drift off into your thoughts when your teacher nudges you. Third place. You won third place!
Your family and friend are already on their feet, cheering. Applause fills the auditorium before the shock even registers. You stand, blinking as you walk up to accept your award. Still, your heart aches as you think about how Heeseung should’ve been here. He should've been the first one standing, the first one clapping—pink tulips in hand, smiling at you with that soft expression he only ever wore for you. Before hurt and resentment can twist your face, you force a smile and pose for photos with the judges.
—
Later, at home, exhaustion crashes over you. Your feet are filthy, coated in brown residue from hours of practicing backstage barefoot. Your hair is stiff with gel and hairspray. You’re aching all over, and you can barely keep your eyes open. You know you should shower and collapse into bed before you can get any more delirious. But instead, you walk to your window. After both graduating from Harvard, your mother and Sooah bought houses right next to each other with Heeseung's bedroom window across from yours.
Heeseung's window is closed with the blinds drawn, just like it's been for the past week. Although you two live next door and see each other everyday, you and Heeseung made this makeshift telephone a couple years ago, connecting from your window to his with string and paper cups on each end because “you both wanted to stay connected even when you couldn’t be right beside each other”. You lift your mouth to the paper cup, but before you can say anything, your mouth quivers. You're about to cry again, except this time, you finally let the tears fall. You clear your throat to try to hide the fact that you’re practically sobbing at this point and call out to him softly.
No answer. You try one more time. No answer.
You remember the late night confessions, him telling you he loves you, and that he’ll always be there for you. You remember believing him. It makes you so resentful that you chuck your paper cup outside the window, leaving the telephone hanging entirely from Heeseung’s window now. You don’t understand why he’s doing this to you. A week ago, when summer break started, Heeseung dragged you out of your house to show you the new dual bike his parents gifted him. He’d been wanting it forever for the sole purpose of riding it with you. Now, he won’t even leave his house, answer his door, or respond to any calls or messages from your friends.
—
It’s been three weeks since the dance competition. You’ve spent everyday rotting in bed, replaying the same thoughts and memories. Today is no different as you lie in bed, flipping through the yearbook. Then you see it, a picture of you and Heeseung, both of you were smiling with his arm wrapped around you. You were voted “Best Duo” for the tenth year in a row. You and Heeseung have always won that title since you started at Evercore as kindergartners.
Tears begin to well in your eyes when someone starts pounding on your door non-stop. A sassy voice cuts through the noise. “Stop it Yunjin. We’re here for her, which means we wait until she’s ready,” followed by a loud yelp from Yunjin, which you assume is from Sunoo smacking her. Niki fails to stifle his cackles, and Jungwon sighs before his soft, concerned voice follows. “Y/N, are you okay? We’re really worried about you.”
But you stay quiet, unable to utter a word. So Yunjin pleads, “Y/N, please let us in! You can’t spend your last summer before high school curled up in bed when we need a huge makeover and new wardrobes. Plus, Niki made himself useful for once and brought pad thai from your favourite Thai place.” Before Niki can start bickering with Yunjin, you open the door. “Holy shit—you look and smell like—OUCH,” Niki shrieks after Yunjin kicked his leg and Sunoo smacked his head. Niki rubs the aching spot while handing you the food. “Sorry, you know I’m joking, Y/N. Eat first, then talk if you want to.”
While you eat, they try to cheer you up. Yunjin and Sunoo offer to give you a manicure and a pedicure, Jungwon asks if you want him to grab anything else, and Niki recounts a disgusting story he thinks is hilarious, making you lose your apetite. You all end up laughing and gagging until you remember how Heeseung should be here too, sitting right beside you like he always does. Your laughter fades, and your friends immediately notice.“I don’t understand. We never fought… unless I did something wrong, and I just don’t realize,” you whisper.
Yunjin scoffs, “You did nothing wrong, Y/N. He’s the asshole who left to go to football camp and hang with those pompous idiots, Ja—.” “Yunjin!” the boys yell in unison. Your head jerks up so fast it spins, and your mouth goes dry. “Go on,” you say, eerily calm. Yunjin’s eyes widen. “Oh shit—I’m sorry Y/N," she says, looking down to her lap. "Maybe you’re not ready to hear this, but you deserve to know that Sunoo went to check on Heeseung last week… and saw him walking home with Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay, in football gear,” she says gently, squeezing your hand.
Something in your chest sinks. Disappointment floods in, with hurt following. You can’t bring yourself to speak. You just sit there, frozen, as the betrayal slowly eats you alive.
—
It’s the first day back at school, and the first day without Heeseung by your side. You take extra long ironing your uniform so you have an excuse to leave a little later and avoid running into him. When you arrive and make your way towards your friends, you can see the worry on their faces. Before they can say anything, you force an enthusiastic tone. “Please don't look at me like that. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
As you head to your first class, you almost manage to forget about Heeseung—until you reach the same Evercore staircase where you once bandaged his scraped knees after a rough game of tag, where he used to let you rest on his shoulder when you were too tired to play at recess. You're lost in those memories when loud, obnoxious laughter cuts through them. You look up, and the color drains from your face. Your body goes numb, and your heart aches all over again.
Heeseung is laughing with Jake, Sunghoon, and Jay. You see him, but you don’t recognize the boy you fell in love with. Heeseung traded his glasses for contacts. His left ear is pierced, and his hair has grown into a curtain mullet. You remember how he used to keep it short and simple so it wouldn't distract him or tickle his face. The once quiet, sensitive boy who only ever laughed around you like it was meant for your ears only, like you owned his laughter,
now laughs in a way that didn’t belong to you anymore.
But that isn’t what makes your breakfast threaten to make a messy reappearance. It’s the way his newly muscular arm is wrapped around Giselle, the girl you absolutely despise, who’s everything you’re not. Heeseung has been slipping away for months, but it doesn't fully hit until now, when he walks past you without sparing a single glance. No hesitation, and no flicker of recognition. Your vision blurs. Your ears ring, and heat floods your face.
—
You don’t even wait for the school bell to ring before bolting out of your class, sprinting home as fast as you can so no one can see you crying. You’re grateful your parents aren’t home to witness you choking on sobs and slamming your bedroom door so violently that one of the family portraits slips and hangs crooked from the impact.
All you feel is fury and disgust from Heeseung’s hypocrisy. He used to hate Jake Sim as much as you did. You joked about it, rolled your eyes together whenever Jake opened his entitled mouth. And now Heeseung’s hanging out with him? Jake Sim. The devil spawn. The most popular boy in school and an entitled aristocrat. He believes he owns Evercore since his great grandfather’s name is etched into the plaque in the main corridor as one of the founding fathers. He never misses a chance to point out when someone is wearing a luxury brand under his family’s conglomerate. You'll admit his family dominates most of the luxury market, but you go out of your way to avoid their brands. So Dior is your safe haven. Thank god the Sim family hasn’t gotten their greedy hands on it.
Then there’s Giselle, the female version of Jake, except without the intellect. Jake is infuriatingly smart, which makes him worst. But Giselle? She's just as cruel, but an airhead.
They’re exactly the kind of people Heeseung used to mock. Looking back, it makes you wonder if his disdain was ever real. Maybe it was jealousy, a desire to be a part their clique.
Although Evercore is one of the world's most elite private schools, with students coming from some of the wealthiest families in the world, cliques and hierarchies still exist. Old money, new money, political influence, and corporate power each carry a different weight at Evercore, and everyone knows where they stand on the hierarchy. Scholarship students are at the bottom of the food chain, at least to your snobby classmates. Not to you. Scholarships are given to the most exceptional applicants, but to Jake, Giselle, and their circle, they're an insult to Evercore’s prestige. They never miss a chance to make them feel small.
You still remember when you were six and Jake tried to make fun of Sunoo for appearing in the same popular kid shows all of them watched. Before anyone could react, Yunjin kicked him somewhere she definitely shouldn’t have known to kick, and he ran off crying for his mom. After that, Jake never bothered your friends again. Serves that bastard right.
So seeing Heeseung with them makes your stomach turn. You bite your lip hard enough to taste blood. You tear your room apart, removing any trace of him. Every photo is torn up, every note is shredded, and every birthday gift is tossed onto the growing pile of memories. When you reach his hoodies, your hands freeze. His scent still lingers, warm, familiar, and devastating. Even after everything he’s done to you, you still love him. You still want him. Your heart still aches for him, and it makes you feel pathetic. It doesn’t matter because your relationship is like the telephone you threw out the window. Once a precious lifeline between you two, now just trash lying on the pavement.
—
Three Years Ago
"I got my hands up, they're playin' my song. I know I'm gonna be okay. Yeah, it's a party in the U.S.A,” you and Yunjin half-sing, half-shout. “Miley Cyrus was such a bad bitch. Girl went from Disney to rocking a pixie cut and sticking up her middle finger every chance she got,” Yunjin says in awe.
You nod in agreement. “She really was ahead of her time.”
You apply one last coat of mascara, smooth out your skirt, and give yourself a final once-over in the mirror. “Are you ready for our last first day of high school, Yunnie?” Yunjin rolls her eyes so hard you thought they’d get stuck. “Let’s just get this over with,” she groans.
You grab your bags and head downstairs to eat something before leaving, but when you reach the dining room, you find your parents already seated at the table with Heeseung’s parents. “Good morning, mom, dad. Oh—good morning Auntie Sooah and Uncle Minsuk. I didn’t know you were over."
“Ah, good morning, Auntie Jiwon, Uncle Sungmin. Good morning, Mrs. Lee and Mr. Lee,” Yunjin greets.
“Good morning my gorgeous girls,” Sooah beams. Yunjin, I already told you to call us Auntie Sooah and Uncle Minsuk. No more of that Mrs and Mr. Lee nonsense,” Sooah scolds.
“Sorry, Auntie Sooah. I’m still getting used to it,” Yunjin laughs.
“You girls look beautiful,” your mother says, setting down her fork. “Are you ready for your senior year? It’s a very important one.”
“I think so. I still can’t believe it’s our last year of high school, but it’s one step closer to being at Harvard… well, if I even get in,” you say solemnly.
“And I can’t wait to go home and sleep,” Yunjin mutters, earning a round of laughter.
“You will get into Harvard, honey. I’ve never been more certain. We’re so proud of you two,” your dad assures, smiling softly.
“I remember when Jiwon and I were at Evercore, stressing about our future just like you two,” Sooah adds, smiling at your mother. “When we found out we were going to spend the next four years together at Harvard, we broke down crying so hard in each other’s arms. It was one of the happiest moments of my life,” her voice hoarse as she tears up.
“I think the neighbours thought someone had been murdered with the way we were screaming and crying. It was one of the happiest moments of my life too,” your mother laughs softly, reaching across the table to squeeze Sooah’s hand.
Sooah wipes her eyes. “Sorry girls… I didn’t mean to get so emotional this early in the morning.”
Your father and Minsuk chuckle. “Moving on… ” your father chirps, then turns to Yunjin. “Aunt Sooah and I got you something.”
“You didn’t have to—now I feel bad,” Yunjin says, already unwrapping it anyway. “A Tiffany Notebook with a matching pen?” Yunjin screams. "Oh my god, thank you so much! I love you guys!"
You snort. Now she’s finally awake.
“We love you too, Yunjin. We know you're running out of pages in your old notebook. Now, you finally have more space to document your art,” your mother says as Yunjin embraces her and your father, cheeks turning pink. She always pretends her passion for art is just for fun, but everyone knows she’s a complete nerd for it. She’s quietly working towards Harvard’s Art History and Architecture program like her mother. Her parents are rarely home as their work moves them from city to city so your parents stepped in. Somewhere along the way, Yunjin has her own bedroom in your house, her toothbrush found its place beside yours, and her shoes lined are up by the door. She isn’t just your best friend. She’s family.
Warmth spreads through your chest—until your mother suddenly asks, "How is Heeseung, by the way? We haven't seen him in so long. Is he ready for the first day?" The table stills. Sooah’s smile falters. Minsuk clears his throat and gives Sooah a look. You swallow hard, looking away. Even after four years, his name still feels like a dagger to your heart. You’d be lying if you said you were over what happened.
“H-he’s been staying at Jake’s house for the past couple of weeks,” Sooah mumbles, eyes lowered to her lap. “He didn’t answer my call this morning, but I think he said he was ready a few days ago,” Sooah adds disappointingly through her clenched teeth.
Your mother glances at you apologetically. She doesn’t have to explain. You know she asked out of politeness. Your family avoids mentioning Heeseung because they understand the scar is still fresh.
Your father clears his throat, attempting to change the suffocating atmosphere. “You girls should head to school before you’re late. Chef Kim made some breakfast burritos. Here—eat them on your way to school.” He hands one to you and Yunjin. Yunjin accepts with an awkward smile.“Thanks, Uncle Sungmin.” You nod a quiet thank you as your mother stands to smooth your collar the same way she has done since you were little. “Have a good first day, sweetie. Keep doing your best."
Your father notices how sad you look so he grabs one of his many car keys and hands it to Yunjin. "Take my Porsche 991 today You'd better not dent it."
“What? Really?" Yunjin squeals. "I swear I will not fuck this up. I will drive like a senior citizen. A very respectful one."
“Language, Yunjin,” your mother giggles, kissing her cheek.
“Let’s go, Y/nnie,” Yunjin cheers, linking her arm through yours as she drags you out the door before you can respond. Somehow, she gets you to school in one piece without damaging your dad’s car. You meet up with the boys before class, and as you head toward your classroom, your principal walks straight towards you. “Hi, Y/N. It’s good to see you! How are you doing?”
You blink, confused. “Hello, Mrs. Brown. I’m doing well. How can I help you?”
“I have wonderful news regarding Harvard that I think you'll be very happy to hear. Let’s go to my office and talk more about it,” she exclaims, gesturing for you to follow her.
When you walk out of Mrs. Brown’s office, the world doesn't feel real as you're completely and utterly dazed. You’ve been invited to an exclusive coffee chat with Harvard’s dean?
"Congratulations, Miss Y/N! Although it’s not an official decision, an invitation like this indicates a high chance of acceptance, provided your conversation goes well." Your heartbeat accelerates as you replay the words, a mix of excitement and anxiety clouding your head. Then suddenly—you crash into a firm body.
“Watch where you’re fucking going,” a familiar voice grunts, making you freeze.
You look up instinctively, locking eyes with Heeseung's bloodshot ones. Then it hits you—the heavy stench of weed. Bile rises from your throat, partly from the nauseating smell and partly from a pang in your chest you refuse to acknowledge.
When Heeseung realizes it’s you, he backs away so fast, he practically trips over nothing. “Watch where you’re going next time,” he mutters, already walking away like he can’t stand your presence.
“Well maybe you shouldn’t get high before coming to school late and knocking people over,” you laugh bitterly, the words slipping out before you can stop.
Heeseung’s steps come to a halt. He turns his head just enough for you to see his jaw tighten before whipping back around. You almost miss it, but he shakes his head slightly and keeps walking, as if you’re not worth it.
Every time you see Heeseung, it makes your heart crack in ways you wish it didn’t. Seeing him high. Seeing him stumble into class late when he actually bothers to show up. Seeing his arms around different girls after every football game. Seeing girls boast about finally getting to spend a night with him. It's like a stranger wearing Heeseung’s face. You start to wonder if the long, buried memories were ever real at all. But what hurts the most is watching him drown while catching glimpses of the kid he used to be, the kid you can’t seem to forget no matter how hard you try. The worst part is, he won’t let you swim close enough to try and save him.
As you stand there frozen, the good news you heard a few minutes ago is replaced by a wave of humiliation and anger.
Prom
“Can you pass me the hair pins, Yunnie,” you ask, combing through your hair for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Here—oh my god, your makeup and hair looks so good! You’re gonna be the hottest bitch at prom,” Yunjin squeals.
“No way! We’re gonna be the hottest bitches at prom,” you giggle, bumping shoulders with your best friend.
“You’re not wrong,” she smirks, just as there's a knock at your bedroom door.
“Hello, my dears. Do you mind if we come in?” your mother asks.
“Yes, come in!” you call out.
“We have a gift for you, sweetheart. Here—open it,” your father says as your mother hands you a ribbon tied box.
You carefully unknot the bow and lift the lid, your breath catches instantly. “No… this isn’t what I think it is.”
“It is, honey,” your mother gushes.
“I—is this the custom pink Dior Venus gown I sketched when I was like ten?” you whisper in disbelief. “W—what? How did you guys know? And when did you guys even have this made?”
“We remember taking you to the de Young Museum. You kept circling back to the Venus gown. We practically had to drag you out of there to get home!” your mother laughs softly. “A week later, I went into your room and saw your your sketches. Oh—and let’s just say someone at Dior owes me big a favor,” your mother winks. “They started making this dress last year.”
“You remembered something like this from eight years ago?” you blink, stunned, though it shouldn’t surprise you. Your parents have always been impossibly astute, quietly taking notes of the things you love even when you forget them yourself.
“This must've been so hard to make. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you guys—ugh—I’m gonna cry,” you say, throwing your arms around them.
“You're welcome, dear, and don’t ruin your lovely makeup,” your dad murmurs.
“Wait—what do I do with my Jimmy Choo Atelier dress?” you ask, suddenly remembering your original prom dress.
“Wear it to the charity gala next month” your mother replies as if it’s obvious.
“Two couture dresses? This is why I always raid your closet,” Yunjin whispers, leaning closer to inspect the dress. “No, but this is seriously insane. You're going to look like a princess. Go put it on!”
After changing, your parents take far too many photos, sending them to Yunjin's parents as well. “You girls look so beautiful… and all grown up,” your mother says, voice wavering. “Please don’t cry, Auntie, or we’re gonna cry too,” Yunjin pouts. You pull them into a tight hug. “I love you guys so much.”
“We love you too,” they say in unison.
Suddenly—a loud honk cuts through the moment from outside. “It’s probably Sunoo and Jungwon. Go have fun, but not too much fun,” your father says, directing the last part mostly at Yunjin.
You and Yunjin step outside to a ridiculously long limousine. The driver opens the door, and the moment you climb in—“I'm gagged. You look like a literal princess, Y/N! Is that a custom Dior gown?” Sunoo gasps.
“Yes! It's a custom Venus gown,” you laugh.
“Girl, how—oh, and you cleaned up decently, Yunjin,” Sunoo teases. She flips him off. “I’m kidding! You look really really hot!"
“You guys look very pretty,” Jungwon says genuinely.
“Of course we do. We always do!” Yunjin shoots back.
“And you boys look amazing too!” you smile, glancing around the limousine “Isn’t this limo a little too big for just four people? Maybe we should’ve joined the others?”
“I like when it’s just us. I wish Niki could’ve come though,” Sunoo frowns.
“It is a shame. Niki really wanted to give the seniors a proper sendoff to college by letting them see his ‘sexy figure’ in a fitted suit,” you snort. “He’s probably sulking at home right now." You FaceTime him immediately. After showing him all of your outfits, you bid him a dramatic farewell as the limousine rolls to a stop. The venue looks like a fairytale with a castle-like exterior, cherry blossom trees scattered across the front garden, lush flowers lining the bushes, and fountains framing either side of the grand entrance. Students who haven’t gone in yet are draped in designer gowns and tailored suits.
Sunoo’s jaw drops. “Okay, but why does this look like the Met Gala? Who on earth has taste this exquisite?”
“PTA moms trying to outdo last year,” Yunjin mutters, reapplying her lip gloss.
The chauffeur opens the door, and Sunoo jumps out first. “Presenting Sunoo in Prada!” he announces with his hands on his hips. “Oh—Keeho. Be a peach and take some pictures for us, will you?” Sunoo says, shoving the camera into Keeho's hand.
Jungwon sighs, smoothing the front of his perfectly tailored black Armani suit. “I don’t do pictures,” he insists, but poses anyway when Sunoo shoots him a deathly glare.
You lace your fingers with Yunjin’s and join them. Yunjin looks unbelievably sexy in the iconic Spring/Summer 2005 gold Versace dress that Daria Werbowy wore on the runway.
Sunoo claps dramatically. “You two are totally shutting this whole place down. These bitches are not ready.”
Inside, the music fades as heads turn when you walk in. You immediately hear the whispers.
“Is that vintage Dior? Y/N looks insane! That gown is unreal." The crystal light catches every curve of your gown—the silver detailing on the petals scatters soft reflections across the marble floor as you continue walking into the venue. Your fellow classmates pause mid-sentence just to stare.
Sunoo leans in and whispers, “Told you. You’re shutting the whole place down.”
You’re adjusting the hem when suddenly—you collide with a solid body. You gasp, stumbling forward until a hand shoots out, catching your waist before you can fall. The cologne hits you first, familiar and painfully nostalgic—Heeseung. When you look up, he’s already staring. His eyes drag over you slowly, from the neckline to your face. “Watch where you’re going,” he says, but his voice isn’t annoyed like last time. It’s strained.
“Seriously?” Giselle cuts in, heels clicking. “You just got here, and you're already causing problems.” Her eyes skim your gown with a tight smile, trying to be discreet, but failing miserably.
Yunjin mutters under her breath, “She’s fuming. I love it.”
Despite his date’s fuss, Heeseung doesn’t look at Giselle. Not once. You pull away from his arm, breaking his hold. “Sorry,” you say softly. Heeseung’s lips part like he wants to say something, but Giselle steps closer, tugging at his sleeve. “Come on, we’re leaving.” He hesitates for a second, long enough to make your chest tighten, then he drops his gaze and follows Giselle, jaw tight and shoulders stiff.
Before you turn towards your friends, you catch Giselle shooting one last glare your way. “If envy was a person, Giselle would be the human form,” Sunoo says, trying to stifle his laugh as Jungwon nods, agreeing. “And did you see Heeseung? He was totally in awe,” Yunjin adds, linking arms with you. But you can’t say anything. All you can think about is the way Heeseung looked at you—like the memories were never buried at all.
You continue dancing for the next three hours, screaming along to songs while Yunjin drags you around to take pictures with different circles. Your feet feel like they’re being stabbed through your heels. You lean in and whisper into Yunjin’s ear, “My feet are going to fall off if I keep dancing. Can we please go home?” Yunjin nods and waves Sunoo and Jungwon over.
As the two boys approach, Sunoo suddenly lights up. ‘Let’s have an after-party sleepover at someone’s place. I volunteer Y/N because her house is the closest.”
“Fine—but we have to leave now then,” you demand.
“I’ll tell Niki to come,” Jungwon adds.
Yunjin links her arm through yours as you head toward the exit. “Our sleepover is going to be way better than prom, but please tell me you finally have access to your parents’ alcohol cabinet."
“Yunjin, I literally saw you taking way too many swigs from Lara’s ‘secret’ flask—but yes, I do,” you laugh softly, glancing over your shoulder. You take one last look at prom, the night everyone swears is unforgettable. But you don’t see him. Not Heeseung. Not her. Not his rowdy football team that's usually hard to miss.
Yunjin nudges you gently. “Come on. Niki’s already on his way.”
You take one last look at where he caught you before turning around and following your friends into the cool night, leaving prom and whatever Heeseung was thinking behind.
When you get home, you immediately change into comfy pajamas and wash your makeup off while your friends argue downstairs about whether to watch She’s the Man or The Notebook. Before you head down to join them, something makes you pause. A stupid, instinctive pull. You walk to your window and glance across the yard toward the house you’ve avoided looking at for far too long. Heeseung’s room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of his lamp. Your breath catches—his blinds facing directly toward your window are open for the first time in years. You don’t even know what you expect to see. Maybe nothing. Maybe him hunched over this desk. Maybe him still in the suit that made your stomach twist at prom. But when your eyes shift slightly to the left—the sight knocks the air right out of you. Giselle’s hands are tangled in his hair. Their bodies are pressed together. His mouth is on hers, the kiss is hungry, messy, and careless.
You freeze, heart dropping into your stomach. You can't stop staring at the scene that's unfolding right before you—and then he meets your gaze. His expression is cold and indifferent again, a cruel contrast to the way he looked at you at prom. Strangely, his eyes flick downward, toward your cheeks. You lift your fingers, only to realize they're wet. You're crying. Mortified, you turn away immediately, wiping your face with trembling hands. You force a deep breath, to steady your heart, to pretend it didn't just split open all over again.
When you look back, Giselle is gone. Heeseung stands alone, buttoning up his shirt. What you don't see is how abruptly he pulled away from her, making her jerk back startled. How his hands dropped from her like they burned him. How their kiss ended without any hesitation. How she stormed off, furious and humiliated. But you were too busy trying to control your breathing. Too busy blinking away tears. You reach out to shut your blinds, but before you do, you see him drag a hand through his hair, his other fist clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white.
—
Graduation
“Yunjin Huh will be attending Harvard, studying Art History and Architecture. Elizabeth Irvine will be attending Yale, studying English Language and Literature. Sunoo Kim will be attending Harvard, studying Theatre, Dance, and Media. Sebastian Miller will be attending Oxford, studying Biomedical Sciences. Lara Raj will be attending NYU, studying Vocal Performance. Jungwon Yang will be attending MIT, studying Electrical Engineering and Computer Science.” As your Principal continues down the list, the crowd claps politely during each name.
“Finally, our Valedictorian, Y/N L/N.” Mrs. Brown pauses, allowing the audience to applaud. “Y/N is our Class President, among various other extracurricular activities. She graduates with the highest academic standing among the Class of 2023 and will be attending Harvard, studying Economics.” Cheers erupt even louder than before. “I will now turn it over to Y/N for her valedictorian speech.” You rise from your chair and walk across the podium towards Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown shakes your hand firmly before handing you the microphone. “Congratulations, Y/N” she whispers, smiling warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown.”
As you begin your speech, your other hand hidden behind the lectern is balled into a tight fist. Your nails dig into your palm, carving crescent moons into your skin. Because what the audience doesn’t know is that one of the names called before yours nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “Heeseung Lee will be attending Harvard University, studying History.” You had to clap along with everyone else. Professional. Poised. Unbothered.
When you deliver your final line, the auditorium explodes with cheers, whistles, and applause. Mrs. Brown dismisses Evercore’s Class of 2023 for the last time. Caps go flying and navy tassels spin through the air like confetti. The sound is deafening with laughter, screams, and the scrape of chairs fill the room.
You step down from the stage, immediately jumping into your friends’ arms. All around you are the classmates you’ve known since you were four. The same kids who once sat cross-legged together in Mrs. Jones's class, sounding out the alphabet. Now they cling to one another, crying, laughing, and taking final photos. Hugs linger longer than they used to. Goodbyes sound heavier. This is the last time most of you will ever be in the same room together. A chapter ends right here and a new one begins, pushing all of you towards futures that seem thrilling and terrifying at the same time.
And out of all the things you imagined about that future, you never once pictured that Heeseung would be coming with you.
—
Present
It’s the first day of your Corporate Finance class, a notorious course at Harvard for aspiring business students. Not because the professor has a 1.0 on Rate My Professors. Not because the class is impossible to pass. But because of the final project, a case analysis for Goldman Sachs, where students are grouped into pairs. The professor selects the student with the better grade from the highest-scoring pair for a summer internship at Goldman. One spot. One career-defining opportunity. It’s brutal. Students show up twenty minutes early to claim a front-row seat as if it’s a battlefield. Goldman is nearly impossible to break into, and every student in this room would sell their soul for this internship.
After introductions, the professor is about to go over the syllabus when the door opens. You glance back without thinking like you always do when someone walks in late. Jake Sim walks in first and right behind him is—Heeseung. What? He shouldn’t be here. Jake is practically in all of your classes as he's also an Econ student (unfortunately), but Heeseung is a history major. This class has absolutely nothing to do with his track. For the first two years of college, you’ve managed to avoid Heeseung surprisingly well. Although it’s a relatively small school, your paths didn’t intertwine as much as you feared it would. Your schedules only overlapped once in a mandatory first-year economics course that both Econ and History students had to take. That lecture was massive, and you could barely find your own friends, let alone Heeseung. Assignments were all individual, so avoiding him was effortless. Occasionally, you’d catch glimpses of him around campus, usually with Jay, Jake, Sunghoon, or the Harvard Football team. You'd see him at crowded study spaces, popular hangouts spots, and even at parties, but you never spoke, and you were perfectly fine with that.
Your shoulders stiffen and your breath catches as you hear Heeseung trudging down the steps with a faint jingle of his backpack. His footsteps slow, then stop. You don't need to look, you can feel him behind you. You don't dare to move as he settles into the seat directly behind, creaking as he pulls the desk out. The air around you shifts. Every sound is sharper and your pulse is suddenly too loud in your ears. Why did he choose to sit right behind you? You glance around the lecture hall to check for empty seats, but of course, this class is packed with every row nearly filled. It means nothing. Once again, you feel pathetic at how you heart lurches at the smallest proximity, overthinking every situation you two end up in together while he's probably not thinking about you at all. You grip your pen a little too tightly as you remind yourself that it's been years and you're no longer fazed when your professor proceeds with explaining the syllabus after the brief interruption.
"As you may already know, the case makes up a significant portion of your grade. 60% of your final mark comes from your case project and the remaining 40% is from your midterm grade. I'm aware that most of you are here for the internship opportunity, so I won't waste time on anything unnecessary. You'll be working in pairs for the case and each team will have to submit a written report detailing your analysis and proposed solution. You'll also deliver a 10 minute presentation followed by a 10 minute Q&A session. Two representatives from Goldman and I will evaluate your cases. From the highest scoring pair, we will select the student with the higher midterm grade for the internship. I recommend all of you begin early. With that said, I'll be announcing the pairs."
This is your chance. The one opportunity to prove you got here on your own. You refuse to follow in your parents' footsteps, refuse to have your last name dismissed as nothing more than a spoiled, nepo baby who only got in because of her daddy. You're walking a path that's entirely yours. As your professor moves down the list, you silently hope for Sophia, your roommate who should be sitting right next to you, but isn't back from summer vacation yet. She's smart, reliable, and professional, which is exactly what you need for this project.
"Y/N L/N and Heeseung Lee." The words hit you before you can even process them. Behind you, you hear his breath hitch, quiet, but unmistakable. Your heart is stuck in your throat as you're rooted in you're seat. You just stare straight ahead, refusing to turn around and give him even a slightest bit of reaction. How is this even fair? You know almost everyone in this class, countless people you'd rather be paired with, and yet the moment Heeseung walks in, you get partnered with him? You're fuming at how the universe has a proven track record of torturing you with the one person that had your whole heart and crushed it.
"I'll let everyone exchange contact information with their partners. You're dismissed early today," your professor says.
You don't move an inch until you hear Heeseung clear his throat behind you. "Hey," he hesitates before continuing, "What's your number… or has it changed after all these years?" You scoff. "No, let's just communicate with our school emails." But the question lands harder than it should. Has it changed after all these years? A simple, practical question that needed to be asked, and yet it feels like a reminder. A reminder that maybe you're still the same girl you were seven years ago. The girl who still searched for him in the hallways when he was skipping school to hookup with other girls. The girl who cried too easily when he was involved. The girl who never mattered to him as much as he mattered to you.
"You want us to communicate through email? No one checks their email as often as their messages," Heeseung says, already annoyed, clicking his tongue. "Look, I'm going to be late for football practice. Let's not make this any harder than it has to be, Y/N," he sighs as he reaches for his phone. Your nostrils flare at his tone. It's condescending as if he's explaining something to a toddler. "How dare I waste the star quarterback's time," your sneer, voice dripping with sarcasm. Heeseung clicks his tongue once again, and you swear you almost lunged forward to rip his obnoxious tongue out. "Yeah, okay… real funny," he says, bored.
The urge to strangle him is so strong, but you force yourself to take a deep breath. You're better than this. You're not fourteen anymore, waiting for him at your recital with pink tulips in his hands. You're not seventeen anymore, waiting for him to come back to you, hoping he'd finally choose you over all those girls and the partying. You're not that girl anymore and once this project is over, your life will go back to normal. Back to the version of yourself you've been rebuilding all these years, one that doesn't flinch at the sight of him around campus. "Fine. It's the same number." you mutter, meeting his eyes for a second before lowering your gaze to the floor. Before he can say anything else, you turn around and head towards the exit.
You're almost at the door when Jake's obnoxiously loud voice cuts in. "Bro, what's her problem? She's hot though—if she wasn't so annoying, I'd probably—" Before you can turn back around and strangle the shit out of him, his words are cut off abruptly, but you don't turn around. You don't want to know if it was Heeseung who stopped him. You don't want to get your hopes up. Not again. Not like that night at prom. Because Heeseung doesn't care about you. He never did.
—
As you open the door to your apartment, you find Yunjin and Manon sprawled on the couch, watching The Summer I Turned Pretty. "Did she seriously just accept his proposal after finding out he cheated?" Yunjin gasps. "He could've at least gotten her a ring with a rock that wasn't as nonexistent as my love life." "Ugh, I'm so done with this show, Yun. Please stop making me watch this shit with you," Manon groans, horrified at the scene on the TV.
Sophia is on the floor beside the couch, unpacking her luggage. Her eyes go wide when she sees you. "Oh my god, Y/N. I missed you so much!" she squeals, attempting to launch herself in your arms for a hug, but you dodge it. "You traitorous hoe… I thought you were supposed to be back yesterday," you sulk, sporting an exaggerated pout. "I'm sorry, love. I was so jet lagged after my flight, so I ended up staying the night at home," she laughs softly, mirroring your pout. "Will you forgive me if I told you I got you a bunch of gifts," Sophia says with a sly smirk, knowing you too well. "Fine, but don't ever leave me alone in class again," you mutter. "I want someone to hit my head really hard so I can forget about what happened today," you groan.
Yunjin and Manon wander over after Manon aggressively shuts off the TV, completely over the show. "Whoa—what happened?" Yunjin asks, raising her brows. "How do you already look so annoyed this early in the morning," she chuckles. "Oh please, you're one to talk," Manon cuts in. "This is you literally everyday." Yunjin gasps as she smacks Manon's arm, offended. "Hey! I'm a ray of sunshine."
Yunjin, Sophia, and Manon are your roommates. You met Sophia in first year when you realized you both had the same classes as Econ majors. You two instantly clicked over your shared love for overpriced matcha lattes, complaining about your 8 AM tutorials, and absolutely crushing the arrogant guys in class discussions. She's outspoken, witty, and impossible not to love. You and Yunjin met Manon in a Psych elective. She boldly walked up to the two of you, dropped her backpack onto the desk, and asked, "So when are we meeting?" "For the group project," she clarified, unfazed when the two of you stared at her like she was crazy. "It's a group of five, and I'm guessing your group isn't full yet." Manon is laid back and effortlessly confident until there are flashing lights, booming music, and drinks involved. Then she becomes completely unhinged, the kind of chaotic energy and passion for partying that is frighteningly similar to Yunjin.
Somehow, the four of you have settled into each other's lives without even noticing. You know each other's habits, late night cravings, and academic breaking points. You know who shuts down during exam season, who stress-eats (Yunjin), who stress-cleans (Sophia), who stress-smokes (Manon), and who stress-bakes (you).
They also know about your history with Heeseung. You were completely blindsided when you found out he was also attending Harvard. You never thought he would even end up here with you. Not with how often he skipped school. But being born into an elite family with a Harvard-educated mother has its perks. He was practically guaranteed an acceptance. And it certainly didn't hurt that he was one of the best high school football players in the country, recruited to play for Harvard's team.
During your freshman year, the entire campus scrambled to get tickets for the first football game of the year. Most of the excitement centered around the new players, Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon. During orientation, girls were already following them on Instagram, memorizing their practice schedules, and every dining hall sighting turned into gossip. Sophia and Manon were no exception. Although they weren't nearly as obsessed as the other girls, they were still drawn to the trio's so-called charm. "I want to ride Sunghoon's abs," Manon smirked, scrolling through a photo of him at practice. "I wish I were the ball," Sophia sighed dramatically. You practically had to pinch Yunjin to stop her from shouting obscenities every time the two of them thirsted over the boys.
They tried numerous times to drag you to the ticket booth, but Manon and Sophia grew confused by your unwavering protests. You eventually told them the truth and they immediately understood why watching Harvard's newest star quarterback wasn't exactly on your bucket list. Their excitement dimmed, replaced with protective looks. "We're definitely not going then, babe," Manon said gently, squeezing you hand. "He's not even hot anyway." "And we're so sorry for talking about him in front of you this whole time. I swear I'll throw my matcha latte at him the next time I see him," Sophia added, her face morphed into disgust. "I'm totally on board with that!" Yunjin cheered. "It's about time you guys realized how fucking ugly those assholes are." She gagged so dramatically you'd think she was more furious than you. But then again, Yunjin always has your back.
"No no no… there's no need for that, but I love you guys to death for being so understanding," you chuckle, waving your hand dismissively. "And seriously, go to the football game if you want. I don't want to stop you guys just because of our history. Plus—I really don't mind." "What do you take us for?" Sophia gasped dramatically, hand flying to her chest like you just insulted her. "We want nothing to do with Heesuck now. You come first before all these boys."
The memory fades when you realize the three of them are staring at you impatiently like hungry kittens waiting to be fed."I got paired with… him for the case project," you swallow harshly, dropping your gaze to the floor. "I've been looking forward to this since forever ago, and now it feels like everything is crashing down. Am I dramatic for letting this get to me? I mean, I thought I moved on from everything that happened, but it's feels like—" You cut yourself off because if you continue your words, saying it will make your feelings real.
Manon's jaw drops first. "You're kidding, right?" she breathes. "Harvard has like thousands of business student—hell, half the student body is practically in business, and they still paired you with Heesuck, a random History major? Why is he even in this class? That's actually criminal." Sophia slams her hands against the kitchen counter. "I knew Dr. Schmidt was evil all along. Nobody should trust a man who wears loafers without socks. Nobody," she emphasizes for the second time. Yunjin's eyes are already blazing by this point. "Dramatic? You? No. If anything, you're being too calm about this. I would've packed my bags and dropped the class immediately after catching wind of his face," She huffs. "Actually, give me like five minutes, and I'll write the drop-out email." Their protective reactions almost make you laugh, but the tightness in your chest doesn't subside, and they notice.
Sophia immediately softens, pulling you to the couch. "Hey," she murmurs, nudging your shoulder gently. "You don't have to pretend this doesn't hurt." Manon nods vigorously. "Yeah, this isn't typical boy drama. It's much deeper than that, and you have every right to feel this way." Yunjin immediately melts into your side, wrapping her arm around you. "Exactly. Besides, I was joking about dropping the class. You've worked so hard for this, and you're genuinely the smartest person I know. Don't give up just because of him. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction of ruining something you've wanted for years." She squeezes your shoulders, her voice soft but firm. "He's just an inconvenience, but if you put everything aside, you'll get the internship for sure. Without a doubt." Yunjin reassures.
"Hey! What about me?" Sophia feigns hurt with an exaggerated pout, clearly just trying to cheer you up. "You'd better watch out, Sophia because I'm not holding back," you stick out your tongue, finally laughing. "Thank you. I mean it. I'm not sure what I'd do without you guys," your mouth quivers, and you lean your head on Yunjin's shoulder. The weight of everything easing a little. "I think I'm going to take a nap before dinner with the boys," you say, tired from waking up at the crack of dawn and your unexpected reunion with Heeseung.
"Sure, babe," Yunjin nods gently, giving you a soft smile. "Do you guys want to come? Jay's making steak to celebrate him and Jungwon landing venture capital for their startup," Yunjin asks, turning to Sophia and Manon. "Nah, it's a special moment you should enjoy alone. Besides, I convinced Sophia to come with me to a frat party at Northeastern tonight," Manon smirks, proud of herself for convincing Sophia to come, who absolutely hates frat bros with every fiber of her being. "I swear to god, if any frat bro tries to press up against me like last time, I'm fucking knocking his teeth out," Sophia threatens, already regretting her decision. You shake your head and laugh at how Sophia will probably end up punching one anyway with her short-temper before heading into your room.
As you try to fall asleep, your mind constantly drifts back to Heeseung, wondering what you should do. The last thing you want is it be stuck in a tiny room with him for the entire semester, pretending the past doesn't exist while you work on a project that decides your future. You toss and turn in your bed at the unpleasant memories you haven't thought about in years until your eyes finally grow heavy.
—
You and Yunjin arrive at the boys' doorstep, each of you holding warm, freshly made side dishes even though Jay told you not to bother. Compared to your cozy, homey, brownstone, Sunoo, Jungwon, and Niki live in a sleek modern condo with floor-to-ceiling windows. They live about a ten minute walk from your place, making sure you all live in close proximity to each other. It's not hard considering you all go to school in Cambridge with Sunoo and Niki both attending Harvard for Theatre, Dance, and Media. Jungwon is effortlessly brilliant, accepted to MIT's Electrical Engineering and Computer Science program. Since MIT is practically next door to Harvard, it only made sense for him to live with the boys.
Jay also goes to Harvard for Computer Science but lives with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon. Technically, anyway because he's basically living with Jungwon since they're always holed up working on their growing startup, Pathify. The two of them became close due to their shared passion for tech and eventually started Pathify together. Jay is like the older brother you've always wished for. Thankfully, he's completely different from Jake and Sunghoon. He doesn't go around acting like a pompous asshole who's still clinging to his high school ways—constantly partying and sleeping around as if it's some kind of extracurricular activity. When Jay's not too busy with Pathify, he spends his days cooking, experimenting with new recipes, taking photos of literally anything that catches his eye, and talking endlessly about Max Verstappen, the Dutch F1 Driver who he's obsessed with.
