Synopsis: After a long shift and a cold bus ride home, you end up sitting next to a stranger in the back of the bus. A quiet moment turns into something unexpectedly comforting, proving that even the smallest encounters can leave a lasting warmth.
Pairing: Non Idol Martin x fem reader
Genre: romance, fluff, strangers to lovers
Word Count: 776
Author‘s Note: hi!! this is my first time ever writing and posting something like this, so please be gentle. i’m a little nervous but also really excited 🫶🏻 i hope you enjoyed this small, cozy story as much as i enjoyed writing it. if you have any advice, thoughts, or just want to share what you felt while reading, please feel free to comment. I’d really appreciate it. thank you so much for reading 🤍
feedback, likes and reblogs are appreciated 🤍
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You closed your cashier as soon as your co-worker Minjun came through the door.
“You’re late again,” you said while packing up your stuff, ready to go to the women’s dressing room to change out of your work clothes into your normal ones.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry won’t happen again,” he said while rushing towards the cashier.
That was your cue to go into the dressing room and change. After bidding goodbye, you slowly walked towards the nearby bus station and sat down, rubbing your hands together to create a bit of warmth. The cold weather made it almost impossible.
After some time, the bus finally arrived. It was quite packed, but luckily there was an empty seat in the back next to a tall guy. He was wearing a brown jacket and had his hood up. You walked towards the seat and gave the guy a small smile. He nodded in return.
The bus took off, and you leaned back in your seat, closing your eyes as you tried to rest a bit but you ended up falling asleep.
You woke up due to a speed bump, which made everyone jump a little out of their seats. Slowly, you opened your eyes, trying to adjust to the light. That’s when you noticed you were sleeping on the guy’s shoulder.
Your eyes widened as you turned your gaze towards him.
“I am so, so sorry. I fell asleep and didn’t even notice,” you tried to explain, expecting him to be mad… or annoyed.
But all he did was let out a laugh.
“It’s okay, don’t worry. I could tell you were quite tired as soon as you stepped onto the bus,” he assured you before continuing, “Do you live around here?”
You knew you shouldn’t be telling him that kind of information, especially since you had known him for what, 15 minutes? And slept through most of them. But he seemed to be your age and… genuinely nice.
“Yeah, I actually need to get off at the next station,” you said.
He looked at you with wide eyes.
“Really? Me too. Do you live near the small café somewhere?”
You nodded and smiled.
“You too?” you asked, receiving a nod in return.
As you approached the bus stop, you both stood up and exited the bus. You started walking together in a comfortable silence before the guy broke it.
“By the way, I’m Martin,” he said, stretching out his hand.
You looked at it for a moment before shaking it.
“I’m Y/N,” you replied with a smile.
“Y/N… very nice to meet you. You look pretty young. Around my age?”
You let out a small laugh.
“Yeah, I’m 18.”
“Oh really? Me too,” he said happily.
For the next few minutes, you talked about school, music, and your hobbies. You found out you had a similar music taste and that you both loved to dance.
The conversation came to an end when you reached the front door of your house.
“Well, this is where I live,” you said, turning towards Martin.
“Oh, we don’t live that far from each other. I live down the street probably four houses away,” he said, not breaking eye contact.
“I guess I should get going. It’s pretty late,” you said, even though you didn’t want the conversation to end. He genuinely seemed like a nice guy. You adored how his smile reached his eyes whenever he talked about something he was passionate about and not to forget, he was incredibly handsome.
“Yeah, I should head off too,” he said, though you could tell he wanted to keep talking as well.
“I know this sounds crazy, and we’ve known each other for like 20 minutes, but I was wondering if I could maybe… get your number?”
He fidgeted with the hem of his jacket.
You laughed and nodded. He quickly pulled out his phone, letting you enter your contact before handing it back.
“Okay, I won’t hold you up for too long. Good night, Y/N.”
That sweet smile appeared on his face once again.
“Good night, Martin,” you replied.
You caught him winking at you before he turned around and started walking away. With butterflies in your stomach and a smile that wouldn’t go away, you opened your door, changed into some pajamas, and lay down on your bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the way Martin winked at you.
Ping!
You looked at your phone and saw a message from an unknown number.
Unknown number: Good night, pretty 😘
You screamed into your pillow and kicked your feet.
a Criminal!Jake x Detective!Reader sexy crime thriller!
🔹 SYNOPSIS: You spent years chasing Specter, the most elusive criminal the force has ever encountered. But every near miss, every failed case, every lead that went cold—it was never just bad luck. It was orchestrated. Because the real traitor wasn’t the man you were hunting. It was the one standing right beside you.
🔹 WC: ~14.7K (full-length fic, completed)
🔹 TAGS: crime thriller, enemies to lovers, morally gray!Jake, found family, betrayal & redemption, slow burn to inferno, high stakes, forced proximity, heavy angst with a soft landing, house on the hill trope, HEA, High stakes
🔹 WARNINGS: violence, corruption, deception, heavy themes of betrayal & loss, morally ambiguous decisions, explicit language, slow descent into trust issues hell, eventual comfort but only after suffering, guns, sexual content MDNI, f! receiving, sexual intercourse, soft dom jake, really so sexy ngllll
-
The city never truly sleeps.
It thrums beneath flickering streetlights, alleyways breathing shadows, skyscrapers standing like silent witnesses to the corruption embedded in its veins. You’ve lived in this world long enough to know the rules: the rich get richer, the poor get forgotten, and crime is both a disease and a cure.
You lean forward, elbows resting on the scuffed wooden desk, eyes scanning the wall of evidence in front of you. Newspaper clippings, grainy surveillance images, red string connecting seemingly unrelated heists, yet all pointing to one singular entity.
A legend. A phantom. A criminal mastermind who never gets caught.
Your jaw tightens as you reread the headline from last week’s front page:
"SPECTER STRIKES AGAIN: $25 MILLION STOLEN FROM CARMICHAEL ESTATES—NO TRACE LEFT BEHIND."
"He’s mocking us," Jungwon mutters, arms crossed as he studies the board from his seat beside you. "Leaving those calling cards like he wants us to know he’s always ahead."
Your eyes drift to the small, laminated playing card pinned to the center of the board.
Checkmate.
Left at every crime scene. A silent taunt, a message that he’s playing a game you can’t win.
"Yeah," you say quietly, fingers grazing the edge of the card. "And I’m getting tired of losing."
A scoff sounds from across the room. "That makes two of us."
Lieutenant Heeseung stands by the window, arms folded, his sharp gaze flicking between you and the board. He’s been after Specter longer than anyone—long enough to have a personal vendetta, long enough that you’ve seen the sleepless nights weigh down on him.
He sighs, rubbing his temples. "We need a win. Something—anything—before the higher-ups start pulling us off this case."
You exchange a look with Jungwon.
They wouldn’t dare.
Not after how deep you’ve sunk into this. Not after five years of chasing a ghost.
And yet, you can feel it—the patience of the department wearing thin. Because how do you justify throwing manpower at an enemy you can’t even see?
"Maybe we finally have something," Jungwon says, flipping open a folder. "Our informant came through—Specter’s next target. The Reinsworth. The biggest auction of the year. Billions in assets, a room full of the richest people in the city, and enough security to make Fort Knox jealous."
Your pulse quickens.
"He’s going after them?"
Jungwon nods. "Anonymous tip. No confirmed details, but if he sticks to pattern, he’ll move that night."
Heeseung exhales. "Then we move first."
You clench your fists.
If Specter is going to be there, then so will you.
And this time, you won’t let him slip away.
20/11/2024 3:21 PM – The Precinct
The conference room is suffocating.
Not because of the size—no, the space is big enough, with its sleek steel table and sterile white walls. It’s the weight in the air, the kind that settles on your shoulders like chains, the kind that reminds you just how much is at stake.
The walls are lined with case files, printed blueprints, and surveillance shots pinned against corkboards. At the center of it all?
Specter.
His name—bold and in capital letters—sits atop the massive evidence board at the front of the room, surrounded by the aftermath of his work. Red lines connect his crimes, threads forming a chaotic web of high-stakes thefts, shattered security protocols, and corporate greed laid bare.
Another heist. Another Checkmate.
And yet?