Yunjin has interrogated him countless times about why he still hangs out with them. But he always gives the same answer. "Our fathers were best friends growing up, so naturally we are too. You know how it works with people like us. You grow up together your whole lives, tolerate their flaws, and make excuses for them." As much as you hate to admit it, you know Jay's right. People like you didn't always choose your childhood friends. You inherited them. You grew up side by side, learned to overlook their worst qualities, and convinced yourself it wasn't worth the drama to question any of it. So you stick by these people because they're the only ones who truly understand your world or because parents insists these connections are good for business. Thankfully, your parents never cared about any of that.
The door swings open, and you're greeted by Jay , still wearing his apron and a pair of cooking gloves. Yunjin snorts. "Wow, look at you. Gordon Ramsay would be shaking in his boots." Jay rolls his eyes but steps aside to let you both in. "Oh please, Ramsay wishes he had my knife skills." Yunjin leans in and whispers loudly, "I've seen toddlers with Play-Doh who chop straighter." "Alright, cut it out, Yunjin," you chuckle, nudging her shoulder. "Thank you for having us and making dinner, Jay! Congratulations on the venture capital! Pathify is going to be huge." Jay's expression softens immediately with pride. "Thank you, Y/N. I'll give you access to unlimited pro features," he winks. "And I told you guys not to bring anything. You should be more like the guys who contributed absolutely nothing," Jay snickers, taking the mashed potatoes from you and the bread from Yunjin as you both slip off your shoes.
"Hey! You're using our kitchen by the way," Niki heckles from the dining room. You shake your head at the chaos. "You know we could never show up empty handed." You all settle into the dining room as Jay finishes plating the food."Enjoy, everyone," Jay announces as he sets the final dish in the center of the table. The aroma alone makes you feel more at ease compared to this morning.
"Wait!" Sunoo interjects. "We need to make a toast to Jungwon and Jay for their success with Pathify! To Pathify," He beams proudly as he raises his glass of wine. "To Pathify!" you all repeat in unison. "Thank you, guys," Jungwon and Jay say, exchanging proud glances before lifting their own glasses.
As everyone digs into the Michelin Star level food, you all update each other on recent events—Yunjin recounting how someone tried to plagiarize her artwork. Sunoo complaining that his skin has been breaking out ever since he got back to Cambridge. Niki ranting about how stinky his dance partner smells after rehearsal. Jungwon explaining what happened during their latest investor meeting, and Jay interrupting every few minutes to ask if the seasoning is good. It feels warm and familiar, enough to make you forget about the stress sitting at the back of your mind—until you're asked about your classes. "Oh—Y/N, how's that finance class going? Are you ready for the case?" Sunoo asks suddenly, looking at you with innocent curiosity as he pops a roasted carrot into his mouth. The question makes you freeze mid-bite, your fork hovering halfway to your mouth as the piece of steak feels heavy in your hand. "I—I don't know. I'm not sure if it'll go well with… my partner," you say quietly.
Yunjin clears her throat, trying to change the topic. "Maybe we should talk about something else." "Why? Who is it?" Niki asks as everyone looks at you curiously, waiting for an answer. "Uh… it's H—Heeseung," you mutter, chest tightening at the reminder. Everyone's eyes and mouth drop at the same time. Sunoo's fork drops against the table, Niki looks offended on your behalf, Jungwon's brows knit in concern, and Jay chokes on his whine. "Whoa, are you okay, Y/N? He's a History major… what is he even doing in your class. Have you tried switching partners?" These questions are thrown at you all at once, overlapping so fast you can't even tell who's speaking. "It's whatever… I don't really care," you lie, shrugging like it's nothing. "But, I'd prefer not to talk about it if that's alright. You know… because we shouldn't be talking too much about school during this celebration," you say, setting down your fork.
The table goes unusually quiet. Yunjin's hand immediately finds your knee under the table and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Of course," Jungwon says gently, breaking the awkward silence. "Let's not talk about school when we're here to celebrate."Everyone nods in agreement. Just like that, the conversation shifts and everyone steers away from the topic."It's been a while since we've all taken a group photo. Shall we take one?" you ask, trying not to spoil the dinner any further. "Yes, of course," Sunoo immediately agrees, practically squealing. Afterward, you flop back into your seats, posting the pictures on Instagram. There are chaotic pictures with Yunjin flipping off the camera, Niki blinking, and Sunoo looking beyond annoyed at the two. Jay, quite the minimalist, posts a clean group photo (without Yunjin's middle finger of course).
At their shared apartment, Heeseung sees the notification while sprawled lazily on the couch after practice. He taps it without much interest, expecting another Pathify update. But instead, he sees you. Right there in the center, smiling with your friends who used to be his too. Heeseung holds his thumb against the Instagram story, stopping it from skipping ahead. He just stares at the photo… at you. Something prickles under his skin. It's unsettling, almost irritating because he shouldn't be looking. He tells himself it's just because he's exhausted from practice and that seeing you again up close after all these years probably just threw him off. And yet he doesn't move an inch. Not for a minute. Not for two.
He's still staring blankly at the photo with a weird feeling gnawing at his chest when the front door bursts open. "BROOO, WE'RE HOOOME," Jake shouts, tripping over his own feet as Sunghoon stumbles in right behind, equally wasted. "HEEESEUNGGG—YOU SHOULD'VE COME, YOU FUCKING PUSSYYY," Sunghoon yells, clutching his stomach like he's about to projectile vomit all over the expensive rug. They're too loud. An absolute disaster at their big grown age. Heeseung clears his throat, finally locking his phone before tossing it onto the cushion beside him like it was suddenly too heavy. Whatever that moment was, whatever he felt, he shuts it down before it even forms because he's not allowed to.
—
The next morning, your alarm goes off far too early for someone who stayed up drinking with their friends until 2 a.m. You groan into your pillow, smashing the snooze button before finally dragging yourself out of your soft, warm bed. Your head is foggy, not from drinking, just from thinking. Specifically, about how you're going to start working on the case with the person you refused to talk about at dinner. You rub your eyes and glance at your phone. Of course your friends are blowing up your phone in the group chat.
yunjin's hoes:
yunnie: someone pls send the photos of Niki drooling on the couch, passed out with his ass up in the air
sunsun: [image sent] #flat #wedontjudge #itsasafeplace
niki minaj: FLAT??? be serious bro my ass is THICCC AND PLUMPPP
wonnie: Disgusting. You're cleaning up your drool stains, Niki.
verstappen's bf: LOL also pls remember to heat up the leftovers on the stove or in the oven… NOT THE MICROWAVE
sunsun: why do u sound like a dad rn
verstappen's bf: because last time niki microwaved it for 10 minutes and it came out looking like my shit after eating taco bell…
niki minaj: OK I WAS DRUNK
yunnie: nah you're just an idiot LOL
niki minaj: Y/N pls get in here and defend m
you: NAUR… you drool on shared couches and can't even reheat food at the big age of 20…
After replying to the group chat, which always seems to end with everyone targeting Niki (lovingly and jokingly of course), you move on to your morning routine. You pull on the softest, warmest sweater you own now that the weather's getting colder and make yourself a warm cup of coffee. With no classes today, you decide to stay in, settle at your desk, and finally start working on the case. If you're going to be stuck working with Heeseung, you're at least determined to do most of the work without relying on him. You reread the entire case brief, highlight key points, and start building an outline. You dive into research, pulling academic journals, financial data, and comparable models. The document is filled with bullet points and research notes. You've been typing away in the document for two hour—until your phone vibrates beside your laptop. It's a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Number: hey we need to talk about the case. it's heeseung btw
Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. You never asked for his number. Then it hits you—his number changed. You know this not because you memorized his stupid number, but because the area code is different. His number has a Cambridge area code rather than one from back home. Wait—you only told him your number was the same. You never actually gave it to him. You didn't text it to him. You didn't read it to him. You didn't write it for him. Which could only mean one thing—did he really memorize your number after all these years? Even through high school and college. Even through a new carrier and a new phone. Even after everything that happened. Your pulse quickens and your stomach twists at the thought of it. No. You refuse to believe that. You refuse to let yourself entertain the idea that he might care, that Lee Heeseung, of all people, would hold onto something as small and insignificant as your phone number. You won't allow yourself to go there. Not after everything.You scoff and shake your head, forcing yourself back into reality and reply to his texts.
You: what's your school email?
He replies instantly.
Unknown Number: [email protected]
You: i'll send an outline with everything i have so far.
Unknown Number: alright i'll work on it right now
You: no need to. you can just work on the presentation once i'm done with the research and proposal.
You've already decided you want to avoid Heeseung as much possible until the presentation, so you'll do most of the work. It's safer that way. Besides, he'll only hinder your chances of getting the internship. He's probably more focused on football and girls rather than his GPA anyway.
Your phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: ???
Unknown Number: the report is the hardest part… we're in pairs for a reason
The typing bubble appears again, disappears, then reappears like he's trying to figure what he should and shouldn't say. You exhale sharply, irritation rising in your chest. Fine.
You: look, let's not make this any harder than it has to be.
The exact same line he threw at you in class. A beat of silence follows. Then the typing bubble appears.
Unknown Number: don't. i'm trying to make this easier, not harder. you're the one fighting me on everything
He's unmistakeably annoyed and for some reason that only irritates you more. You should be the only one annoyed and furious. The audacity of it makes your jaw clench so tightly aches. You want to slap him across the face because he has no right, no right at all to sound frustrated with you when you're the one who was wronged. Not him.
Unknown Number: just meet me at the library please, Y/N
Your breath hitches. Of course he's fine with meeting. Of course he thinks this is nothing but a normal discussion between classmates. Of course it doesn't affect him the way it affects you—sitting alone with him, pretending nothing ever happened between you two.
You: 6:00. don't be late.
You agree anyway. You tell yourself it's only for the project, and you're mature enough to speak to him without slapping the shit out of him. You tell yourself it's fine and that you can treat him like any other classmate. You tell yourself a lot things, but none of them feel true.
You're supposed to meet at 6, which means you have to leave your place by 5:50 to get there on time, but it's 5:55, and you just got out of bed. You've finally accepted the plan that you've been thinking of doing for the last hour. You're making him wait for you. Not too long, just enough to feel like you have even the slightest bit of control in this damning situation. It's petty, immature, and exactly the kind of thing you swore you wouldn't do. You snort to yourself as you slip on your shoes. "Sure. Mature. Very adult of me."
It's 6:00 when you grab your bag. You take one deep breath, and walk out the door. You arrive at the library at 6:10, feeling the tiniest spark of satisfaction curling in your chest. Ten minutes late—it's not enough to be rude, but just enough to make him wait. And he did. Heeseung is already there, leaning against his chair on the second floor where he told you he found a table. His head is tilted slightly like he's been scanning the crowd for you. Good. Let him wait, you think, with a victorious gleam in your eye—until you see her. A really pretty girl walks up to Heeseung. Like really pretty. The kind of pretty that looks like she just stepped off the Victoria's Secret runway. She's effortlessly stunning with silky, perfectly blown-out hair, and legs for days. She laughs at something he says, her hand landing on his chest like there's no personal space between the two of them. Her touch lingers there, softly gripping the fabric of his hoodie.
And he lets her. He just sits there, letting her giggle at whatever bland joke he made, letting her invade his space. Of course this jerk is flirting with a ridiculously hot girl at the library he practically begged you to meet him at. Absolutely typical. You scowl, agitated by him once again. You straighten your shoulder, smooth your sweater, and walk toward the table with your chin up, expression dry, and stride calm and collected. Once you reach the table, you clear your throat loud enough to cut through her laughter. "I have to go in an hour. Can we get this over with?" you lie. You actually have no where else to be after this. The girl's laughter dies instantly, and she drops her hand from his chest, stepping back slightly as she gives you a once over with a piercing glare.
Heeseung straightens in his chair, expression flickering with surprise and something else that you can't exactly place. Weird… you expected him to look more annoyed. "Yeah," he says a little too quickly. "I'll see you later, Emily." The girl squeezes his arm lightly. "Text me later?" she asks, sending him a smile sweet enough to rot his teeth. You roll your eyes and drop into the chair across from him, your bag hitting the table harder than intended. The truth is, Heeseung saw you before she even walked over. He'd been waiting for you nervously, feet bouncing against the floor, his eyes flicking toward the entrance every time he heard footsteps. He noticed you the moment you stepped onto the second floor, ten minutes late, eyes scanning the tables with the guarded look you always wear when you're bracing for something. God, he still knows everything about you.
He noticed Emily hovering too, the girl who's practically been stalking him since freshman year. He could've ignored her or shut the conversation down before it even started like he usually does, but he didn't this time. Heeseung let her talk, laugh at some meaningless comment, and touch his chest with her bony fingers pricking through his hoodie. And he did it because he knew you were watching. Heeseung wasn't interested, flirting, or even listening. He was waiting for you to walk up, waiting to see if you'd react, waiting to confirm something he shouldn't want to know. The moment he saw your face tighten, something ugly settled in his chest. Satisfaction. It lasted half a second before the guilt slammed into him. What the hell is he doing? Hasn't he hurt you enough?
By the time you sit down, he's already running a hand over his jaw, regret coiling inside his stomach. God, he is such an ass. You don't give him time to speak. "Let's go over what I've found," you say flatly, opening your laptop. You explain your outline without looking at him once, but you can feel his eyes on you, heat crawling up the back of your neck. Why is he looking at you like that? He should be looking at the screen, not you. You swallow hard, trying to keep your eyes on the outline. "I'll keep researching until I have enough to build a solid recommendation with supporting evidences," you murmur. "This case needs a defensible analysis. Dr. Schmidt is going to tear our work apart if my research isn't thorough enough. No wonder they gave us the whole semester."
"You're still planning on doing all of this by yourself?" His voice is low, with an edge to it.
"Yes." You don't even look up. "We'll only need to meet to prepare for the presentation."
There's a long pause before he finally lets out a sigh. "I know you wish you were paired with literally anyone else, but we don't have a choice," he says quietly.
Your fingers freeze above the keyboard. You hate that your body always seems to react before your mind does when it comes to him. You hate that your heart always fucking hurts because of him. Because hate isn't entirely it. It was never that simple, and he has no idea. If you just hated him, this would be easier. You could face him without your heart cracking every time he looks at you. But there's too much history wrapped up in him. Too many things left unsaid. Too many versions of him layered over each other in your memory for it to be easy for you.
He continues, jaw tightening. "This is my grade too." You finally lift your eyes, meeting his stare. He's right. He is supposed to do this with you, and you know that. But it doesn't stop the irritation you feel at his sudden insistence on being involved, such a sharp contrast to how he was in high school. It makes you almost scoff out loud. "I'm not hurting your grade," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm putting my all into this because I want the internship more than anything, and I'm not letting anyone, especially you, ruin it for me."
You have to set these boundaries. As stupid as it is, you still can't trust yourself around him even after all these years. "I'll handle the analysis and report. You can take the presentation." Heeseung watches you for a moment longer like he wants to argue, like there's something on the tip of his tongue, but the look on your face makes him stop. "Okay," he says finally, resigned.
But he doesn't listen. Heeseung works on the case over the next couple of weeks despite your wish. Instead of letting the boys drag him to frat parties and bars, Heeseung shows up to the library alone, usually late at night after football practice, still sweaty, hair damp, and body aching, which he tries to ignore. Throughout college, this being his third year, Heeseung has never spent as much time in the library as he has over these past few weeks. It's honestly diabolical. He rereads the case brief until it finally clicks, highlighting key information, and jotting down notes. He pulls financial statements, industry reports, academic journals, and forms valuations, seeing if his research can support your proposed solution and running the numbers to see if they line up with yours.
Truthfully, Heeseung has been struggling. Struggling would be an understatement, but it's not because he's stupid. This class just has nothing to do with his major. He ends up asking Jake for help, a decision he almost regrets when Jake never lets him hear the end of it, but Heeseung takes it. All of it. Because he knows how much this means to you. How hard you've been working for it. He refuses to be careless when your future depends on it. Eventually, Heeseung opens the shared document. He's careful about not daring to touch your work, but he adds his beneath it. He leaves comments, resources, clarifying questions that Dr. Schmidt might ask, and notes in the margin, pointing out potential risks and strengthening the argument. When Heeseung's done for the night, he saves the document and closes his laptop, rubbing a hand over his face, thinking about what you might say.
You refuse to work with him or even be in the same vicinity as him, so Heeseung keeps showing up in the only way he can—quietly, carefully, and without asking for permission. You immediately notice his work the moment you open the document the next morning. New text beneath yours, comments in the margins, and timestamps that stretch late into the night. Your jaw tightens. Of course he didn't listen. Your phone is already in your hand before you even finish scrolling, fingers practically flying as you type a sharp, angry text about him doing exactly what you told him not to do, but then you pause and actually read it. You skim through at first, quick and irritated, looking for anything to justify snapping at him. Maybe a wrong assumption, a sloppy calculation, or a comment that oversteps. Instead, you find citations you hadn't come across yet as well as evidences and risks you mentioned briefly that he expanded on with thoughtful insights. You scroll slower. Heeseung's work isn't half-assed or contradicting. They actually support and strengthen your analysis and proposal. He fixed the weak spots in your work that have been causing you so much stress.
Your drafted text sits unsent as you lean back in your chair, exhaling through your nose. This isn't what you wanted or asked for, but it's also good. Very good. You lock your phone without sending the explosive message, eyes drifting back to the document. For the first time since being paired with Heeseung, you feel something other than angry. You feel relieved and grateful. Your mind eases for the first time in weeks with Heeseung's help that you so stubbornly refused at first. Embarrassment trickles in along with a faint of guilt at how immature you've been, so determined to shut him out even when he was only trying to help.
You don't like admitting it, even to yourself, but you were wrong to doubt Heeseung. He actually made this lighter and manageable in a way it hadn't been before. Maybe you owe Heeseung an apology or at least a thank you, but before you can spiral over that too, you finally decide to take a break from this grueling case you've been buried in. You end up at one of the dance studios on campus. You haven't been here for far too long.
Although you quit ballet midway through high school to focus on your studies, you always find yourself back in the studio every once in a while. You truly love ballet, and you've never really stopped dancing. It's the one thing that still helps quiet your mind. The studio is empty and quiet, sunlight spilling in through the windows, and mirrors lining the walls. You change into your leotard, tights, and point shoes, stepping onto the floor as Swan Lake begins to play. Your body remembers before your mind does. And for the first time in weeks, you're not thinking about the case, the internship, or Heeseung. Just the quiet comfort of returning to something no one can take away from you.
Heeseung is on his way to class when the music nearby stops him. He freezes. Swan Lake. The sound leaks through the studio door. It's unmistakable. It's the same song you used to practice to over and over again when he'd be sitting off to the side, watching you intently with a brownie stuffed in his pocket, saving it for you. It's the one song you always went back to because you said it helped you focus and it made everything else disappear. His chest tightens. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at the closed studio door like it might disappear if he looks away. He hasn't heard this song in years, not since before everything fell apart.
Heeseung swallows, hesitating before taking a careful step closer. Through the narrow window in the door, he sees you. You're moving with such an angelic grace that steals the air from his lungs. It's familiar and effortless, like your body never forgot even if life forced you to step away. Each movement is precise, controlled, and achingly beautiful. He forces himself not to breathe too loudly, afraid that even the smallest sound might shatter what's unfolding in front of him. So he just watches, rooted in place, heart heavy with a realization he doesn't know how to carry. You never stopped being this person. But somewhere along the way, he became something so ugly. Maybe he always has been. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be near you. He would only taint you, ruin you like he was told. And they were right. But Heeseung lets himself be selfish one last time because seeing you like this, alone, focused, untouched by everything between you, feels like stumbling upon something sacred, precious. Something you once shared with him.
But the guilt tears him apart when he remembers the morning he was supposed to go the Varna Ballet Competition. The one you wouldn't stop talking about for months. The one that actually mattered. You told him it was the most important recital of your life, the kind dancers trained years for. You didn't even have to make him promise he'd be there because he always was. Until he wasn't.
He had been pacing in his room that morning, fingers fumbling with the top button of his dress shirt, heart pounding as the promises he made twisted tighter and tighter in his chest when Sooah knocked on his door. She didn't yell or scold, but she was tired, confused, and disappointed. Disappointed by the sudden distance he'd put between himself and you, the girl who was like a daughter to her. The girl who used to be the only person capable of pulling a smile out of her son when no one else could. "Come with me, honey." she pleaded, voice strained. "She needs you there."
But he hesitated too long. By the time he stepped into the hallway, Sooah was already heading for the door. When he reached it, she was pulling out of the driveway, the red glow of her taillights disappearing into the dark. Panic had hit him all at once. "Wait—" he shouted as tears spilled out of his eyes, throwing the door open and bolting outside with his mismatch shoes stomping against the pavement.
But he didn't make it past the porch. Minsuk latched onto his arm firmly, pulling him back inside. "You can't go," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, son." Heeseung fought him. Well at least he tried to. Thrashing in his father's arms and yelling as if he could still catch up to his mother. Like he could still make it in time if he just ran fast enough. But he couldn't. The driveway was empty, the house was quiet, and the bouquet of pink tulips he was supposed to give you sat abandoned on his desk, slowly wilting beneath the weight of one of the promises he couldn't keep.
He let you believe he simply didn't care enough to show up. Now, standing in the hallway outside the studio as Swan Lake fills the air again, the same helplessness crashes into him. The same regret. The same sick understanding that maybe he did have a choice after all. And for the first time in a long time, he's close enough to see it. Close enough to know exactly what he lost. Break it. That's what he should've done.
You hold your last pose, arms extended, chin lifted, and body perfectly still during the final notes of Swan Lake. You don't rush it. You never do, but this time, you really want to. Heeseung watches through the narrow window, breath shallow, afraid that if he moves, the moment will break. But you already know he's there. You caught his reflection in the mirror mid-pirouette, a figure at the door that didn't belong to the empty studio you thought you had to yourself.
The music fades. You remain frozen for a beat longer than necessary, muscles burning, heart racing, not just from the dance, but from the weight of Heeseung watching you. Slowly, you lower your arms and exhale, the room settling into silence. You straighten your shoulders, gaze fixed on your reflection in the mirror, and force your voice to stay calm. "I know you've been standing there… so just come in," you say, unsure of your invitation. You should've just ignored him. Fuck.
Heeseung hesitates before pulling the door open. His face is flushed, embarrassed now that he knows you caught him watching. He steps inside carefully, unsure if he's even allowed to exist in this space with you at all. He looks dazed like he hasn't fully caught up to what's happening. "I didn't mean to—" he starts, then stops. "I heard the music on my way to class."
You wipe the sweat from your neck before turning to face him, your expression unreadable. "It's Swan Lake," you say simply. "But you already know that." His jaw tightens at that. He nods, eyes dropping to the floor. "I remember," he says quietly. After a pause, he adds, "You were amazing by the way—the dance I mean." His face turns even redder like he regrets saying anything at all now.
The air between you shifts, growing heavier. "Thanks… and for helping with the research," you mutter. "Nah," Heeseung says quickly. "I couldn't let you carry it all alone." Silence stretches between you. Thick and uncomfortable until you're fed up again. What the hell is his problem? He's been showing up, helping, watching you dance like it means something, and acting like he cares after all this time. He doesn't get to do that. You clench your fists, frustration boiling over too fast before you can stop it. "Why are you doing this?" you snap. He looks up, startled. "All of it," you continue, voice tight. "The help. The concern. The pretending like none of this is fucking weird." You're so angry and exhausted. After all these years, he still won't tell you why he left. But you've decided it makes no sense. There has to be a reason. A bigger one. Because he's been looking at you the way he looked at you during prom, like someone who wants you, but is restraining themselves. Not someone who doesn't care. Not someone who moved on.
Heeseung swallows hard, bracing himself before taking a small step closer, afraid you might vanish if he doesn't. "I'm sorry," he says, rough and unfinished. "For the project. For before. For everything. I know apologies won't fix what I did, but I need you to know I never meant to hurt you." You let out a humorless laugh as you cross your arms. He's seven years too late. "Why?" you press. The single word stops him cold. "Why did you do all of it?" your voice trembles as tears blur your vision. Your cries hit him like a punch to the gut.
His chest tightens painfully, breath catching as he watches your face crumble in front of him. Every instinct in him screams for him to close the distance, to reach out and wipe your tears away the way he used to, to hold you until the shaking stops, but he doesn't move. He knows he doesn't deserve that kind of closeness anymore. Not after everything he's done. Not when he's the reason you're crying in the first place. So he stays rooted where he is, hands clenched at his sides, forcing himself to watch as the only girl he's ever loved breaks apart because of him, again.
"Why show up now? Why help when I told you not to? Why pretend you care after years of abandoning me?" He looks up at you again, and for a split second, you think he's finally going to say it. Whatever truth that's been sitting between you all this time. "I disappeared," he says instead, voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. "I stopped showing up. I stopped being there when you needed me, and I hate myself for that. You deserved better than that."
"That's not an answer," you say flatly.
"I know. I was stupid, alright?" he starts, shaking his head in frustration. "I thought you were too good for me. No, you are too good for me." He's not lying, but he's not telling you the entire truth. "You were doing everything right," he continues, shoulders shaking as he cries. "You were disciplined, focused, and talented. You were going somewhere, and I would've only dragged you down."
"That's such bullshit," you scream.
He flinches.
"You don't get to use self-pity as an excuse," you say, tears spilling freely now. "You didn't disappear because I was 'too good' for you. You disappeared because you were a coward." His lips part, but nothing comes out. You let out a bitter laugh. "You think I can't make decisions for myself? It's wasn't your place to decide for me. You don't get to shut me out and call it noble instead of being honest." His eyes flicker with panic, shame, and guilt all tangled together. "You think I wouldn't have stayed?" you ask, voice breaking. "You think I wouldn't have fought for you if you'd just told me the truth?"
He doesn't answer because he can't, and you see it. That's what hurts the most. All the lies. "You're apologizing," you say quietly "but you're still hiding." You grab your bag, hands shaking. "I don't need excuses," you say. "I need the truth, and you still won't give it to me. I can't do this again." He steps forward instinctively. "Please—" "Don't," you snap, wiping your tears. "Don't apologize if you're still going to lie to my face." You turn and walk out of the studio, the door slamming shut behind you, the echo louder than the music.
Heeseung stays rooted to the floor because the truth is sitting heavy in his chest, suffocating, unspeakable. Because he promised he would never tell you. Because telling you would destroy everything. Because he'll do anything to protect you, even if it means keeping you far away. Even if you hate him for it.
—
Over the next couple of weeks, you lock yourself in your room with the excuse of studying for midterm exams. You tell yourself you focus better there, but the truth is, you don't want to run into Heeseung. You skip the library, avoid popular cafes around campus, order in food, and keep your door shut. You study late into the night, flashcards and notes spread across your desk, forcing your mind to stay busy so it doesn't drift back to the studio, to his face, to the way he cried.
It works… mostly, but every time your phone lights up, your chest tightens anyway because some part of you is still bracing for him even when you're doing everything you can to avoid him.
The girls notice. They always do. You start turning down plans. You stop showing up to group study sessions, late-night food runs, and anything that requires you to leave your room. You tell them it's because of midterms, and you're exhausted. That you just want to be alone. They don't push at first, but then midterms end. The campus breathes a sigh of relief and suddenly, Thanksgiving break is looming with everyone counting down the days until they can go home. That's when they intervene.
You're rotting in your bed, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok when there's a gentle knock at your door. "You're going out with us tonight," Sophia declares, already halfway through your door before you even get the chance to respond. "No excuses this time," Manon adds, raising an eyebrow. "We're dragging you to the club if we have to." Yunjin lingers by the doorframe, watching you carefully with concern softening her expression. You feel a pang of guilt for worrying her so much. Normally, she would've already barged in and set you straight without hesitation. "You've been holed up here for weeks, Y/N. You need a break," she says gently. You hesitate. The thought of loud music and swarms of drunken, sweaty bodies feels overwhelming, but maybe this is good for you. Maybe it'll distract you. Numb the pain you've been carrying inside.
They girls have already planned your outfit, hyping you up like it's a done deal. "It's almost Thanksgiving break," Manon continues. "We have to hangout before everyone goes back home." "One night won't kill you, and if it sucks, we'll leave early," Sophia reassures. "Come on, please!" Yunjin adds as the three of them get down on their knees and beg dramatically. You glance at your desk, the finished notes, and you realize there's nothing left to hide behind. You've finished your exams. Maybe one night out will help you forget everything, even if it's just for a few hours. "Fine," you sigh. "But I'm not getting wasted."
They cheer like you've just won the Nobel Prize, immediately ushering you towards the bathroom. It's honestly embarrassing how you barely remember the last time you showered properly. You're not allowing yourself to rot away in bed over Heeseung any longer. No, you absolutely refuse. For the first time in weeks, you let yourself be pulled out of your room, away from your thoughts, away from the silence, and into the night meant to distract you from him.
—
You arrive to the bar in a black lace corset that snatches your waist, squeezes your breasts too tightly as they're practically spilling out of the neck line, and it's sheer in all the right places. You pair it with tiny black leather shorts, sitting dangerously low on your hips. It's risque and bold, making you reluctant to leave the house in, but the girls insisted on you wearing it since they spent 'so much time' picking it out. You look unapologetic, untouchable, and that's exactly what you need for tonight.
You start the night at the bar. "Gin and tonic please," you tell the bartender. You don't want to get drunk. Just enough to take the edge off. Enough to quiet the noises in your head. The glass is cool in your hand when it's set down. You take a small sip, barely tasting it when Sophia interjects. "Okay, now let's get on the dance floor." "Come on," Manon whines, already bouncing to the beat. "We didn't get dressed like this to stand around."
You shake your head. "You guys go first. I'll join in a bit." Yunjin frowns, tilting her head. "Are you sure? We can just wait for you then." "No way!" you insist, forcing a smile. "Go. I promise I'll come join you in a minute." They hesitate, exchanging looks like they're unsure about leaving you alone. "We'll stay near the bar then," Sophia says gently through the booming music, knowing you need some time alone. Manon nods in agreement, squeezing your hand. "Join us soon, okay?" Yunjin lingers the longest, searching your face before nodding. "Text us immediately if anything happens." "I will," you promise.
Reluctantly, they disappear into the crowd, swallowed by flashing lights, mingling bodies, and booming music. You exhale once they're gone, shoulders dropping just slightly. That's when James slides into the empty space beside you. "Hey," he says, smiling down at you in that familiar way, warm and tender, like he's genuinely happy to see you. It's not new, the way James looks at you. It started back in freshman year in ways that made it clear he actually cared, not just passing interest. He always chooses a seat near you when there are plenty of others. He lingers after lectures just to keep talking even when his friends are already halfway down the hall. Conversations with him are thoughtful, unhurried like he never minds being late if it means hearing you finish a thought.
He flirts, yes, but softly with sincerity. You've always been aware you're pretty, People have a way of making it obvious, but James never made it feel like it was the only thing worthwhile about you. He's like a golden retriever, kind without trying, the type of guy who checks in, remembers details, and never makes you feel like you owe him anything. Still, he's undeniably handsome. Broad shoulders, dark hair that falls naturally out of place, a face that softens the moment he smiles. Nothing forced. Nothing arrogant. Just easy, natural charm.
But despite all of that, you're not interested in him beyond being friends. Not because he's lacking, but because your heart has been tied up elsewhere for far too long even when you don't realize it. Still bruised. Still loyal to something that you haven't fully let go. And that's just not fair to James. He's too good for that.
"Hey," you respond, returning a small, genuine smile. "You look really beautiful tonight," James says, shyly. "I mean, you always do. But tonight? Yeah, I had to say something." There's no hunger. No lust. Just pure admiration. "And you don't look too bad yourself, James," you grin, flashing him a wink. And for the first time tonight, you feel more relaxed.
James' ears immediately turn red at that before continuing, "Thank you, but I have to say, you're the last person I'd expect to see here." He's not wrong. You attend the occasional house parties, but the club? It's not really your thing. More like it's not your thing at all. You'd rather spend the night tucked in your warm couch, a glass of wine in hand while the girls talk over one another with soft melodies playing in the background.
"My friends dragged me here. What about you?"
"Same with me," he says, tilting his head towards his familiar friends. For a moment, neither of you speaks as you take slow sips of your drink, the bass vibrating through the counter, the lights washing over the glass in flickers of red and blue. It isn't awkward, just quiet. James glances at you from the corner of his eye. "Hey," he says gently. "I can tell you've got a lot on your mind tonight." He hesitates, then adds, "If you want to be left alone, I can go." You melt at how sweet he is and slightly panic at his polite offer. "No," you say quickly before softening your tone. "Please stay." You really want James to stay. His presence has been comforting. His smile returns immediately, relieved. "Of course."
You fully turn towards him now, ready to say something else to keep the moment steady, and then—you see him. Near the edge of the dance floor, Heeseung stands beneath the strobe lights. But next to him is—Giselle. Your body shakes, your nostrils flare, and your fingers curl into your palms so tightly it stings, threatening to draw blood. After everything, after the apology, the quiet voice, the look in his eyes when he begged you to stay, this is where he is, with her. The anger rushes straight to your chest. You're not just upset, you're livid. So livid your vision blurs, so livid you could cross the room and punch him in the face. Maybe her too. For all the times she was a raging bitch. They're standing too close. Not touching, but close enough to make your skin crawl.
Before you can look away, James follows your line of sight, brows furrowed at your deathly glare. "Oh—that's Heeseung right?" he says, not really asking . He already knows. Everyone does. "Dude's a football legend. He could go pro, but my friend told me he wants to be a lawyer. They're in an LSAT study group with him and—"
Your brows furrow. A lawyer? The word hits you harder than the bass vibrating through the floor. The club blurs for a second, the strobe lights melting into something distant as memories immediately rush in uninvited. You're twelve again, sitting cross-legged on Sooah's home office floor, papers scattered everywhere. Court documents. Contracts. Things you were explicitly told not to touch. Heeseung grins like he always did when talking about his mother, eyes bright and earnest as he rifled through them anyway. "My mom is the best lawyer ever," he declared with pride. "I'm gonna be a lawyer like her one day." You remember how serious he sounded even back then. Your throat tightens.
James is still talking, oblivious. "I heard he always does well on the practice tests too. He lowkey carries the whole group." You let out a quiet, laugh that doesn't quite reach your eyes. You didn't know Heeseung was still chasing that dream, but you don't know anything about him. Not anymore.
"James, will you dance with me?"
Across the club, Heeseung stands there with his jaw locked, eyes dull with pure irritation as Giselle keeps inching closer. Her shoulder brushes his arm, her hip bumping his leg every time she laughs, fingers grazing his sleeves. He tried shifting away—multiple times, but Giselle closes the gap right back up each time. Her tacky perfume hits his nose with every inhale, sharp and nauseating, and it makes his skin crawl.
Why am I even here, he thinks. Jake. Fucking Jake. He insisted on Heeseung coming out with the boys, telling him he "needed a night off," promising it would be low-key. and then, without asking, he invites Giselle. If he knew Giselle would be here, he wouldn't have come. Hell, he would've lock his door and turned off his phone, knowing Giselle came to track him down. "Can you not?" Heeseung finally snaps, stepping sideways to put space between them. But she just laughs and leans in again, brushing against him, and Heeseung swears his jaw is going to break with how hard he's clenching it to avoid snapping even further. "I'm serious, Giselle," he says, voice low and sharp, turning fully toward her now. "Back the hell off." She scoffs, clearly offended, but he's already done with her. His attention drifts across the room despite Giselle's annoying complaints, then—he sees you.
His stomach drops as he feels something ugly and possessive tighten in his chest. Jealousy. You're not alone. You're with some guy, way too close, way too relaxed. Jack. James. Jacob. Whatever the hell his name is. It doesn't matter right now because the only thing that does is the way you're looking at the guy. You're smiling up at him, fingers laced with his as he gently pulls you toward the dance floor. You're so close to him, hands around his neck, his hands on your bare waist. Heeseung almost lunges forward, hands balled into fists, jaw tight, but he stops himself before he can reach you. "Don't," he tells himself. He has no right to feel this way. No right to watch you like that. No right to interfere with your date, your choices. He told himself he'd stay out of it. He told himself he'd keep his distance.
As you dance, you rest your head against his shoulder, comfortable, unguarded. He leans down, mouth close to your ear, and whispers something you nod at. He's leans in and kisses you, and that's when Heeseung finally snaps. His chest feels tight, breath shallow, vision narrowing until all he can see is you pressed against someone else. Someone who's not him. That's it. Heeseung doesn't think. He doesn't weigh the consequences. He just moves. He cuts through the crowd, ignoring the heads swiveling towards him, the way Giselle calls his name from behind. His hand closes around your wrist.
"What—?" you start, stumbling slightly as he drags you toward his chest. "We're leaving," he says, voice rough, already hauling you toward the exit."Heeseung, let go—" But he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. Doesn't look back because if he sees you with him again, he knows he'll lose control completely whether it's his place or not.
Outside, the music is muffled. Distant. The streetlights hum overhead. You rip your arm back. "Are you fucking insane?" Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your eyes blazing as you glare at him. He hasn't looked away once since dragging you out of the club. His eyes are dark, chest heaving. "What are you doing with him?" You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "It's not of your business," you snap. "You don't get to drag me out like that."
"You need to be fucking careful," he fires back, taking a step closer. "You don't know his intentions." The audacity of it. After seeing him cozying up to Giselle not even two minutes ago, something in you snaps. Before you can stop yourself, your hand connects with his face. "Clearly you're fucking deranged because I feel way safer with James than I'd ever feel around you," you scream. Heeseung's eyes flash with hurt. For a moment, neither of you speaks as you're both reeling from the fact that you just slapped him. The tension between you is electric, dangerous, and unresolved in every possible way. "You don't get to do this," you say again, quieter now. "Not when you're inside with Giselle on your arm." He looks surprised for a second before his gaze softens. "It's not—"
Then—"Hey!" James voices cuts through the tension. He jogs out of the club, eyes immediately scanning you, concern written all over his face. "What's going on? Why did he just pull you out like that?" Out of the corner of your eye, you see Heeseung stiffen, jaw locking as fury creeps back in. "This doesn't involve you," he snaps. "So leave us the fuck alone." James steps closer anyway, placing himself in front of you, shielding you from Heeseung. "Actually, it does. You think I'm going to stand around after you dragged her out like that." "I'm fine," you say quickly, though your heart is still racing. James studies Heeseung for a moment before turning back to you. "Are you sure, Y/N?" he asks gently. "I can take you home." Before you can even answer, Heeseung lets out a bitter laugh. "Like hell you are." James stiffens. "Excuse me?"
"She's coming with me," Heeseung says, voice dangerously calm like he's not giving James any room to argue. "It's your choice, Y/N, but I don't like the way he grabbed you," James says before adding, "Just because you're the reigning football champion doesn't mean you get to put your hands on girls however you—" That's it. Heeseung's restraint finally snaps. The punch lands with a sharp crack, his fist connecting with James's jaw, sending him stumbling back. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" you shout, horror slicing through the anger as you rush towards James. "Oh my god—James, are you okay?" you cup his face without thinking, fingers gentle as you check his jaw. 'I'm so sorry, I didn't know he'd—"
"I'm okay," James says quickly, steadying you. He winces a little then gives you a reassuring nod. "I'm fine. Really. You don't need to apologize." Heeseung stands there frozen, chest rising and falling, knuckles already red and split. His are eyes wild—half disbelief at what he's done, half something uglier as he watches the way your hands linger on James's face. The way you're close. The softness in your voice. His jaw tightens, jealousy flashing hot and ugly across his face even now. Everything else fades, the club, Giselle. The realization settles heavy in your chest. This has gone too far.
Then—you hear sirens. Faint at first. Distant but unmistakable. You don't know if they're for something else or if someone saw the fight and called the police, but you don't wait to find out. "We have to leave. Now," you say urgently. "I'm not leaving without you, Y/N," Heeseung says immediately. You consider screaming at him, telling him to fuck off, but the last thing you want is to draw even more attention. "I'm so sorry, James," you say, guilt flooding your chest. "We have to go before the police get here."
James nods, understanding. "I'll be okay with him," you add quickly. "Please just head home. I'll text you later, okay?" Heeseung grunts at that. James hesitates, then says quietly, "Understood, but contact me if anything happens." He shoots Heeseung one last warning look before climbing into a taxi.
You quickly text the girls in the group chat to let them know you're going home first and to not worry before grabbing Heeseung by the sleeve. "Come on," you snap. "We're leaving. Now." He lets you pull him down the sidewalk, away from the club, away from the mess he created. Once you're far enough where there's no one else around, you stop abruptly and unleash your frustration on him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you explode. "Do you have any idea how that could've ended? You punched him. In public. Over nothing, you freak!" "It wasn't nothing," he fires back. "Oh my god, are you serious right now?" your laugh is sharp. "You have no right to act like that."