No face. No trace. No identity.
But that changes tonight.
You fold your arms, standing near the edge of the table as Heeseung leans forward, placing both hands on the polished surface. His sharp eyes scan the room, locking onto each person present.
“Alright,” he says, voice cutting through the silence. “Let’s get one thing straight: this is our best chance yet to catch Specter. We’ve been chasing this bastard for five years, and every damn time, he’s managed to stay ahead. But this time? He’s walking into our trap.”
Heeseung nods toward Sunghoon, who steps forward and clicks a button on the remote in his hand. The screen behind them flickers to life, displaying a 3D-rendered blueprint of the Reinsworth Estate.
“The Reinsworth Gala is scheduled for Friday night, starting at 7:00 PM sharp,” Sunghoon begins, his voice steady and authoritative. “It’s an exclusive, high-profile auction—art pieces, rare jewels, black-market artifacts, the whole deal. The who’s who of the city will be in attendance. That includes politicians, corporate CEOs, and a handful of powerful individuals who have a lot of dirty money to spend.”
He pauses, letting that sink in.
“And it’s exactly the kind of event Specter likes to hit.”
You inhale sharply, your gaze locked on the blueprint.
It makes sense.
The kind of money in this auction isn’t just rich—it’s tainted. Crooked deals, offshore accounts, hush-hush transactions happening in plain sight, masked as “charity donations.”
And Specter?
He doesn’t just steal from the rich.
He exposes them.
Jungwon clicks his pen absentmindedly, studying the layout. “What’s our security coverage?”
Sunghoon presses another button, and red markers appear over key entry points.
“The estate has seven points of entry,” he explains. “Two main doors, three side exits, a rooftop access, and a private underground tunnel that only the estate owner and his personal guards know about.”
Heeseung’s gaze sharpens. “That tunnel—how do we know Specter isn’t using it?”
You nod in agreement. “It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d find a way into.”
Sunghoon clicks again. A live-feed pops up—a grainy, black-and-white video showing a dimly lit corridor beneath the estate.
“We’ve already got a covert team monitoring the underground passage,” he confirms. “If he tries using it, we’ll know.”
You press your lips together. “What about the security staff inside the gala?”
“About twenty armed guards,” Sunghoon replies. “All ex-military, highly trained. There’s also an internal security system—facial recognition scanners, metal detectors at the main entrances, and motion sensors in the vault rooms where the most expensive items are stored.”
Jungwon raises a brow. “And Specter’s still going to pull this off?”
Heeseung exhales sharply. “He always does.”
That’s the terrifying part.
It doesn’t matter how much security you throw in his way. He doesn’t just bypass it—he plays with it. He wants you to think you’re in control, that you have him cornered—only for him to slip away at the last second.
And leave you humiliated.
Not this time.
“This is how it’s going to go,” Heeseung continues, straightening. “We’ll be inside. Undercover.”
Sunghoon clicks again. The blueprint zooms in, red markers shifting into detailed placement zones.
“We’ve divided the team into key positions,” he explains. “Each of us will be in a different area, covering different points of interest.”
ASSIGNMENTS:
🟥 YOU: The ballroom & auction floor. You’ll be blending in with the guests, keeping an eye on potential suspects and looking for Specter’s entry point.
🟦 JUNGWON: Security room. He’ll have access to all internal cameras, monitoring movements and looking for anomalies.
🟩 SUNGHOON: Entrance and exit surveillance. He’ll be tracking arrivals and departures, making sure Specter doesn’t slip out undetected.
🟨 HEESEUNG: Rooftop surveillance & field coordination. He’ll oversee the entire operation from an elevated position, maintaining real-time communication between all units.
“Once Specter makes his move,” Heeseung says, voice like iron, “we cut off all exits. He will have nowhere to go.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of conviction.
But deep down?
You know it’s never that easy.
You lean back against the table, arms crossed. “And what’s our game plan if we actually get him in our sights?”
Silence.
Because none of you have ever gotten that close.
Specter doesn’t get caught.
Heeseung rubs his jaw. “We do not engage alone. If anyone spots him, you alert the team and wait for backup. We move together, we take him down, and we don’t let him—”
A sudden ping interrupts him.