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping in front of you. "I don't like seeing him that close to you." Your eyes narrow. Is this asshole serious? "First off, it's none of your concern who I'm with. Second, you think that gives you the right to lose control and hurt him?"
"I know, but I couldn't help it, okay?" he says, voice strained. "He had his hands on you. You were laughing—"
"And you were inside with Giselle," you cut in immediately. "So don't even start. Don't you dare act jealous when you were doing the exact same thing." His mouth opens, then shuts. He exhales hard. "I wasn't with her because I wanted to be." "You were literally standing with her," you snap. "After everything you said to me. After you begged in the studio."
He flinches, but pushes on. "No one told me she was coming. Jake called her and didn't even ask me. If I knew she was going to come, I wouldn't have come." You don't say anything for a second, so he seizes it. "I told her to back off multiple times, but she wouldn't listen." You fold your arms, still furious. "And your solution was to stand there and let her?" "I wasn't trying to make a scene," he says softly.
You scoff. "Yet you made a scene with James and I?"
"Giselle's not worth it," he says, inching closer to you. "I lost it, and I'm sorry," he admits finally, quieter now. "Seeing him touch you. Seeing you look at him like that. It messed with my head." You shake your head, voice firm. "Your jealousy doesn't excuse what you did."
"I know," he says immediately. "I know. I fucked up." The adrenaline drains, leaving behind something more complicated than anger—hurt, exhaustion, and disappointment. "You don't get to decide who stands next to me," you say. "Not after everything. Not after I gave you my heart, and you just left me without a word." He meets your eyes, no defensiveness left this time. Just regret and fear. "I still love—"
You feel like throwing up. "No," you cut him off. "Not like this. Not now. Not ever." You raise your hand, flag down a cab, and climb inside without looking back. As the car pulls away, you finally let yourself breathe as Heeseung's figures gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until he disappears completely. Truthfully, you're not sure what to believe anymore, but you know one thing for certain. Staying would've broken you all over again, and choosing yourself hurts less than letting him do it again.
—
The next day feels strangely quiet. Too quiet. You don't tell anyone what happened—not even Yunjin. When the girls interrogate you over breakfast, asking you why you left early, you shrug it off with something vague. Headache. Tired. Overstimulated. They exchange looks, clearly unconvinced, but they let it go. You keep it all to yourself—the fight, the punch, the way you walked away after he almost said those three words, eight letters.
And Heeseung. You don't know what to do with him. You don't answer any of his eight missed calls or the twenty messages. Everything feels unfinished and raw like when you were fourteen. Maybe it's always been that way.
But you focus on the one thing you do know you need to do. James. The guilt sits heavy in your chest. You've been replaying the night over and over—how you asked him to dance, how you let him kiss you. A part of you hates yourself for it. Not because James did anything wrong—he didn't—but because you know why you did all of that. You needed a distraction. You didn't mean to use him or lead him on, but you also weren't honest with yourself about why you asked him to dance. And that realization stings.
So you text him.
You: hey, are you feeling better?
He responds almost immediately.
James: yeah, don't worry :)
You: no, I owe you a big apology! are you free to grab coffee?
James: i'm free. you don't owe me anything though, but coffee sounds great
The cafe is warm and quiet, sunlight filtering through the windows in a way that feels undeserved considering what you've done. You made sure to arrive early and bought him a drink. It's the least you can do. James looks the same as he did last night—gentle, sweet, but there's a faint bruise along his jaw that makes your stomach twist.
"I'm really sorry," you say before he even sits down. "About everything."
He shakes his head. "You don't need to apologize for his actions."
"Still, I feel responsible," you admit quietly as you look down to your lap shamefully. "I dragged you into something messy."
James studies you for a moment before he raises your chin with his hand. "You didn't ask for that to happen," he says softly.
You nod, fingers curling around your cup. You consider telling him everything, how part of you asked him to dance because you wanted Heeseung to see, how desperately you wanted to feel seen by someone who didn't hurt you before. The truth sits right on the tip of your tongue. But it's like James can read your mind. "I'm guessing you and Heeseung have history," he says, raising one brow. "Is that why you seemed so… down last night? And maybe why you asked me to dance?"
Your heart shutters. You close your eyes for a brief moment, inhaling slowly, choosing your words carefully. "Yes," you admit, opening your eyes again. "But not entirely." James waits. He doesn't rush you. "We grew up together," you continue, voice steady but quiet. "Our mothers are best friends. So naturally we were best friends… until we weren't." Something soft crosses his expression. Understanding. Not judgment. You take a breath, then push on, choosing honesty even though it stings. "The least I could do is be honest," you say. "So yes, part of me wanted him to see. But mostly, I needed a distraction. I needed something that felt safe." Your fingers tighten slightly around the cup before you meet James's eyes again. "And you're that for me."
The words hang between you, vulnerable and unpolished, but true. You swallow, then add quickly, "And I understand that it's wrong. If you're upset or uncomfortable, you have every right to walk out or be mad at me." You brace yourself, eyes dropping to the table for a second, ready for disappointment or distance.
"I'm not mad, Y/N," he says gently. "Really."
You look up, surprised.
"If you need me as a distraction, if you need someone to lean on, use me," he continues. He meets your eyes, honest and calm. "I think you probably realize that I like you. I guess I'm not exactly subtle." Your chest tightens. "But you don't owe me anything," he adds quickly. "If right now I'm just a friend you can use or sit with when things get messy… I'm okay with that. We're nothing more than friends if that makes you feel comfortable," he reassures, smiling softly.
The tension you were holding onto finally loosens. "Thank you, James," you say, giving him the biggest, most genuine smile. "For being so understanding."
"Anytime," he nods. There's a beat of quiet before you speak again. "Do you want to come to my place for Thanksgiving?" James blinks, caught off guard. "Thanksgiving?"
"Yeah," you say, quickly adding, "Only if you want to. No pressure. It's just my mom makes the best turkey and—" You stop and exhale. "I'd like you there.
He considers it for a moment, then smiles again. Warmer this time. "I'd love to."
"Awesome," you grin, then notice something else. "Your bandage is falling off, by the way. Here—let me fix it." You lean in, carefully adjusting the bandage on his jaw. He watches you with amused eyes before flashing a crooked smile and winking.
"I still look handsome, even after getting beaten to a pulp." You laugh the loudest you've laughed in weeks. "Yes, James. You still look very dashing."
—
The drive from Cambridge to your house is long, exactly five hours long, but somehow, it doesn't feel daunting. You and James both prepare like it's a mission, both bringing a ridiculous amount of snacks with pillows and blankets stuffed into the backseat. James insists on driving, nudging you toward the passenger seat when you try to grab your keys. "Get some rest," he says easily. "If I feel tired, we can switch." You both know he won't ask you to switch, but you don't argue. You curl up instead, tucking a pillow against the door, watching the campus fade in the rearview mirror as you drive away.
A couple minutes in, you start talking. "This is the first Thanksgiving without Yunjin," you say quietly, staring out the window. "She's in France with her parents."
James glances over briefly. "That must feel weird. You two are practically attached by the hip." You chuckle at that because that's what everyone says. "Yeah," you admit. "We've never spent it apart, but I'm glad you're coming!" He laughs softly. "I am too."
You trade playlists after that. James reveals that his music taste is all over the place. He loves rap, r&b, and the occasional country music, which you never would've guessed. You end up teasing him for it. You also tell him how you only listen to r&b. You find out PND is both of your favorite artist, and you bond over that for half an hour.
At some point, you start playing I Spy. It lasts exactly ten minutes. "You can't say 'gray' when literally everything on the highway is gray," you accuse. "You can't accuse me of cheating just because you're losing," he shoots back, wiggling his brows. "You're impossible." "And you're dangerously competitive, he says." You both laugh and agree to stop before James swerves out of spite. The road stretches on, quieter now, but still comfortable.
After a while, James asks causally, "So… who's going to be there?"
"Some family and friends, you say. "Oh—and Heeseung's parents."
James nods. "Don't worry," you add quickly. "He never celebrates with us anymore. He usually stays at Jake's place." You glance at him, gauging his reaction.
James hums thoughtfully. "Jake and…?" "Sunghoon," you supply. "The golden football trio." You sigh, already annoyed. "That's not why I invited you, by the way." He finally looks over, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I know."
"You do?"
"I trust you," he says simply. Your heart feels content at that. Eventually, you drift off to the peaceful, comfortable silence.
—
The car barely comes to a full stop before your front door swings open. "Y/N!" Your mom squeal, pulling you into a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you. She smells like home—a mix of her sweet Coco Mademoiselle perfume, laundry detergent, and whatever she's cooking. "You look so skinny, honey," she declares immediately, hands on your shoulders, scanning you from head to toe. "Have you been eating properly? Come inside, I made food already."
"Hi, mom," you laugh, already being dragged towards the kitchen. Your father follows, smiling as he pulls you into a long hug. Then his gaze shifts—sharp, assessing as he sees James. "And you must be…?" he asks.
"Hello, Mr. L/N. My name is James," he says, stepping forward and offering a firm handshake. "Thank you for having me."
"Honey, I already told you Y/N invited a friend," your mother scolds. "Hello, dear. You must be very hungry after such a long drive. Come sit down." Your mother peers at James like she's inspecting a purchase she's already decided she likes. Her eyes light up. "He's a very handsome friend, Y/N."
You groan. "Mom."
James laughs, his ears turning red. "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. L/N! I've heard amazing things about your famous turkey."
"Well, I take my cooking very seriously when it comes to Thanksgiving," your mother laughs. "I'll cut you a piece right now!"
Your dad clears his throat. "Just so we're clear, you'll be sleeping in the guest room at the end of the hall. Very far away. On the opposite side of the house from Y/N." Everyone laughs. "Dad!" you protest. "Just establishing boundaries," he says, deadpan.
Sooah appears from the kitchen, already grinning. "You must be James." She looks between you and him, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Do you know my son Heeseung? He also goes to Harvard." You and James glance at each other, both stifling a laugh. "Yes," James says easily, nodding. "I do, ma'am.
Sooah's grin widens. "Great! This is the first Thanksgiving he's joining in years. You all can catch up!" The words land like broken shards of glass. You freeze.
"I didn't know Heeseung was coming?" your father asks. Weird. He never cares about who comes.
"He is, and Jay is joining us as well!" Sooah clarifies.
Minsuk clears his throat. "Let's go help Jiwoo plate the food and set the table." One by one, everyone drifts toward the dining room, footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving you and James alone in the entryway.
He turns to you immediately. "Are you okay, Y/N?" he asks, concerned etched all over his face.
You force a breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "Yeah," you lie, the word coming out a little too quickly. You swallow. "I swear I didn't know he was coming."
"Don't worry. I know," he reassures. "I'm right by your side." You meet his eyes and despite everything twisting in your chest, you manage a small smile. "Yeah," you say quietly. "Thank you, James."
As you follow him toward the dining room, you brace yourself because now, there's no avoiding what you thought you left behind. Right when you and James take your seats, the doorbell rings, and your heart skips a beat. "Oh—it must be Heeseung and Jay! I'll get the door," Sooah exclaims, already halfway to the door. You barely have time to brace yourself before you hear the front door open. Jay walks in first, smiling, carrying a bottle of wine, and already greeting your parents. And then—Heeseung. The moment he steps inside, his eyes search the room for you. When you meet his eyes, your breath hitches. For a second, everything else seems to fade away, then he sees James… sitting next to you. That should be his seat, but it's not anymore, and it hasn't been for a long time. His jaw tightens. You notice even as you pretend not to.
"Y/N!" Jay beams when he spots you. "It's been forever." You hug him immediately, holding on just a second longer than necessary.
"I missed you," you say honestly.
"Same," he grins, ruffling your hair before pulling away. "You look good." When you sit back down, Jay takes the other seat beside you, and Heeseung ends up at the end of the table. Relief washes through you as you're not sitting beside him. Your eyes flick toward Heeseung's for a moment. He gives you an small, awkward nod. You return it. Nothing more.
Jay, blissfully unaware, launches into small talk with James about school. James answers easily, relaxed, smiling in that effortless way that makes him likeable without trying.
Eventually, plates are passed and food is served, but you barely eat. You push your food around more than you actually take bites, nodding along when spoken to, smiling when expected. The smell of everything, turkey, stuffing, and gravy, feels too heavy right now. Every time you lift your fork, your appetite disappears.
Your mom and Sooah stand, gathering plates. "Let's get dessert ready," your mother says brightly. "Y/N, would you like to help us?"
"Sure… I'll be there in a minute," you nod. As they head off, James leans in. "Are you okay? You haven't been eating much."
"Yeah, I'm probably not that hungry after all the snacks we had in the car," you force a laugh.
He chuckles softly. "That'll do it."
"I'm going to help my mom," you say, pushing your chair back. "I'll be right back." Before you head to the kitchen, you take a detour to the bathroom, needing a moment to breathe. When you reach the bathroom, you hear voices coming from inside. It's Jay. "Bro, you have to tell her the truth," Jay says urgently. "You can't let her keep resenting you for something you had no control over." Your breath catches, feet planted into the floor in front of the bathroom.
"I'm serious," Jay continues. "She thinks—"
"Jay, drop it," Heeseung cuts in, hushed and firm.
"She doesn't need you protecting her anymore if you're going to lie," Jay presses. "She deserves the truth."
"Enough," Heeseung snaps under his breath. "Not here."
Your hands are trembling. You run to the nearest room before they come out. Your mind races as you latch onto fragments of their conversation—something you had no control over. Resenting you. The truth. Your chest feels tight, your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears. Whatever it is they're talking about, you know one thing with chilling certainty—you've been lied to for seven years, and you're going to find out what it is.
After you help your mom and Sooah plate the dessert, you finally excuse yourself again. This time, you're not looking for a moment to breathe. You're looking for answers. You see Jay near the staircase, phone pressed to his ear as he seems to be answering a work call. He turns around when the call ends, and his eyes land on you. Before he can say a word, you grab his wrist. "Hey—" he starts.
"Come with me and be quiet," you say sternly, already pulling him up the stairs.
"Y/N, wait—"
You don't. You drag him down the hallway and into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Only then do you turn to face him, arms crossed, heart pounding. "What is he hiding from me?" you demand.
Jay blinks. Then he finally laughs lightly like he's confused, feigning innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't," you say sharply. "I heard you. Downstairs. You told him he had to tell me the truth. That I'm resenting him for something he had no choice over."
Jay exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You must've misheard. We were talking about how people shouldn't judge the age gap between Max Verstappen and his girlfriend," he laughs awkwardly. "Like come on! It's 2026."
"Jay," you warn. "I swear I'm going to call Yunjin, and she's going to drop everything, fly back, and kick your ass. Do you want to be beaten up on Thanksgiving?"
His smile falters. He studies your face for a long moment, like he's weighing his options. Then he sighs, shoulder slumping, the act finally dropping. "Okay," he admits. "There is something."
Your heart pounds even louder. "What is it?"
He shakes his head immediately. "I can't tell you."
"Why not?" you groan. "Because it's not for me to tell. You deserve to hear it from him, not me," he says firmly, though his voice softens. "And because there's things he needs to say that I can't. It'll hurt you more coming from me."
You laugh bitterly. "You think this doesn't already hurt?"
Jay winces. "I know, but you need to hear it from him… you know I just want you to both be happy again."
"I don't know if that's possible," you say quietly, tears threatening to spill. Jay doesn't argue. He just looks at you for a moment, eyes heavy with something like regret before handing you a tissue. "Maybe not right away," he says. "But whatever happens, you should know it's been eating him alive for years. And it's been hurting you without you even knowing why."
Your throat tightens. "Then why does he keep hurting me?"
"Because sometimes," Jay says carefully, "people think they have to shoulder everything quietly to protect the person they love, even when it does the opposite." The room feels too small. Too cold. Jay continues, "I'm not trying to tell you how you should feel, but he's terrified that telling you will be the thing that finally makes him lose you for good."
That hits harder than you expect. Your heart aches at the thought of him being scared. Because no matter how badly Heeseung has hurt you, no matter how many times you've told yourself you're done with him, you know the truth you've never been able to say out loud. Truthfully, he could never lose you for good. Not completely. Not really. And that's what makes all of this unbearable.
Jay steps back toward the door. "I'm going to drag his ass up here, even by the ear if I have to." You nod as he slips out, leaving you alone in your childhood bedroom, surrounded by memories that suddenly feel too painful.
You barely have time to wipe your face before footsteps pound up the stairs. Your door bursts opens as Heeseung rushes in, breathless, like he just dropped everything and ran up here as fast as he could. His eyes are frantic as he sees your red-rimmed eyes. "Jay said you were crying," he says immediately. "What happened?"
You get straight to the point because you're just tired. Tired of all the lies and deception. "I heard you," you say, voice raw. "I heard Jay say I'm resenting you for something you had no control over. So stop lying to my face and tell me the truth." He freezes. For a long moment, he just stares at you like this is the moment he's been dreading for seven years. And you realize how tired and scared he looks.
He exhales, slowly and shaky, and closes the door behind him. "You should sit down first," he says quietly, but you don't. He swallows roughly. "Seven years ago," he begins, voice barely louder than a whisper, "the summer before high school started, my dad did something unforgivable."
Your stomach twists.
"He embezzled money from his clients," Heeseung reveals. "Millions, and he hid them in offshore accounts. Someone found out," he continues. "They blackmailed my dad and threatened to expose everything unless my dad paid them fifty million dollars."
"That's—" you choke on your words. How did you not know? "That's impossible."
"I wish it was…" he mutters. "He barely had any liquid assets, and he couldn't move the stolen funds without alarming the banks. They would've flagged it immediately."
Your knees feel weak, so you finally take a seat.
"But he was desperate, and my mom panicked. She didn't know what to do. So she went to your mom. My mom didn't know the full story and neither did your mom," he adds quickly. "They thought my dad's company was struggling financially. Your mom just knew my mom needed help, so she went to your father," his voice cracks. "He agreed to pay it."
Your hands curl into fists. "Why didn't I know?"
"Because he had two conditions," Heeseung says, tears flowing freely down his face.
You're not ready to hear this, but you have to. You need the truth.
"One, I had to stay away from you completely," he chokes out. "Your dad was worried the scandal would resurface, that I'd ruin your reputation. And two, we could never tell you. Not you. Not your mom. Not my mom. Ever." He breaks. Heeseung collapses on his knees, hands gripping the fabric of his jeans like it's the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders shake violently, sobs tearing out of him in a way you've never seen before. Not once in all the years you've known him.
You thought you could handle whatever he did, but your father? The betrayal slams into you so hard it steals the air from your lungs. The man who raised you. Protected you. The man you trusted with your whole life. How could he do this to you? The ache in your heart is so overwhelming that you just can't take it anymore, so you let yourself cry. The kind that wracks your whole body. You cry harder than the time you hurled your paper telephone out the window when Heeseung didn't answered you. Harder than prom night, when you stood frozen in your room, watching him and Giselle together. This hurts worse than everything combined.
"You didn't think to tell me?" you gasp through your sobs, clutching your bed like it might keep your heart from splitting open.
"I thought about it every day," he says hoarsely. "Every single day."
"Then why didn't you?" you cry.
He squeezes his eyes shut. "Because I believed your dad," he says. "I believed him when he said I'd ruin you. That being with me would destroy your future, everything you were going to become, and I could never do that to you." His voice shakes harder now, words spilling out like he's been holding them in for years. "So I did the only thing I thought would protect you," he continues. "I kept the promise and distanced myself. I surrounded myself with people you hated, who would destroy the old image of me."
You clutch your chest, shaking your head repeatedly, refusing to accept this. The lies. The stupid promise.
"I knew if I told you, you wouldn't have cared," he whispers. "You would've stayed. You would've fought, and I couldn't let you do that." He lifts his head to look at you. "So I had to make you hate me because I'd rather live with you hating me than hold on to you selfishly. I love you too much to let my father's selfishness tarnish you."
This time, you allow him to tell you he loves you. Because you believe him, and that's what hurts the most. Because believing him means accepting that for seven years, he let you think he was cruel. That he was careless. That he chose the girls, the partying over you. He let your anger rot inside of you, let resentment consume you, let you mourn something that apparently never stopped existing for him. He lied to protect you, but it only destroyed you as well.
You sink down in front of him, knees brushing his, breath shaking violently. And then you just lose it. Your fists slam into his chest. Once. Twice. Again. Each hit is messy, desperate, and powerless. "I could've dealt with it!" you scream, tears blinding you. "I could've dealt with my dad, dealt with the blackmailer, dealt with all of it!" You hit him again, harder. He doesn't stop you. Doesn't raise his hands. He just takes it, choking on sobs. "You don't get to decide that for me!" you cry. Your fists keep pounding. "I would've fought! I would've chosen you! You should've broken it—" Your voice cracks completely as you scream.
"Break it!" Another punch. "Break the fucking promise!" Another punch. "You let me believe you were the villain!" you sob. "You let me rot in hatred while you stood there loving me in silence like that was noble." Your hands fall uselessly against his chest, your strength finally gone. He grabs your wrist gently, not to stop you, but to hold you, grounding you, forehead pressing into yours as your tears mix together. "I know… I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Y/N," he pleads.
"I think you should go, Heeseung," you whisper. "I just… I can't right now." He freezes. For a moment, it looks like he might argue. Like he might beg, but he nods, slowly, painfully.
"Okay," he whispers. "I understand." He stands, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, not trusting himself to look at you for too long. When he reaches the door, his hand lingers on the handle. "I"ll wait," he says quietly. "I'll for whenever you're ready."
You don't answer. The door closes softly behind him. And you're left alone in your childhood bedroom, surrounded by memories that you begin to question.
—
After everyone leaves, the house goes quiet. You're curled on your bed when your phone buzzes. It's James. Shit, you forgot about him.
James: jay said you weren't feeling well. are you okay?
You stare at the screen longer than necessary before you reply.
You: omg i'm so sorry james!!! my stomach hurts, so I'm trying to sleep it off
You lie.
James: again, don't apologize! get some rest, and text me if you need anything! goodnight Y/N
You: thank you, james! good night<3
You set your phone down, and wait a little longer for him to fall asleep before you confront your father. The kitchen lights are still on. Your father is wiping down the counter, and your mother is stacking the dishes.
"Dad," you say. They both look up. "I know about the money, about the blackmailer, and about the conditions you forced Heeseung follow," you say, trying to steady your voice.
The room stills. Your father's face goes pale. Your mom frowns, confused. "What are you talking about, honey?"
"Dad paid fifty million dollars to the people who were blackmailing Minsuk," you say, eyes never leaving your father. "And in return, he forced Heeseung to cut contact with me and never tell you, Sooah, or me.
" Your mother's hand flies to her mouth. "Sungmin…?"
Your father sighs. "I did what I had to do, Y/N," he says, defensive. "What if the blackmailers decide they want more money one day? You would get dragged into their family's mess," your dad shakes his head. "No, I'm not taking any chances."
"You don't get to decide that for me," you cry.
"Yes I do!" your father says, raising his voice, but not loud enough for James to hear. "You're my only child, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect you even if you're not happy with my choices."
Your mother sinks into a chair, shaking. "You never told me," she whispers. "You let me believe—"
"I didn't want to burden you," he says.
"You wouldn't have," she says, tears spilling freely. "You betrayed her. You betrayed me!"
She looks at you then, heartbreak written all over her face. "I swear I didn't know, honey. I wouldn't have allowed your father to do that if I did." You nod, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. "I know mom."
Your dad steps toward you. "Y/N—"
"Don't," you say firmly. "It's seven years too late for you to tell me the truth or to apologize." Before your parents can say anything else, you run away to your room and lock the door quickly.
—
It's barely six in the morning when you knock softly on James's door. The house is still asleep—no voices, no movement, just the low hum of the heater and the faint light creeping in through the windows. James opens the door, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. "Y/N?" he murmurs, blinking at the time on his phone. "Is everything—?"
"We have to leave," you whisper. "Now and quietly." That wakes him up. He straightens immediately, concerning shaping his features. "Okay," he says without hesitation. "What do you need?"
"Just grab your things," you say as quietly as possible so your parents don't wake up. "I'll explain later." He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't push. He nods and disappears back into the room, moving quickly, deliberately. You wait in the hallway, heart pounding, listening for any sound coming from your parents' bedroom. A few minutes later, he's back, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Ready," he whispers. You lead the way, careful with each step. The front door opens with a soft click, and the cold morning air hits your face.
Once you're outside, James finally speaks. "Where are we going?"
You exhale shakily. "Back. I just can't be around my parents right now."
He studies you for a second, then nods. "Alright."
You barely make it ten minutes onto the highway before exhaustion finally catches up to you after staying up all night, unable to sleep from all the thoughts and truth consuming your mind. When you wake up, the car is slowing as you recognize the familiar campus. Your eyes sting immediately, throat tight as you sit up, disoriented and embarrassed all at once. "I know i've been saying this a lot lately, but I'm sorry," you whisper. "For everything."
James glances at you, then back at the road. "I've been saying this a lot lately, but you don't need to keep apologizing," he laughs softly, flashing you a genuine smile.
"I do," you insist. "I ruined your Thanksgiving break, and I dragged you into my mess. I—"
"Y/N," he says gently, cutting you off. "I could see the tears on your pillow while I was driving."
Oh god… that's so embarrassing. You just want to jump out the car at this point.
"The last thing you should be worrying about right now is my feelings," he reassures, gently ruffling your hair.
The car comes to a stop. You barely make it out of the car before tears spill as you lean into James. He lets you cry against his shoulder, your sobs soft and exhausted as he rubs your back. He doesn't say anything. He just steadies you with his warm hand on your back. "I'll walk you up," he says quietly.
You nod. The morning air is cold and pale as he walks you to your door, neither of you rushing. When you stop, he pulls your keys from his pockets and places them gently in your hand. "Thank you for driving," you murmur.
"No problem. We would've crashed if you drove," he laughs, trying to cheer you up. You swat his arm gently. "Hey! I'll have you know I'm an awesome driver!" When the laughter fades, you pull him into a tight hug. "Thank you," you say, voice small but sincere. "For everything."
He just smiles. "That's what friends are for, aren't they?" You nod against his shoulder. " Yeah," you say softly. "It is."
—
Over the next few days, your phone becomes unbearable, a word you never thought you'd use to describe it. Your dad calls. Again and again. Missed calls pile up until the notification feels permanent. Voicemails follows, each one getting longer than the last, but you don't listen to any of them. Your mom texts too. You answer hers. Short replies at first, then slightly longer ones. She tells you she's staying with Sooah for now. She tells you she's sorry, and she loves you. You tell her you love her back. That's all you can manage right now. But you know it's not her fault. Sooah knows because her messages come late one night, careful and heavy, apologizing for not knowing. For not being a better mother. For letting you and Heeseung drift apart. You also tell her it's not her fault. Uncle Minsuk apologizes as well for how selfish he's been. For ruining Heeseung's life. For letting you down. but you don't respond to him.
The girls' group chat has been exploding the second Thanksgiving break started. Messages pile in faster than you can open them. Airport selfies. Outfit debates. Complaints about family dinners and relatives. Hometown gossip. Yunjin sends videos of all the designer gifts her parents got her in Paris. Sophia sends a blurry, shaky video of her dog stealing food off the table, and Manon sends incoherent drunk messages about family drama. In another group chat, Sunoo sends behind the scene snippets of his photo shoots. Niki sends a bunch of random memes to which Yunjin complains about it not being funny. Jungwon sends updates on Pathify, and Jay complains about how he has to do all the cooking for Thanksgiving dinner. You're present. You respond. Just less.
And then—Heeseung. He floods your phone non-stop with calls. Voicemails. Long messages. Emails. Your screen becomes a wall of notifications from him, apology after apology stacking on top of each other until it feels like you can't breathe. You just stare at his name until your heart can't take it anymore, so you block him. Eventually, a message comes in from Jay, but it's Heeseung. You type out a quick apology to Jay before blocking his number. Then Sunghoon. Blocked. Then Jake. You block his number too, which you have no problem doing.
You're curled up on the couch in your shared apartment, surrounded by endless McDonald's takeout. Half-melted ice cream on the coffee table. Buldak noodles getting cold in the bowl you forgot about half an hour ago. Yeah… you've hit rock bottom. You barely register the sound of the door opening. "Okay," Yunjin says, voice echoing through the apartment. "Why does it smell like Niki's fart in here?"
You look up. She's standing there, suitcase abandoned by the door behind her, coat still on, eyes already scanning you. The second she sees you, her expression softens. "You flew back," you say weakly. "Early…"
"Obviously," she replies, kicking the door shut. "You didn't send the turkey video."
You blink. "The what?"
"The video," she says like it's sacred. "Every Thanksgiving? Your mom's turkey. The slow pan. The aggressive zoom. You didn't send it."
You swallow. Of course Yunjin remembers.
"And," she continues, quieter now, "this is the first Thanksgiving we've ever spent apart. I hated it."
You laugh weakly. "I'm sorry I made you come back."
She drops her bag and crosses the room in three strides. "You didn't make me do anything. I wanted to. Besides my parents were acting like lovesick seventeen year olds, and I was losing my mind," she gags. She sits beside you, flicking a fry off your leg. "So what happened?" she says gently.
You try to answer, but nothing comes out. Your throat tightens. Your vision blurs. The weight of everything crashes down all at once. Yunjin doesn't ask again. She doesn't press. She just pulls you into her arms, holding you while you fall apart against her shoulder.
"I know," she whispers, rocking you slightly. "It's him." For the first time in days, you don't have to pretend you're okay.
—
Ever since Yunjin got back, she refuses to let you rot inside the apartment. She drags you out of bed in the mornings, opens the curtains even when you groan, and insists on at least one reason a day to step outside. Today, that reason is your favourite bagel place. You complain the entire walk there, even though your mouth is already watering at the thought of a smoked salmon bagel overloaded with cream cheese. You tell yourself you're only going because Yunjin insisted, not because you've been craving a bagel, and the shop doesn't offer delivery.
The bell above the door jingles as you step inside. And then—you freeze. Your parents are sitting at one of the tables by the window. Your heart drops, and you immediately turn to Yunjin, eyes wide. "You didn't—" She shakes her head quickly. "I swear, I didn't agree at first," she says desperately. "But your dad insisted on meeting here."
You swallow hard. Yunjin softens, squeezing your hand. "Look, we can make a run for it if that's what you want, but I know you need this," she adds quietly. "You've never gone a day without calling them. Not even once." You stand there frozen for a second longer, torn between walking right out and giving your father a chance. The smell of toasted bagels fill the air, warm and familiar, pulling you forward even as your chest tightens because no matter how angry you are, no matter how hurt you are, he's still your father. The man who has always done right by you up until now.
Yunjin squeezes your hand once again before stepping back. "I'll wait outside," she says quietly. You nod, then turn to sit down. Your mom doesn't even give you a chance to speak as she instantly pulls you into a hug so tight it almost knocks the air right from your lungs. Her arms shake as she holds you, her face buried in your hair.
"I'm sorry, Y/N," she whispers, over and over. "I'm so sorry. I should've known. I should've protected you."
"Mom," you murmur, gently pulling back. "It's okay. It's not your fault." She wipes her eyes, nodding, though she clearly doesn't believe that.
When you finally turn to your father, your hear breaks. He looks smaller. His eyes are puffy and red, dark circles etched below his eyes. His beard has grown out unevenly like you've never seen before. Your father has always upheld a polished appearance until now. Still, he hasn't looked at you yet as he keeps his head down. "I had no right," he says finally, voice rough. "None. I took something from you that wasn't mine to take."
You hands ball into a tight fist. "Why didn't you trust me?"
He looks up then, startled. "I do," he says immediately. "Of course I do. This was never about not trusting you."
"Then what was it?"
He exhales, hands clasped tightly on the table. "The public. The world. The cruel people who don't forgive, who don't forget. I was terrified they'd tear you apart for being with him if Minsuk's scandal ever got out."
Your anger subsides, replaced with guilt. Guilt for not trying to understand him just a little.
"I apologized to your mother," he continues. "To Sooah. I know sorry doesn't fix anything, but I needed you and them to hear it."
You nod slowly.
"And I want to apologize to Heeseung too," he says, eyes shining. "When the time is right. When you allow him to be near you again. I owe him that. I ruined him too. I ruined both of you."
Silence settles between you. You stare down at your hands, then back up at him. "You hurt me," you say honestly. "Really badly."
"I know," he whispers.
"But I also know you did it because you love me," you add quietly. "And because you were trying to protecting me."
Tears spill down his face. "I forgive you," you say.
He breaks completely, shoulders sagging in relief and grief all at once. Your mom reaches for his hand and squeezes it tightly. You sniff, grabbing a napkin. "Also," you add, "if your plan was to eat the best bagels in Massachusetts, there were easier ways to do it than staging an emotion breakdown in public." Thankfully, most students haven't returned from Thanksgiving break otherwise this shop would've been packed with people watching you and your parents crying like babies.
Your mom lets out a laugh. Your dad exhales shakily, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Order whatever you want," he says hoarsely. "My treat."
You glance at the menu. "Good," you say. "Because I'm getting extra salmon." As your bagel arrives and the tension eases, it feels like things are finally back on track.
—
Thanksgiving break ends, and students flood back into the city with over packed suitcases and complaints about early lectures. Campus is lively again and school resumes its usual pace, indifferent to whatever fell apart over the holidays. You're on your way to class when you stop short at your front door—there's a bouquet sitting there. Not just a bouquet, a ridiculously huge one. Pink tulips spilling everywhere, petals layered and lush, wrapped so carefully it feels like Valentines day. You have to put your bag down just to lift it.
"This is… for me?" you mutter. A small card is tucked into the ribbon. You hesitate before opening it. It's from Heeseung. Your chest tightens, but you don't throw it away either.
From that day on, there's always a bouquet waiting at your front door, and each day, it gets bigger. More tulips. More space taken up in your entryway until it feels impossible to ignore. Soon, there are gifts placed beside them. Very extravagant gifts. A Birkin bag. Bulgari diamond tennis bracelet. But what makes your stomach flutter just a little (a lot) are the same brownies he used to save for you after dance practice, overflowing in a a basket in between the bouquet and gifts.
The girls tell you not to fall for it. They say it firmly, but you still catch them whispering about the gifts when they think you can't hear. Fingers brushing over the petals. Eyes widening at the insanely expensive gifts. Awe slipping into their voices despite their advice.
Yunjin, though? She's furious. After you've already left for class, she catches him. Heeseung is crouched in front of the door, adjusting another bouquet, and setting a basket of brownies and a huge box beside it carefully like he's afraid it might be crooked.
Yunjin yanks the door open. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Yunjin snaps. Before he can even react, she yanks him by the ear and drags him toward the alley beside the apartment building.
"Ouch—Yunjin—w—wait!"
She releases him only to immediately square up, fists raised, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. "I swear to god, if you think you can buy your way back into her life—"
"Wait," he blurts again. "Please. Let me explain."
"I don't want to hear it," she fires back. "Do you have any idea how much you've hurt her? When are you going to leave her the hell alone?"
Heeseung swallows hard. "There are things you don't know," he says desperately. "Please. Just let me explain."
Yunjin hesitates, fists still clenched, jaw tight. She looks like she wants to hit him anyway. "Make it fast," she snaps.
As Heeseung stumbles through explanations, words tripping over each other, Yunjin freezes. Her expression shifts from fury to disbelief. "What?" she says slowly. He keeps talking, a little slower now. She holds up a hand. "Stop." She studies him for a long moment, then asks gently, "Are you… okay?"
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. "I—yeah. No. I don't know."
She exhales, hard, then reaches out, and pats his back awkwardly and reluctantly. "I missed you," she mutters. "You were my friend too, idiot."
Relief flickers across his face before grinning.
She immediately smacks the back of his head. "Don't get cocky."
"Ow," he mutters, rubbing it. "I've missed you and the boys as well."
"You better have, bitch," Yunjin mutters.
The two burst into laughter before Heeseung reaches into his bag and pulls out two paper cups attached by a string. "Can you help me with something?" he asks, offering a sheepish smile.
She stares at him for a long moment, then groans. "You are so unbelievable, dork face." But she doesn't walk away.
—
You get home from class, completely drained and exhausted. You don't even bother closing your door all the way. You drop your bag, and collapse face-first onto your bed. For a few quiet seconds, you stay like that before shifting on your side. Your eyes are about to close when they shoot open. You notice a paper cup dangling into your window. "What the hell…" you murmur, pushing yourself up. You move closer, fingers grazing the cup. It's real. You weren't hallucinating. There's a red string attached, disappearing past the edge of your window. Confused, you lean out. The string runs down to the window directly below yours. Yunjin's room. Before you can make sense of it, a voice vibrates through the cup, soft and hesitant. "Hey, Y/N."
Your heart lurches violently.
"Hello?" Heeseung tries again. "Y/N? I know you're there."
You stare at the cup, frozen in shock. You slowly lift it to your mouth. "Hello?" you say, unsure if your voice is even working.
There's a pause. A breath. "It worked," he says quietly. "Okay. Good."
You don't respond right away.
"I've been thinking about that day you came back from the Varna Competition," he continues, carefully. "The day you called me through this thing."
Your grip tightens around the cup.
"I heard you," he admits. "I was holding the cup, but I just… couldn't answer."
Your chest aches.
"I stood in my room staring at the blinds, listening to you try again," he says. "Listening to your voice shake, and when you threw it out… I deserved that, but it hurt so much."
You don't say anything.
"I was too scared to break the promise," he adds softly. "I should've answered. I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm so sorry."
You turn away from the cup for a brief moment, trying to blink away the tears.
"I know it's too late, but I won't be a coward anymore," he says firmly. "I promise."
Your hands are shaking now. Without saying another word, you drop the cup and turn for the door. Yunjin's door is already open when you reach it. Heeseung is standing there, awkward and unsure as if he's afraid one wrong move will send you running. You don't yell. You don't hit. You just step forward and pull him into a hug so sudden it leaves you both holding your breaths. "I hated you," you say quietly into his shoulder. "For so long."
"I know," he whispers.
"But I still love you," you add, voice cracking.
His arms tighten around you, no longer afraid you'll run. "I never stopped loving you," he says.
"Don't disappear again," you say.
"I won't," he promises. "Never again until the day I die."
Heeseung leans in to kiss you. It's soft at first, but it quickly turns frantic and hungry in that aching way that comes from wanting something for far too long.
You pull back. "Wait. Not here." You two barely make it to your room before your lips connect again. Heeseung presses you against the wall, hand up your shirt, grazing the small of your back. His soft lips make your head spin, your hand lacing into his other hand for support.
You both pull back breathless, foreheads press together. "Please don't stop," you whine.
"Are you sure?" Heeseung asks, afraid of pushing the relationship faster than you're ready for.
"Yes, Hee. Please!" The nickname leaves your lips, breathless and warm against his mouth. Something in him snaps at the nickname only you ever called him. Heeseung barely lifts you to the bed before smashing his lips into yours. The kiss is messy and sloppy with spit running down both of your chins, but it only turns you on even more. You clench your thighs, seeking some friction. Heeseung smirks into your lips before pulling away, a string of spit connecting your lips. “Be patient, baby,” he teases, putting his knee between your thighs.
This time, his lips move to your neck, somehow finding your sweet spot immediately. Freak. At this rate, none of your tops can hide the blooming purple mark on your neck. “Ah, Heeseung, you’re going to leave a mark.”
“That's the point, baby,” he mutters, groaning into your neck. “Everyone needs to know you’re mine.”
You roll your eyes. “Ha, seriously-“ but you’re cut off when Heeseung practically rips your shirt off. “No bra, huh?” he growls, spitting on both of your nipples before lathering it into your breasts. You’ve never felt so exposed around anyone before, so you can’t help but cover your face, embarrassed. But Heeseung gently pries your hands away. “You look so beautiful,” he says tenderly. “Don’t hide from me.”
You gasp when he latches his mouth onto one of your breasts while massaging the other. Heeseung can’t help but unleash a string of desperate sounds at how soft your breasts are, which barely fits in his mouth and hand. The pleasure is so intense, you feel like you can cum just from this, but you can feel how hard his cock is against your clothed mound. “Hee, let me-“ Before you can reach his zipper, he blocks your hand. “No, I want to make you feel good.” You want to protest, but suddenly—Heeseung pulls down your pants and panties in one motion. The cold air hits your wet cunt, sending shivers down your spine. "I've barely done anything, and you're already dripping," he hisses in satisfaction.
He trails hot, wet kisses down your stomach and stops right above your cunt before quickly stripping himself bare. You gasp at how big he is—so big you're not sure if he'll even fit. His tip is angry, red, and leaking with precum. He gives it a brief rub before smearing his precum on your slick folds. You moan at how lewd it is, grinding desperately against his hand. "Please, Hee" you cry out.
"I already told you to be patient, baby," Heeseung chuckles, slapping your cunt. Soon, he replaces his hand with his mouth, tongue lapping over your sweet folds, then your clit, causing you to yelp in pleasure. As Heeseung sucks on your clit, he pushes two fingers deep inside you. The sensation becomes so overwhelming you feel like you're going to cum, but he removes his fingers.
"Fuck, why'd you stop—" Before you can finish your desperate plea, he teases your entrance with his cock. He must know what you're thinking because he reassures you. "Don't worry. I'll go slow, love," he says, kissing you sweetly before pushing in slowly. Tears well in your eyes as you try to adjust to his size, even though less than half of his cock is inside you. Heeseung immediately stops, afraid that he'll hurt you. "We can stop right now if it hurts."
"No!" you say quickly. "Please keep going."
Heeseung hesitates before pushing his cock in further, bottoming out. He doesn't move, letting you adjust to his size. You can feel every vein and ridge on his cock, making you clench desperately around him. "You can move now. Please." Heeseung thrust slowly, but his thrusts quickly become deep and fast. "Fuck, baby. You're so fucking tight," he moans. "Feel how deep I am?"
"Oh god… yes! Don't stop!" you pant, both of you moans filling the room.
Heeseung kisses you sloppily as his movements become more frantic and desperate. "I'm gonna fill you full of my cum."
A scream rips from your throat as you feel a knot in your stomach forming. "I'm gonna cum, Hee!"
"Cum for me baby! Please," he begs. You clench even tighter around him as you cum, making Heeseung cum right after. "Fuck, yes!" he moans, cum shooting deep inside you, painting your walls.
Heeseung kisses you on your forehead before running downstairs. "Hee?" you call out, confused.
"I'm here baby! I just need to grab some things," Heeseung shouts back from downstairs before quickly returning with a glass of water and a warm towel.
"Are you okay, baby?" Heeseung asks worriedly as he hands you the glass of water. "Was I too rough?"
"No! It was perfect, Hee," you say shyly. "But you made quite a mess," you laugh, wiggling your eyes as you point to your thigh.
"Sorry," he says with a boyish grin. "Let me clean that up for you." He gently wipes your thigh with the towel before collapsing into bed with you. You two lie there in each others, engulfed in the peaceful silence as Heeseung rubs your back. "I love you, Y/N. I love you so much," he says earnestly.
"I love you too, Hee."
"By the way, you're my first," he says shyly.
You raise an eyebrow, clearly not believing him. "Yeah, right! The girls in high school would brag whenever they got to sleep with you," you grunt, slapping his arm.
"Ouch!" Heeseung pouts. "It was all a lie, baby! They were competing to see who could sleep with me first. You have to believe me," he whines like a child.
"Fine! Stop whining," you huff. "Wait—what about that night after prom?" you seethe.
"We were playing seven minutes in heaven," he frowns, fake gagging. "I was going to use the washroom when she slammed me against the wall…scariest moment of my life!"
You can't help but laugh. Now that you think about it, Giselle really did have crazy obsessive behaviour. She literally ran a kid out of Evercore. He transferred before grade nine.
"Oh—what about James—ouch!" he yelps. "Stop slapping me, baby!"
"You need to apologize to James," you scold, slapping him again despite the smile you're trying to hide.
"Fine," he mutters, rubbing his arm where you slapped him for the second time.
Then his eyes narrow. "Wait… did you at least like the gifts?"
You shrug, pretending to inspect your nails. "I guess."
"You guess?" Heeseung looks around your room. "Where are they?"
You hesitate. "I might've… given them to the girls."
He stares at you, horrified. "All of them?"
"Don't worry! I'll get them back," you chime.
"I spent my entire trust fund on all those gifts," he groans.
You climb into his lap, laughing. "You still won."
His pout disappears instantly. "Yeah," he says softly. "I did."
—
Epilogue
"I can't believe McCain got traded, son," your dad says, shaking his head at the TV like someone personally betrayed him.
"I know," Heeseung sighs beside him on the couch, just as invested. "But at least he went to a better team that knows how to utilize his skills."
You stop in the doorway, holding two glasses of water, watching them discuss basketball trades like it's been their routine for years. "Dad," you try. "I'm home too?"
"Not now, sweetie," he waves you off without looking. "Poor Heeseung hasn't been able to watch basketball because of finals."
You gasp. "Wow. You like him than me now?"
Heeseung tries to hide his smug smile, but fails miserably. Your mom walks in, and grabs your father by the sleeve. "Come help me in the kitchen and leave the kids alone."
"Wait—honey! It's the fourth quarter—" your father complains as he's being dragged to the kitchen.
The living room finally quiets. You sit beside Heeseung, shoulder brushing his. "Your stealing my dad."
"Your heard him! He called me son," he says proudly. "Sorry, but he loves me more."
You huff, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away. After a moment, you add, "Can I ask you something?"
He turns toward you immediately. "Always."
"Why did you join my class?" you ask. "Corporate Finance has nothing to do with your major.
For a second, he just looks at you, something tender and a little shy flickering across his face. "I heard about the internship opportunity from Jake," he admits. "Not that you needed my help or anything, but I knew you'd take the course, so I enrolled to see you win. He pauses. "Admit it, though… I helped a lot didn't I?" he smirks.
Warmth floods your chest, but before you can respond, both of your phones buzz. It's an email from your professor. You open it—and freeze. "We won," you whisper. Then louder, "Heeseung—we won the case comp. And—"
Your voice breaks. "I got the internship."
He's on his feet in a second, pulling you into a hug so tight you start laughing.
From the kitchen your dad yells, "What happened?"
"We won the case comp, and I got the internship!"
"That's my daughter," he shouts back. A beat. "And my future son-in-law!"
"DAD!"
You're surrounded by the noise of your family and the steady beat of his heart against yours.
Pairing : hybrid ot7 poly enhypen members x human reader
Genre : hybrid AU, mention of adoption and past abuse, new home, fluff
Synopsis : After being convinced by her friends, Y/N agrees to adopt one of the hybrids from the shelter. But when she falls under the spell of a little puma who refuses to abandon his friends, she makes the foolish decision to adopt all seven of them…
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
Y/N had always been rather solitary. She had left to study abroad right after high school and had settled in Korea, creating her own company to help hybrids better integrate into society.
She certainly had a few friends and colleagues, but no romantic relationship had ever interested her. Her friends had advised her to go to a shelter to at least adopt a dog or cat to be less alone in her large loft, but she had some hesitations.
Only, Y/N had drunk a little too much after a celebration with her friends and had promised them she would go adopt a pet. And not just any pet : a hybrid ! She would never drink that much again. But what on earth had possessed her ?
She arrived the next morning at the hybrid shelter closest to her home. The building was well-maintained, and a large grassy yard was outside to allow hybrids to stretch their legs and play.
Y/N walked through the yard, hands in her pockets, watching other clients interact with hybrids, looking for the one they would adopt. There were all kinds: dogs, cats, felines, feathered animals, etc.
Hybrids had appeared on Earth a few years ago, genetic modifications brought about by changes in the world, and other hybrids were born naturally. They were always less numerous than humans, though their numbers were growing rapidly.
In a corner of the yard, under a tree, six animals kept apart from the others. A hamster, an eagle, a golden retriever, a snow leopard, a fox, and a cat. The snow leopard growled at anyone who got too close, scaring off any overly curious humans.
"Where's Ni-ki ?" Jungwon meowed, sitting on his haunches. "He hasn't gone to bite the chickens' feet again, has he ?"
"You never know with him," Jay sighed, beating his wings to land on the dog's head as he yawned. The little hamster hoisted himself onto the fox's back to survey the yard and look for their friend.
The little puma Ni-ki had indeed gone to tussle with the chickens. Once satisfied with his game, he bounded through the yard looking for his friends. There was a new open gate to allow humans to adopt hybrids and give them a better life, but he had no desire to be adopted. He just wanted to stay with those he considered his brothers.
Lost in thought, he didn't see the person in front of him and collided with her legs. He rolled onto his back as the human woman turned around. Y/N felt something hit her legs and turned her head to see a little puma in front of her. "You need to watch where you're running." She bent down to scoop him up under his paws and carried him in her arms, cradling him against her chest. She ran her hand through his fur to remove the few feathers still stuck in his fur. "Where did you go to get so dirty ?"
He growled softly but immediately relaxed when she scratched behind his ear. Ni-ki had never let a human approach him, not even the shelter staff, much less be petted like this. But something about this human was different. He didn't know if it was her reassuring vanilla and almond scent, or her fingers gently brushing through his fur, but he loved it.
Y/N smiled seeing the little feline purr under her touch and continued on her way, perhaps having found the furry companion she was looking for.
Jake let out a panicked bark, nearly knocking Jay off his head when he spotted Ni-ki in a human's arms. "No ! What is Ni-ki doing in that girl's arms ?!" The rest of the group turned their gazes toward them and panicked upon seeing the little puma letting himself be handled so strangely.
"Maybe I should adopt you, huh ?" the young woman smiled, tickling the feline's belly. "I'm always alone. Would you like to have a new home ?" Ni-ki's eyes suddenly opened wide, panicked at the thought of having to leave his friends, he squirmed in her arms to jump to the ground. He ran toward a small group of animals, and Y/N followed him, frowning. "Hey ! Where are you going ?"
She saw the cat nibbling the puma's ear to scold him and knelt down, amused by the sight. "Are they your friends ?" The little feline looked at her, shaking his fur. A hamster, an eagle, a dog, a snow leopard, a fox, and a cat... "That's an original group." Y/N reached toward Ni-ki to pet him again, but the snow leopard stepped in, biting her outstretched hand.
The dog barked and tugged on his tail to make him release the young woman and keep him from being punished again for attacking a human. Sunghoon growled, not releasing his fangs from the human's hand. She reached out, and he expected her to hit him like any human would, but she gently stroked his head.
"It's okay, I'm not going to take your friend. Everything's fine." The snow leopard looked up at her, seeing no anger or hatred in her eyes, and gently released her, licking the bite he had inflicted as if to apologize. She scratched behind his ear as frantic footsteps approached them.
Y/N could clearly see the animals tense up and push the smaller ones back. She stood to see the man facing her, a shelter employee. "Miss ! Did that damned leopard hurt you ? God, you're bleeding !" He tried to grab her hand, but she pushed him away.
"I'm fine."
"He bit you! That leopard never learns discipline no matter what we tell him! This isn't the first time he's attacked humans !"
"It was an accident," Y/N retorted. "He just wanted to protect his friends."
"He will be severely punished, Miss. You can be sure of that."
"Do I look like I want him to be punished ?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "He was just scared and defended himself, like anyone would. Is this how you treat hybrids who are fearful of humans ?"
"All our hybrids are docile, Miss !" the man protested. "Only Sunghoon behaves like a wild beast ! He's savage and deserves to be put down for all the incidents he's caused !"
Y/N slapped him so hard his head turned to the side. Silence fell over the yard as even the hybrids froze at the scene. The animals behind the young woman widened their eyes, having never seen anyone put the employee who mistreated them in his place. The man brought his hand to his cheek, his face red with shame.
"You little..."
"It's a real disappointment to see that people like you claim to want to work with hybrids to give them a better life, yet in the end, you only treat them like circus animals."
"I'll take you to court !" he shouted.
"I doubt it. Because you have no idea who you just messed with. I'm Y/N Y/L/N. It's Y/L/N Corporation that ensures all hybrids in Korea can integrate into human society and have a normal life. It's my money that funds this shelter, and you, sir, have just made the biggest mistake of your life. It seems you won't be working with hybrids for a long time."
The man panicked and threw himself at her feet. "Miss ! Please ! I didn't know who you were ! I need this job !"
"And hybrids need people who take good care of them. Make yourself useful on your last day at the shelter and go prepare the adoption papers."
"Who... Who are you adopting ?"
"The seven hybrids behind me," she declared, gesturing toward them. The hybrids froze. She really wanted to adopt all seven of them ? "I would have taken only the little puma, but they all seem to be brothers and don't want to be separated, which would be cruel of me. Come on, make yourself useful."
The employee stumbled to his feet and returned inside the building. Gradually, conversations resumed, and a few families left with hybrids. Y/N sighed, pulling out her phone to text her secretary to start an inspection process for Seoul's shelters.
A paw scratched at her leg, and she looked down to see the golden retriever whining. She smiled and patted his head, then crouched in front of the hybrids. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you now."
They were called from across the yard, and Y/N smiled at them before standing to go sign the papers. The hybrids watched her leave, then looked at each other. "We're... We're really going to be adopted ? All seven of us ?" Sunoo hesitated.
"This is our chance," Heeseung declared. "No one else will want to take all of us together."
"And noona is so cool," Ni-ki smiled, hopping around them. "And she smells so good. Do you think she'll let us sleep with her ?" God, all because of that little puma's face.
A kind employee came to fetch them to join their new owner. Y/N stood in the shelter's lobby with a folder of documents under her arm. She smiled upon seeing them, letting Jay perch on her shoulder.
"Uh, you need transport cages to take them home, Miss Y/L/N ?" the man she had fired stammered.
Y/N barely glanced at him before bending to let Heeseung climb into her palm and lifting Ni-ki onto her free arm. She turned on her heel, leaving the shelter with the hybrids following.
They crossed the parking lot to Y/N's black sedan, the young woman unlocked the door to let them climb into the back. She closed the door and got behind the wheel, making sure they were all settled before starting the engine.
Her phone's ringtone echoed in the car, Jungwon jumped to the ceiling in surprise. Y/N lowered the volume, giving them an amused smile through the rearview mirror, and answered. "Yes ?"
"Hey, unnie," her secretary's voice came through. "I got your message and started the inspection process, but why so sudden ? Normally, we weren't supposed to do this until next year."
"I went to the Three Golden Leaves shelter near my place."
"Oh, yes ! That's where my sister adopted her parrot. But why were you there? Oh God, you adopted a hybrid ?"
"Seven."
"SEVEN ?! Unnie, why ?! I thought you were an eternal loner who would end up alone with plants in the middle of a forest ?" Y/N rolled her eyes, feeling the hybrids' amusement from the back seat.
"Well, Irina and Aya convinced me."
"Were you sober ?" The young woman didn't answer, her secretary's laughter echoed on the other end of the line for several minutes, making her growl.
"Kim Suha !" Y/N scolded sharply.
"S-Sorry... Sorry, boss."
"Anyway. I met a very unpleasant and incompetent employee at the shelter, whom I fired, of course, and it made me doubt the conditions hybrids were kept in at shelters," she declared, entering a private neighborhood. "So shelters will now have to submit to regular inspections, and our employees will go undercover to see how they really operate. It'll be more work for the company, but it's necessary."
"Alright, unnie ! I'll make a company announcement, and I'll see you at the office !"
Y/N wished her a good evening and parked in the underground garage of her building. She grabbed her bag and got out, opening the back door to let the hybrids out.
Fortunately, there was an elevator to take them up to Y/N's apartment, not endless stairs. The hybrids' eyes widened as they discovered the interior of her loft, being a wealthy businesswoman certainly had its perks.
The young woman set her bag on the bar, kicking off her heels. "Alright, this is your new home. I hope you'll like it here." Y/N let them explore the apartment while she looked for the first aid kit in the kitchen to disinfect the bite on her hand. It wasn't deep and was no longer bleeding, which was a good sign.
Sunghoon jumped onto the counter beside her, looking at the wound he had inflicted, his ears flattened against his head. "Don't worry, Sunghoon, it's not the first time I've been bitten by a hybrid, and it won't be the last. I work with fiercer ones than you at my company." She stroked his head and pressed a kiss between his ears, making his tail wag contentedly.
"Okay ! Come here, little ones !" The hybrids bounded toward her as Y/N crouched before them. "I don't really have rules, you're free to go anywhere except my office when I'm not there. I assume you don't fully trust me yet, and that's okay, so change back to human form whenever you want. I'll just have to think about buying you clothes... This is a private building, so you can go in the yard if you want, and also on the roof. There's a terrace up there. Most residents here have hybrids, so you might make friends." She saw them wrinkle their noses at that idea, making her smile. "Alright, let's start by giving you a bath, and then we'll have dinner !"
Y/N stood up, leading them to the bathroom. She filled the tub with a few inches of water, first placing Heeseung, Sunoo, and Jungwon in the bath. Kneeling in front of the tub, the young woman had rolled up her sleeves to avoid wetting her shirt and washed the three hybrids with special shampoo.
It wasn't the first time she had hosted hybrids, so she had some products for them, but not enough for seven now. Y/N lifted them out of the bath, drying them with a clean towel.
"If you're cold, let me know, and I'll dry you faster with the hairdryer. Alright, whose turn ?" Sunghoon jumped into the tub himself, his large body took up almost all the space. He let himself be handled, being much more docile and calm than at the shelter. Indeed, Ni-ki hadn't lied, she smelled divine.
The snow leopard's fur was all fluffy once Y/N had dried him, the little puma rolled onto his back laughing. Sunghoon growled at him, the young woman took the opportunity to grab Ni-ki. "Since you seem to be laughing, it's your turn !"
He let out little cries as she plunged him into the warm water, scrubbing soap into his fur. He kept moving, which only amused her. "I don't know your names yet, but I'm definitely going to call you little troublemaker. Hey ! I don't even know if you're girls or boys !"
Y/N lifted the little puma under his paws, Ni-ki squirmed in the air as she looked between his legs. "You are a little guy, you. Uh, you're a very small puma. Maybe you're still a kid ?" The feline protested with little roars while his friends collapsed with laughter.
The young woman released Ni-ki, who went to sulk under the sink cabinet, making her chuckle. Next was Jake's turn, who plunged into the freshly refilled tub, submerging himself to make bubbles. Y/N smiled, scrubbing his fur before rinsing him.
The dog shook himself to remove the water, splashing everything around, including Y/N. "God ! Puppy, you flooded the whole bathroom." She wiped her hand over her face to remove the water droplets, letting Jake return to the bath mat and dry his fur.
She stood up, looking at her soaked shirt, and unbuttoned it to take it off. The hybrids stared at her with wide eyes, Y/N remained in her tank top and turned to the eagle. "Should I give you a bath too ? I don't really know how to wash birds..." She opted to dampen a towel and gently run it over his feathers.
Y/N then went to prepare food, this long day had made her hungry, and she was sure the hybrids were also famished. According to their dietary needs, she prioritized more meat for the felines and something lighter for the others.
They were still in animal form, even for eating, but it didn't bother her. The young woman cleared the table and pointed to the living room sofas. "You can sleep here if you want, the sofas are comfortable, and there are cushions and blankets. If you need anything, I'll leave my bedroom door open, so don't hesitate to come find me, okay ?" They nodded, and Y/N wished them goodnight before going to her room.
She changed into pajamas and did her nighttime routine before getting into bed. Y/N spent a long hour on her computer ordering everything necessary and useful for the hybrids' new life before turning off the light.
The loft was dark, only the city lights outside filtering through the glass windows. In the living room, the seven hybrids returned to human form. They had few clothes on them, a sign of their transformation from hybrid to human, but they were far from modest.
"It's pretty nice here," Jake declared, wrapping a fuzzy blanket around his shoulders.
"Y/N seems nice," Jungwon approved. "We'll be good with her."
"Even if she called Ni-ki a child," Jay teased. Ni-ki growled at him, his brown ears flattening against his head.
Without a word, Heeseung got up from the sofa where he was sitting and headed toward the young woman's bedroom. His friends followed silently, and they entered the room without waking Y/N, who was fast asleep.
Her hair formed a halo around her head on the pillow, the moon's rays illuminated her body on the bed. Sunoo transformed, climbing onto the mattress despite the others' silent protests. He stepped over the human's legs, moving up toward the top of her body. He slid under her arm and lay against her.
Y/N moved, though she didn't wake up, inhaling in her sleep and wrapping her arm around the fox, her fingers sliding into his fur. Sunoo rested his head on her wrist, closing his eyes.
Ni-ki and Jungwon exchanged a glance before leaping onto the bed in animal form, wrestling until the younger one won the spot to curl up on the pillow right next to the young woman's head, the cat stretched out against her stomach.
Their four hyungs watched them, exasperated but envious. Transforming, Jay flew to perch on the headboard, Jake and Sunghoon lay at the foot of the bed while Heeseung slipped between Jungwon and Sunoo to enjoy their warmth, and Y/N's.
And that's how they fell asleep : the hybrids in their new home, close to their new owner.
INDUSTRUCK TRILOGY (ENHYPEN 02z ONESHOT SERIES 🔞💵)
— ENHYPEN 02z TRILOGY SMUT
Synopsis: Three wealthy bachelors across Europe were known in different industries such as Jongseong Park, came from korean-american old money clan as himself focusing on his life in Europe specifically in Monaco as an F1 redbull driver and Model. While Jaeyun Sim, came from korean-australian hereditary aristrocracy clan but making a name for himself as an French Artsy Films Director at South France — Lastly, Sunghoon Park, a former country representative figure skater from a korean new money clan who’s now a CEO of Tech-Company and base on Barcelona.
“What’s even the purpose of wealth and reputation which make me get anything that I need and want, how come you aren’t even included in those?”
SERIES 1 — The F1 redbull driver model x fashion designer
— Park Jongseong, the only heir of an Korean-American old money clan who’s a F1 redbull driver and Model based in Monaco; known in the industry as the prodigy driver which means commitment is a funny thing and means it has no place for him. However, his perspective changed when he met his next ‘target’ — Y/N, the career driven woman with her who’s aiming her designs got recognized and fully commited to another person.. No, but she’s stuck on years of toxic relationship with another F1 driver who turned out to be a controversial rival of her big client.
“What’s your indecent proposal anyway?”
“I’ll help you to get out and get your designs recognized, for a return favor let’s fuck for fun..” He smiles sarcastically but plastered with temptation.
SERIES 2 — The French Artsy Film Director x ill-famed Sexy Actress
— Sim Jaeyun, the biggest Korean-Australian director in South France who’s busy making for himself had several won in Cannes film awards although he came from an hereditary aristocracy clan; he never let himself associated with them and outcast himself to unending years of generations pressure. While on the years of frustration want to prove herself Y/N who faces lack of projects making her slowly want to give up on the industry. However, due to a sudden night of socialite party.
“Nothing will ever redeem me, the whole film industry and I had enough of them objectifying me—
“Take my offer as a rebranding, and I do not even do pity charities.. The script is waiting.” He coldly remarks
SERIES 3 — The CEO x Paint Artist
— Park Sunghoon, the eldest son of the Korean new money clan. A former country representative figure skater who’s now a CEO runs their tech-company businesses across a few countries in Eurasia but he found himself stuck at Barcelona to himself.. maybe his instincts saying she is here… Hiding or staying –After faking her death just to get away from their ten years of relationship, Y/N found herself staying and traveling across the world but for her Barcelona is a home. It was later her escapade not until the theory of red strings tied them again together.
“Love means letting go if it hurts–
“You called it love? You are clueless how it almost drive myself to death”
all right reserve 2026, do not reupload my fics on other social media platforms, plagiarism is a crime!
The campus rumors said the ice girls were more than just a cheer squad—they were the hockey team’s private tradition. You’d always dismissed the gangbang myth as just locker room bravado until you make the team and find out it’s very, very real.
minors do not interact
pairing ── hyung line x afab reader
word count ── 12k
content tags/warnings ── hockey team dynamic, ice girls are the cheerleaders of the hockey team, social hierarchy, college dorm life, physical overstimulation, non-consensual caretaking (aftercare), exhaustion, manipulative power dynamics, non-con/dub-con, choking/breath play (implied), rough handling, marking/bruising, objectification, slut shaming, loss of consciousness, secret society/fraternity like behavior, and heavy psychological tension. not a love story!
nene’s note ── this ended up being longer than i had expected that why it took a minute before i posted it. shoutout to @sunishake for giving me the green light to finally finish editing it and post! as you know i loveeeee feedback! enjoyyyy <333 drop a 🏒 if you loveeee zoya cause i do!
nsfw tags under the cut
unprotected sex, gangbang, squirting, fingering, oral (f&m receiving), marathon sex (kinda), creampie, double vaginal penetration, spitting, face/throat fucking, let me know if i missed any.
The September air was still thick with the residual heat of summer but the breeze cutting through the quad was already carrying the first sharp hint of the ice that would soon define your semester. Two weeks into freshman year and the campus already felt smaller than the brochures had promised. In all honesty you felt suffocated by the weight of a legacy neither you nor Zoya could escape.
Zoya walked beside you, constantly twisting her fingers in the strap of her bag. "I haven't slept in like three days," she admitted in a strained voice. "Tryouts are next week and I swear I can feel my heart in my throat every time I see a pair of skates."
"Zoya, breathe," you said. "You've been training for this since we were six. You're more prepared than anyone else in that rink. Stop stressing."
Your friendship with Zoya was a constant bond forged long before you understood what a legacy even meant. Your mothers had met in the very halls of this university, dressed in the same blue and white uniforms you were now expected to fill. You had spent your childhood in the back of dance studios and cold arena bleachers, two shadows following the footsteps of women who had once been part of the university's most celebrated icons.
"I don't know how you're so calm," she glanced at you. "If I don't make the cut, my mom might actually disown me. Your mom isn't exactly going to be thrilled if you aren't on that roster, either."
You shrugged, feeling like the weight of the expectation had just become a dull ache you'd simply learned to live with. "I'm sure she'll manage. Besides, it's just a team. There are more important things than whether or not we look good in sequins and skates."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered as you both found a stone table in the quad, sitting next to each other while the noise of the campus humming around you. "They only take five girls each year. Five."
"Because they have to maintain the twenty girl balance, Zoy," you countered, squinting against the sun. "Five seniors graduated so they need five new freshman and you can only try out in your first year. It's simple math, not a conspiracy. It's no biggie."
Zoya went quiet then, her expression shifting from nervous to something more focused. She leaned into your space and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that forced you to pay attention.
"Have you heard the gist lately? In the dorms?" she asked. "It's not just about who's the best skater anymore. Everyone is talking about the tradition. The real one."
You felt an internal groan. "That rumor? Again?"
"They say the hockey team picks one girl from the five new recruits," she said with her eyes wide and dead serious. "One girl who has to give it up at the tryouts welcome party. That it's a requirement. A gangbang for the guys who run the rink."
You rolled your eyes and let a sharp, dismissive sound escape your throat. "Zoya, please. That is the most tired, misogynistic urban legend on this campus. It's locker room bullshit meant to scare us or make the guys feel like they have more power than they actually do. It's just a rumor. Stop letting it get in your head."
"Like for fucks sake. Am I meant to be excited at the thought of a bunch of guys fucking me?"
But Zoya didn't back down, if anything she just leaned into closer, darting her eyes around as if the very trees were wired. "I'm serious! It's not just some ghost story, I'm telling you. My roommate's cousin's TA has a niece who was the girl they picked last year."
You stopped mid sip of your drink and lowered it to look at her with mocking disappointment. You let the silence hang for a beat too long just so she could sit with what she just said, then you started repeating her words back to her, dripping your voice with deliberate sarcasm.
"So...let me get this straight," you began ticking the points off on your fingers. "Your roommate's...cousin's...TA's...niece?" You asked her and watched her resolve start to crumble at the corners of her mouth as the absurdity of the so called source finally hit the air.
"When you put it like that, it sounds—"
"It sounds like a game of telephone or Chinese whisper played by people who have spent way too much time inhaling zamboni fumes," you finished for her.
She let out a frustrated whine while reaching to grab your shoulders. "Shut up! You're so mean!" she laughed and started to shake you back and forth. Her grip was firm as she swung your body in rhythm with her protests. "Take me seriously! I'm trying to prepare us for potentially having to take dick!"
The physical drama of it was too much to resist, you really tried to keep your face stoic but the sight of Zoya looking so genuinely panicked over a fourth hand story about a TA's niece broke you. A bubble of laughter escaped and soon you were both giggling like the kids you used to be.
The week of tryouts had been a blur of synthetic light and the rhythmic scrape of steel on ice. For Zoya, it was a slow motion descent into madness, she was a whirlwind of nervous energy in the locker room, retying her laces until her fingertips were raw and changing her skates three separate times because she convinced herself the blades weren’t right. You had watched her from the bench, already laced up and ready, trying to offer a calm anchor in her storm of superstition.
When your turn finally came, you didn't really overthink it. You moved through the routines you'd practiced since you were tall enough to reach the rink boards, you remembered all the crossovers, the synchronized lunges, the power pulls. It was muscle memory at this point or a birthright clicking into place. To you, it wasn't a performance—it was more of another day at the office.
Now, a week later, the tension had migrated from the ice to the stifling atmosphere of Zoya's dorm room. You were sitting criss cross on her bed while your phones sat like two ticking time bombs on the mattress between you.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Zoya whispered, staring at the dark screens. "If I don't see an email in the next sixty seconds, I'm dropping out of college and moving to a farm."
"You hate dirt, Zoy. You'd last barely an hour," you muttered, trying to be calm even though your own pulse was beginning to thrum against your ribs.
Suddenly, both screens lit up simultaneously and two identical notifications from the university athletics department banner appeared.
Zoya shrieked, launching herself off the bed as if she'd been electrocuted. She paced the small rug with her hands over her mouth. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Okay. Okay, don't open it yet. We do this together."
You picked up your phone, your hands shaking but still steadier than hers and stood to meet her in the center of the room. "On three?"
"On three," she breathed as her finger hovered over the screen.
"One."
"Two."
"Three!"
The light of the screens reflected in your eyes as you both scanned the text.
"We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the 2026 Ice Girls roster..."
"WE GOT IN!" Zoya screamed, the words overlapping with your own as you read the confirmation out loud. She tackled you back onto the bed, you didn't even get through the second sentence before the room exploded. You hit the mattress with a thud as her weight pinned you down, her face buried in your shoulder as she vibrated with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
"We did it! We actually did it!" she shrieked into your ear, her joy was infectious enough to finally break through your cool exterior and you couldn't help it. It was like the tension of the last week finally evaporated into a fit of breathless giggles. You lay there on the bed, tangled in limbs and phones, laughing up at the ceiling while Zoya squeezed the life out of you. And for that one moment, the weight of your mother's expectations and the dark whispers of campus rumors felt miles away—eclipsed by the simple reality that you were officially in.
The calm excitement of the afternoon was short lived though, quickly replaced by hurricane Zoya in a state of social crisis. Your dorm room looked like a textile factory had exploded, there were clothes draped over your desk lamp and jeans strewn across your bed as she dove head first into your closet for the third time in twenty minutes. "The welcome party isn't just a party, Y/N," she muffled from behind a row of your hangers, her voice strained with the familiar, high pitched anxiety that always made you want to both hug her and laugh at her. "It's like a hierarchy. The hockey team is going to be there and the resident ice girls will be judging our every move. We can't just show up looking like we're headed to a late night study session in the library!"
You laid there on your bed, watching her with an amused tilt of your head. Zoya was always a perpetual mess of nerves, she was a beautiful disaster but you loved her to death for it. Her intensity was the only thing that could actually make you feel the weight of whatever was ahead.
"Have you actually seen the hockey team in person? Like up close?" she continued, finally surfacing with a grunt of frustration. "They’re not a human, they’re like filtered ai images come to life. And don't even get me started on Heeseung—the captain. If I have to stand next to him, I refuse to do it in a crewneck sweatshirt." She tossed one of your favorite oversized hoodies onto the floor with a look of annoyance. "Seriously? You have nothing sexy in here. It's all...functional."
"I was just going to go in what I have on now," you said, gesturing to your simple jeans and tee.
Zoya let out a gasp of such genuine horror you thought she'd actually been wounded. "No way, Y/N! You are not going to embarrass us! This is our debut!"
Before you could protest, she lunged for the overstuffed duffle bag she'd lugged over all the way from her own dorm and with a dramatic flourish, she hoisted it over both your heads and dumped the entire contents onto your bed. A mountain of lace, silk and leather tumbled out in a heap.
"Pick," she commanded, pointing at the pile with a manic twitch in her eye. "Pick right now or so help me God, I will pick for you and I promise you it will involve something tiny."
Giving in to the inevitable, you sighed and reached blindly into the middle of the mountain. Your fingers snagged onto the strap of a dress, so you pulled it out—a short, form fitting black dress with delicate straps and a neckline that was definitely lower than anything you owned.
Zoya's eyes went wide and her frantic energy instantly shifted into a predatory sort of pride. "Ooh...okay, okay! That one is hot," she purred, clapping her hands together. "The I don't care but I look incredible look. It's perfect. Go. Put it on. Eeek! I can’t wait, Y/N!"
You’re not surprised the party ends up being a far cry from the chaotic, floor shaking rages you'd been attending in the freshman dorms. This was something different, it was controlled and suffocatingly exclusive.
You let your eyes scan the room as you hoisted yourself up onto the kitchen island, slowly realizing the rumors about the inner circle weren't exaggerated. There were exactly twenty two hockey players and the twenty ice girls, including the five of you who had just been initiated. The air felt heavy with a specific kind of social politics you weren't sure you wanted to play. Zoya, however, was of course a natural and about twenty minutes ago, a guy with a sharp jawline and an observant gaze called Jungwon had detached himself from a group of upperclassmen and navigated the crowded living room with a focused sort of grace, landing right in front of Zoya.
"Was it a requirement for this year’s ice girls to be extra gorgeous?" he'd asked her with a voice smooth enough to make Zoya's usual nervous energy vanish into a flattered blush. He looked into her cup before speaking again, "Want to help me find something that isn't cheap beer?"
Zoya had glanced back at you, her eyes wide with a silent 'Is this okay?' question. You'd given her a small, reassuring nod, the green light she needed to finally enjoy the night she'd spent weeks stressing over.
Now, you were alone sat on the island while the hem of Zoya's dress rode up slightly as you adjusted your seat. The fabric was sleek and undeniably hot, as she'd put it but it didn't stop you from feeling like an outsider looking in.
Through the pulse of the music and the low hum of athletic egos clashing, your mind drifted toward your dorm. You could almost feel the weight of your oversized weighted duvet and the silence of your room. You were halfway through the mental calculation of how long you had to stay before an early morning excuse became socially acceptable, when the stool next to your legs slid back and the scent of expensive cologne hit you before he even spoke.
"You look remarkably bored for someone who just clawed their way onto the most exclusive team on campus," his voice came, all deep and smooth, holding a hint of a challenge.
You looked up and met a pair of intense eyes. He was striking with sharp angles and cool composure. Normally, you might have given a dry retort about the music volume but you caught sight of Zoya across the room, laughing at something Jungwon said. You knew her mentals would never recover if you started your tenure by being rude to one of the hockey gods.
"I’m just a bit tired," you said and forced your lips into a polite smile. "It's been a long week of skating."
He tilted his head and studied you a little as if he were reading a play. "Fair enough. I'm Jongseong but everyone just calls me Jay."
"Nice to meet you, Jay. I’m Y/N" you replied. You were just about to settle into a rhythm of light banter when a second presence came crashing into your peripheral vision.
"And who is this cutie?"
The newcomer leaned against his palm with his elbow the marble counter, he was radiating a completely different energy from Jay, so warm and dangerously charming. He looked like the kind of guy that had never had a bad day in his life.
Jay didn't even glance at him, his dark eyes somehow stayed locked on yours and his voice dropped an octave as he answered for you. "Y/N," he said your name and made it sound like a claim and not like an introduction.
The new guy grinned, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Well, Y/N, I'm Jake. Huge congratulations on making the ice girls. That’s a big deal."
You offered an amused huff. "Thanks. Though I'm surprised you even know I'm new. I figured we all looked the same to you guys in those practice uniforms."
Jake let out a short laugh and shifted closer until he had his head nearly in your thighs. "Oh please," he murmured, letting his gaze travel over your face with a boldness that made the back of your neck heat up. "I would've spotted you months ago if you were already around. You're far too stunning to go unnoticed on this campus."
Before you could respond to Jake's blatant flirting, a third figure cut through the conversation. He didn't look at you, well at least not at first. He directed all his attention entirely to Jake. "Heeseung is looking for you," the newcomer said a little bit like a warning. "And he's already pissed. You were supposed let the delivery driver with the drinks in and now he’s gone…with the extra drinks."
Jake didn't look remotely intimidated, if anything he actually looked bored as he rolled his eyes and let his hair tickle your arm. "Heeseung gets pissed at everyone, Sunghoon. It's his default setting by now."
The name Heeseung had been floating around the dorms like a title of nobility for weeks but the way they spoke it made him sound like a force to be reckoned with. "Who exactly is Heeseung?" you cut in, managing to keep your voice steady despite the triple threat of hot guys surrounding you. "And should I be staying clear of him?"
That was the moment the new guy finally acknowledged you. His gaze drifted down and landed on you with a clinical kind of interest that felt like you were being scrutinized.
"He's our captain," Jake answered quickly, with a playful smirk returning to his lips. "And whether you stay clear of him or not isn't really up to you anymore, is it? You're an ice girl now."
"This is Sunghoon," Jake added, gesturing vaguely to the cold eyed newcomer.
Sunghoon didn't smile at you but the intensity of his stare softened just a fraction. "So, how does it feel? Being one of the chosen five?"
You opened your mouth to give a diplomatic, it's great response but your gaze snagged on a movement across the room, where Zoya was stood still with Jungwon distracted by the person he was talking to over her head. Her eyes were wide and her mouth slightly agape at the sight of you sat at the center of a triangle of hot guys.
She caught your eye and mouthed, "What the fuck?!" her expression was a blend of genuine horror and curios thrill.
You caught her eye and gave a subtle, helpless shrug, you didn't have an answer for her, damn—you didn't even have an answer for yourself. Ten minutes ago you were thinking about your bed and now, you’re the center of gravity for some sexy strangers.
Just as Jay was trying to pull you back into the conversation with a question about your major or something, a voice came from nowhere. "Jake. Come on, man. I told you to let the drinks guy in." The voice was low and authoritative, lacking any of the playful warmth the others had shown.
Heeseung didn't even look like a student in the best way possible, he looked like the architect of the entire room. His presence was heavy like a physical weight that made the banter from a moment ago feel suddenly juvenile. He didn't even acknowledge you, his eyes were fixed entirely on Jake with a look of tired discipline.
"He left and now we’re low on drinks," Heeseung added but Jake didn't miss a beat and instead of shrinking, he finally just placed his whole head in your lap as he flashed a boyish grin at his captain.
"Can you blame me, cap?" Jake countered, the tone was light but his eyes were dancing with a hint of challenge. "I was just doing my job. Making our newest recruit feel welcome. You wouldn't want the ice girls thinking we aren’t hospitable, would you?" He spoke as if you were the ultimate get out of jail free card.
Heeseung's eyes finally shifted, they traveled slowly from your face down to where your hands were resting in Jake's hair, then finally up to your face again. His eyes weren't hungry like Jake's or intense like Jay's, they were just insanely observant, tracing your features quietly in a way that made your breath scatter.
He let out a long sigh and you could see the tension in his jaw flicker for just a second before he looked back at the three guys flanking you.
"Of course," He said. "I should have known. You three always did have a habit of gravitating toward the prettiest girl in the room."
He stepped closer and invaded the space the others had already carved out, letting his shadow fall over you. "The problem is," he said, shifting his eyes to lock onto yours with a finality that made the myth Zoya was going on about suddenly feel real, "they usually forget that the prettiest ones are the hardest to keep in line."
His eyes searched yours for a crack in your nonchalant exterior. "So," he murmured, "are you going to be a problem, doll? Hard to keep in line?"
The weight of the four of them was suffocating, it made you lose trust in your own voice, so you simply shook your head, a subtle movement that felt like signing a contract you hadn't even read.
A satisfied smirk pulled at Jay's lips so he let his shoulder brush yours. "In that case," he said, "we're moving to a more...private after party. Just us. You wanna come?"
He didn't phrase it like a question, to you it sounded like it was an invitation or a command. You hesitated and your mind flashed back to the quiet safety of your dorm but Jake was quick in sensing your retreat. He reached out and let his thumb graze the back of your hand where it rested on the marble now since he lifted his head from your lap.
"Come on," he coaxed with a honeyed voice. "The night's just getting started. You don't want to be the only recruit who tucked herself in just before the real fun began, do you?"
"I...I can't leave Zoya," you managed to glance over their tall frames toward the dance floor. "We came together. I can’t just leave her alone."
Heeseung didn't even bother looking over his shoulder, as if he already knew exactly where everyone in the room was positioned. "Zoya’s in safe hands, Jungwon is the sweetest. He'll look after her."
You followed his gaze to the center of the room where the lights caught Zoya, who clearly wasn't checking for you anymore. She had her back pressed firmly against Jungwon's chest, her head tilted back as his hands gripped her hips. She looked flushed and lost in the heat of the moment, completely oblivious to the fact that you were being cornered right now.
The rumors Zoya had whispered about at the stone table suddenly didn't feel so ridiculous anymore. Looking at her, then back at the four sets of eyes waiting for your answer, you realized you had to make a choice. But maybe it wasn’t even like that, maybe they were just being really good wing men for Jay, who was the first to approach you. And if you’re being honest you didn’t mind the either of flirting with him more in a more quiet location.
That line of reasoning was exactly how you ended up sat between Jay and Sunghoon in the backseat of a massive truck you’re suspecting Jake owns, seeing as he’s the one driving with Heeseung in the passenger seat.
The fabric of Sunghoon's expensive jacket brushed against your left arm while Jay's solid frame pressed into your right, leaving you with nowhere to lean but forward.
The blue light of your phone screen felt blinding in the darkness of the car as you quickly typed out a message to Zoya.
You: I left with Jay. Didn't want to interrupt you and Jungwon. Text me when you're back?