Your phone screen flashes with a new message.
You blink, puzzled.
Unknown Number:See you Friday. 😉
Your pulse stops.
Your fingers tighten around your phone, breath catching in your throat.
He knows.
Specter knows.
And he’s already waiting.
-
21/11/2024 6:47 PM – En Route to the Reinsworth Estate
The air in the car is thick with unspoken tension, the kind that wraps around your chest like a coiled wire, pressing down with every breath. Outside, the city hums in its usual Friday night rhythm—flashing billboards, the distant wail of a siren, the blur of pedestrians moving through their lives without a care for what’s about to unfold.
Inside the car, the atmosphere is suffocating.
Sunghoon grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure, his jaw set in the kind of rigid line that tells you he’s already running through every worst-case scenario in his head. You know he’s trying to temper his expectations, preparing himself for another failure, another night where Specter slips through your fingers and leaves behind nothing but his signature playing card—a mockery of the very system you swore to uphold.
You sit in the backseat, the weight of your firearm strapped to your thigh grounding you, but it does nothing to settle the anxious rhythm of your thoughts. Across from you, Jungwon scrolls through his tablet, reviewing the blueprints of the Reinsworth Estate for what must be the tenth time tonight. He’s meticulous, careful in his calculations, but even he seems restless, his fingers tightening around the edge of the device every so often.
For weeks now, Specter has been untouchable. Every lead has led to a dead end, every attempt to corner him has only resulted in another public embarrassment for the force. The media has begun to paint him as some kind of folk hero, the vigilante thief exposing the corruption that runs through the veins of the elite while making a mockery of law enforcement.
But you know better.
Specter isn’t a hero. He’s a criminal—one who thrives in the spaces between right and wrong, dancing just out of reach with an arrogance that sets your blood on fire.
This mission is your best chance at taking him down, and yet, something about tonight feels... off.
Sunghoon exhales through his nose, breaking the silence. "We can’t afford to lose him again," he says, his voice low but firm. "Not tonight."
His words settle like a weight in the pit of your stomach.
You don’t need to be reminded.
Everyone in this car knows what’s at stake. Another failure means another headline ridiculing the force, another step closer to higher-ups pulling you off the case.
For you, it’s even more than that.
This case is your life.
Without it, without the chase, without this relentless hunt for something greater, what are you?
The answer is one you don’t want to face.
You shift your gaze back to the blurred skyline outside the window, ignoring the ache in your chest, ignoring the part of yourself that wonders if there will ever be a moment where you’re not chasing ghosts.
Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text.
Unknown Number:Hope you brought your best dress. It’d be a shame if no one noticed you. 😉
Your fingers tighten around the device.
Specter.
The bastard is already watching.
21/11/2024 7:15 PM – Inside the Reinsworth Gala
The first thing you notice is the opulence.
Everything about the Reinsworth Estate is designed to exude power—high ceilings adorned with gold leaf trim, crystal chandeliers dripping from the rafters, marble floors polished to a shine so pristine that it reflects the guests who glide across it. The air smells of aged whiskey, expensive perfume, and the kind of unapologetic wealth that makes your skin itch.
You step carefully, keeping your posture poised as you weave through the crowd. The black dress you wear is sleek, professional yet elegant enough to blend in with the socialites sipping from delicate champagne flutes. The concealed weapon strapped to your thigh is a familiar weight, a silent reminder of why you’re here.
Your earpiece crackles as Sunghoon’s voice filters through. "Position check."
Jungwon responds first. "Security room. All feeds are clear so far."
Sunghoon is next. "Covering entrances and exits. No unusual movement yet."
You take a slow breath before replying. "Ballroom. Watching for anomalies."
The mission is simple: Wait. Watch. Observe.
If Specter is here, he’ll make his move soon.
You move toward the bar, casually scanning the room as you take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Your eyes flicker over the guests—politicians, CEOs, black-market dealers—the usual lineup of people who profit off the suffering of others. These are the people Specter targets.
And yet, for all your careful observation, you don’t expect to see him.
Not Specter.
Not your target.
Someone else.
At first, it’s unintentional—just a brief flicker of movement in the corner of your vision. But something about the way he stands, the way his body moves with the kind of ease that suggests he belongs here without trying, pulls your attention.
Dark hair slightly tousled, as if he ran a hand through it carelessly. A tailored black suit that fits too well to be rented, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. He leans against the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, his expression unreadable.
He’s striking.
And he’s the first person in months who has made you look twice.
Your stomach tightens, the realization settling in a second too late.
This is a distraction.
You don’t get to have distractions.
You’re about to turn away when he looks up—eyes meeting yours in a way that feels deliberate.
His lips quirk up at the corners, slow, easy, like he’s amused by the fact that you’ve been watching him.
You should walk away.
You should refocus on the mission.
But instead, you move toward him.
21/11/2024 7:22 PM – The Bar
You slide into the empty space beside him, setting your glass on the polished counter. The bartender approaches, but before you can place an order, the man beside you speaks.
“She’ll have another.”
His voice is smooth, warm, effortlessly confident. He doesn’t even glance at you, instead sliding a bill across the counter with practiced ease.
You raise a brow, finally taking him in up close. His features are unfairly sharp, the kind of attractiveness that doesn’t seem real—high cheekbones, dark lashes that frame his deep-set eyes, lips curved in a smirk that looks both relaxed and knowing.
"You didn’t have to do that," you say, tilting your head slightly.
His smirk widens. "I know."
There’s something infuriatingly easy about the way he says it. Like he’s used to getting away with things. Like he’s used to being liked.
Your lips press together as you study him. He doesn’t seem nervous, doesn’t fidget the way people do when they have something to hide. If anything, he looks... bored.
A man dragged to a gala he didn’t want to attend.
And for some reason, that makes you want to talk to him.
"So," you say, lifting your newly refilled glass. "Are you always this generous to strangers, or am I just lucky tonight?"
He chuckles, finally turning to meet your gaze fully.
"You could say I have a soft spot for people who look like they’d rather be anywhere else," he muses, sipping his whiskey.
Your breath catches for half a second.
Because he’s not wrong.
And you don’t realize—
This is the first lie between you.
And the beginning of your downfall.
21/11/2024 9:15 PM – The Ballroom
The night drags on in a slow, meticulous rhythm, each minute stretching into the next as you weave through the ballroom, scanning the faces of the elite. Champagne flows endlessly, expensive fabric sways under the chandelier’s golden glow, and money changes hands under the guise of civility. It’s a performance—one you’ve seen play out time and time again, the rich finding new ways to remind each other just how powerful they are.
You, however, are looking for something else.
You’ve spent the last hour subtly circling the room, keeping track of exits, watching for anything out of place. But there’s nothing. No indication that Specter has made his move. No sudden disappearances, no disruption in the security feeds. If he’s here, he’s waiting.
And the waiting is starting to unravel you.
"Anything?" Sunghoon’s voice crackles through your earpiece.
You press your fingers against the device discreetly, eyes still moving over the crowd. "Negative. Ballroom is normal."
Jungwon chimes in from the security room. "No breaches in the system yet. If Specter is moving, he’s being damn careful."
Sunghoon exhales sharply. "We cannot afford another loss tonight."
You can hear the frustration in his voice, the tension woven into every syllable. He doesn’t need to say what you’re all thinking—if Specter escapes again, if this night ends like all the others, it might be your last chance to bring him down.
A bead of sweat trails down the back of your neck, the pressure tightening around your ribs like a vice. You swallow, rolling your shoulders to shake off the weight pressing against you.
That’s when you see him.
At first, it’s nothing. A casual glance, a flicker of movement. But something about him catches your eye—something unassuming yet magnetic, something that makes it impossible to look away.
Jake.
He’s standing near the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other tucked loosely in his pocket. The dim lighting catches against the faint golden tint of his skin, his suit perfectly fitted to his frame, his posture relaxed yet controlled. He’s not doing anything special—just existing in that effortless, confident way that makes him stand out without trying.
And for the first time in years, you let yourself be distracted.
It’s reckless. You know that. You should be focused on the job, not on some guy you met an hour ago.
But something about him pulls at you.
Something about him feels different.
And so, against your better judgment, you let your legs carry you toward him.