You watched the read receipt appear instantly, trying to ignore how you conveniently left out the fact that you left with all four boys. A second later, a heart reaction popped up over the bubble, the girl didn’t even bother typing back, she was clearly occupied and it made you snort.
But before you could lock the screen, a large hand reached over and plucked the device from your fingers. Jay didn't even look at the screen as he pocketed it in his jacket with his gaze fixed on the side of your face. "Relax," he told you. "I promise you, Jungwon is a real gentleman. He'll make sure she gets back safe."
"He's right," Sunghoon added from your other side but when you looked at him, he was staring out the tinted window at the passing streetlights. "Jungwon is the best of us. No need to worry."
Jake caught your eye in the rearview mirror and flashed you his perfect white teeth, the engine roaring as he accelerated down the road.
The drive felt like it was happening in a different dimension, the hum of the engine was drowning out by the predatory focus of the men surrounding you.
Jay shifted his weight so his large frame crowded into your personal space until you were pinned against the leather seat and Sunghoon's solid side. "You have no idea how much I've been thinking about this since you walked into that kitchen," he said, "You're so fucking gorgeous, it's insane."
He moved closer, letting his nose brush yours and you could feel his warm breath on your lips. "I'm going to kiss you now. Is that okay?"
Your words had abandoned you, the sheer fervor of his gaze made you dizzy and all you could do was nod. He didn't wait to be told twice, crashing his lips onto yours in a kiss so hungry and demanding, it made a tiny whimper escape your throat, muffled by his lips as his tongue traced yours.
From the front, Heeseung's amused voice cut through the haze, he glanced back over his shoulder at the sight of Jay nearly on top of you, pushing you further into Sunghoon. "Control yourself, Jongseong," he said with no real bite to his words. "You're always so impatient. We aren't even off the main road yet."
Jay definitely wasn’t listening, deepening the kiss instead and letting his hand grip your waist. That’s when you felt a sharp spark of electricity as a different hand began a slow trail up the hem of your dress, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh.
Your head snapped to the left with wide eyes to meet Sunghoon's gaze, who wasn't looking out the window anymore, whose lips were now pulled into a pout. "And what about me?" he whispered, "Where's my kiss, Y/N?"
Caught between the two of them, you leaned over and pressed your lips to Sunghoon's in a softer kiss. The moment you did, Jay groaned into your ear and grabbed your waist to hoist your leg over his lap, forcing your legs apart in the cramped space and making your dress ride up dangerously high.
Jay's fingers danced along your inner thigh, inching upward until they hooked under the delicate edge of your lace panties. The sensation sent a jolt through you and as Sunghoon began to trail wet kisses down the column of your neck, your breath hitched in a jagged sob.
You were sure you would faint if they both kept going but the vehicle came to a halt and Jake's voice drifted back from the driver's seat, "We're hereeee."
Trying to get out the truck, your legs felt like water when your heels hit the gravel of the driveway, making you stumble.
"Woah, easy there," Sunghoon caught you and before you could find your balance, he moved with the strength of an athlete. In one swift motion, he hooked an arm around your waist and hoisted you upward, flipping you over his shoulder like you weighed less than a hockey stick.
That forced a whimper out of your lips and your hair cascaded toward the pavement while the hem of Zoya's dress rode up even further. Blood quickly rushed to your head, mixing with the lingering dizzy spell Jay had started in the backseat.
SMACK.
The sharp sound of his palm connecting with your rear echoed in the quiet night. "Shh," he shushed you with his hand lingering for a possessive second on the curve of your hip. You could hear the others following behind him as he carried you into the house. Jake let out a low laugh from somewhere behind you. "Careful with the cargo, Hoon," he teased but there was no real concern in his voice.
"She's fine," Jay countered, speaking for you and reaching up to trace a slow line down your exposed calf.
Heeseung led the way and punched a code into a glowing keypad of the door, the mechanical click of the lock sounding like a gavel hitting a sounding block. He stepped inside and held the door open, his eyes tracked your inverted form on Sunghoon’s shoulder.
"Try not to make too much noise, doll. The neighbors think we're such studious boys."
Sunghoon dropped you carefully, setting you down on the couch and the first thing you registered was the interior of the house, it was even more imposing than the truck—all dark leather and the kind of minimalist luxury that felt cold until the four of them surrounded the couch where you sat. They stood in a semi circle, before Heeseung stepped forward with an expression so unreadable, it stripped away the playful banter of the car ride.
"Before we go any further, let's be clear," he started, speaking in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. "We're going to fuck you. All of us. If you don't want that, if you've changed your mind, say it now. We won't be mad and we won't make it weird. Jake will drive you back to your dorm and we'll go back to being normal hockey players and ice girl on Monday. No questions asked."
The rumors weren't just true, they were standing right in front of you, tall and extremely expectant.
But as you looked up at them you didn't feel fear Zoya had spoken of this very moment with. The adrenaline from the car ride was still singing in your veins, drowning out any hesitation.
Without a word, you reached up, hooking your fingers under the thin spaghetti straps of the dress. You watched their eyes track the movement as you slowly slid the fabric down, letting it pool around your waist until your breasts were fully exposed in the dim light of the apartment.
"Fuck yeah," Jake breathed, already reaching for the buckle of his belt. "I told you she was the right choice," he muttered.
Heeseung didn't have an outward reaction but the corner of his mouth ticked upward in a smirk—the first sign of genuine approval you'd seen from him all night. "Good girl," he said but now his voice carried a heavy sexual weight.
It was as if they had been waiting all night to tear into you, Jake didn't wait for a second invitation, he dropped to his knees by your legs before burying his face against your chest. "Fuck, I love tits," he groaned, the sound muffled against your skin before his mouth latched onto one nipple. He sucked with a greedy pace that sent a lightning bolt of heat straight to your core, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak until you were arching your back off the leather cushions.
Above you, Jay was already crowding back into your space, ready to continue what he started in the car. He gripped your jaw and tilted your head back for a bruising make out that had you gasping for air, his hands found your hair to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
While Jake and Jay claimed your upper body, Sunghoon moved with a surgical focus. He didn't say a word as he reached down, hooking his fingers into the lace of your panties and tugging them down your legs in one smooth motion. He tossed the scrap of fabric onto the expensive floor without a second glance.
He looked at your pussy with a smirk pulling at his lips. "Look at that," his voice barely cut through the sounds of Jake's wet suction and Jay's heavy breathing. He reached out with two fingers to graze your folds, coming away coated in your evidence. He held them up to the dim light, showing you how much you were already leaking. "You're absolutely soaking. Such a little slut for the team, aren't you, baby girl?"
The words hit you in a way that made your toes curl and sent a whine into Jay's hungry mouth, your hips instinctively rolled upward toward Sunghoon's hand or face, desperate for the friction you knew was coming.
From the edge of the couch, Heeseung watched with a calm satisfaction, his arms crossed over his chest, taking in the sight of his teammates dismantling the newest ice girl.
"She's perfect," Heeseung noted. "Jay, move."
You were pinned to the plush leather of the sofa like a living sacrifice to the tradition you had only joked about five hours ago.
Heeseung leaned over you, letting his large hand cup the side of your face so he could claim your mouth. His kiss was deep, slower than Jay’s and tasted of dark intentions. But the moment his tongue met yours, you felt like you could fall in love with him, that thought was quickly pushed out of your head when a pair of hot, wet lips latched directly onto your clit with a suction so precise it felt like a machine.
"Ah—!" Your back arched violently off the cushions as you broke away from Heeseung's mouth, only to look down and find Jay's dark hair between your thighs. He didn't look up, his hands gripped your hips with bruising force to keep you still while his tongue worked with in rhythmic motions. He was fucking your pussy with his mouth, swirling his tongue and flicking it against the most sensitive parts of your cunt until you were sobbing into the quiet of the room. "S—Slow down!"
You tried to tug at the roots of his hair to ground yourself but there was no use. On either side of your chest, Jake was still relentlessly toying with your breasts, moving his mouth from one nipple to the other and grazing his teeth on the swollen peaks until they were raw and sensitive.
Heeseung didn't let you stay away for long, his hand shifted from your cheek again before sliding down until his fingers curled firmly around your throat. It wasn't enough to choke you, just a steady, pressure that forced your chin up and pinned you in place while he leaned back in to reclaim your lips.
"Stay still for me, mama."
With a hand on your neck, Jake's mouth on your chest and Jay's tongue devouring your cunt, you felt like you were being pulled apart. You became a mess of whimpers and little breaths while your body twitched with every flick of Jay's tongue as the four of them began the process of breaking you in.
Heeseung pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, which was now swollen from his kisses.
"Do you know how to suck a dick, doll face?" he asked, to which you could only nod with your eyes wide and glazed over from arousal.
He took hold of your jaw with a firm grip, maneuvering your head like a piece of equipment he was testing for the first time. You were forced to turn away from the wet sounds Jay was still making between your thighs and suddenly you were face to face with Sunghoon’s cock. He stood right at the edge of the sofa with his jeans already pulled down. His cock was thick and pulsing with a life of its own, there was a perfect bead of precum trembling at the crown. It looked lethal in that light, it looked way too big and ready, completely unapologetic.
"Open up."
Your mouth fell open in a silent invitation that he accepted instantly as he guided his length past your lips. The salt heavy taste of him flooded your mouth and you found yourself choking out a muffled whimper when he slid in deep, bottoming out against the back of your throat on the very first thrust.
He wasn't gentle, he lacked the patience Jake liked to pretend he had, he reaching down, he tangled his fingers into your hair at the roots to steady you or perhaps just to keep you from pulling away then began to fuck your face with a bruising rhythm.
It was complete sensory static, you had Sunghoon's weight invading your throat, Jay's tongue still ruthlessly fucking your pussy below and the heavy pressure of Heeseung's hand on the back of your neck. Every time Sunghoon thrust, his hips bumped against your nose and the scent of him suffocates you in the best possible way.
You were drowning in them, drowning in the friction of the leather sofa against your back and the dual assault on your body, you could barely find the air to breathe. It made you reach out and dig your fingers into Sunghoon's quads for some kind of leverage, you felt the rock hard muscle jump under your touch as you doubled down on the suction.
"God, look at her," Jake's voice drifted from somewhere above your chest. "She's taking him so well. Such a pretty thing."
Sunghoon wasn’t offering any ounce of mercy, his movement turned into something frenzied as he crowded into your space. He used your hair as a tether, pulling your head back to meet every punishing lunge, the friction of his length against your tongue and throat becoming a choking heat. You were swamped in the taste of him, making your eyes water cause his hips snapped forward with a certainty that left you with no room to breathe.
Determined to wrestle back some semblance of control, you reached up and clamped your hand around the very base of his cock, letting thumb press firmly into the heavy vein on the side, you tried to anchor him in place, circling your tongue around the head with laser focus. You started to suck and choke on him in a pace that had his knees buckling against the edge of the cushions.
The controlled grunts he had been making finally fractured. "Fuck," he gasped, something genuine and high pitched ripping from his throat as his head snapped back. The cold look he’d been attempting to wear all night was completely replaced by a wrecked expression that bordered on pain. He leaned his full weight into you, bracing one hand against the wall behind the couch, his fingertips raked against your scalp cause he was losing the battle to stay composed.
He looked down at the others, his voice a jagged rasp that ripped through the wet sounds of Jay still eating your pussy so messily and the squelching of his own cock fucking your mouth. "Heeseung...oh fuck my life, she's actually s—so fucking good at this."
Jake’s chuckle was appreciative from where he was still occupied with your chest, his thumb flicking your nipple with a punishing pinch that made you jump. "I told you. She's got that quiet desperate energy. They're always the nastiest."
Jay hadn’t even come up for air from the slick mess between your thighs, his tongue was still hitting your clit with sharp flicks that made your hips buck weakly into his mouth.
Heeseung's hand was tracing the frantic pulse in your throat, he watched the way your cheeks hollowed out when you doubled down on Sunghoon, his expression shifting from calculated observation to something much hungrier.
"Damn," "What a sight."
You fought for every bit of air while stilling working your throat around Sunghoon with a needy drive that you were determined to maintain until he finally came. You wanted that win, you wanted the feeling of him losing his composure completely as he spilled into your mouth but the sensation coming from Jay was starting to break your focus.
Two thick fingers suddenly shoved their way past your entrance and stretched you wide with an abrupt force that made your eyes roll back instantly. At the same moment, a hot mouth seized your clit again, sucking with an intent pressure that had you wanting to shriek.
The rush was too much, it was a violent collision of pleasure that had you trembling on the couch. You tried to pull back, shaking your head as you attempted to dislodge Sunghoon just to let out the scream building in your lungs. But Sunghoon wasn't having it, he forced you back down until you were buried to the hilt once more, snapping his hips forward with an unchecked urgency.
"Come on, baby girl...I'm so fucking close. Take this cock for me. You’re a good girl, right?"
You tried to obey, hollowing your cheeks so you could double down on the suction but the fingers inside you were merciless. They pushed deeper, reaching past depths you didn't know you had and hooking upward to find that one receptive spot to stay there, pulsing against it until your entire body went rigid.
The dam within you didn't just break, it completely shattered, leading to a hot wave of fluid erupting from you, soaking the hand buried inside you and splashing against the expensive cushions. You were squirting around those fingers in quivering jets, your gummy muscles clenched in an uncoordinated pulses that you couldn't stop if you tried. Every muffled whimper and sob was swallowed whole by Sunghoon's length, leaving you to shake helplessly as you were essentially being consumed from both ends.
"No way," Jake's excitement reached your ears through the haze, he stopped his assault on your breasts just to stare down at the slick mess soaking into the dark leather. "Holy shit, she's a squirter. Hee, did you see that?"
Jay let out an elated sound while his fingers were still buried deep to catch every last twitch of your orgasm. "I see it," he muttered. "I feel it. You’re ruining the couch, angel."
Even through their words and the force of your organs that had you shaking, Sunghoon’s hips were unstoppable. It was like he had lost his grip on reality and you could tell he was on the edge of his own climax.
His hand tightened in your hair with a pushing force as a string of broken curses tore from his throat. "Holy fucking shit—Fuckkk baby girl." "Sh—Shit! You’re gonna make me cum."
It was as if it was too much for him but he didn’t pull back, he pushed further into to your mouth, the phallic head of his cock assaulting your throat.
His hot spurts of cum shot down, making you gag and the cum overflow but he wasn't done, he somehow managed to keep thrusting, trying to fuck every last drop back into you with so much heat that your eyes rolled into the back of your head.
"Easy, Hoon. You're going to choke her," Heeseung's voice broke through the fog, still calm but carrying that undeniable authority. He reached forward, wrapping a hand around Sunghoon's shoulder and physically hauling him back.
The moment the pressure vanished and you heard the squelch of his cock pulling out from your mouth, you collapsed forward on the sofa. You couldn't seem to catch your breath, the air was whistling in your lungs as you coughed uncontrollably. Strings of white, pearly cum trailed from the corners of your mouth, dripped down your chin and carved wet paths through the sweat on your neck.
Jay moved over to catch your jaw, he started to pull at the hem of his shirt and made an effort to wipe the mess from your face but it was a lost cause—you were completely ruined. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip and his eyes went soft for a minute. "You okay? We can stop if you've had enough. You're shaking like crazy."
The room went still for a heartbeat and all four sets of eyes tracked the way your chest heaved. You swallowed hard, still tasting Sunghoon heavy on your tongue and looked up through your lashes. A defiant smile making its way to your lips, even though a stray tear from overstimulation rolled down your cheek.
"No," your voice was barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. "You haven't even fucked me yet. Isn't that what you promised?"
A charged silence followed your words before Jake let out a sharp laugh that sounded more like a bark. "Jesus Christ," "She's a total fucking freak. I love it."
Before you could even think to retort, Heeseung's hands were on your hips hauling you up and flipping you over, forcing you onto all fours in the center of the sofa. Your knees sank into the plush leather and your head hung low, making your hair shield your face as you felt the cold air of the room hit your exposed pussy.
Heeseung seemed to love keeping you suspended in that agonizingly sharp moment of anticipation, your breath wouldn’t stop hitching as your patience dwindled, you felt the blunt head of his cock begin to drag along your wet folds. He was taking his time, coating himself in the mess Jay had left behind, teasing the entrance until you were mindlessly rolling your hips back to find him.
"D—Don’t tease!" You shrieked at him, so desperate to be filled, he finally pushed in slowly, it was so intrusive that you felt like you were being split wide from the inside out. His size was unforgiving and every millimeter he gained seemed to stretch your walls to their absolute limit. You were starting to tremble, your elbows buckling as you tried to stay upright and in a moment of total overstimulation, you twisted your neck to look back at him.
That was a mistake.
The second your eyes met his dark, blown out ones, completely hollow of any pity, his face hardened and he reached forward, large hand wrapping firmly around the front of your throat, not to choke you but to force your head up and arch your spine, causing a violent surge of his hips that buried his cock all the way inside your pussy.
"FUCK!" You screamed straight from your lungs, the impact was so sudden it knocked the air out of you, leaving you gasping as your walls squeezed down around him in a reflexive grip.
"Nngh—fuck," he grunted, dropping his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades at the feeling of you clenching. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck to hold you steady against the force of his own intrusion. "You're so fucking tight. Doll, are you sure you’ve been fucked before?"
Regardless of his pussy drunk concern, he didn’t give you a second to adjust, picking a speed that had him bottoming out with every single thrust, making the world blur into a cloud of white light and the steady slap of skin meeting skin.
You found a way to open your eyes and were immediately met with Jay standing just inches from your face with his hardened dick in his hand, stroking at the view in front of him. The sight of him with completely unfiltered hunger in his eyes made you reach out to try to grab him yourself but your fingers grazed his thigh instead.
"Yeah? You want this too, angel?"
You couldn't even find your voice, you could only bob your head in a nod while Heeseung's hips collided with your ass.
"Say please," Jay commanded.
"Ah—nhh, please..." you whined, the sound breaking into a jagged sob as Heeseung bottomed out again. "Please, Jay...please fuck my mouth."
He kneeled on the couch on the space between your hands, the heat of him hit your face before he tapped the heaviness of his length on your outstretched tongue. You were a complete mess, your hands clinging his thighs for balance while your body was tossed back and forth between the two of them.
Heeseung shifted his angle and suddenly he wasn't just pounding into you anymore, he began to grind into that spot that had your toes curling into the leather. It wasn't the raw friction Sunghoon had used to fuck your face—it was a slow and deliciously exact pressure that made you pull off Jay’s cock for a second.
"Oh my God! Right there! Fu—Ah!" A broken string of moans escaping you, you looked up at Jay with your eyes glazed and watering. "Jayyy, Heeseung...Heeseung’s fucking me so good...It’s so good, Jay!"
Jay watched your face contort with the pleasure Heeseung was providing. "Yeah?" Jay rasped with an instant competitive heat and pushed his way back into your mouth, forcing you to take him deep but not as deep as Sunghoon. "You like that? You like how he's stretching out your little pussy?"
Just as you were starting to manage the dual invasion of Jay and Heeseung, a new spark ignited at your core. Someone had reached beneath you, finding your clit with his fingers and rubbing down until he heard you moan.
"W—Wait! Too much!"
The scream was raw and echoed off the high ceilings as you realized Jake was the source of the new pleasure. A new pleasure so overwhelming it turned you into a delirious mess of babbles.
"Thank you—fuck—thank you so much!" You cried, your head thrashing against the sofa cushions, completely abandoning Jay’s dick. "It’s so big...my pussy! Oh my God! Heeseung, it feels so good!"
You dug your fingers into the leather and began to throw your ass back with an erratic force, you were weaponizing your own body, slamming back against him so hard that he let out a choked off grunt, his hands scrambled to find purchase on your waist cause you had completely hijacked his rhythm. He was losing his control, it made his breath come out in ragged, stuttering hitches as you ground your pussy on his fic harder and harder.
"Wait—oh shit—doll, slow down," Heeseung managed to say but his voice a mess. He was trembling and muscles were all corded and tight with how hard he was struggled to keep up with your manic pace. "I'm gonna...fuck...can I cum? Can I cum inside you, doll?"
"Yes! Yes!" you keened. "Give it to me, Heeseung—fill me up, please, please just do it! Please give me your cum!"
Maybe Jake was starting to feel felt out or neglected, maybe that’s why his eyes got this strange kind of glee in them when he delivered three stinging slaps directly to your swollen clit.
The impact was the final straw and you knew you didn’t stand a chance, your vision went dark at the corners and for the second time in less than an hour a wave of fluid erupted from your pussy, soaking Heeseung's thighs and the sofa in a hot jolt. At that exact moment, Heeseung lost the battle, letting out a guttural roar and having his fingers bruise your hips when he surged forward one last time and pinned you down, dumping his entire load deep inside your overstimulated cunt.
The expensive fabric of Zoya's dress was now a lost cause, it was a ruined topographical map of cum streaks and the translucent evidence of your own multiple orgasms. You were slumped against the leather with your skin hot when Jake leaned into your space. He looked down at you with a fake pout, his bottom lip tucked out in a way that would have been endearing if his eyes weren't so eager.
"You look absolutely undone," Jake said softly, a little playfully too while he traced a smudge of Sunghoon's cum on your cheek. "Are we done? Because you haven't even touched me yet and I'm starting to feel a little neglected over here."
Heeseung was a complete afterthought at this point, slumped back against the sofa cushions with his chest heaving, he looked entirely fucked out and content to just watch the rest of them continue to use you. Jay snorted as soon as he saw his captain sidelined before he reached out and tugged you toward him.
He didn't give you a choice in the positioning, quickly sitting back and pulling you onto his lap so that your back was pressed against his firm chest, your legs straddling his thick thighs in a reverse cowgirl that left you bare and vulnerable.
"I can be a bit rough, angel," Jay warned in a low voice that traveled straight through your spine. He leaned forward and let his lips graze the shell of your ear. "Just tap my arm if you need me to slow down, okay?"
You were able to give him a weak nod but right before you could even settle into the new position, the dynamic shifted. Jay's hands slid down, hooking the firmly under your knees and hauling your legs upward until your thighs were pinned against your chest. He shifted his grip and locked his fingers behind your head in a makeshift full nelson that made your chest thrust forward and your pussy completely bared to the room.
Jake quickly stepped in and helped Jay's guide his length to your entrance. The thrust of him was so creamy and squelching due to the mixture of Heeseung's and your cum but it didn't stop the way your pussy still felt stretched and overstimulated.
"Oh fuck—!"
You were completely at his mercy, pinned between his solid frame and the air, with no way to pull back or adjust the depth. Jay didn't waste a second of your shock, snapping his hips forward with animalistic strength that made your entire body jostle with every strike.
You became a passenger in your own body, your head lolling forward cause you had no choice, he ruined what was left of your composure with a speed you had no hope of escaping.
The sound Jake's loud commentary and the heavy, satisfied sound of Heeseung's laughter became nothing more than background static the moment Jay's lips grazed the damp skin of your earlobe, to whisper like he didn't want anyone else to hear. "Look at you," he hissed and words rattled in your skull.
His arms tightened under yours, pulling your chest even tighter against the position so he could fuck into you with sickeningly perfect thrusts. "Taking all of me like a champ while they just watch. You're so fucking wet, I can hear it every time my dick goes inside you. Do you like being our little showpiece? Do you like how much of a mess we've made of you?"
You tried to gasp, tried to find some response but he caught your ear in his teeth in a sharp nip. "Answer me, angel," he ordered and you couldn't help but clench harder at the sound of his sexy voice in your ear. "Tell me how good it feels to have me giving you this good dick. Tell me you're never going to be the same after tonight."
The way he spoke was so different from Sunghoon's cold commands or Heeseung's calculated dominance. He seemed to be utterly depraved while he detailed exactly what he was doing to your body, using words that made you feel like you were going insane.
"Nnh—Jay—"
"Yeah, that's it," he rasped, increasing his pace until you were bouncing helplessly in his grip. "Keep saying my name like that. Let them watch you cum apart for me. You're so fucking perfect, I'm gonna lose it if you keep squeezing me like that."
You were a complete disaster in his arms, like his words were actively bypassing your brain and heading straight for your pussy. He was pinning you to his chest and whispering every filthy thought he'd had about you since he first spotted you tonight, and with every word, he pushed you closer to the edge of your third orgasm you weren't sure your body was ready for.
The physical barrier of Jay's body didn't stop Jake, he seemed to be a creature of opportunity and when his eyes caught onto the wet frothing friction of Jay’s cock pounding into you, he darted his tongue out to trace Jay’s cock, catching the pearly drops of cum that had pooled at the base of him, and then he made a torturous trek upward. He licked right over the tension of your stretched entrance with his tongue firm and flat, before landing straight on your clit.
"Mmm—Jake—NO—!"
Your scream was harsh, heavy with the evidence of total sensory overload that vibrated through Jay's chest. You weren't just getting fucked anymore, they were taking you apart from the outside in. Every time Jake's tongue swirled over your now extremely sensitive nub, a fresh jerk of aching pleasure sang through your whole body to the point where all you could do was kick your feet and moan. "Oh my God! Oh shitttt! Fuck!" "Nggh—My pussy!"
"Look at you," Jay said into your ear so lowly that no one could hear him over the sound of your cries. "She's losing her fucking mind, Jake. Look at how she's shaking."
Jake didn't answer him with words, he just doubled down, mouth sucking, spitting and slurping until your vision was spotting. He was working in perfect tandem with Jay—the blunt force of the thrusts bottoming out inside you while Jake’s wet mouth kept you on the very edge of another violent climax.
You were a mess of incoherent sobs and frantic hitches as the room blurred into a haze of salt and the overwhelming scent of four men who were determined to see exactly how much you could take before they finally broke you for good.
"Hey," "You think you can handle more? You think that pretty little pussy of yours can take two cocks at once?"
Your brain was mid short circuiting from the overstimulation of both of them leaving you totally incapable of actual thought. You just wanted to be good for them, you wanted to be the perfect, ruined thing they so badly desired.
"Yes," you sobbed into the quiet of the room, making eye contact with Jake who had with tongue flat out so Jay was brushing up against it too. "Yes, please...I can take it."
Jay eyes locked onto Jake's with a competitive look. "She says she wants both, Jake. Get in here."
Jay didn't stop, but he did shift his rhythm, slowing the full nelson into a heavy grind that still kept you anchored while Jake stepped into the space between Jay's spread legs. Jake was vibrating with a feverish drive, his eyes were blown wide when he looked down at the slick mess of your pussy, mostly from him spitting and slurping all over it.
He spat a dollop directly onto your pussy again and the heat of it was a stark difference to the cooling fluids already coating your skin. Looking at him above you, all you could notice was how he was undeniably the heaviest and thickest you’d seen all night but you didn’t even get the chance to appreciate it before he decided to slap the heaviness of his cock directly on your swollen clit.
"Ah shit! Fuck Fuck Fuck—!" Your toes curled mid air.
He was massive in a way that made Sunghoon and Heeseung look manageable by comparison and who had struggled to take them, so how would you manage this?
"Look at you," Jake mocked, guiding the thick weeping head of his cock into your pussy, right alongside where Jay was still buried deep and grinding just on that spot. "You’re already stretching out for me. You’re such a good little slut, aren’t you?"
He began to push his way in, not waiting for your body to adjust around two massive cocks inside you. The stretch was agonizing, you felt like your walls were being pressed flat against your pelvis. You were being split in two, the two of them worked in sync to draw out the high pitched whimpers from your throat, bullying their way into your pussy until you were stuffed to the brim.
"That's it," Jay whispered in your ear, tightening his arms to keep you from collapsing under the weight of them both. "Take these cocks, angel. Show us how much you can really take."
His words made the room start to blur in a spectrum of light and the heavy thud of the sofa hitting the wall. Jay and Jake had found a devastating coordination—a seamless tag team assault where one was bottoming out against your cervix just as the other was pulling back to the entrance. You were never left empty, never given a second to recoil or catch a single, clean breath.
"God, Jay, your cock feels amazing," Jake barked out in a manic laugh while he watched the way your walls buckled and pulled taut to accommodate both their lengths. "I can feel you pulsing right against me inside her. She's so fucking tight." "You always this tight, babe?"
You were barely tethered to reality not to talk of attempting to respond to him, he was asking like he and his teammate weren’t both fucking your little pussy at the same damn time. "I can’t! You’re—I’m gonna cum again! Please!"
In a moment of panicked overstimulation, you tried to blink through the sweat stinging your eyes to search the shadows for Heeseung's grounding presence or Sunghoon's cold, watchful gaze. But the living room had swallowed them whole, they were nowhere to be found, leaving you entirely at the mercy of the two most insane.
Jake had seemed to develop a fresh obsession with your clit. It was like he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out for the twitching bundle of nerves with his fingers. The shock of the cold metal of his rings against your feverish, hot skin sent a violent tremor through your entire frame.
"Ah! Wait—! N—no!"
"No? I bet you fucking love it?" "I bet you love being fucked by four random strangers, oh shit."
"I bet this is the best—oh fuck!—I’m going to cum."
"This is the best night of your life. Say it."
"Holy shit! Yes yes yes! This is the best night of my fucking life!"
"You're going to be such a pretty little ice girl for us, you know that? You’ll be the sexiest thing on the ice. Everyone's gonna to look at you and have no idea you were fucked like this, shit, like a whore on a Friday night."
The mention of the ice, the mention of the world outside this suffocating living room felt like a distant dream. Your vision started to tunnel and the edges of the room started to fray into darkness as the dual friction of their bodies and the icy bite of Jake's rings pushed you toward a ledge you couldn't come back from.
A third and what you could tell would be your most violent orgasm of the night was already beginning to bubble up in your stomach, the feeling threatened to short circuit your entire nervous system. Your walls clutched at them with a crushing strength and for a terrifying, blissful second, the world went completely silent as you felt yourself starting to slip out of consciousness right at the peak of your pleasure.
The world didn't just blur, it splintered. Your third orgasm hit you with so much force you sat on the edge of unconsciousness, you tried to hold onto the overwhelming fullness of them both but your vision had started to dissolve into static.
Through the ringing in your ears, you heard a sharp grunt when Jake suddenly pulled out. The loss of his heavy weight was a shock to your system and you were left choking for a breath you couldn't quite find.
"Fuck—"
A second later, you felt the heat of his cum splashing across your chest, the weight of it soaking into the ruined fabric of the dress and landing on your sensitive nipple. He didn't stop, his hand tugging his cock in a final rhythm to coat your skin in the evidence of how much you had ruined him.
At the exact same moment, Jay let out a low moan but he didn’t pull out, if anything, he shoved his cock deeper just as he unlocked his fingers from behind your head and you immediately felt his cum beginning to fill you up, a heavy, internal tide that pushed you over the final ledge.
The heavy sound of their breathing was the last thing you registered before you slipped into a dark, unconsciousness, completely and utterly spent.
Is that a bird? You thought. No way that’s a bird but there was a chirp piercing through the fog of your consciousness. You winced as you tried to blink the world into focus, the ceiling above you was familiar, the off white and the faint water stain in the corner were familiar but the context was all wrong.
You were in your own dorm room.
The confusion hit like a physical weight and made your heart hammer against your ribs. You felt clean too, with the lingering scent of a citrusy body wash clinging to your skin but when you managed to push yourself up, the fabric of what you were wearing felt heavy and oversized. It wasn't your silk slip of Zoya’s dress, it was a thick, grey hoodie that smelled faintly of Jay's cologne and a pair of soft athletic shorts that definitely didn't belong to you.
A sharp ache blossomed in your lower back the moment you shifted, followed by a dull soreness between your thighs that made you hiss through your teeth. So you definitely didn’t dream up last night, the memory of all four of them, from Sunghoon fucking your face to Heeseung’s grip on your throat and the brutal weight of Jay and Jake stretching you to the brink, everything came rushing back in a vivid flood.
You reached up to trace the sensitive skin of your neck. Even without a mirror, you could feel the tender heat of the hickeys littered all across your collarbone and neck. You pulled back the hem of the oversized hoodie and gasped at the blossoming bruises on your hips, they were perfectly symmetrical to where Jay and Heeseung had grabbed you.
"How did I get back here?" you whispered to yourself and reached for your bedside table, expecting to find your cracked phone screen and a half empty water bottle. Instead, your hand brushed against the wicker of a massive, overflowing gift basket. It was filled with things that had no business being in a college dorm room—high end skincare, a silk robe, a plushie and boxes of artisanal chocolates.
But sitting right at the center and gleaming under the morning sun, was a pair of professional grade figure skates looking like something you would never buy cause of how expensive you knew they were. The white leather was pristine, the blades polished to a lethal shine and as you pulled them closer, you saw your initials—your initials—expertly embroidered into the heel in silver thread.
Tucked into the laces was a small card. You opened it with shaking fingers to read the scribbled words.
Thank you for the lovely night, doll face.
— The Hockey Team
These boys had seen you at your most ruined, they had taken apart every bit of your composure until you literally blacked out in their arms and then they had washed you, brought you back to your own bed and tucked you into bed like you were something precious.
You were tracing the silver embroidery on the skates when the door to your dorm swung open with a violent bang. Zoya practically vibrated into the room in a whirlwind of excitement and messy hair, her voice was already at a pitch that made your sore head throb even more.
"You will not believe him!" she shrieked, collapsing onto the foot of your bed without even looking up. "Jungwon is—god, he's actually the sweetest human alive. He sent me like five texts checking if I got in okay, even though he walked me back and now we're going on a date tonight? I'm going to throw up, I'm so nervous. You have to help me, I need to breathe, I need—"
She stopped mid sentence when her eyes finally landed on you. Her jaw dropped as she took in the oversized hoodie, the tangled mess of your hair and the undeniable hickey just above your collarbone. Then, her gaze drifted to the massive basket and the gleaming skates.
"Oh my," she breathed, her voice dropping into a stunned, reverent whisper. "Wait...is this from Jay? Stop, that is actually so hot. Did you guys...did you actually have sex? Tell me everything!"
"Yeah…we did. Something like that."
"No way! You're kidding! And he sent all this!?" Zoya shrieked, lunging forward to tackle you into the pillows while you wracked your brain for a less insane version of the story you were going to feed her, a version where you had sex with just Jay.
Exactly three weeks later, it was hockey season and the biting chill of the practice rink felt like a sanctuary these days rather than a chore. You glided through a series of warm up laps with the other ice girls in the brand new skates that now felt like a natural extension of your own body. They were perfectly broken in, like a silent reminder of a night that still felt like a fever dream every time you closed your eyes.
Zoya was a few feet away in a blur of focus and grace. She tucked into a tight, centered spin, her arms pulling in as she gained a dizzying amount of speed. It was genuinely impressive, she had the kind of technical precision that usually took years to master and you couldn't help but pause to watch her finish with a sharp flourish. "Show off," you teased her.
She laughed but her attention was immediately pulled toward the far end of the rink when the loud thud of the gate opening echoed through the arena, followed by the aggressive clack-clack of blades hitting the ice. The hockey team was filing out for their scheduled practice and their presence instantly shifted the energy of the room from quiet focus to something loud and electric.
Jungwon didn't even bother wavering the moment he spotted Zoya, he skated straight to her in fluid movements despite the heavy pads. He caught her by the waist and leaned in to press a quick kiss to her lips that had her giggling like a schoolgirl.
"See you after?" he asked loud enough for you to hear, before skating off toward the center circle. As you watched him skate away, your eyes drifted to the rest of the team and you found Jake almost immediately. He was leaning against the boards with his helmet tucked under one arm while he watched you with those eyes. When he realized you were looking back at him, he didn't look away, instead he let his eyes drop to the silver initials on your skates before snapping back to yours with a wink that said everything and nothing at all.
Zoya’s head whipped toward you, her eyes wide cause she caught the tail end of the exchange. "Woah, woah—what was that? Jake? Seriously?" She skated closer and poked your arm with a gloved finger. "Does Jay know his teammate is giving you those kinds of googly eyes? Are you trying to start a locker room war?"
A slow heat curled in your gut but didn't say a word. You just looked at her and held her gaze for a beat, then made a deliberate show of zipping your lips together and throwing away the key with a flick of your wrist.
"Stop! You are so mean!" Zoya squealed, grabbing your shoulders and spinning you around in a circle. She started whining, her voice echoing off the high ceilings as she begged for just one little detail. "You can't do that to me! I tell you everything about Jungwon! Is it a thing? Is it a secret thing?"
You just laughed, the sound bright and clear against the ice, enjoying the way she was spiraling into a hysterical frenzy. You watched the guys start their drills—Heeseung’s effortless authority, Jay’s raw power, Jake’s erratic energy and Sunghoon’s cold precision.
Zoya could have her dinner dates and her sweet texts with Jungwon, this was a secret that no one else needed to know—except, perhaps, next year's chosen ice girl.
Pairing : enhypen ot7 poly x roommate reader
Genre : non-idol AU, fluff, domestic life
Synopsis : Y/N was at her wit's end. Her dorm roommate was driving her crazy and keeping her up at night. Despite her limited savings, she was looking for a place to move, and what better option than accepting the offer from seven guys who lived together near her campus ? What would this new life be like ?
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
Y/N hated her studies. Well, she hated campus life, not really what she was studying. Due to lack of money, she had a room on the university campus that she had to share with another girl.
They were cordial with each other and didn't bother each other, especially during exam periods, but for several weeks, her roommate had been bringing back a different guy on weekday nights, forcing Y/N to stay out of the room until late at night before the guy left and she could go to bed.
She was exhausted from going to bed late and kept nodding off in class, which wasn't a good thing. That's why she dragged her two best friends to a bar on a Friday night when a sock was again on the door handle of their room. She was ready to drink until she forgot all about that evening.
The bar was located not far from campus and was a spot students often frequented. Seven young men, three of whom were still in college, were seated at a table after performing to liven up the evening. Despite the late hour, the bar was still crowded.
"Got any responses for the last room ?" Heeseung asked, raising his glass to his lips.
"A few," Jay sighed. "But the guys were the kind I'd want to keep far from the house." That made them chuckle as they heard complaints coming from the next table.
"I swear she must have slept with our entire class !" a girl exclaimed. "I've spent over 72 hours in the library just this month just to avoid being there when they're fucking ! I haven't had a full night's sleep in weeks." She let her head fall into her arms, her friends giggled.
"I'd tell you to crash on my couch, but me and boyfriend are almost as bad as your roommate, so you wouldn't like it..."
"Why don't you find an apartment ? Living alone is cool."
"With the scholarship I have and the meager salary I make at the bookstore ? I could never find an apartment," her friend despaired. "I could find a roommate, but who's to say she wouldn't be worse ?"
"Sorry, girl." The boys behind them exchanged glances. They had been looking for a new roommate but had never thought of a girl. And she seemed exactly like someone they could appreciate. Jake kicked Jungwon under the table, signaling him to go talk to her, the youngest shook his head vigorously.
They forced him to go, and Jungwon stumbled toward their table, drawing their attention. He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "Hi."
"Yo, bro. I'm Lara and a lesbian. She's Daniella with a boyfriend. And she's Y/N, and she's a nun." Her friend gave her a weary look as Daniella giggled behind her hand.
"Uh... pleased to meet you ?" Jungwon swallowed and turned to Y/N, who was already looking at him. "Hi."
"You already said that."
"Yeah, sorry... Um, my friends and I are at the table right behind you, and we couldn't help overhearing your conversation and the situation you're in. We don't want to be creepy or anything," he added quickly, seeing her raise an eyebrow. "And they forced me to come. But we have an extra room free in the house where we all live, and we were looking for a roommate. If you want, you can take the room. Even temporarily until you find something better. We're not bad, I promise."
Y/N turned around and faced the group for the first time, having had her back to them the whole time. And God... she's beautiful. Even with the bad bar lighting, she's a real angel. She looked at them, thoughtful about the proposal. "Sorry, but... what tells me you're not psychopaths who are going to lock me up as soon as I'm at your place ?"
"Psychopaths are rarely that sexy," Lara shot, staring at them with her chin on her fist. "And that's coming from a lesbian."
"Unnie, do you want me to name some movie psychopaths who are sexy ?" Daniella offered.
"No, thank you." Y/N rolled her eyes, used to their antics.
"Me, Sunoo, and Ni-ki are in the same university as you," Jungwon added, pointing to himself and his two friends. "And there's Heeseung hyung, Jay hyung who owns the house, Jake hyung, and Sunghoon hyung. They're older and already working."
"If you accept, you won't have to pay rent, which will allow you to save up to find an apartment later," Jay assured with a smile. "The house belongs to my parents, so all expenses are already covered."
Lara kicked her under the table, signaling this was a golden opportunity. But even though Jungwon, Sunoo, and Ni-ki were in the same university, she didn't know them. But she couldn't handle her roommate's escapades for another night.
"I guess it's worth a try," she agreed with a nod. "But just so you know, if I suddenly disappear, Lara and Daniella will immediately say you were the perfect suspects."
"Shit, maybe we should lock them up too then," Jake joked.
"You can try, but I bite," Lara taunted. "And Daniella's boyfriend will kick your ass."
"You'll see, Y/N will be a good roommate !" Daniella smiled.
"Yeah ! She doesn't drink, she doesn't smoke, God she doesn't even sleep around !" Y/N shot her a dark look, gritting her teeth, her friend raised her glass in her direction.
"Shut up."
"Only the truth hurts, darling." The girl ran her tongue over her lips, insulting her under her breath before refocusing on the boys, who seemed quite amused.
"I can come by tomorrow to see the house ?"
"You can even move in tomorrow if you want !" Sunoo affirmed with a smile. "The room is already ready." Y/N gave him a small thank-you smile. She thanked them again, taking the house address before leaving the bar with her friends. The boys exchanged smiles. They had just found a rare gem.
The next day, after sobering up, Y/N packed her bags, putting everything that didn't fit into boxes. Her roommate said nothing, even seeming happy to have the room to herself until the administration found someone else to occupy it.
Lara and Daniella were already waiting by the car borrowed from the youngest's boyfriend, and Lara drove to the address they'd been given, music blasting. It was far too early, even though it was past noon, to be singing at the top of their lungs, but it didn't seem to bother her friends.
Their jaws nearly dropped when the car stopped in front of a two-story house, absolutely magnificent. "Okay, I want to come live here too."
Having heard the car park, the front door opened, and the boys came out to greet them. "Hey, girls !"
"Need help ?" Sunghoon asked.
"Don't mind if I do ! Put those muscles to use, dear sir !" He didn't need to be asked twice, grabbing two boxes under each arm.
They led them inside the house, and Y/N was impressed by its size. Jay's family must be wealthy to own such a house. The living room's glass windows overlooked a garden, and there was even a hot tub in one corner.
"We'll show you your room," Ni-ki smiled, pointing upstairs. Y/N followed him up to the second floor. There were four doors leading to different rooms, and one was open, signaling it was hers.
The room must have been three times the size of the one she shared with her roommate. Furnished with a large bed, a walk-in closet far too big for the few belongings she had, and a desk. There was even a private bathroom. "What the fuck. Is that a mini-fridge I see?" Her bewildered expression made them laugh as the boys set down her things.
"Can I come live here ?" Daniella asked. "My boyfriend makes noise too."
"That's because you're the one making him moan like a bitch," Lara retorted. Y/N looked at them with a grimace.
"Seriously, this is way too much, especially without paying rent. I must do something to thank you, guys." They smiled at the offer.
"You can cook from time to time. Jay handles the cooking because we don't know how to boil water," Jake declared. "And Heeseung hyung lives exclusively on ramen and screen time."
The girl let out a chuckle, glancing at Heeseung, who smiled at her. "I can cook, I don't mind."
"You'll see, her cookies are to die for," Daniella smiled.
"I can't wait to taste them !"
Y/N walked her friends to the door, Lara linked her arm with hers, a smirk at the corner of her lips. "If you don't hook up with one of them, I'll disinherit you."
"You're poor."
"I'll disinherit you from my psychological inheritance." Her friend rolled her eyes and hugged them before closing the door. She turned around, meeting the boys' gazes a few steps away, and scratched the back of her neck, not sure what to say.
Fortunately, barking was heard, saving her from the silence. Four dogs burst out from the garden and immediately came to sniff the newcomer, curious about this new scent.
"I hope you're not afraid of dogs," Jungwon worried. She crouched before them to give them a few pets, which they happily accepted.
"I've always wanted a dog, but I never had the space or the money to have one, so it's fine." The border collie pressed his wet nose to her cheek, whining. "Hey..." Y/N lifted one of his back paws to see what was going on underneath... "Girlie." They laughed at her checking its gender, and she stood up. "I'm going to unpack."
"Come back when you're done !"
Y/N nodded with a smile and returned upstairs, one of the dogs followed her while the others stayed downstairs. The little white dog jumped onto her bed to lie there while she put her clothes in the walk-in closet and her books on the shelves.
She had her school supplies, which she placed on her desk, along with her bag. The girl then put her toiletries in the bathroom before collapsing on the bed. She scratched the dog's ear, it rolled onto its back. "You're cute. I wonder what your name is."
"It's Bisco." Ni-ki stood in the doorway, coming into the room. Bisco lifted his head upon seeing his owner but didn't join him. "Looks like he likes you."
"Cool. If I passed the dog test, then I can stay," she joked. Ni-ki chuckled and looked at the room she had arranged to her liking.
"Is that all you have ?" he asked, pointing at the half-empty closet.
"The campus room didn't allow me to bring my whole wardrobe, but I wouldn't have added much anyway."
"You can go shopping one of these days, I'm sure Sunoo will take you." She nodded with a smile. They went downstairs to the living room, where the rest of the group was, Y/N sat between Jay and Heeseung.
"So, only Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki are in university, right? What do you all do ?"
"Jake is doing an extended physics program to specialize," Sunghoon explained. "I'm a model, Jay helps with his father's company, and Heeseung is a music producer."
"Really ?" she wondered, looking up at the young man to her right. "That's cool ! Have I heard some of your creations ?"
"I don't think so," he chuckled, extending an arm along the back of the sofa, just behind her. "But I'll let you listen to some of my tracks if you want." She nodded with a smile, liking this.
They were also curious about her and asked her all sorts of questions, sometimes nonsensical ones that made her laugh a lot, so she answered them gladly. They weren't so bad, rather fun, and the house seemed orderly enough to show they were responsible, at least in the common areas.
Y/N really enjoyed life with the boys. They were completely chaotic and could shout things at each other across the house, but they always respected her peace. If they invited her for movie or game nights and she was too tired or had to study to join them, they never pushed and reminded her to take breaks or not stay up too late.
She had also started hanging out with Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki on campus when they were there at the same time, and it was a change from being alone when Lara or Daniella weren't there or didn't have the same classes. In fact, being their friend, she realized they were quite popular but didn't pay much attention to it.
One Sunday morning, the boys were woken by a delicious smell wafting through the whole house. They got out of bed, shirtless and hair tousled, to find Y/N in the kitchen making breakfast.
Her phone played background music, not loud enough to disturb them, thinking they were still asleep. With her back to them, she hummed, wearing a simple oversized t-shirt and her hair in a quick bun.
She turned away from the pan to open a cupboard to grab a larger plate for all the pancakes she'd made, but it was too high for her. On tiptoes with her arm stretched upward, her t-shirt rode up enough for the young men to see the curve of her backside.
Y/N jumped as a body pressed against hers from behind, a hand grabbing the plate she was trying to reach. The girl glanced over her shoulder to see Heeseung smiling at her.
"Morning." She smiled at him before looking at his bare chest, letting her eyes wander from his pectorals to his abs. His tanned skin caught the sun's rays coming through the window. "Like what you see ?"
She turned back to the pan to get the last pancakes and hide her red cheeks. "I wasn't looking."
Heeseung hummed, amused, as she nudged him with the plate of pancakes she set on the table. "Y/N, you didn't have to cook so early !" Sunoo smiled, coming to hug her.
"I wanted to. It's to thank you for taking me in, and I promised to help in the kitchen to lighten Jay's load."
"That's adorable," he smiled, taking her hand. They sat at the table and started eating, the pancakes were exquisite.
"It's so good," Ni-ki raved, helping himself to more. "If your pancakes are this delicious, I can't wait to try your cookies that Daniella mentioned." Y/N chuckled, bringing her coffee cup to her lips for a sip.
"They're as good as Jay hyung's!" Jungwon approved. "So good and juicy."
"That's what she said," Jake and Y/N said simultaneously. They stared at each other, then at the others, and everyone burst out laughing at the joke said in unison.
The young men looked at Y/N with smiles as she high-fived Jake, laughing, congratulating her on her quick wit. Yeah, they had made the right choice offering her that room.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: in the chaos of the hospital, your attending, dr. lee heeseung, ten years your superior, has you running ragged, sneaking files and breaking rules just so he can see his baby girl’s chart. the secrecy and tension twist you up until one night you snap, cornering him in the on-call room. there, everything breaks: you beg him to teach you… you’re just a clueless intern, still untouched and blushing, begging dr. lee to show you how to fuck, how to open your legs, how to take his cock, how to be ruined and made his right there on the call room bed, desperate to learn every filthy lesson from his hands and mouth. teaser
age gap (ten years, hee is 34 and reader is 24), big smut below 🤤, gonna be mysterious and quiet about it but mmm hee is so fucking sexy and the age gap, power shift, size kink, power difference is written so so good ugh, if you’re a greys anatomy fan then this entire fic is heavily inspired by greys! especially mark and lexie, “teach me,” 😩 playlist, read back to you here (a park sunghoon enemies to lovers fic in the same universe!) thank you @yvampyr for this incredible banner 🤤
It’s late, so late the halls outside have quieted to a hush, the world shrinking to the static in your ears and the sweat prickling down your spine. You’re tired, the kind of tired that makes your skin ache, but there’s adrenaline in your veins as you push the door open, file clutched so tightly the corners curl beneath your fingertips. The air is thick, heavy with secrets, and Dr. Heeseung barely looks up from his notes as you step inside, his posture loose and easy, as if he’s been waiting for you all night.
You slam the folder onto the desk, the paper fanning out, and the sharp sound cuts the silence. Your hand lingers on top, knuckles white. “Here. Again.” Your voice is flat, bracing, but underneath it is an edge, resentment, exhaustion, need. The room smells of coffee and his cologne, something crisp and dark that sinks into your lungs and settles low in your belly. Dr. Heeseung’s gaze drags slowly up your body, lazy and unapologetic, and when your eyes meet, there’s nothing gentle in his expression. Only hunger, calculation, and the faintest glint of amusement.
“You’re very efficient,” he drawls, not bothering to hide the smirk as he leans back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap as if this is all a game he’s already won. He’s so close, too close—your bodies separated by a narrow slice of space, tension stretching thin and brittle between you. You swallow hard, every nerve alight. He’s always like this when you’re alone, no mask, no distance, just that dark and unflinching focus, as if he’s trying to see through you, right down to your bones.
“Don’t.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you intended, your voice thick. “Don’t do that, don’t act like this is easy.” You push your hair out of your face with shaking fingers, anger blooming hot and electric. “I’ve been running around this damn hospital like your fucking assistant for weeks, and you haven’t thanked me once.” Your breath comes in quick, uneven bursts, cheeks flushed with frustration.
His eyebrow arches, the hint of a smile curling his lips, and it only makes you angrier. “You just, expect me to drop everything, to risk my internship, to break every rule, every night, like it’s nothing.”
“As if I’m not already hanging on by a thread at the bottom of this entire hierarchy, while you, while you’re just sitting up there at the top, all experience and confidence, like nothing can touch you. You’re an attending. You’ve got job security, years of practice, you’re respected. You’re a man, too, do you know how much more you can get away with? If this goes wrong, if anyone finds out, you could get a slap on the wrist, maybe a transfer. Me? I’d get blacklisted. I lose everything. I don’t even have a name yet, I have nothing to fall back on, nobody’s going to take my side. You’d be fine. You’d always be fine. And you just stand there, looking at me like I’m supposed to throw myself off a cliff for you, just because you want me to. Because you want—fuck, because you want this, and you think I can just—just risk everything, just because you ask—”
You run out of breath, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, your voice going wild with it, everything tumbling out in a fevered rush. You can’t even look at him, frustration burning all the way down to your bones.
Heeseung’s deadpan, patient gaze doesn’t flicker. He waits, silent, until the last words stutter and die on your tongue. Then he leans in, closer, eyes dark and so, so knowing, voice pitched low and rough as a challenge. “Are you finished yet?”
It lands somewhere between a taunt and a caress, cutting through your rant with something hot and dangerous, and the room tilts, your breath catching in your throat, all that fury and fear tangled up in the way he looks at you, like he’s already stripped you down to the nerves.
You draw yourself up, voice ringing against the sterile tile, finally unafraid of who hears. “I’ve nearly been caught by four nurses and two attendings, spent half my nights hiding in supply closets or lying through my teeth at the front desk just to cover for you. You pull me behind locked doors, call me at any hour, act like I exist only for your secrets, and I’ve gone along with every single fucking thing you asked because I—” You falter, breath shaking. “Because I care. Because your baby girl needs me, because you need me. But I’m not your secret. I’m not a shadow in your story. If you want me, you’re going to have to look me in the eye and admit it.”
He shrugs, almost insolent. “You’re being dramatic.” The words settle over your skin like a dare, his tone calm but sharpened by the flicker in his eyes, a challenge that makes you want to scream, or grab him by the collar and shake him, or maybe just let him touch you until you can’t remember why you were angry at all. When you don’t look away, he leans forward, gaze dark and steady, voice dropping just for you. “You know I thank you every single time,” he says quietly, his meaning twisting beneath the surface, “but that’s not the kind of thanks you want, is it?” He holds your stare, heat simmering between you, as if he already knows exactly what you’re begging for.
“I do not—” You choke on the words, emotion spilling out unchecked. “You have me sneaking files, forging signatures, making up lies to cover for both of us. I barely sleep. I miss meals. I hide from my friends. I’ve had to come up with more excuses than I ever thought possible. You make me feel like I’m the only one who can do this, the only one who can save her and you’re not wrong. The thing is, I do it—every time—I do it because I care about her, because I want her to be okay. Because I love her, and I would burn the whole world for her. But I also do it for you. For you, Dr. Heeseung. Because there’s something in the way you look at me, the way you trust me with all this, that makes me want to prove myself, to be worthy of you.”
You don’t even realize you’re pacing, hands gesturing wildly, rambling now, voice rising with each word. “It’s not just the risk—it’s the pressure, the fear. The way my heart stops every time someone says your name too loud in the hallway, or I hear footsteps coming toward the supply closet. The way you text me at midnight, and I run, every single time. I drop everything, even when I know I shouldn’t. Even when I know it’s wrong. I keep doing it, because it feels like I’m part of something bigger, something important. But it’s also because it’s you. Because you make me feel alive. Like I’m not just surviving, like I’m needed, chosen, fucking seen.” You let out a shaky breath, chest heaving. Your voice breaks, softening into something fragile, honest. “And I know it’s stupid, I know I should say no, I know I should walk away but I don’t. I keep doing it. I can’t stop and I don’t know if that makes me loyal or pathetic, or just hopelessly in love with the feeling of being close to you.” There’s a beat of silence. You don’t look at him, afraid of what you’ll see.
He’s silent for a moment, just watching you with that unreadable, dark gaze—waiting, calculating, letting the air stretch tight and electric between you. Then his eyes shift, something deeper and darker flashing in them: hunger, authority, a warning that thrums all the way through you. His lips curl into the faintest, dangerous smile. “Careful,” he murmurs, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You know I don’t tolerate tantrums, sweetheart. If you want my attention, you’ll ask for it the right way.” He lets the words linger, letting you feel every inch of the control he’s claiming, every ounce of heat simmering beneath. “If you’re going to talk back to me, you’d better be ready to accept the consequences.” The challenge is unmistakable, sharp and commanding, darkly sexual, promising that if you push, he’ll make you feel it everywhere.
You stumble, realization crashing over you like a wave. Your shoulders curl inward, shrinking beneath his stare. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dr. Heeseung. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, sir.” The last word leaves your lips in a whimper, almost involuntary, and you hate yourself for how much it aches, how natural it feels to submit, to give him that power. The air in the room thickens, heavy with the gravity of everything unspoken. Silence coils tight, thick as smoke. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll dismiss you, if he’ll turn away.
But instead, he stands, the movement slow, deliberate—a predator circling prey. He steps forward, the distance between you shrinking to nothing, and suddenly your back is pressed flush to the door, the cool wood biting through your shirt. His body boxes you in, his arms braced on either side of your head, hips anchoring you in place. The heat of him is overwhelming, a cage you don’t want to escape.
“You want me to thank you?” His voice drops, low and rough, vibrating straight through your bones. “Should I make it up to you, then?” The question isn’t innocent. It’s a taunt, a threat, a promise. You swallow, the air buzzing with anticipation, and his eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there as if he’s considering all the ways he could ruin you.
For a moment, the world is still, heavy with the things unsaid, your chest still tight from the words you spat at him, the sting of injustice and longing tangled up in your body. You’re braced for another argument, but something shifts in his face: a flicker of hunger, the slow drag of his gaze down your throat, the way his tongue flicks at the corner of his mouth, considering.
He steps forward, not fast, just deliberate, each inch erasing the space between you until his presence is all you can feel. The air grows thick, shadows lengthening across the on-call room floor, the distant hum of hospital machinery fading until there’s only your heartbeat and the subtle creak of the door behind your back.
He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw, soft, testing, almost gentle. His touch lingers, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, tracing the line of your cheek, as if memorizing you. You don’t breathe. The room seems to tilt, the power shifting, all that anger melting into a deeper ache. “So dramatic tonight,” he murmurs, letting the words draw out, his voice teasing but his eyes unblinking, dark, searching for something raw beneath your bravado. “All that fire—makes me wonder what you’d do if I really gave you what you want.”
You can’t answer, not with his body crowding you, his heat bleeding through your clothes, his scent making your pulse flutter. He brings his hand to your throat, his palm broad, warm, controlling but not cruel—just a steady, possessive pressure, thumb brushing your pulse as if reading every secret, every surrender. You gasp, but the sound is small, caught between your teeth, your hands fisting in the fabric of your own scrubs for something to hold onto. His thigh presses between your legs, nudging you open, the contact slow but inevitable, grinding you back against the door until you have nowhere left to go.
He holds you there, eyes locked on yours, every muscle in his body tense but patient, letting you feel how easily he could take everything, but refusing to rush. His hand stays tight on your throat, thumb stroking slow circles, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in, guiding you to rock forward, to grind against him, to feel how hard he already is beneath all that calm.
“I want to hear you ask for it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower, every word deliberate, “I want to hear you beg. You’ve been running for me, breaking every rule. You want to know what you get for that?” His breath is hot at your ear, lips just barely grazing your skin, every syllable a question and a dare.
He doesn’t move fast—he waits, letting the tension coil between your bodies, his hands holding you in place, making you feel how thoroughly you’ve lost control. When you finally look up at him, eyes blown wide, lips parted in anticipation, he smiles, slow and dangerous. “Tell me. What exactly do you want me to teach you tonight?” He doesn’t hesitate. He just locks the door behind you with a quick, commanding twist, no words, just a click that settles in your bones, then grabs your hips, grinding his thigh up between your legs, making you whimper without meaning to.
The move is rough, pure instinct, his mouth already coming for yours, the space between you charged and wild. You barely have time to process, your body giving a desperate little jerk against him, his scent, his authority, his need overwhelming every protest in your mind. He tries to kiss you—hungry, searching, lips already parting—but you shove him back, breathless, chest heaving, your fingers fisted in his shirt. He freezes, eyes dark with surprise, confusion flaring. He blinks, something like doubt flickering in the pause—he thought this was what you wanted, thought you’d melt into his arms, thought you’d beg him to keep going. For a moment, the air is suspended, silent, his gaze flickering from your mouth to your eyes, trying to read you, trying to figure out what line he’s crossed.
But you’re the one who breaks it, not with anger, but with need, raw and sweet, a gasp trembling from your lips. “Teach me.” The words are a plea, a dare, the spark that sets the rest of you alight. Your voice drops, syrupy and high, nearly a whine. “Don’t just take—show me. Teach me how to be your good girl. Teach me how to ride cock, how to beg, how to suck you off until you forget your own name, teach me how to make you want me, how to be your best, your only, your fucking favorite. I want to be the best student you’ve ever had, Dr. Heeseung. I want to learn every filthy thing you like, every way you want me. I want to make you proud, so you never, ever want anyone else. Please—teach me. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll do everything you say.”
You clutch at his wrist, chest arching as your body presses to his, already breathless from the weight of two months spent running for him, begging for more than he’d ever give in daylight. Your nerves spark with the adrenaline of confession. “I mean it,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-pleading, “I’m not here for surgical lessons. I want you to teach me all the other stuff, the things I actually need. Please—teach me how to ride cock, how to suck cock, how to beg for it, how to be on my knees and take you, how to make someone want me, how to make you lose your mind. I want to be good for you—I want to be so fucking good for Heeseung. I want you to show me everything, Dr. Heeseung. I want to learn from the best.” Your voice is high, sweet and shameless, eyes wide, so eager for him you’re almost shaking.
He drags his hand up your throat, claiming you, gaze black with possession and hunger. “You want me to teach you how to be a good little slut, is that it? So you can run off and use it on Heeseung?” His words are a dark caress, biting and jealous, every line vibrating with heat. “You really think I’m going to show you how to ride my cock so you can bounce on someone else’s? You want me to teach you how to suck cock, beg, take it however I want to give it, just so you can be his perfect little thing?”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice almost cruel with need. “No, sweetheart. If I teach you how to fuck, it’ll be for me. You want to learn how to beg? You beg for me. You want to ride? You ride my cock. You want to learn how to take it on your knees? You start right here, with me. I’m not letting you give this to anyone else.”
Your lashes flutter, mouth parted, brain dizzy with want. “Please, Dr. Heeseung—make me your dumb little fucktoy. I want you to teach me how to ride your cock so deep I can’t think, how to suck you off until you’re shaking, how to drool all over your cock and beg for more. I want to learn how to kneel for you, how to take your fingers, your tongue, your cock—anywhere, anytime, any way you want it. Teach me how to make a mess for you, how to choke on it, how to beg so sweet you have to cover my mouth just to shut me up. I want to be your favorite thing to use, your best slut, the only one you fuck, the only one you think about. Please—let me be your perfect girl, your little bimbo, your filthy student. I’ll do anything, I just want you to use me and make me yours, make me forget everything but how good you feel inside me. Please, tell me everything, make me beg, make me better for you—please, please, please—” Your words spill over themselves, needy and breathless, your hands gripping his arms, nails biting.
His eyes darken even further, the command and pride sharp as a blade. His hand tightens at your throat just enough to remind you who owns every gasp, every shiver. “You’re not leaving this room until you’ve been taught, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice heavy with authority, but there’s a new glint—something indulgent, almost reverent.
“But tonight? Tonight you’re getting your reward. You’ve been my perfect little accomplice, haven’t you? Two months running around this place for me. That deserves a thank you, doesn’t it, baby?” He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as his words turn to velvet, every syllable a promise. “Tonight, I’m going to make you fall apart on my mouth, just to show you what you’ve earned. After that, maybe I’ll let you beg to learn more.”
He drops to his knees right in front of you, his hands sliding up your thighs, hiking your scrubs and panties to your hips. You barely have time to brace yourself against the wall before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, prying you open for his tongue, his grip hard and unyielding as his mouth finds you, hot and greedy. His tongue is relentless. broad, wet, devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed.
He licks and sucks, flicks and circles, moaning filth into your skin, lips curling as you whimper, trying to bite down your cries but failing miserably. Your hands fly to his hair, clutching tight as he pins you with the weight of his head, tongue working you open, face buried so deep you feel the scrape of his stubble every time you roll your hips.
You grind down, desperate, using his mouth, breath coming in frantic bursts as his nose nudges your clit, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks. Every time you moan his name, he hums louder, tongue fucking you deep, then swirling slow until you’re shaking and almost sobbing. He spreads you wider, holding you against the wall so the only thing keeping you upright is the tremor in your legs and his strong grip, until you’re teetering on the edge, dizzy, then stumbling as your knees buckle, the world blurring around the rush of his tongue and the obscene wetness of his mouth.
He laughs low against your cunt, voice rough with pride, and catches you before you hit the floor, easing you down until you’re straddling his chest, legs spread wide, knees digging into the thin carpet. He lays back, looking up at you with a wicked grin, eyes hungry, beard shining with you. “Go on, baby,” he growls, voice gone ragged, hands squeezing your ass and guiding you forward. “Show me how greedy you can be—fuck my mouth, just like that. I want to see you use me. Show me how much you need it.”
You obey without thought, letting him position you over his face, thighs trembling as you lower yourself, your pussy slick and swollen, his mouth already open for you. You rock against him, grinding and riding, hands in his hair, back arching as you take what you want, what he’s begged you to demand. His tongue is everywhere, hungry and relentless, and every time you try to slow down, his hands slap your ass, the sharp smack jolting you forward, making you cry out louder. He groans, buried in you, eyes glazed with need as he lets you rut and buck, taking you higher and higher.
He urges you on, voice muffled, hands never letting go, coaxing you with every filthy encouragement he can spit between licks. “That’s it, use me, make a mess, fuck yourself on my face—good girl, my favorite little slut, show me how bad you want it.” The praise makes you wild, hips moving harder, chasing the edge, your head thrown back as your cries echo in the cramped room, every shameful sound an offering just for him. You feel everything—his tongue, his teeth grazing, his grip, his hands spanking and squeezing and guiding, your cunt throbbing for him.
You come undone, shattering for him, his mouth working you through every wave, never letting up, drinking in every drop as you fall apart over his face, nails digging into his scalp, thighs squeezing tight around his head. He lets you ride it out, lets you grind until you’re sobbing, spent, nothing left but shivers and praise. He doesn’t let you up until you’re limp and boneless, legs shaking, heart beating too fast, your whole world collapsed into the shape of his mouth and hands. Only then does he let you slide down, cradling you, kissing your thigh as you fall into his arms, dizzy and glowing, still marked by every lesson he’s begun to teach you.
He stretches you out on the bed, the hospital sheets cold against your feverish skin, body pliant but trembling from the way he’s handled you. Your thighs fall open for him, heart thudding wild in your chest as he kneels between your legs, his sheer size eclipsing everything else—broad shoulders crowding the fluorescent haze, hands big enough to pin your hips with barely any effort.
He grips you there, grounding you as he drags the blunt head of his cock through your slick, teasing your entrance with obscene, unhurried strokes, letting you feel every throbbing inch against your folds. “Open up for me, baby,” he says, voice thick with a mix of command and awe, his thumb flicking your clit until you shudder. “Gonna watch you split around me, let’s see how much this greedy little cunt can take.”
He lines himself up, nudging at your entrance, then just—waits, teasing, grinding the head in shallow circles. The anticipation is a pulse in your belly. He presses in, barely an inch, and you gasp at the stretch—he’s so thick, you feel yourself fight to open, the ache bordering on pain. Your hands scramble for his forearms, nails biting into his skin, needing something to anchor you. He smirks, cocky and cruel, rocking his hips forward just enough to make your breath catch. “Look at you already struggling, haven’t even given you half of me yet. Such a greedy little thing.” He leans down, mouth at your ear, heat fogging your thoughts. “Relax for me. Breathe. Let Daddy in.”
He’s patient but unrelenting, pressing in, then pausing, easing you open inch by inch. He spits in his hand, slicks himself up, then spits again directly on your cunt, working it in with two fingers, stretching you, coaxing you to take him deeper. Each time you tense, he stops, rubs circles on your clit until your muscles give, then pushes again. The burn is relentless, making your thighs tremble, your vision blur. You whimper, tears pricking your lashes, the fullness already overwhelming and he isn’t even halfway inside. “So fucking tight, so pure—fuck, have you done this before?” His voice is quieter, dangerous, a thread of possessiveness running through the filth.
You open your mouth to lie, pride trembling on your tongue, but the truth chokes you, your breath hitching, your voice cracking as you finally admit, “No. This is… my first time.” Your cheeks flush, eyes watering, shame and need tangled together, but you force yourself to nod, to let him see all of you.
His eyes go molten, mouth curling into a wicked grin. “My little virgin? That’s even better.” He draws his thumb over your lips, presses down until you part them, then spits in your mouth, claiming you, marking you. “You’re gonna remember this forever, baby. You’ll never forget the first time you got split open—never forget who made you his.”
He slows down even more, rolling his hips, working you open with patience laced with something wicked. “Such a good girl, letting Daddy ruin you like this. Two months of you teasing me, making me wait, watching you run around this hospital, pretending you were so innocent. All that time, you never told me you were saving yourself for this. For me.” He presses in, inching deeper, filling you until you feel him in your belly, the pressure blooming higher than you thought possible.
You arch, whimpering, your fingers clutching at his biceps, “Daddy—please, it’s so much, I can feel you everywhere, I can’t—”
He hushes you, eyes heavy with pride and hunger. “Yes you can, sunshine. You can take it. You’re made for this. Look how full you are—look at that little bulge, can you feel me in your tummy, baby? That’s all you. That’s how deep Daddy is inside his perfect girl.” He cradles your jaw, forces your eyes to his, one hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing down until you moan, dizzy from the mix of pain and pleasure and total surrender. “Keep looking at me. Don’t look away. I want to see your face when I ruin you.”
You’d always imagined your first time would be slow, maybe gentle, maybe awkward with someone who would say all the right things. But this is nothing like that—this is rough, filthy, unplanned, your mind coming undone at the edges as you let him take every ounce of control. It’s been building between you for months, all the tension, the late nights, the secret glances in sterile corridors, all culminating here, your body stretched open, exposed, trembling for someone who wants to own you, mark you, make you forget anyone else ever existed.
He rocks his hips again, working you deeper, each thrust shallow but insistent, holding you open until finally, finally, his hips meet yours. The pain crests and then morphs into something so bright you can barely breathe—your cunt clamping down, your mouth open on a silent gasp, body going hot and cold all at once. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight, sunshine. You feel that? That’s how Daddy knows he owns you. No one else gets to fuck you like this, to break you in. You’re my best student. My only girl.”
He wipes a tear from your cheek, then slaps your face just hard enough to make you blink, to bring you back to him, to ground you in the feeling of his body buried deep in yours. “Don’t you dare look away. I want to watch you fall apart for me.” His hands press down on your belly again, cock pulsing inside you, your body forced to accommodate every inch. You whimper, but nod, holding his gaze, letting him see every shattered piece as you finally, completely let go.
He spits down at your mouth, watching it drip onto your tongue, his thumb smearing it across your lips. “Swallow it. Show me how much you love being messy for me.” You obey, cheeks hollowing around his thumb, tasting spit and salt and need. “That’s it—filthy little thing. Let’s see how much more you can take.” He starts to move, slow at first, letting you feel every drag, every catch, your cunt stretched tight, the friction wet and obscene. His other hand slides up to your throat, squeezing until your head goes light, every sense focused on the tight burn where he fills you.
He leans down, tongue tracing the tears on your cheeks, lips nipping your jaw. “Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your name. You want that? You want to be dumb and useless, just stuffed full of cock?” You nod frantically, your voice high and ruined, “Yes, Daddy—please, want it so bad, want to be your perfect dumb baby.” He hums approval, hips grinding deeper, the angle pressing him against your sweetest spot, making you keen and thrash beneath him.
He doesn’t let up—his hand still locked around your throat, his hips rolling slow, controlled, never giving you all of him at once. “Count for me,” he commands, punctuating every thrust with a slap to your tits, your ass, your thighs. “Every time I fuck you deeper, every time you take it for me, you count.” Your voice cracks as you obey, counting, sobbing, the numbers tumbling between moans and broken whimpers. “Good girl—taking it all, just for Daddy. Want you to remember this every time you even think about another cock.”
He pulls out suddenly, leaving you empty and desperate, and flips you onto your stomach. You gasp as he drags your hips up, ass in the air, face pressed into the pillow. He spits on your asshole, thumb circling, then leans down to lick you open, tongue hot and filthy, making you arch and shake. “This ass is mine too, baby. Everything you are—every hole, every inch, belongs to Daddy.” You sob, hips twitching as he fingers you open, one thick finger, then two, working in time with his tongue, your cunt fluttering, soaking the sheets.
He slides his cock back inside, slower this time, making you feel the push in both holes, the overwhelming fullness. You choke on your cries, his hand in your hair, forcing you to look back at him, eyes wild. “Look how dumb you get for me. Can’t even think straight, can you?” He pulls your hair, making you arch, then releases to spank your ass, watching your skin bloom red. “Say thank you, baby. Thank Daddy for ruining you.” You stammer it out, barely coherent, every word a plea.
He edges you, stops every time you get close, making you whimper and beg, your whole body quivering on the edge of release. “Not yet. Not until you beg for it, until you say you’re my fucktoy, my perfect dumb baby.” He slaps your ass again, rubs your clit until you’re shaking. You sob out the words, “Please, Daddy, let me cum, let me be your perfect little slut, I’ll do anything, I’ll be so good for you—” He finally gives in, hips snapping harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room, the bed creaking beneath you.
The world narrows to the relentless stretch, the heavy pulse of him buried deep, and the hot thrum in your belly that’s been building for what feels like hours. His hands clamp around your hips, holding you still as he grinds into that sweet spot inside you, his cock thick and insistent, every drag making you tremble and gasp, lost in the rhythm. Your fingers claw helplessly at his back, nails dragging red crescents down his skin, your whole body tightening, every muscle wound so tight you feel like you might snap.
He feels the shift, feels the way you tense and shudder around him, and he grins, voice thick with dark pride as he growls, “There you go, sunshine—let go for me, show lolly how good you are, how pretty you look when you cum for me.” His words push you right to the edge—your breath catches, your eyes rolling back, the pressure mounting and cresting, breaking all at once. The orgasm rips through you, sudden and blinding, a tidal wave crashing up from your toes, shaking through your legs, your stomach, your chest. You scream, high and broken, hips bucking, your cunt clamping down hard around him, pulsing in hot, desperate waves.
Your vision whites out, the world gone fuzzy and weightless, only sensation and sound and his voice in your ear, praising you, coaxing you to keep cumming, to milk his cock for everything he’s worth. “That’s it, let it out—fuck, you’re so tight, you’re squeezing me, baby, making a mess all over my cock. Such a good girl, look at you, losing it for me.” He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up, hips grinding into you, stretching out the orgasm until you’re sobbing, body shaking uncontrollably, thighs quivering as aftershocks roll through you, each one sharper and more unbearable than the last.
You feel yourself gush around him, wet and messy, slick soaking his cock, leaking onto the sheets. Your cries turn to broken, breathless whimpers, voice gone hoarse from the force of it, body convulsing in his grip. He cups your face, forces your eyes to his, pride and hunger blazing in his gaze as he fucks you through every wave, making sure you feel every inch, every pulse, every last tremor. Your world collapses to nothing but the hot, desperate clutch of your cunt around his cock and the overwhelming rush of pleasure he wrings from your body, again and again, until you go limp, shattered, tears shining in your lashes, still twitching from the aftershocks of his possession.
He pushes you over, flipping you onto your back again with a grip that leaves you dizzy and exposed, the sheets bunched and sticky beneath your skin. He kneels up, cock flushed and leaking, and strokes himself over your face—his hand steady, gaze locked on yours, control radiating from every slow, possessive movement. You watch, breath caught in your throat, as he groans and comes for you, painting your lips, chin, throat, and bare chest with hot, messy streaks.
“Lick it up. Don’t waste a drop,” Heeseung orders, voice rough and low, that dark pride flickering in his eyes. Your tongue darts out, obedient, tasting him, eyes fluttering closed as you drag it over your lips and down to your skin, collecting every drop and swallowing it, drool and cum running down your throat. He smears the mess over your mouth with his thumb, rubbing it in until you’re glossy, then presses his thumb down to your cunt, pushing it inside, making you feel just how used and claimed you are. “So fucking pretty like this—my mess, my ruin. You look perfect when you’re wrecked for me.”
He doesn’t let you rest; instead, Heeseung pulls you up with strong hands, muscles flexing beneath your grip, dragging you into his lap, straddling his hips, your body limp and heavy in his arms. His hands never leave you, guiding your sore, trembling body down onto his cock again, stretching you all over, making you whimper as you try to take him. You’re exhausted, barely able to hold yourself upright, but he supports you, his arms like iron bands around your waist, forcing you to ride him, bouncing on his cock even as your legs shake and threaten to give out.
“You’re going to cum again for me, even if you have to cry for it,” Heeseung growls, pressing you down harder, making you whine and gasp. “That’s what good girls do, right? That’s what Daddy’s favorites do. Only Heeseung can make you this desperate, this hungry, this ruined.” You nod, broken, every movement pure surrender, cunt fluttering, swollen and sore, your voice a needy, pleading whimper as you rock and grind against him.
Heeseung’s hand comes up, fingers closing around your throat, just tight enough to remind you who owns every breath. His other hand anchors your waist, guiding you up and down, every inch of him stretching you open again and again. “Don’t stop,” he commands, the words a dark thrill in your ear. “Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you need to be filled, used, and owned by Daddy.” Your head rolls back, tears streaking your cheeks, words dissolving into a string of slurred, helpless cries. “So dumb for you, Daddy. Only ever want you—no one else could fuck me like this, no one else could ever make me cum like you.” Your words are high and delirious, your mind a haze of need and obedience.
He slides his thumb between your parted lips, watching you suck, drool spilling from your mouth, running down your chin and neck, messy and shameless just how he likes you. “Filthy thing—so needy, so pretty. Good girls take every inch. Good girls get every drop. Daddy wants to see you lose control.” He presses his thumb to your clit, pinching until you cry out, forcing another orgasm from you, your cunt pulsing and clenching so hard around his cock you see stars, your vision whiting out, the pleasure blurring into a kind of desperate, overwhelming pain.
He doesn’t stop, not even as your whole body gives out, going limp and boneless, moans dissolving into half-sobs and whimpers. His hips piston up, relentless, keeping you on his cock, using you just the way he wants. “Can’t stop now, baby. Daddy wants you fucked stupid, wants you to remember this for days. Let go for me, sunshine—let Daddy see you fall apart.” He slaps your tits, your ass, the marks blooming bright and beautiful, every bruise and bite a new place he’s claimed as his own.
Finally, you feel him break, hips jerking beneath you, cock pulsing deep inside your sore, fluttering cunt, filling you up with wave after wave of heat. Heeseung moans low and broken, arms crushing you to him as he spends himself inside you, not stopping until you’re leaking, the evidence of him dripping down your thighs. He pulls out with a wet, obscene sound, spreading your folds with two fingers just to watch his cum spill out, rubbing it into your sensitive, swollen skin, then pushing some back inside you, claiming every part of you all over again. “Don’t you dare clean up. I want you walking around this hospital knowing who you belong to—everyone should see Daddy’s mark on you.”
When you finally collapse, body shaking and spent, he’s right there, gentler now, cleaning you up with his tongue, soft and lingering, worshipping every bruise, every bite, every place he’s marked. His voice is softer, but still full of command as he kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. “Thank me for ruining you, baby. Thank me for making you mine.” You whisper it through the last of your tears, your voice dreamy and grateful, blissed out and half gone. Heeseung helps you dress, tucks you against his chest, his hands slow and careful, pride and promise in every touch. And as you drift, marked and utterly claimed, you know in every trembling, satisfied bone that there’s no one else in the world who could ever fuck you like this—no one you’d ever want to learn from again, no one you’d ever want to let inside your body, your heart, your everything, but Heeseung.
It’s been two hours—two hours of you riding Heeseung’s cock, of his hands gripping your hips, his arms around your waist, his mouth everywhere: your mouth, your neck, your breasts. You can’t stop, neither of you can stop, both of you lost in the haze of heat and sweat and the messy, helpless way your bodies fit together, every inch sticky with the proof of all you’ve given each other. You’ve cum five times—five times in a single night, when you’d spent your whole life before him never even knowing what it was to fall apart. You’re boneless and burning, voice hoarse from crying out, but he keeps you bouncing, supporting your shaking thighs, his lips catching yours in a slow, dizzy kiss every time you start to fall forward. “So good for me, baby, so pretty when you break like this. I could keep you forever,” he whispers against your mouth, his breath warm and gentle, his chest pressed to yours as you rock and tremble, both of you high on the slow grind.
You ride him like it’s the only thing you know—clumsy, desperate, your hands in his hair, his mouth moving down to your breasts, sucking one nipple, then the other, tongue swirling, teeth grazing. You arch, moaning softly, sweat slipping down your back, his hands splayed wide across your ribs as if to hold you together. It’s so soft now—so stupidly, heartbreakingly intimate, his hands coaxing you, his voice low and thick, coaxing another orgasm out of you, your thighs trembling as you lose yourself again and again. You don’t even notice the world outside—the lights, the time, the way your bodies have blurred into something helpless and hungry and bright.
But somewhere, in the dark corners of your mind, something slithers, something black and greedy. In the fragile hush between kisses, you feel it: the edge of dread, the cold slip of a nightmare stalking the corridors outside. A black swan, sleek and sharp, circles your heart. Its wings spread wide, swallowing every ray of warmth you’ve built with him, casting shadow across your love—your baby, your sunshine girl, your whole heart. You press your face into Heeseung’s neck, trying to hold onto the light, but it’s there, always there, a parasite crouched at the foot of Haeun’s bed, waiting.
Neither of you hears the first shrill of your pagers, both of them muted, discarded in a tangle of clothes, the screens lighting up again and again. You’re mid-bounce, Heeseung’s mouth sealed over your nipple, sucking hard, his hands guiding your hips, both of you so lost in each other, so far from the hospital world you thought you knew. The pounding at the door barely registers—at first just another noise, part of the storm of sensation, until it becomes a violent, echoing bang. Dr. Yang’s voice is a blade through the fog: “Heeseung! Hurry the fuck out and get to Haeun’s bed, she’s crashing, man! She isn’t breathing!” His words slam into you, shattering everything, ripping you out of the warmth and color, dropping you straight into ice. Heeseung jolts beneath you, his hands suddenly cold, his eyes wide and lost. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs as the world comes back in terrible, strobing flashes, the sheets, the sweat, the door, the urgent terror in Dr. Yang’s voice.