21/11/2024 10:22 PM – The Private Lounge
You don’t remember how the conversation started.
One minute, you were talking in the ballroom, your words light, teasing, your mind telling you to keep it surface-level—keep it meaningless. And yet, before you knew it, you were here, tucked away in a private lounge on the second floor, away from the prying eyes of the gala.
Jake is leaning against the arm of the couch, his whiskey glass now abandoned on the table beside him. The dim lighting casts soft shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp curve of his jaw, the slight tilt of his smirk.
"You really don’t belong here," he murmurs, voice low, smooth.
You raise a brow. "And why’s that?"
He lets his gaze trail over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s reading between the lines of your existence.
"You’re too stiff," he muses. "Too guarded. People at events like this—they move like they own the room. You move like you’re trying to control it."
Your breath catches for half a second.
He’s not wrong.
It’s something you’ve never said out loud, something you’ve never let yourself acknowledge—the way you always stand on the outskirts, never truly letting yourself blend in. Because you’re not one of them. You’re not a guest, not someone who can just drink and laugh and enjoy the night.
You’re always working.
You’re always watching.
Jake tilts his head slightly. "You know, it’s okay to let go once in a while."
The words hit deeper than they should.
Let go.
It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself feel anything other than exhaustion, than the weight of responsibility pressing against your ribs.
Jake doesn’t look away. He watches you like he already knows what you’re thinking, like he’s waiting.
And the worst part?
You let him win.
His hand brushes against yours, tentative at first, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, your fingers shift, your breath catches, and the space between you collapses.
His lips meet yours in a slow, controlled movement, the kind that leaves no room for uncertainty. His fingers press into your waist, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body against yours sending a sharp thrill down your spine.
You gasp softly against his mouth when his hands slide lower, gripping at the fabric of your dress. He doesn’t rush—he’s measured, calculated, taking his time with you like he’s savoring every second.
Your back meets the plush couch, your hands threading into his hair as his lips trail lower, pressing against your jaw, then your throat.
It feels too real, too good—like for the first time in years, you’re not just existing, not just moving through the motions.
You’re alive.
And because of that—
You miss it.
You miss everything.
21/11/2024 10:41 PM – Security Breach
Jungwon’s voice is the first thing that rips through the haze.
"Shit—what the hell?"
Your earpiece crackles, the distortion breaking through the moment like a gunshot. You barely register Jake pulling away slightly, brows furrowed as he studies your expression.
In the surveillance van outside, Heeseung is already moving. "What’s happening?"
Jungwon curses. "Security feeds just cut out—this wasn’t an external hack, it was internal."
Sunghoon’s voice is sharp. "That means someone’s inside."
You push yourself upright, your mind snapping back into focus. Your heart is still pounding, but now it’s for a different reason. You grab the earpiece, voice urgent. "What do you need?"
Jungwon is typing furiously. "We still have motion sensors in the west corridor—someone just breached the main vault."
Sunghoon is already moving through the ballroom. "I see him. Black suit, short dark hair, five-eight, heading for the exit."
Heeseung barks an order. "Don’t let him out."
Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. He runs.
21/11/2024 10:45 PM
The suspect never makes it past the emergency stairwell.
Sunghoon catches up to him just as he reaches for the door handle, his body moving on pure instinct as he yanks the man back, shoving him against the cold marble wall. The force of it knocks the breath from his lungs, a choked sound escaping as his hands instinctively rise in surrender.
"Freeze!" Sunghoon barks, his gun leveled. "On the ground! Now!"
The entire ballroom stills, guests gasping as they step back, clearing a wide space around them. The security guards stationed throughout the estate move in, forming a barrier between the suspect and the exits.
The man lifts his chin, looking irritated rather than fearful, his black suit slightly disheveled from the struggle. Jongseong.
Sunghoon's breath catches as he fully registers his face, recognition setting in like a sharp blade to the ribs.
Jongseong. A known associate of underground networks, a name that has surfaced more than once in relation to Specter’s operations—but never directly linked. A runner, not a mastermind.
Heeseung arrives at Sunghoon’s side in seconds, gun also raised, his expression unreadable. "Where's the money?"