Time folds and twists, the night rushing in black around you, the black swan spreading its wings wider, swallowing all the light, all the hope, devouring Haeun’s fragile sunbeam heart. You can almost see it, hovering above her bed, a parasite poised to snatch her from you both, its beak pressed to her tiny chest. You’re running before you know it, the taste of Heeseung still in your mouth, the echo of his hands still around your waist, but nothing in the world could stop the cold, bottomless dread that chases you down the hall—the certainty that, no matter how much you love, the night always wants more, and sometimes the dark comes to collect.
And all the warmth, all the sweetness, all the fevered tenderness you built in Heeseung’s arms is nothing—a single, trembling candle flame guttering in the draft—as the true darkness descends. Down the hall, at Haeun’s bedside, horror is no longer a distant specter but a living thing, hungry and sure. The black swan is no mere shadow now but a beast with oil-slick wings, its neck arched, eyes cold as midnight. It perches at the foot of her bed, talons curled into white sheets, beak gleaming, poised for the kill. Every machine in the room is screaming, alarms shrill and merciless, lines spiking red, numbers plummeting in freefall. There is no softness here, no sanctuary, just the relentless, predatory silence that follows the shriek of failing breath.
You run, barefoot and shivering, Heeseung’s name a gasp behind you, both of you sprinting straight into the jaws of it. You see the swan’s shadow unfurling along the walls, black wings blocking out every memory of light. A chill creeps up your spine: you know, with the certainty of a bullet shattering glass, that you are racing death itself. It’s already here. The parasite coils, slick and obscene, at Haeun’s throat, claws digging into the flutter of her pulse, the promise of her next breath slipping away, snuffed out as if she were nothing but a candle in a hurricane. There’s no mercy, no magic to bargain with. You arrive in time to see the color drained from her lips, her chest stuttering in fits and starts, wires snaking over fragile skin. The black swan rears, monstrous and inevitable, wingspan blocking out every plea, every desperate hope. This is the moment where love is useless, where prayers rot on the tongue, where you realize that sometimes death is not a visitor but the rightful heir, the shadow that always returns, no matter how you beg or bargain.
You reach for her, for Heeseung, but the room is already colder. The monster crouches at the edge of her small, ruined body, claiming what you can’t protect, greedy for every heartbeat she might have left. Somewhere, a nurse is crying, the code echoing like a gunshot, but the truth is plain as daylight: the night doesn’t care how much you love. The black swan has come, and its hunger is bottomless. And as you watch, helpless, everything you built—love, sweat, tenderness, hope—is nothing but a trail of feathers in its wake, scattered and trampled as the darkness swallows your sunshine whole.
comment to be added to the tag list for the full fic!
this will be an entire series! a full blown out series and it’s also in the same universe as my beloved “back to you” (hoon’s fic) but you don’t have to read that to read h2h!
𝐒𝐎𝐏𝐇’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: honestly, neither of you guys are ready for the kind of trouble that an attending! chief paediatrics heeseung🤤, single dad! hee🤤, girl dad! hee🤤, it’s greys-inspired but rawer, grittier, full of all that mark/lexie tension, power imbalance, and “teach me everything” obsession, this is for you if you love complicated men, hospital scandals and age gaps, think of mark and lexie’s love story, the iconic “teach me,” you’ve got a chief paediatrics attending, single dad heeseung, ten years older, jaded, stubborn, ruthless in the OR but somehow a puddle for his daughter. then there’s the intern, young and burning for all the wrong things, teeth bared and heart on the line, desperate to prove herself and just reckless enough to go after what she wants. it’s got that mark and lexie chaos—hungry, tragic, beautiful—but now there’s a sunshine bubba in the mix, a baby girl who turns every scene inside out, making all their sins and secrets ten times more dangerous and a thousand times more worth it. think found family born out of necessity, need and desperation, on-call room confessions, desperate promises, and the kind of raw, aching love that keeps you breaking rules just to survive another day together. it’s not safe, not clean, not easy, just two broken people, trying and failing to stay away, wrecked by the need to build something beautiful from everything they’re not supposed to have.
can i just say i fear i gave a very sexual (well sexy turned depressing) teaser and uhm… whilst the fic is sexy as fuck it’s almost pain 💔💔 the actual synopsis for the fic is “you, fumbling through your first day as an intern, are thrown into chaos the night a baby is left to die on the hospital’s rooftop. dr. lee heeseung, world-renowned chief resident and surgeon, is ten years older, impossibly mysterious, his body all sharp muscle under blue scrubs. you can’t help but be drawn to him. together you orbit this miracle girl, each of you wounded and wanting in your own way; and as the days blur, your attachment to sunshine—and to him—grows fierce, tangled, undeniable. found family is built here in the hush of machines and sleepless nights: you, longing to be chosen; him, haunted and hiding; sunshine, the girl who remakes all your definitions of love. even in all this darkness, her yellow light breaks through, changing everything.”
if you loved mark and lexie—every ruined boundary, every secret, every crash and burn—this is that, but nastier, rawer, filthier, all teeth and wanting and the kind of lessons that leave you raw. i pull from all my favorite messes: the slow-burning ruin of fleabag & the priest, yearning, all those dramas that make you want to shake the screen and then sob into your pillow. nothing soft, nothing safe—just you and him, teaching each other how to break. not convinced? let me convince you by sharing one of my favourite quotes from the fic: “hearts don’t break, they recombine in new shapes”
so comment to added to the tag list! it will be a series 💗here’s a mood board so you can visualise it !!! <3 and if you are interested in reading the other fic in the series (hoon’s, enemies to lovers… gonna keep myself quiet and mysterious about this hehe so you guys can find out for yourself, it’s an amazing amazing fic and you can get yourself lost in it and it’s early 2000s one tree hill inspired 💗
WE HAVE TO FIGHT FOR HEESEUNG IF THERE IS EVEN A TINY CHANCE THAT IT WAS NOT HIS DECISION. IF IT WAS HIS DECISION, THEN AT LEAST WE CAN SAY THAT WE TRIED OUR BEST AND FOUGHT HARD.
Disclaimer: This is my way of coping. So beware of the angst.
“Dada?” Chubby hands patted Jake’s shoulder.
His warm eyes turned into worried ones when he turned around and saw her sad pout. “Yes, baby. What’s wrong?”
Her arms shot up in demand. He pulled her tiny body into his embrace, still seated on the practice floor, where he had been taking a break, and settled her in his lap.
“Dada.” She repeated, her pouty little lips turned upside down.
“Hm?” He hummed softly, a thumb rubbing her cherubic cheek. “What’s wrong? Why’s my princess sad?”
Her lips continued to wobble, her eyes filled with tears. But she wasn’t breaking down yet.
“Hungry?”
Her tiny head shook a ‘no’. Her lower lip pushed further into a heartbreaking pout.
“Is my baby tired?”
She shook her head again.
He kissed her tiny button nose. “Miss mama?”
No. She answered again by shaking her head.
“Right? You’re a big girl now. Mama will come soon and then we’ll have a big meal with her, right?”
She nodded. For a split second, he thought that’s it. She’s just missing her mama. But then her tiny, chunky body fell into his body, her head nestled into the crook of neck.
His eyebrows furrowed in worry. She looked so sad. So heartbroken. He was getting worried.
“Then why are you so sad, baby?” His hand stroke her hair as he pressed a kiss on her forehead.
“Dada, unwle?” She mumbled in her baby language. Nonetheless, Jake understood her, he always did.
“Baby, they’re just taking a break. They’re gonna come back in any minute.”
Just on cue, the door to the practice room opened. Jaein’s tiny head shot up from her daddy’s shoulder where she had been resting—completely fallen into melancholy.
Sunoo appeared with a big smile, his eyes creased from excitement. “Look what I got you, baby Jaein!” He pulled her favorite snack out of his pocket.
But she just shook her head and slumped back into her daddy’s arms.
Sunoo squinted his eyes, “what’s wrong with her?”
Jake shrugged his shoulders softly, cautious not to disturb her. “I think she’s just tired.”
Which didn’t make any sense. She had just taken a nap. She had also had her meal. Her mommy came in quickly before, where Jaein had made it clear that she wanted to stay with her daddy and uncles.
What could be wrong now?
Worriedly, he rested his hand on her forehead. She doesn’t have a fever.
The next two members came in. Her tiny head shot up again. Hopeful, big eyes glanced at them.
Jay and Jungwon.
Jake smiled softly, “ah… you just missed your uncles? Look they’re here.” He kissed the side of her head as she was still glancing at the two members.
Jay heard it and noticed her look immediately. “Did my niece miss me?” He cooed as he crouched down, wanting to scoop her in his arms. His eyes sparkled nothing but pure warmth and love for his baby niece.
Her round, big eyes looked at him for few seconds. As if she was debating whether to stay sad in the warm cocoon of her daddy’s embrace or to enjoy some fun with her uncle.
But then—as if she remembered something—she hid her face in Jake’s neck. Her tiny arms wrapped around his neck as she shook her head.
Jay’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “eng?”
Sunghoon entered the practice room with a loud, uncle-like groan, clapping his hands dramatically. “Cha! Let’s start practice again, guys. Break time is over!”
However, his loud voice surprised the little baby. She flinched in Jake’s arms, her chubby hands curled into his hoodie. Her sad pout trembled as she whimpered quietly. But still not full on crying.
Jake’s arms tightened protectively around her.
“Hyung! You startled Jaein!” Sunoo hissed quietly in annoyance.
“Oh- sorry, Jaein.” Sunghoon whispered. He went to her and soothingly rubbed her squishy cheek. She looked at him, breaking his heart when he saw her teary eyes.
“What’s wrong? Is she hurt?” He immediately asked, his tone cautious now.
Jake shook his head. “I think she was just sad because you guys weren’t here. She asked for her uncles. Right, baby?” He whispered softly in her ear, followed by a gentle kiss on the shell of her tiny, soft ear.
The four members cooed in unison.
“You just missed your uncles. But look. Now they’re here again. Hm? You can play with them now.” But her face stayed buried in the crook of his neck.
Sunghoon’s heart clenched painfully as he stood up. “She looks so… sad.”
Jake rubbed her tiny back. “Maybe she misses Niki?” After all, Niki was her favorite uncle. Even if the member acted as if they denied it, deep down everyone knew Niki always took care of Jaein the most and that Jaein always went to him first.
Speaking of the devil, Niki entered the room. “I’m back.” He announced.
“Ya, Niki!” Jay spoke, “your niece is missing you.”
An immediate smile spread on the youngest’s face. “Ey~ my baby missed me?” He chuckled happily.
He crouched down beside her, big palms inviting her to be picked up.
She peeked curiously out of her comfort hideout. “Hm?” He smiled softly.
Jake let out a soft breath he didn’t know he was holding when she untangled herself from her daddy to be picked up by her favourite uncle.
“Yess~~” Niki cheered, “that’s right, my precious, cutie pie niece missed me.” Both boys stood up from the ground now. Niki bounced the little girl in his hold, happy to be the chosen one.
But his smile vanished rather quickly when he noticed that she was still on the verge of crying.
“Baby?” He whispered. A pout formed on his own face. “She still looks so sad, hyung.”
“What could be wrong?” Jungwon tilted his head, wrecking his brain to find a reason.
Then she turned to her daddy again. As if she changed her mind, her baby arms reached out for him. “Dada.”
Jake nestled her in his arms again. “I’m here, baby.” He soothingly patted her back.
“Dada, unwle?” She said with a trembling voice.
“They’re all here, baby. Look.” He turned her towards the members so that she could see everyone.
He was so confused. What’s with her?
Suddenly, she wiggled her body to signal to him that she didn’t want to be held anymore. He gently set her down.
With wobbly legs, she hastily ran towards the other side of the practice room.
Eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he watched her determinedly walk to where various equipments of the members were.
His heart dropped in his stomach when she reached the piano.
Oh.
Jaein patted the piano bench repeatedly with her little chunky, dimpled hand.
“Dada.”
Instantly, tears welled up in Jake’s eyes.
“Oh.” Niki let out a whisper. His hands formed into tight fists.
Her tiny pout trembled as she continued to pat the bench.
“Dada. Unwle.”
A painful lump formed in Jay’s throat as the word stabbed right into his heart.
Jungwon looked at the ground shamefully to hide his teary eyes.
The crease between Sunghoon’s eyebrows deepened as he painfully realized what she meant.
“Dada, unwle.”
A sob escaped Sunoo’s mouth. He didn’t mean to. But the sight broke him into million pieces.
The memory of Jaein sitting there beside him. Settling her in his lap to teach her some notes. Playing soft lullabies for her whenever she got tired and was about to fall asleep.
She didn’t forget. She remembered. She noticed that he was missing.
The hollow, dark pit in Jake’s stomach spread out through his whole body.
With trembling hands, he went to his babygirl and scooped her up.
It’s only when she saw her daddy sad face, she broke out in tears.
His arms were wrapped tightly around her small body.
She didn’t deserve this. She was too small. Too fragile.
He wanted to protect her from the sorrow. Act as if nothing had changed.
He wouldn’t have thought she would notice it immediately.
He wouldn’t have thought she would be this sad.
“It’s okey, it’s okey.” He hid her teary, wet face in his neck. Her whole tiny body trembled in his arms as she sobbed and sobbed.
“Dada, unwle!” She cried and cried.
And he didn’t understand why she was crying so much.
“Baby. Why are you crying?” He tried to speak firmly, but his voice betrayed him with a crack.
“Unwle! Unwle! Unwle!” She screamed, her cries never stopping.
“Baby.” He tried again. His arms tightened even more.
His hand patted her back, trying to soothe. “Shh… it’s okey. It’s okey.” He whispered as he planted a kiss on her head.
Why is she so sad? She has so many other uncles.
“You have so many uncles, baby.” He whispered. But his heart tightened.
He blinked his eyes repeatedly. The hot tears and the knot in his throat annoyed him so much.
Why am I so sad? I still have so many other brothers.
“You have me, baby.” He added. “Hm? Dada is not going anywhere.”
He rested his cheek on her head. The soothing motion on her trembling back never stopped.
I still have her.
He couldn’t speak anymore. The pain in his throat was hurting too much.
So he just continued to hold her tightly and pat her tiny back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe it’s a bit dramatic for someone else but this fic is for me to cope. And I wanted to publish bc maybe it will help some other engene.
I miss him so much. I know he’s not dead but it’s the fact that enhypen will never be the same that’s making me miss enhypen sm. Everything happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. It will definitely take a while to accept the situation. I’m still in denial.
Whether it’s a grocery store disaster, a one-night-stand-turned-baby, or an elementary school crush on your kid’s teacher—these seven love stories prove that being a dad might just be the hottest character arc of all time.
Grab your heart, your tissues, and maybe a baby bottle—because they are about to steal your soul one dad at a time.
a seven part series where fatherhood meets fate, chaos meets comfort, and love shows up when they least expect it.
snippets of hoon's story heh :>> dw guys this series will be posted not now but soon (fck uni) hehe ill make it worth the wait ml💗🫶🏻😞🤘🏻 #hopecore #trust
SUMMARY: in which nishimura riki falls head over heels for the silver-studded pink-embellished goddess at one of his band’s fansigns. six months later, he’s waking up in your bed while on tour. requested.
WORD COUNT: 2,230 (?)
WARNINGS: fluff!! slight profanity somewhere, referred to as ni-ki this time, fliiiirtinggg, kissing, shirtless riki mentioned!! i somehow incorporated black-haired riki AND blonde riki so yay, pet names, french!! (coucou is like a casual way of saying hi, je t’aime beaucoup = I LOVE YOU LOTS)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: if this is badly edited i apologise, i made this on my phone!! i really enjoyed writing this!! i hope you like it anon😭😭😭😭 i feel like i repeated words a LOT so ill fix that when i get access to my laptop again 🌛🌛
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MORNINGS IN PARIS, especially in February, were always quite dry in terms of the weather. Parisians rarely saw the sun before midday, the white clouds often hiding her beams of light. Nonetheless, today was different—albeit, the first thing Ni-ki was forced to bestow his eyes upon was the sun, groaning to himself before turning over, his arm reaching for… someone.
That someone? You. Yet, your side of the bed was cold and empty.
With a small pout, he finally peeled his eyes open, stretching his arms, the your fluffy pink blankets falling from his bare chest as he sat up, platinum locks a little poofy from last night. His monolids met the window, blinking slowly as he adjusted to the sounds; horns, bike bells and whistles alike all mingling, creating a sort of muffled cacophony. It was slightly peaceful—the buzz of the capital being the prospect he woke up to was not so bad. Rubbing his eyes, he swung his legs out of your bed, pulling his joggers up, not bothering to reach for a shirt since it had long been discarded from… last night’s activities? He decided to make a beeline for your apartment’s living room, already hearing your quiet voice from behind the door.
The pair of you initially met at a fan signing event in South Korea—you were a casual fan of ENHYPEN, only showing up in honour of your friend, who really wanted her albums signed by Heeseung. After all, it was not like you would be noticed in Gangnam of all places. You posted vlogs for your YouTube channel, often highlighting outfits of the week (your love for the 2000s era cultivated a wonderful audience), showing all the secrets of France’s capital and just… life in general. You were someone who could be relatable in a world filled with influencers wanting to build the perfect image. In spite of that, your following did not amount to any of ENHYPEN’s fame, so you thought you could just get your friend’s albums signed and go on your way.
Except, you did get recognised; by someone no one was expecting.
After waving goodbye to Jake, you quickly manouvered to the next chair, gifting a smile to the idol sitting before you, fixing the chunky, rhinestone belt around your waist as you spoke.
“Hi! I’m Y/N. Could you sign these for my friend? She couldn’t make it here today,” you remembered sighing, flipping your straightened hair over your shoulder, revealing the silver necklaces sitting below your collarbone. A Juicy Couture hair clasp held half of your silky strands back. The Hello Kitty charm relaxed upon your neck stood out quite strikingly, glittering under the fluorescent light as you rested your bangle-stacked wrists on the table separating you and the idol. They were quite thick; pink with zebra prints, thinner silver ones creating a jingling effect as you lifted your gaze, a little surprised that the idol hadn’t spoken yet.
Was he… admiring your outfit? You hadn't worn anything special today—a leopard print corset vest with straps hugged your torso, a pink fluffy bra underneath, matched with jean shorts and almost knee-high boots that were trimmed with light brown fur. Your makeup was simple, in your opinion: eyelids glammed with pink glitter to match the bra, faux eyelashes, black eyeliner on your waterline, stretching to make a cat wing… your pretty lips were lined with a nude pink, topped with a gloss that he thought would taste like honey. Your eyebrow piercing melodically complimented your thinned eyebrows, a silver stud in your left nostril, multiple silver earrings decorating your ears—the Chrome Hearts’ cross piercings seemed to stick out the most. The natural scent of wild blackberries whisked around his presence, the sweet smell strong enough to knock him out of his orbit if he wasn’t in public. Nibbling your bottom lip, you raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as you watched the idol’s lips part in bewilderment.
“Uh… are you okay?” What was that accent? He recognised it briefly—French. Blinking slowly… he was sure this was a dream. His eyes, lighting with recognition, lingered on your pretty, pierced collarbone before clearing his throat—he adored clavicle, dermal piercings. He hadn’t really seen them on an actual person before.
“Sorry,” he muttered shyly, regaining his confidence. He ran a few of his fingers through his wavy, black locks, a small grin tugging on his rosy pink lips as you smiled in return. “I just, uh… I thought I recognised you from somewhere,” he nodded, unsure if he should actually say where since you were technically a fan.
“Oh?” you raised both of your eyebrows, curiosity finding your expression as you watched him scribble his name upon the photo cards you handed him, squinting at the writing. “Ni-ki, right? My friend likes you a lot… not sure where you’d recognise me from, though,” you hum, a humble tone embracing your sweet words, observing the youngest member diligently as he raised his gaze again.
“Uh, your vlogs?” he murmured in return, his smile growing wider after discerning the astoundment in your eyes. “Y/N Y/L/N, right? You’re more popular than you think, love.” The sudden use of the pet name caught you off guard, a giggle leaving your lips as a singular eyebrow lifted with amusement.
“‘Love?’ Do you flirt with all of your fans like this?” you teased, taking the album back once he finished signing its contents. Ni-ki shrugged, biting his lip—he didn’t think his lips could widen any further.
“You might be the first,” he remarked, hearing you laugh ever so softly—is it possible that his heart was currently melting with how fast his pace was rising? “I, uh… watch you a lot, actually.”
“Wait, seriously?” you replied, your forearm standing so your chin could ease into your palm, listening to Ni-ki with actual interest. “I mean, I don’t know a lot about you, but I honestly didn’t peg you to be the McBling type… or am I not paying enough attention?” you asked, crossing one leg over the other, seeing him lean into his seat, his arms folding over his chest. Kissing his teeth, he remained thoughtfully quiet for a moment, like he was carefully wording his response—to impress you.
“I’ve been getting into fashion a lot more recently, like it’s genuinely becoming a hobby of mine, sort of,” his voice, even amongst the busy venue, tingled the tips of your ears, his warm words washing over you… How entirely endearing he was. “And… the whole McBling aesthetic is really beautiful. Trashy glamour and all that,” you giggled at his last words, his grin becoming a little more demure, rolling his eyes at the sweet sounds your lips conveyed. “You know what I mean. Early 2000s fashion is something I admire a lot.”
“Yeah,” you nodded with a smile, pink-painted acrylics gentle tapping the cloth-covered table, your eyes seeing him more clearly now—Ni-ki was honestly quite pretty. Black, medium-length locks, monolid eyes with the darkest pair of irises you’ve ever laid your gaze upon; a very plump set of limps, potentially pinker than your very own, moles dotted across his complexion that made constellations of their own… he was also wearing his own Chrome Hearts accessories—the boho cross tie necklace caught your attention, dangling down his neck, the rest of his body hidden from your sight since you were both sitting down. The hoodie he wore; a shade of black. A few silver hoops embellished his ears. Hm.
“Admiring me now?” Ni-ki taunted, tongue running over the seam of his upper lip as you scoffed, the sly smile never leaving your lips. Your three minutes with him were now officially over—you could go back to your hotel.
“Gosh, you wish,” you winked, standing from your seat as your grabbed your handbag, pulling the strap up your arm as you gathered your friend’s belongings. “It was really nice chatting with you! Hopefully you’ll actually meet my friend in person next time,” you chuckled, about to step off the platform.
“Wait,” he blurted out, his eyebrows knitted together, sitting up properly in his seat. You turned your head back around, halting in your tracks, hugging the album to your chest as your expression contorted to one of surprise. Ni-ki did not know what he was doing, and he shouldn’t really be doing this at a freaking fansign. Yet, considering that he’d been watching you for a while and he’d probably never see you again in person—the man had to take his chance. Looking to his right and seeing that his members were immersed in conversations with fellow ENGENEs, he spoke to you in a slightly quieter voice, hinting that he wanted you to lip read. “Can I… have your…” his fingers moved, thumbs moving rapidly—they created a typing gesture. Oh, God, was he serious?
“Oh!” you uttered, shock encasing your voice as you stepped closer to the table, analysing him again. He waited expectantly, eyebrow raised with foreign anticipation—Ni-ki hadn’t felt nervous in a long while. Though, your following question had him somewhat relieved. “How tall are you?”
With that, he rose to his feet, chair scraping against the floor, catching Jake off guard beside him as he raised an eyebrow at yours and the former’s interaction. You burst into a fit of giggles, covering your mouth as Ni-ki glared at his hyung in return—oh, he was tall alright. The idol was towering over you, even with the platforms on your boots—you only reached his shoulders.
“Mm… that’ll do,” your glossed lips curved, a form of hubris latching onto your expression as you grabbed his marker, taking his wrist in your hand. Quickly, you jotted down your number from memory upon his palm, lowering your voice as Ni-ki craned his neck to hear. “You better get WhatsApp. Won’t be able to receive your messages otherwise.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Rolling your eyes, your whirled back around, presenting him with a finger wiggle wave before stepping off the staged platform, a staff member leading you out of the venue. You didn’t look back, but Ni-ki watched your every move, his gaze never leaving your figure—until you exited the room.
“Baby?” you heard a whine from the hallway, pausing your words mid-sentence, the camera catching your bewildered countenance—before your lips formed the prettiest of smiles, watching your boyfriend waddle over with a stricken pout.
“Coucou, mon cheri,” you blew him a kiss from your seat on the living room floor, your legs crossed-legged, shopping bags surrounding your figure, which Ni-ki’s casual, white button down hugged snugly. A tired smile found his lips in response, meeting you on the floor as he pulled you into his lap, a giggle escaping you, back leaning into his chest—even though you were only wearing his shirt, your makeup was done, light blue eyeshadow printed on your eyelids, leopard print hair clips pinning your new side part back. Ni-ki had spoiled you rotten the day before. Since him and the rest of his hyungs were on tour, he took this opportunity to stay with you for their week in Paris, still keeping your relationship a secret from fans for now—it had been six, beautiful months of long-distance dating.
“Why’d you leave me?” he mumbled affectionately, planting kisses down the side of your neck as you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut. Humming, you pulled your fingers away from one of the many Chanel bags in your grasp, your hand caressing the back of his head as he buried his nose against your pulse point.
“I wanted to record a little haul, you big baby,” you tittered, turning your head to plant a kiss on his cheek, pink gloss almost adorning the mole directly under his eye. “You bought me so many things yesterday…” a pout grasped your lips now, your hand dropping to his abs, feeling slightly guilty… Ni-ki really let you go wild.
“And? I don’t regret it,” he murmured against your skin, frowning at the sudden culpability gracing your eyes. “It’s been ages since I’ve last seen you in person—God forbid a man wants to spoil the wonderful love of his life,” he retorted, a lazy grin tugging at his lips at the way you sighed, shoving his shoulder.
“You really didn’t have to, my darling…” you smiled shyly, turning around properly so you could straddle his hips. Ni-ki tutted, large hands finding your hip bones, thumbs pressing circles into your clothed skin as his nose bumped yours.
“Shut up. Anything for my pookie baby.”
“Ew. Freak,” you laughed, and Ni-ki swore he would never get sick of that sound. God, you were beautiful, hands decorated with a new set of acrylics that he paid for, of course; black-lined flowers atop hot shades of pink, gemmed crosses on both of your middle fingers, zebra stripes on your pinkies… you cupped his cheekbones, soft lips finding his as he groaned at your touch, the grasp on your hips tightening by a fraction. His tongue flicked over your lips, one hand latching onto your chin as he parted them gently, feeling your tongue swim into his own mouth. “Ugh… Je t’aime beaucoup…”
“You drive me crazy,” he mumbled in between kisses, swallowing your whines as he stood up, you in his arms—you squealed, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you back to your bedroom… “Record your haul later, baby.”
SUMMARY: after ferrari’s golden boy crashes in order to save his teammate, he is stuck at the hospital with burns all over his body. between long shifts and the hospital’s desolation, he brings a light in your life that is hard to forget once he’s free to go home.
WARNINGS: feat enhypen RIKI and JAKE. hospital settings, medical terms, mentions of car crashes, blood, burns, mentions of death (brief description, not detailed), mentions of abusive parent, medical conditions, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.
a/n: i believe this could’ve turned out better but i wanted to publish my babies (i’ve been writing them since this summer) so please lmk your thought and opinions!! 🩷🫶
The emergency room had seen chaos before, but tonight felt heavier.
It started with sirens, loud and insistent, even through the thick hospital walls, and a nurse rushing in with wide eyes and a shaking tablet.
“Two criticals inbound, Formula one accident. One with full-body burns and head trauma, the other with a compound leg fracture and suspected internal bleeding.”
You didn’t look up until the gurneys were rolled in. The automatic doors swung open with a hiss, letting in two stretchers, wheeled fast.
The first man on the left stretcher wasn’t moving, blood was matting the dark fringe of his hair, and his face was pale under the running crimson.
His racing suit, at least, what remained of it, was slit down the middle already, soaked through.
The other one was conscious, barely. He was moaning low, his gloved hand clutching at his stomach.
His helmet was off, but there were burn marks curling along the side of his jaw, climbing his neck like vines. His left eye was bloodshot, and blood was crusting near his temple.
Someone called names, the trauma doctor barking orders, nurses scattering.
"Male, in his twenties, suspected third-degree burns, signs of cranial impact, get a scan, now!”
You walked beside them, flipping through the patient file as quickly as it populated.
Blood type, height, weight, nothing else yet. No names. Just codenames and a tag: F1 INCIDENT – NIGHT PRACTICE RUN.
The burn patient was rushed straight into the burn unit. The younger one too, the boy, he looked like a boy, no older than nineteen, with a mess of internal damage. You heard the word “rupture.” Someone else said “splintered bone.”
The moment the doors shut behind the burning team, you exhaled and leaned against the wall.
“Oh my God.” One of the nurses beside you whispered. “That’s Lee Heeseung and Nishimura Riki… holy shit.”
You blinked. “Who?”
The girl stared at you like you had three heads. “Heeseung? He’s like… a living legend in F1. He won Monaco last year blind in one eye… you seriously don’t know?”
You shrugged. “Not really my thing.”
She shook her head. “Well, it’l be now.”
And in fact, two hours later, you were re-assigned.
“Y/N, you’ll be in the burning unit monitoring, in a private suite.” The charge nurse handed you a clipboard. “VIP patient.”
You glanced down at the name, written in capital letters: LEE HEESEUNG
The report was horrifying, with skin grafts that started on both arms and his left shoulder, smoke inhalation damage that would be treated by manually removing it with a tube in the lung.
Followed by a nasty concussion with swelling that had the neurosurgeon double-checking his pupils every ten minutes, and last but not least a multiple rib fractures from the crash impact.
He’d been put in a medically induced coma for the first few hours, and the sedation wouldn’t wear off until sometime tomorrow. You’d be there to monitor vitals, manage the IV, prep for re-evaluation.
His room was on the east wing, he kind of suite reserved for politicians or royalty.
You slipped inside quietly. Heeseung looked worse now that everything was cleaned up.
The bandages made it more real, he gauze that circled half his head, the IVs in both arms, the oxygen line.
You adjusted the chart at the foot of his bed, but there was a whisper of movement behind you that distracted you.
The man that stepped in wasn’t that tall, with tousled hair and hoodie slung half-off his shoulder. There was dried blood on his jeans.
“Are you the nurse assigned to Heeseung?”
You nodded. “Just got here, are you family? Visiting hours are over.”
“I’m the— uh, manager. My name’s Sim Jake.” He extended his hand, but it trembled, so he dropped it. “Sorry, I— fuck, I can’t think. Is he stable?”
You nodded slowly. “He made it through all the check ups without surgery. He’s sedated, but stable. We’ll have to monitor him for the next 24 hours very closely, especially with the head injury.”
Jake exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. “And Riki?” he asked quietly.
“From what I heard, he’s still in surgery.”
He pressed his palms together, his eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying or lacked sleeping “They said it was gonna be a regular night, y’know? pre-race laps. Heeseung didn’t even wanna go.”
You stayed quiet. You’d seen people talk to cope, and you learned how to let them.
Jake stared at the bed, at Heeseung’s unconscious body, and then sat down heavily in the corner chair.
“There was a malfunction,” he said slowly. “In Riki’s brakes, his car didn’t slow down on the fourth turn. It’s a corner he usually takes at normal speed, but he went full throttle tonight, he really wanted to impress everyone.” he swallowed, “he didn’t know. Couldn’t have, there was no control. He was headed straight for the barricade, and spectators were there… families with kids.”
You frowned slightly, brows pulling.
“Heeseung… he saw it. He was in front Riki but he saw what was about to happen, he heard it from the communications radio,” he sighed “so he— he pulled out of line, he s werved into his path.”
Jake’s voice cracked. “He used his own car to stop Riki’s, took the hit full-on, it exploded on fire on impact.”
Your throat felt tight. You glanced at Heeseung again, this time a little different.
“He sacrificed himself,” Jake said, hands fisting in his lap. “To stop Riki from plowing into the stands.”
You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how anyone could choose that kind of pain on purpose.
“He’s gonna live, right?” Jake asked, suddenly boyish. Less like a manager and more like a friend.
You nodded slowly, gaze still on the man lying in the bed. “We’ll do everything we can.”
🏁.
He slipped in and out of consciousness through the long stretch of the night, a haze of morphine clouding over his expression every time he stirred.
Most of it was just moaning, incoherent words under his breath, sometimes Riki’s name.
other times it was just soft whimpers, sharp exhales that caught against his bandaged ribs.
Once, around 3:40 AM, he jolted awake with a short cry and tried to move. His hands jerked upward instinctively, maybe to protect himself… maybe reaching for a steering wheel.
You had to catch his wrist gently and murmur softly until he settled again. “It’s okay,” you whispered, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’re safe, you’re not in the car anymore.”
His eyes fluttered beneath bruised lids, and for a second, he stared right through you.
His lips parted, dry and cracked. You held a straw to them and helped him sip water, watched him wince even from that tiny effort, and then he was gone again.
Back into the warmth of sedation, head rolling softly to one side. Morphine dripped slow into his IV. You monitored the levels and checked the rate. You replaced the saline bag when it was almost empty and you didn’t leave the room even when your shift technically ended.
By morning, you were back at your post before the sun had even fully risen.
You weren’t due for another hour, but you couldn't stay home knowing he might wake again confused, aching and… alone.
But when you entered the room, he was already awake. Well, barely, but it was something.
The soft hum of the monitor greeted you first. His vitals were holding steady, but the real sign was the way his eyes, still a bit unfocused, and a little raw, tracked you as you stepped in.
You set your clipboard down quietly and met his gaze. “Hey,” you said softly.
He blinked slowly, then frowned. “Fuck,” he rasped, “I’m not dead?”
His voice was hoarse, painful to hear, but you managed a small smile. “Not yet, sorry.”
A weak huff pushed from his chest, maybe a laugh, or maybe a cough, you couldn’t tell. He shifted, then immediately grimaced, body locking stiff.
“It’ll hurt,” you warned, reaching out to adjust his pillow. “Your ribs are still healing.”
“No shit,” he groaned, swallowing hard. “Why… why can’t I feel my neck? and my chest and arms feel—“ another cough “numb.”
You hesitate, then walked to the bedside. His eyes were clearer now, but clouded with the edge of something worse than fear. The dread of what he didn’t know yet.
“You have third-degree burns on your neck and parts of your chest and arms. The reason you can’t feel them is… because the nerves are gone.” You tried to explain it as easily as possible.
His eyes flicked downward toward his shoulder, then to the heavy gauze wrapping his forearm. He didn’t move, just stared. “Am I—” His voice caught. “How bad does it look?”
You exhaled. “Bad,” you said honestly. “But they did a clean graft. You’ll get function back, most likely. The nerve endings yes… maybe not sensation in some areas. But it’s early, the burn team will know more after the swelling goes down.”
He closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenching.
Silence stretched. Then, his throat worked, voice more broken than before. “Riki?”
You nodded slowly, folding your arms. “He’s alive, though still unconscious. He had internal bleeding, and a compound fracture in his left leg. He’s in post-op recovery now, but he’s stable.”
His entire face tightened, like the weight of it had finally dropped onto his chest. His fingers clenched weakly around the edge of the sheet, and he looked away, toward the window where the morning light was just beginning to creep in through the blinds.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Good. He— he’s just a kid.”
You sat down in the chair beside him, scribbled a note on the chart, and glanced over.
“He’s lucky,” you said softly. “that you were there.”
He didn’t answer.
You knew Jake was still outside. He’d arrived early again, eyes red, pacing the hallway like a ghost. You’d seen him hovering through the glass window earlier, glancing in, debating whether or not to come in.
Now, as Heeseung winced and shifted slightly, you knew he wouldn’t want to deal with him yet.
“You’ve got someone outside,” you said after a pause. “Jake, right? Your manager.”
Heeseung closed his eyes.
“I don’t have the energy for him right now,” he muttered. “He’s just gonna yell.”
“Then he can wait.” you stood, heading toward the door. “You need rest, not a lecture.”
You stepped out quietly and met Jake’s eyes. He stood up instantly. “Is he awake? Can I—?”
“He’s not in the mood to talk,” you said, keeping your voice low but firm. “He’s in pain, and he’s processing. Maybe come back tomorrow?”
Jake’s face fell, but he nodded, rubbing his hand over his mouth, murmured something that resembled a ‘thank you’ before stepping away.
When you returned to the room, Heeseung was still awake, eyes half-closed, the tension in his shoulders loosened by a fraction. “You want me to turn the lights down a bit?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “My eyes hurt.”
You moved to the wall, dimmed them until the room was cast in soft amber.
And when you returned to your seat, he glanced over, lips cracked, voice barely above a whisper. “…What’s your name?”
“Y/N.” you replied “I’ll be your nurse for the time you stay here.”
He blinked. “You’re the one who was here last night.”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “You tried to punch me when I held your hand.”
His brows creased. “Did I?”
“You missed.” You shrugged and a ghost of a smile touched his mouth, the first one real enough to settle.
🏁.
When you pushed the door open after your lunch break, it was with the quiet intent of checking Heeseung’s vitals, maybe adjusting his IV line again.
You expected him to still be in pain, perhaps trying to sleep it off. You did not expect what you found.
Three nurses, all hovering around his bed like moths to a dying flame.
One was adjusting his blanket even though it was already neatly draped, another was holding a spoon of soup like it was some kind of sacred ritual, and the last one— oh, she was massaging lotion onto the one patch of unburned skin on his hand with a focus that was frankly excessive.
Heeseung looked… tired. Not just physically, but emotionally drained, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the attention.
His eyes met yours almost instantly as you stepped in, and something like relief washed over his features.
You didn’t smile. “Out,” you just said, sharp but calm.
All three of them froze, as if you’d pulled the fire alarm. One nurse looked like she might argue, but you raised your brow just slightly, and she faltered.
“But we were just—”
“I’m sure you were,” you cut her off smoothly. “He’s under recovery care, not an autograph booth.”
The room grew ten degrees colder.
They scurried out with muttered apologies, not meeting your gaze. One of them left behind the bowl of half-stirred soup and a chocolate pudding cup on the tray.
Heeseung watched you settle the tray on the adjustable table and pull it close to him.
“So,” you said, lifting the spoon from the bowl, “how many fangirls have snuck in while I was gone?”
He grimaced slightly. “Only them, I tjink… one kept calling me ‘hero.’ I tried to play dead but they didn’t leave.”
You smirked faintly, scooping up a small portion of the lukewarm soup “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to fake injuries for attention?”
He gave a weak chuckle. “Pretty sure I didn’t have to fake anything.”
You lifted the spoon to his lips, watching as he took the soup carefully, his lips parting just slightly, eyes grimacing a little at the taste. His neck muscles twitched, probably from strain, and he exhaled hard after swallowing.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Is that soup or dishwater?”
“Hospital cuisine,” you said solemnly. “Five-star micheline.”
He took another spoonful, slowly, wincing just from the movement of his jaw.
He still looked rough, his color wasn’t good, skin pale and slightly ashy from the burn meds. His arms were stiff at his sides, bandaged still, and you could tell the hunger was there, but the effort… not so much.
You opened the pudding cup next, gave it a little stir with the plastic spoon. He looked at it like it was the most edible thing he’d seen in weeks.
“Oh thank god,” he said. “I’ve never been so excited for fake chocolate in my life.”
“Open up,” you said, and he did, the sweetness seeming to go down easier than the soup. He sighed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
“I thought I’d feel better today,” he murmured. “But I still feel like shit.”
“You’re not even forty-eight hours post the accident yet,” you reminded him. “Your body’s still trying to decide if it wants to forgive you.”
He shifted then, just a little, then a little more. “Careful—”
“I wanna sit up more,” he mumbled, already pressing one arm against the bed, trying to push himself.
You leaned in, firm but calm. “Heeseung, stop.”
“I can’t just lie here—”
“You literally must.”
His eyes flashed with stubbornness, but then he grimaced hard, pain tightening his mouth.
You reached out instinctively, palm flat on his shoulder, not the burned one, holding him still.
“Don’t be stupid,” you said quietly. “Your ribs are still cracked, you won’t win against gravity.”
His jaw clenched. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
He looked away, toward the window. The light outside was gentler now, filtered through the clouds.
His face was drawn, and you could see it in the way he held himself, he wasn’t just sore, he was frustrated
The kind of man who didn’t like stillness. Who probably measured his self-worth by his speed.
“You’re scheduled to remove some of the smoke still in your lungs,” you told him, “It will not be pleasant.”
“Great,” he said sarcastically, “On a scale from one to ten?”
You thought about if for a minute, “I’ve never done it, but I will not lie that I think it will be a solid eight.”
You adjusted the pillow behind his back carefully, angling the bed up a little more for him. He didn’t resist this time, just watched your hands.
“You’re not useless just because you’re healing,” you said, mentioning the previous conversation. “You saved someone. That’s not something your body gets over in a day.”
Heeseung was quiet for a long moment, the sound of the heart monitoring a steady pulse beside you.
“…he’s still not awake, right?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “Still out, but stable.”
He didn’t respond to that. Just stared out at the window again, jaw working.
You finished cleaning up the tray, wiping the corner of his mouth where a little pudding had smeared.
Your fingers brushed along his chin lightly, and for a second, his eyes dropped to your hand.
When you pulled back, he exhaled slowly.
“Thanks,” he said, voice lower now.
You didn’t smile, but your voice was soft. “Stop trying to get up, and I’ll bring you something that actually tastes like food tomorrow.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering, then gave a small nod.
“No fangirls,” you added, pointing an accusing finger towards him.
He smiled, just barely. “Only you then?”
You rolled your eyes and stood.
“Don’t push it.”
🏁.
Days blurred together like a long breath you couldn’t quite finish taking.
Outside, the world carried on, traffic, sunrises, clouds rolling over the hospital’s concrete edges, but inside that room, things moved slower.
Jake came every day now, just after lunch, always bringing a different set of sports magazines or articles printed off from the web.
Heeseung barely read them, but he listened when Jake talked about regular things, probably as not to overwhelm him with the fact that races continued wven as he laid on a hospital bed.
A video someone posted of Riki doing stupid tricks in a go-kart. They didn’t say much about the boy himself, not with him still in the ICU, but you could feel the tension crackle in Jake every time he left, like walking out of that room meant abandoning someone else who couldn’t speak for himself yet.
You didn’t press him, and yoou didn’t ask questions.
You were too busy with your own routine.
You came into Heeseung’s room just before the evening shift change.
The light outside had gone pale blue, casting long shadows across the tile floor.
You rolled in a small cart with the supplies, like bandages, ointments, saline and gauze. He was already sitting up a little, watching you.
His face still bore the bruises of the accident, but the swelling had gone down, and his eyes tracked your every movement now, sharp and clear.
“You get a new uniform?” he asked, voice less raspy than before but still colored with something teasing.
You raised an eyebrow. “It’s the same one you bled on two days ago. We just wash them sometimes.”
“Hot,” he murmured, then hissed softly as he tried to adjust his shoulder.
“Don't be cute,” you muttered. “It’s wound cleaning day.”
You started with his head. The bandage there had to be changed slowly, carefully, because the skin underneath was still raw and sensitive.
You gloved up, peeled back the old gauze from his temple, then gently dabbed at the edges of the injury with a saline-soaked pad.
He winced, but didn’t complain. Not like he had the first time. “You’re quieter than usual,” he said.
“You want me to make small talk while I pull the rest of your scabbed flesh off?” You raised a brow at him. He let out a breathy laugh and closed his eyes. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind the distraction.”
You wrapped the fresh bandage around his head, secure but loose enough not to give him a headache.
Then you moved to his chest. He shifted again, the sheets falling to his lap as you pulled the gown down and exposed the burns that still ran like brutal red streaks from just below his collarbone down to the edge of his ribs, spreading across his right shoulder and part of his upper arm. Some had darkened and some peeled.
But all of it looked painful.
You dipped a gloved finger into the ointment and began carefully applying it over the healing areas.
You didn’t flinch at the way the flesh had hardened in some parts, blistered in others. You’d seen worse.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
“Yeah,” he said through his teeth. “Feels like acid.”
“It’s just medicine.”
“I know, but I like being dramatic.”
You gave a short laugh, smoothing the ointment into the side of his neck, then placed new gauze over it, pressing down gently to secure it.
“I don’t know how you do this every day,” he said after a while “I mean, taking care of people like this…. like me. It can’t be the easiest job.”
You shrugged, taping down the last piece. “I’ve had harder patients.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. There was this guy once who thought flirting through third-degree burns was charming.” you teased.
He chuckled, and you moved to his arms next, slowly peeling back the old dressings.
His skin twitched under the fresh air, his fingers curling instinctively. You worked in silence for a while, glancing up only when you noticed him watching you.
“What?” you asked.
He tilted his head a little. “Nothing, you just never talk about yourself.”
You finished smoothing a patch of ointment along his bicep before answering. “There’s not much to say.”
“Bullshit. You’re in here every day, making sure I don’t die of infection or morphine withdrawal. You clean me, feed me, fight off the occasional fangirl. You’ve gotta have more going on than this.”
You paused. Then looked up at him… you didn’t really have an entertaining life outside the hospital, so you opted for something safe. “I’m also assigned to another patient.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You nodded, wrapping his arm now. “A kid about nine years old. He came in with a collapsed lung.”
Heeseung stilled slightly. “Accident?”
“No.” you gulped. “His father beat the shit out of him.”
Something in his face twisted then, slow and ugly. You continued softly. “He’s doing better now. Still needs the oxygen support, but he’s laughing again. Oh, and he loves dinosaurs.”
Heeseung’s voice was low. “Do people like that guy, his father, just get to walk around free?”
“It’s… complicated.” You said, your hands working focused. “He’s on the loose, police are searching for him.”
“Fuck.” He exhaled sharply, then looked away. “I thought I had it bad.”
You finished dressing the last of his wounds, peeling off your gloves with a soft snap and tossing them into the bin.
“You did,” you said quietly. “Pain doesn’t need to compete.”
He looked at you again then, for a long time. You weren’t sure what was in his eyes exactly. Respect, maybe sadness. Something softer, too.
“Thanks,” he said.
You gave him a faint smile, then reached for the blanket again, pulling it over his legs gently. “Don’t move too much tonight.”
“No promises.” Heeseung shrugged.
“I’ll sedate you if I have to.” you threatened.
He smirked. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done to me.”
You rolled your eyes, gathered your supplies, and started toward the door. Before you stepped out, you glanced back.
He was still looking at you. Not like a patient looking at a nurse.
Like a man trying to understand someone he suddenly realized he didn’t know at all.
🏁.
Riki woke up the following week.
The update came in quietly, just after sunrise, passed from the ICU nurse on duty to your floor with that same hushed relief you’d felt pressing at the back of your ribs since the accident.
He was conscious, but weak. He was. fading in and out of sleep, but breathing on his own, and whispering broken sentences when someone leaned in close enough to hear.
You didn’t rush to tell Heeseung.
You waited until you finished your morning rounds, changed his bandages, fed him half of his usual breakfast. He didn’t complain today. Not once, and that alone told you his mind was elsewhere.
It wasn’t until you were refilling his IV fluids that you finally told him.
“Riki’s awake,” you said simply, not looking up as you slid the fresh saline bag onto the pole.
The stillness in the room shifted sharply.
Heeseung’s voice was instant, a little breathless. “When?”
“This morning.” You turned to him. “He’s in the trauma unit now. They transferred him just after stabilizing.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. His hands flexed slightly at his sides. “Can I see him?”
You hesitated. “You’re not exactly in any shape to—”
“I can sit,” he cut in quickly. “If I sit in a wheelchair, I can do it. I swear I won’t move. Just— five minutes. Please.”.
He was still so pale. The bruising around his eye had darkened into a dull ochre. The bandages on his neck peeked out from under his gown. His arm was trembling just from lifting the glass of water earlier.
He wasn’t ready. But you also knew he’d never feel ready, and something told you he wouldn’t rest until he saw Riki for himself.
You sighed, pulling your gloves off. “Alright, but you don’t lift a finger. You move wrong and I’ll have you sedated for real this time.”
He smiled weakly. “God, that’s hot.”
You shot him a flat look. “Try me.”
You brought the chair around slowly. He watched every motion as you locked the brakes, looped the IV pole onto the hooks, and adjusted the footrest to keep his legs steady. Then came the hard part.
“Okay,” you said gently, moving to his side. “You’re gonna need to lean forward on three. I’ll brace your back. Use your left arm if you can. The right’s still healing.”
He nodded once, already concentrating “One… two.. three.”
He grunted as he moved, your arm slipping under his to guide his weight forward. It took everything in him not to scream, you could tell.
His ribs were like cracked glass, one wrong shift and he’d shatter. But he bit it back, his jaw clenched, and let you ease him into the wheelchair slowly.
Once he was seated, you adjusted his gown to keep the bandages covered, re-checked the IV tube to make sure it wasn’t pulled, and only when everything was steady did you release a breath.
“You good?” you asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.. fuck. I feel like a grandpa.”
The trauma unit wasn’t far, but you still took it slow. Every bump in the linoleum seemed to jolt through his bones.
You moved carefully, guiding the chair down the hallway, keeping your hand on the bar, and checking on him every few seconds. He didn’t talk, he just stared straight ahead.
When you reached Riki’s room, you paused at the door. “You sure?” you asked.
Heeseung nodded quietly and so you opened the door slowly.
The lights were dimmed inside, soft beeping of monitors the only sound.
Riki was lying still, propped slightly against the incline of the bed. His skin was a mess of bruises, purple and green splotches painting across his arms and cheek. A heavy cast swallowed most of his left leg, raised and elevated on a cushion.
There were faint stitches near his collarbone, and you saw the tremble of his chest with every breath.
But his eyes were open and conscious, staring at the white ceiling.
When he saw Heeseung, something in his expression cracked. His mouth moved first, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “Heeseung…”
Heeseung tried to lean forward but flinched instantly. You stepped in and pressed lightly on his shoulder.
“Careful,” you murmured.
“I thought you were dead,” Riki said, voice hoarse and small.
Heeseung swallowed, eyes shining faintly. “So did I.”
Riki blinked rapidly. “They said you— why the fuck did you stop in front of me like that? That’s not…” He trailed off, voice thick. “That’s not how this is supposed to go.”
Heeseung stared at him for a long moment. “You were headed for the barricade.”
“You should’ve just let me crash.” Riki snapped.
Heeseung’s voice was low, steady. “No, i really shouldn’t have.”
The silence between them settled like a weight. You didn’t speak, nor did you move. You saw how Heeseung’s hands gripped the armrests, how Riki tried to blink away the water in his eyes.
“You look like shit,” Riki finally said, a faint smile twitching at his lips.
Heeseung gave a tired breath of a laugh. “Yeah. So do you.”
You looked between the two of them. “I’ll give you a few minutes… just don’t make him laugh too hard. His ribs won’t survive it.”
🏁.
Two more weeks passed, and the days started blending again, though in a different rhythm now.
Rehab was slower, less frantic than the ER, but harder in other ways.
You watched Heeseung try to curl his fingers around a towel for ten full minutes one morning, sweat beading along his brow while the physical therapist kept encouraging him softly, and he just clenched his jaw and tried again and again, even when the pain clawed up from his shoulder into his teeth.
The nerves in his right arm were slow to wake. Some hadn’t at all.
But he worked through it, every day. There were setbacks and ghost pains and frustration.
A dozen nights when he asked you to help him sleep with medications because the sensation of nothing in his arm felt worse than agony.
You tried your best to support him, to give him the strength he was missing.
He could get a game of cards with you each time he managed to complete an exercise, and though he struggled to hold the cards in hands, he looked forward to it.
He always did, but one day you didn’t arrive at the time you usually did.
You always checked in after the rehab sessions. Always adjusted the pillows, changed his IV port, sometimes brought him sickeningly sweet tea even though it wasn’t officially allowed.
That afternoon, he returned from physical therapy looking exhausted and stiff, arm strapped carefully in the sling again.
You would be waiting for him, and even if he felt tired, he was excited to tell you about his progress.
But when he got in there were no cards and no you.
He was half-dozing when the door finally opened, with but the footsteps weren’t yours. The nurse on duty came in to check his meds, and as she adjusted his meds she told him you were coming but were just running late.
She went away, and when the door opened again some time later, it was you.
You came in fast, too fast and your steps uneven. Your scrubs were wrinkled, your hair pulled back hastily.
You didn’t even glance at him, just went straight to the counter and dropped your bag like your hands didn’t know what to do with anything.
“Hey,” he said, quietly.
“Hey.” You replied hurriedly.
He tried to push himself up further in bed, and that simple movement sent a spasm through his ribs. He hissed but kept watching you.
Your hands were shaking as you reached for the gloves. You put them on hastily and put some morphine drops in his IV line.
Or tried to, because the needle kept missing. You tried again and again.
“Hey.” He murmured, brows furrowing. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” you gulped, voice shaky, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
But he didn’t buy your lie, so he said more firmly, “Y/N.”
You stopped moving and dropped your hands on the medicine counter. “I lost him.”
The words came out too sharp and too sudden. You hadn’t meant to say them like that. You hadn’t even known what you meant to say until they tore out of your mouth.
He blinked slowly. trying to piece the words together. “The kid?”
You turned slowly toward him, your eyes wide and glassy, and you laughed, a short and broken sound. It caught in your throat. You clutched the edge of the t counter like it could hold you up.
“I— I did everything. Everything I was supposed to. He was smiling yesterday… and… and he even asked me to draw dinosaurs on his oxygen mask. I told him I would after he ate his dinner.”
He didn’t speak, he let you rant, because he knew you needed not to be strong for once. You needed a shoulder to cry on.
You stepped forward, then dropped to your knees before you even realized it. The medical equipment fell from your hands.
“He started coughing and he didn’t stop,” you whispered, voice already breaking. “His lung… it filled with blood. He couldn’t breathe and we couldn’t intubate fast enough. He choked in front of us. In front of me.”
Your hands pressed to your face. “I tried… I tried so fucking hard—”
Your sobs ripped out of you, loud and uncontained, ugly sobs that rocked your body. Heeseung reached out before his body could protest. “Come here.”
“No,” you gasped. “I can’t— I’m not supposed to—”
“Come here.” He repeated firmly.
You crawled toward the bed on your knees, hands shaking too much to reach for anything.
He managed to lower his good arm toward you, fingers trembling as they brushed against your shoulder.
You pressed your face to the side of the bed, arms folded awkwardly under you, and sobbed into the blanket.
He winced, but he kept his hand there on your back. His thumb moved in slow, unsteady circles, his voice hoarse as he whispered, “You did everything you could.”
“I didn’t save him.” You snapped.
“Sometimes… sometimes you can’t.” He tried to reason. “I promised I’d come see him tomorrow.” You whispered brokenly.
Heeseung’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes like he could carry the weight of that grief for you.
“I keep seeing his face,” you whispered. “He looked so scared.”
“I know that feeling,” he murmured. “I know, I see the fire every night.”
Your fingers curled into the blanket. He moved his hand and brushed your hair back behind your ear. The gentlest touch he could manage.
“You made him forget the horrors he went through,” he said softly. “You were there. That matters more than anything.”
You couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t even pretend to be the composed nurse anymore.
You weren’t her right now. You were just you, kneeling on the floor beside a patient who had become more than just a chart.
You stayed there, head buried into the side of the bed, tears soaking through the sheet, while Heeseung lay still, chest tight, body too raw to offer more than the steady, quiet presence you’d once given him.
Eventually, your sobs softened, worn out. Like the grief had burned through you fast and left only ash behind.
He spoke again, voice slow. “You can sit up here, if you want.”
You shook your head. “I don’t want you to move.” Even in your pain, uou cared more for him.
“I won’t.” He shifted his hand slightly, inviting. “Just stay beside me..”
So you did, because you weren’t really in the right state of mind to list all the reasons why you shouldn’t.
You climbed onto the edge of the bed slowly, not to disturb the tubes or bandages, and leaned gently against the side of his body. His good arm curled around your back.
Just for a moment you let yourself be held.
🏁.
It was quiet between you for a long while. His hand was warm where it rested on your back, too warm for someone who’d spent the last few weeks surrounded by machines and medications and cold gauze.
You were still curled into the side of the bed, your cheek resting just beside the edge of his chest, body limp from the sobbing.
“Hey.” He finally spoke.
You shifted, barely lifting your head. “Mh?.”
He angled his neck enough to glance down at you. “Wheel me downstairs.”
You blinked slowly. “Downstairs where?”
“The cafeteria.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him properly. His face was worn, but his expression was serious.
You stared hard. “You’re not allowed down there yet.”
He shrugged with one shoulder. “Neither was I allowed to have Jake’s candy bars, but I’ve had three Twix and two mini bags of Doritos this week, and I haven’t died.”
Your brows lifted. “You’ve been cheating on your meal plan?” He gave a faint smirk. “Religiously.”
“You sighed, pressing your fingers to your eyes. The last thing you wanted to do right now was escort a stubborn F1 driver out of his room for snacks like he hadn’t nearly burned alive three weeks ago.
But the truth was, your chest still hurt. The grief still sat in your bones, but it was quieter now, and something in his voice had shifted.
“Fine,” you muttered, standing. “But you’re wearing your sling, and your hospital bracelet stays visible. If anyone asks, you’re on a medically supervised movement.”
“Lord,” he murmured. “You make rule-breaking sound so sexy.”
You rolled your eyes, but the ache in your chest had already started to soften.
You helped him into the chair again, slower this time, letting him lean into you more than usual.
His body was getting stronger, but not by much, and even the act of standing made him wince. You adjusted his IV pole and tucked the light blue blanket across his lap before wheeling him carefully out into the corridor.
The hallway was mostly quiet as night shift had already begun. The elevators pinged with soft dings while you descended.
“Did you bring me down here to flirt with the volunteers again?” you asked as the doors opened on the ground floor.
“No,” he said. “They don’t make eye contact anymore. I think you scared them off.”
You snorted. “Good.”
The café was dimly lit, the kind that looked like it was trying very hard to pretend it wasn’t inside a hospital.
You wheeled him to a table tucked in the corner, far from the noise of people or the murmur of the vending machines.
You walked up to the bar and ordered what he’d asked for, a hot chocolate with no whipped cream, and a bottle of water. The cashier rang it up, and just as you reached for your hospital-issued card, a hand beat you to it.
Heeseung had wheeled towards you, alone, and handed over a credit card without a word.
You looked at him sharply. “What the fuck are you—”
“I wanted to.” Ahe said quickly, “And I used the good arm.” He waved it for good measure.
You narrowed your eyes. “I’m on shift. I can’t let patients pay for—”
“I’m a grown man in a wheelchair, who needs your help standing while peeing, I think you deserve this.”
You stared at him for a second longer, but he didn’t waver. So you let it go, you took the tray with the drinks, careful not to spill the hot chocolate, and returned to the table.
When you set it down in front of him, he reached out for the bottle of water. He pushed the hot chocolate toward you.
You blinked, then frowned in confusion. “This is yours.”
“I ordered it for you.” He explained as if it was the most obvious thing.
Your hands hovered for a second. “You asked for it.”
“And then I gave it away.” He met your eyes, gaze soft but unwavering. “You’ve had a shit day, well, week. I figured chocolate was a safer bet than tequila.”
You slowly sat down, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. It steamed against your skin, thick and sweet-smelling.
“You still shouldn’t be paying for me,” you muttered.
“I crashed a million-dollar car. You think I’m worried about six bucks?”
You shook your head, trying to hide the way your lip tugged up just slightly.
He leaned back a little in the chair, the bottle of water resting between his thighs. “You’re allowed to sit here,” he said, voice quiet. “Not just as my nurse but just as you.”
You stared down at the cup. “I don’t think I know how to be just me anymore.”
“You do,” he said softly. “You just haven’t had time to remember.”
You took a slow sip and the warmth bled into your chest. “I think I hate hospitals,” you whispered.
He tilted his head, watching you carefully. “So do I.”
You wheeled him back before the nurse on dinner rounds made it to his floor.
Heeseung didn’t say much on the way up, he just kept his eyes ahead, arm still nestled in the sling, the blanket pooling loosely around his waist.
You stopped the wheelchair in front of his room, and opened the door wide enough for the chair to slip in.
He shifted a little as you rolled him in, wincing when the chair hit a bump in the threshold. “Careful,” he murmured.
“Sorry,” you replied quickly, helping him ease into a comfortable position beside his bed before turning off the wheelchair brakes.
You were efficient again, going through motions you’d done a hundred times, but your fingers still trembled slightly when they brushed his wrist, adjusting the IV.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For taking care of me.”
You turned toward him. “It’s literally my job
“It’s more than that,” he said. “You didn’t have to sit with me. You didn’t have to cry where I could see you.”
You swallowed, eyes briefly dropping to his blanket. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m not very professional.”
“You’re too pretty to cry,” he said simply.
You rolled your eyes, stepping toward the cabinet to grab a clean set of saline wipes, trying to cover how your heart stuttered at the way he’d said it— like a fact, not a compliment.
“Don’t start,” you warned. “I’m not starting,” he said. “I’m just saying.”
You turned back to him, arms crossed, and leaned against the cabinet. “Alright, fine. How are you feeling? Really.”
He blinked at you, then tilted his head slightly, making a face. “Sore.”
“Where?” You asked.
He shifted, jaw tightening as he angled his neck. “My neck mostly. Probably the burn. It feels like it’s pulling when I sleep.”
“That’s because you keep turning your head instead of using the pillow support,” you said, walking toward him again.
You reached gently toward his collarbone, pulling back the loose hospital shirt to peek at the gauze that covered the worst of the scarring.
“You should kiss it better,” he said then, voice suddenly low.
You stopped, frozen in place. Your hand froze an inch from his skin, and his eyes flicked to your face, watching you for a reaction, but not pushing.
His lips tugged up, a faint, boyish grin pulling the corner of his mouth.
You stared at him, chest tight, then sighed through your nose and leaned in, fast, before you could think better of it, and pressed a quick kiss to the edge of his cheekbone.
Just enough to feel the warmth of his skin under your lips, to let the tension between you shift into something that made your stomach twist.
His smile widened, the surprise obvious on his face.
“Hey,” he whispered, gaze following you as you straightened and stepped back. “That was nice.”
“Don’t let it get to your head.” You said, holding a threatening finger to his face.
He laughed, low and hoarse. “Too late.”
You grabbed your clipboard, pretending to check his chart so you wouldn’t have to look at him while your face still felt warm.
“I should go,” you muttered, already walking toward the door. “Dinner shift’s starting on the east wing.”
“Wait—”
But you were already pulling the door open, glancing back at him just long enough to catch the way he looked at you now.
You didn’t say anything else. You just stepped out, your heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it, and let the door shut behind you with a soft click.
🏁.
By the third day of your ten-hour shift stretch, you could recognize the tone of the call button chime before the light even blinked above the door.
It was always Lee Heeseung’s, allways at the most inopportune moments— just when you had your gloves snapped on to help with someone else’s chart, or when you were halfway through prepping a new IV bag.
And by now, you didn’t even need to guess what he’d say.
“My pillow fell again.”
“My water’s too warm.”
“I finished the tissue box. I sneezed once and now it’s gone.”
“I think my skin feels itchy, but like, only a little. Is that bad?”
“Do you know where the remote is?”
Six times that day, and it wasn’t even five p.m.
So this time, you walked in before the chime finished echoing down the hall, your hands on your hips, the door swinging shut behind you with a firm thud.
“Okay,” you said, standing just inside the threshold, your brows raised. “I know you’re bored, and I know hospital life isn’t exactly thrilling, but unless you’ve developed a new infection or spontaneously combusted again, I really don’t want to hear another call button chime from this room today.”
Heeseung looked up from the bed, blinking at you with the most unapologetically fake innocent expression you’d ever seen.
“You don’t have to scold me like that,” he said, lifting a hand with mock pain. “It hurts my feelings.”
“It hurts my back,” you snapped, “to walk this hallway six times because you suddenly forgot where your mouth is after wiping it.”
He cracked a smile then, slow and crooked. “That one wasn’t urgent, I just missed you.”
You blinked at him, deadpan.
“I’m serious,” he added quickly. “I’m not trying to be annoying. I mean, I am. But not… only.”
You slowly stepped closer to the bed, your arms crossing over your chest. “Heeseung.”
He lifted both hands in surrender, careful not to stretch his burned arm. “Alright. alright, I’ll stop. I’ll be good.”
You narrowed your eyes. You knew he felt alone, F1 season continued, Jake had meetings with his whole department since both his drivers were out and he was afraid he’d be replaced.
You knew, but it didn’t mean he had to drive you insane too. No pun intended.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I know I’m being a pain in the ass, that you’re tired, and I know it’s not fair to ask for attention when there are patients who actually need you.”
That startled you a little. His voice was sincere now, not playful.
The kind of honest that didn’t come easy to men like him, the men used to winning races and smiling through sponsors’ press conferences and interviews. But he looked small now, even as he sat upright in the bed, chest tight in the bandages you changed every morning.
“I’m just—” he exhaled, his fingers twitching over the blanket. “I’m scared to leave. That’s the truth.”
You frowned, stepping to his bedside without thinking. “Why would you be scared of leaving a hospital?”
“Because I look like this.” He motioned vaguely to his body, to the sling, the burn that peeked from beneath the hem of his collar. “Because I haven’t seen a mirror in weeks, and I know I’ve looked better. Because my hair’s gross and I’ve lost weight and I smell like antiseptic, and I’ve been stuck in this bed thinking that I’ll never feel like myself again.”
You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done. “And because I finally got the courage to want something for myself. And that something is you.”
The words landed hard. You felt your arms drop slightly, hands now loose by your sides, the air between you suddenly tighter than before. You blinked your eyes, unsure if you were seeing or hearing his words right.
Heeseung looked up at you again, slower this time, less sure of himself than you’d ever seen him.
“I know you don’t owe me anything. You’ve been taking care of me because it’s your duty, and I’ve probably pushed boundaries I shouldn’t. But…” He swallowed, breath shallow. “I wanted to tell you now. Before I get discharged, because the second I’m out of here, I’m gonna be back in recovery, back in press cycles, and everyone’s going to ask about the crash and Riki and the damn brakes, and I’m not going to get to just sit with you… or make you laugh, ormake you roll your eyes like that.”
You stared at him, speechless, as if your body had finally shut down.
“I just needed you to know,” he said finally. “When I’m back on my feet and when I look like me again… I’m going to ask you out, properly. If you’ll let me.”
Your heart was pounding, because somewhere deep down, maybe you’d known. Known from the moment he reached for the hot chocolate and slid it across the table. Known from the way he watched you like you were the only anchor he had left.
You didn’t know what to say, not yet. Your mouth felt dry and your chest felt tight, but your feet stepped closer anyway, drawn like a magnet.
You didn’t kiss him this time. You didn’t touch him either. You just looked down at him, eyes skimming his face, the new pink of his healing skin, the glint of defiance still in his expression.
“You still can’t press the call button,” you said quietly.
His smile broke again, wider this time. Like sunlight on rained down pavement.
“Alright,” he whispered. “Then I guess I’ll just have to wait for you.”
🏁.
You didn’t see Heeseung for almost three weeks.
He still came to the hospital, that much you knew, rehabilitation was mandatory, even for someone as stubborn as Ferrari’s golden boy.
He was scheduled twice a week for physical therapy, and he visited Riki when he could, sometimes staying an hour or more in the kid’s room.
But your shifts never overlapped. It was strange, how easily someone could vanish into the same building you worked in, the same halls you’d memorized with your eyes closed.
You didn’t try to ask around. You didn’t dig through records or prod the therapists in the staff lounge.
You didn’t let it show on your face that every time the elevator dinged on your floor, your eyes flicked up before you could stop yourself.
He was healing at home now. Taking care of his own burns, which had scabbed and scarred over with that red-purple finish that made your heart twist the last time you saw them.
You imagined him moving stiffly through some fancy condo, with his water always cold, pillows never out of reach, tissues unused because there was no one around to pass them.
However, you saw Riki often. He was in less pain now, and more alert to his surroundings.
Still sour most days, snappy and restless from staying still for so long, but there was a spark there, something sharp behind his eyes when he talked about rehab. He wanted to walk, he wanted to drive again. Even if it was far off for the time being.
“Heeseung comes in all weird,” Riki muttered one afternoon while you adjusted the IV tubing above his bed. “Like, in baseball caps and hoodies. As if people won’t recognize him if he covers half his face and walks with that stupid gait.”
“Maybe he’s trying not to get mobbed,” you murmured, flicking the drip line with your nail. “He had fans even in the hospital.”
“He just doesn’t want people to look at him,” Riki said, a little quieter. “Not until his skin looks normal.”
You didn’t answer that. You just gave him a sip of water and changed the subject, but it stayed with you.
That night, for the first time, you opened Instagram and typed Ferrari into the search bar.
The page was easy to find. It was verified, with the bold logo, all red and gold and glory.
You scrolled past the highlight reels, the merchandise links, the footage of pit crews moving like insects in reverse. You skimmed captions about sponsors, about prep for the next season, about hopeful outlooks. And then you found his name.
Lee Heeseung, back in training. Slowly regaining strength in his right arm, working with team specialists twice a week. Determined to be ready for next season’s opener.
There was a photo. Blurry, and taken from behind. Heeseung bent forward, sweat soaking through a dark training tee, fingers curled over a steering simulator.
His profile was partly visible, bandage still over the side of his neck, his jaw clenched, dark hair longer than it had been in the hospital.
He looked thin and tired. But he looked alive.
You stared at the photo for longer than you should have. Then, against your better judgment, you hit the follow button.
You didn’t expect it to change anything. You didn’t expect him to see it, even, his feed was full of likes and mentions from fans all over the world, probably flooded every minute.
But something about it made you feel closer. Like you’d walked into a corner of his life no one had given you permission to touch.
Like you were choosing to see him now, not as your patient, not as a body in bandages, but as someone aching to be more than that.
You still didn’t see him in ‘real life’, but you started noticing the gap he left in your day.
The way your shift felt a little quieter without his voice drifting out of his VIP room.
How your eyes scanned the hallway out of habit, expecting his lanky frame to come sauntering around the corner with a sarcastic comment ready. How the call button in his old room remained untouched, almost dusty with disuse.
You didn’t let yourself think about it too much. You had other patients. You had other wounds to clean, other charts to fill.
You had boys younger than Riki who didn’t know what comfort felt like, who cried into your sleeves when no one else was looking.
But late at night, when you walked home in silence, something in you still flickered with that unfinished sentence. With that look in his eyes the last time you left his room.
🏁.
Saturdays weren’t yours to work, but the fire from three nights ago had overflowed the ER.
Nurses had been calling out, supplies were low, and patients kept pouring in with second-degree burns and smoke in their lungs, soot in their hair and soot in their blood.
You hadn’t had lunch. You barely remembered what you’d eaten for breakfast.
Your scrubs were wrinkled, your badge strap sticky with someone’s dried medication, your shoes creaked wet from a mop bucket you stepped in by accident. All you wanted was to go home, shower, and sleep for fourteen uninterrupted hours.
So when you stepped out the side exit, your usual escape route to avoid the busier front doors, and found a sleek, glimmering black car parked right in the middle of the access road, you groaned out loud.
“The hell…” you muttered under your breath, narrowing your eyes.
You looked around first, no security in sight and no staff nearby.
The car was expensive, way too shiny to belong to a low waged doctor, but the way it was angled made your jaw clench.
Right in the path of emergency lanes. If an ambulance pulled in, it would have to slow down, stop before it hit it and possibly lose a life.
You stepped toward the driver’s side window without hesitation, rapping your knuckles against the glass firmly.
You didn’t expect it to roll down that fast. And you definitely didn’t expect him.
Heeseung turned toward you slowly, lips twitching up into the smallest smile, his eyes scanning you like you were a familiar song playing again for the first time in weeks.
He had a hat on, but he pulled it off the second he saw your face. His skin had lost the swollen, raw shine, there were still scars on his jawline and neck, but they were faded now, pinked and healing.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
You just blinked, hands mid-air, paused knock on the window. “What— what are you doing here?” you asked.
“I was waiting for you,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Your shift ended half an hour ago.”
“I stayed behind because the trauma and burning bay was still full.” You explained, brows furrowed.
“Yeah, I heard about the fire.” His brows dipped a little. “I figured you wouldn’t leave on time.”
You glanced at the car again, then back at him “You’re parked in the middle of the road.”
He shrugged, leaning his elbow against the wheel, lazy and composed and so infuriatingly calm. “You always said I was reckless.”
“That’s not— Heeseung, you can’t park here. What if an ambulance came in?” You nagged.
“Then I would’ve moved.” His smile widened slightly. “I saw you coming out. You were holding your bag like it was about to break.”
You looked down at your satchel, at the way it was sagging from your shoulder, the straps barely stitched. You hadn’t realized he was watching.
“You look exhausted,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you or get in the way. I just… I wanted to talk to you.”
You hesitated, swallowing hard. “You could’ve texted.”
“I don’t have your number.” You paused again, jaw tightening. The handsome fucker was right.
He read the hesitation in your expression because his voice softened when he added, “It’s not anything heavy. I just wanted to see you…. talk. If that’s okay.”
“I should go home,” you said, but your voice didn’t sound as sure as it should have.
“I know,” he replied, tone level. “I’m not trying to trap you. I just… thought maybe you’d want to come for a short drive.”
You opened your mouth to protest again, but he must’ve seen it in your face, that flicker, that tiny weakening you always had with him, because he leaned across the passenger seat and pushed the door open.
The smell of his cologne wafted out faintly, clean and unfamiliar. Not the antiseptic you used to associate with him, but something warmer.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “And I’ll drive slow.”
You stood there another heartbeat before sighing heavily and slipping in, dropping your bag between your feet. “You can’t park like that again.” you grumbled, pulling your seatbelt on.
“I won’t,” he said, already shifting the gear. “Unless it gets me your attention.”
The car was too smooth, barely a hum beneath your thighs as he pulled onto the road.
He didn’t take the highway. Instead, he drifted toward the north side of the city, where the buildings thinned and the roads turned narrow and winding.
You didn’t say anything for a while, and the radio was off, creating a not so awkward silence.
The windows cracked just enough for the wind to kiss your temples. Heeseung kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. His fingers tapped to a rhythm only he heard.
You finally asked, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” he smirked.
The hill was quiet. Just far enough from town that the lights behind you blurred into a string of distant sparks, like stars upside down.
He pulled up to the edge, beside a lookout you vaguely recognized from photos, some popular spot kids used to park and drink or kiss in late at night.
But now it was just the two of you, and the sun was melting behind the skyline, leaving streaks of orange and dusty violet stretching across the horizon.
He killed the engine as you sat still, unsure. He turned to you. “You’ve been following the Ferrari page.”
You flushed before you could stop it, your eyes darting to the glovebox. “You noticed?”
“You think I wouldn’t?” he asked, tilting his head. “Your username has your badge number and Jake asked me if it was you when he saw the notification. He’s the one who runs the profile.”
You cringed. “I misclicked.”
“I like it that you follow it.” He took a breath, shifting to face you slightly. “I wasn’t lying that day. I know I was half gross with hair oily and calling for tissues every five minutes. But I meant what I said.”
You chewed your bottom lip, hands clasped together on your lap.
“I’ve thought about you every damn day,” he said, voice low. “Every burn I cleaned, every stretch I did to move my arm again… it was all with your voice in my head, lecturing me, cussing under your breath, or humming while you changed my dressings.
He chucked softly, “I’m not trying to romanticize what you did— it was your job, I know that. But you were the only part of that room that didn’t feel like pain.”
Your throat tightened. The silence around you pressed against your chest.
“So,” he said, after a moment. “Now that I’m here, and I don’t look like a half-melted wax figure, I’m going to ask again.”
He leaned in a little, not enough to touch you. Just enough to make the air shiver between your knees.
“Would you go out with me?”
You looked at him, really looked at the scars that would never fully fade, at the honesty stretched across his face. At the way his fingers curled and uncurled on his thigh, nervous.
Not Heeseung-the-racer. Not Heeseung-the-patient. Just the man who held you when you broke down and offered you hot chocolate to cheer you up.
“…You’re still kind of a pain in the ass,” you whispered.
He grinned, soft and warm and so stupidly pretty. “I’m hoping you like that about me.”
You rolled your eyes and looked away. But your voice cracked into something almost smiling as you said, “Okay.”
His inhale was slow, asif he didn’t believe you yet.
“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed to hear it again.
You turned back to him and nodded. “Yeah.”
🏁.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen so naturallyx, but the nights at his place started slipping into your week like a warm spring breeze.
He picked you up after long shifts when you didn’t feel like taking the bus, and you’d slip into his fancy car still in your scrubs, smelling faintly of antiseptic and latex gloves, too tired to talk.
And he never asked you to. He just opened the passenger door, let you rest your head against the window, and drove home in silence, music turned low and hand reaching across the console to hold yours.
His mansion, because there was no way around calling it that, wasn’t what you expected.
You thought it’d be filled with trophies and screaming red logos, but it was just neat and quiet.
His bedroom was painted in soft shades of gray and navy, his kitchen smelled like coffee beans and a hint of vanilla, and the couch was so wide you’d often curl up in the corner with a blanket and not move for hours.
You didn’t have the energy for fancy dates or being out in public. You certainly didn’t want to be photographed, you didn’t ant some journalist writing a two-paragraph caption about how Heeseung’s latest girl was just some tired nurse with eyebags and oversized jackets.
And Heeseung never made you feel small for it. Whatever he chose for his life you didn’t have to force yourself to be a part of.
Most nights were spent curled on the sofa, a Netflix movie you barely registered playing in the background.
You would start the evening upright, knees tucked in, a warm drink in your hands, and end it slouched sideways, your cheek against his shoulder, breath even and shallow as sleep claimed you halfway through the plot.
He’d carry you, sometimes. Tuck you in and kiss your forehead lightly. Other nights, you made it to bed on your own, and he would join you an hour later, warm and silent, pressing himself carefully to your back, still stiff because of his healing skin.
He had noticed your pills early on. The first time, you thought you’d been slick about it, hiding them behind your hand as you opened the bottle near the sink.
But he leaned over and asked, “You okay?”
You nodded, embarrassed, trying to swallow them quickly. “Just for digestion, y’know? My stomach gets weird after long shifts. I don’t always… well, can’t always eat right after I see something.”
His expression softened like you’d pressed a hand over his chest. He didn’t say anything right away, he just took the glass from your hand, poured you another, and passed it back silently.
“You don’t have to explain it,” he said quietly. “I get it.”
You weren’t sure he could get it. He didn’t have to hold broken children or stitch the soft skin of dying women, and he didn’t have to stand still while a monitor flatlined.
But he had burned for someone else. He’d jumped in front of a car going too fast to stop, taken the brunt of it, let himself be crushed and concussed to save a boy who wasn’t ready to die.
So maybe he did understand.
When you came over one Saturday morning, he was more animated than usual.
He was wearing a dark sweater and cargo pants, with hair half-damp from a shower, and his bandage finally gone from his wrist, his body almost healed.
He still couldn’t grip with his right hand properly. He said the nerves were healing slowly, but he’d been trying.
“C’mere,” he grinned, reaching for your bag to drop it by the entrance. “I want to show you something.”
You blinked at him, one eyebrow rising. “Show me what?”
“Just come.” He tugged at your hand and pulled you toward the garage.
You hadn’t really stepped inside the main garage before. The house had two: one for his daily cars, and the other for, well, whatever this was. The second he flipped the lights on, you saw it.
His car. That car.
The one that had been twisted into fire and pain months ago. The one you’d seen on the news, reduced to smoldering steel.
Now it sat before you, with a brand new frame, the same number, and the same paint job, the shine of it almost surreal under the ceiling lights.
“You got it back,” you murmured.
“I got her back, my Scarlet.” he said, voice soft with affection. “It’s not exactly the same frame, and we’ve upgraded a few things. But… yeah. She’s mine again.”
You walked slowly around it, trailing your fingers just barely along the side. “And you’ll drive again.”
“As soon as they let me.”
“And your hand?” He held it up, flexing it in the air. “Still annoying as hell. But I’ve been cooperating with the exercises.”
You smiled, turning to him. “That’s a first.”
He grinned, full of boyish pride. Then he nodded toward the other side of the garage. “There’s someone else I want you to meet officially.”
You followed him without question.
Jake was waiting near the workbench, hands shoved in his pockets, his hair tied back with a cap. He looked better than the last time you’d seen him in a panic outside the hospital room, pacing the hall and begging for updates.
“Jake,” Heeseung said, his voice low but proud, “this is Y/N.”
Jake smiled and extended his hand. “You’re the nurse who yelled at the three others for pampering him with pudding.”
You laughed as you shook it. “They were fangirling and he was still high on morphine. Someone had to keep his ego in check.”
Heeseung groaned behind you. “You’re never going to let that go.”
“Not a chance.”
Jake grinned even wider. “I like her.”
“She’s not just my nurse anymore,” Heeseung said quietly, and when you glanced back at him, he was looking straight at you. “She’s my girl now.”
The words shouldn’t have knocked the air out of your chest the way they did. You weren’t sixteen anymore, you’d had men call you worse and sweeter things in the heat of a moment, but this— this was soft and real.
You didn’t say anything right away. Just smiled, nodded a thank you to Jake, and let Heeseung lead you upstairs again, through the back hallway.
When the door to the garage closed behind you and the silence settled again, you reached for him before he could say anything else.
you pressed your hands to his cheeks gently, careful of the last faint scar that still lingered along the side of his jaw, and kissed him.
He stilled at first, stunned. Then he leaned in, warm and steady, one hand sliding to your hip, the other brushing the back of your neck.
It was the kind of kiss that made time pause. With no rush, no fire behind your teeth. Just slow, deep breaths and the rhythm of his lips against yours, like he’d been waiting too long to ask again.
When you pulled away, you stayed close, your forehead resting against his.
“You are a wonderful person, Lee Heeseung.” You breathed out.
“You make me better.” He murmured.
You smiled, kissed the tip of his nose, and said, “No, that’s all you.”