Jongseong exhales through his nose, then lets out a low chuckle. "No idea what you’re talking about."
His voice is calm. Too calm.
That’s the first sign that something is wrong.
"Pat him down," Heeseung orders.
A security officer steps forward, roughly searching Jongseong’s suit for any concealed items. No weapons. No stolen artifacts. No hidden communication devices.
Nothing.
Your stomach twists. This isn’t right.
Where’s the evidence? Where’s the vault key? The schematics? Anything that proves he’s the one who breached security?
And then—
Jongseong smirks.
It’s barely there, just a flicker of amusement before it vanishes beneath a practiced mask of indifference.
But you see it.
And that’s the second sign.
Something is very, very wrong.
"Take him in," Heeseung commands. "We’ll question him at the precinct."
As Jongseong is forced to his knees, his wrists bound with cuffs, he barely resists. He doesn't fight, doesn't argue.
Because he doesn’t need to.
Because this is exactly what he wanted.
By the time you step outside, the night air is thick with tension. The once-luxurious gala has descended into controlled chaos, guests still murmuring as they’re escorted to waiting cars, security scrambling to regain control of the estate.
The suspect is in custody.
The heist is over.
And yet—something feels unfinished.
Your head is still spinning, the adrenaline from earlier colliding with the lingering haze of Jake’s hands on your body, the warmth of his lips still ghosting against your skin.
You shouldn’t be thinking about him right now.
Not when you should be celebrating a win.
Not when you should be focused on why this doesn’t feel like a victory at all.
Sunghoon stops beside you, running a hand down his face. "Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks this was too easy."
You swallow hard, gripping your arms against the sudden chill in the air.
You don’t expect to find Jake waiting for you again.
Yet, when you return to the second-floor lounge, needing a moment to breathe, he’s still there—composed, collected, untouched by the storm that just unfolded.
He leans against the plush couch, one leg stretched out lazily, a fresh glass of whiskey in hand. He glances up when he sees you, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.
"Back so soon?" he muses, tilting his head.
You let out a breath, shaking your head as you step inside. "I needed to get away from the chaos for a second."
Jake hums, watching you with an unreadable expression. "So, what’s the verdict? Did you get your guy?"
You hesitate for just a moment too long.
Then, you nod. "Yeah. We got him."
Jake smiles, lifting his glass in a lazy toast. "Then that means you won, right?"
You should feel like you’ve won.
But you don’t.
You feel like you’re missing something.
Like you’re being played.
And when Jake stands, moving toward you with that same slow, easy confidence, you suddenly find yourself forgetting—just for a moment—why you should even be thinking about anything else at all.
"You’re still tense," he murmurs, his voice softer now, lower, like he’s reading between the lines of everything you aren’t saying. "Still thinking too much."
You open your mouth to argue, to tell him you’re fine, that you’re always fine.
But then his fingers brush against yours, a fleeting touch that makes your pulse stutter.
"Let me help with that," he whispers.
And before you can stop yourself—before you can think about what you’re doing—you let him.
22/11/2024 12:30 AM – Jake’s Apartment
His apartment is dimly lit, quiet except for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. It smells like whiskey and something undeniably him, something warm and sharp and dangerous in a way that doesn’t set off alarms—only curiosity.
You don’t remember how you got here.
One minute, you were at the gala, your head spinning with questions you couldn’t answer. The next, Jake was leading you inside, his hands steady on your waist, his lips a breath away from ruining you completely.
The first kiss is slow.
A quiet test. A question you don’t answer with words but with the way your hands tangle into his hair, the way your body presses against his, desperate for something you can’t name.
His fingers skim the zipper of your dress, trailing down your spine, his touch sending a slow fire licking down your skin. He moves deliberately—never rushing, never demanding—just taking his time, like he’s savoring every second of breaking you apart.
You let yourself fall.
Because Specter is gone.
Because the hunt is over.
Because for the first time in years, you let yourself want something that isn’t a case file, a mission, a ghost you can never catch.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said, his voice low and seductive. "I want to show you how much I've been wanting this."
You sank into the plush sofa, your heart racing as Jake knelt before you, his hands gently caressing your thighs. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your knee, slowly inching their way up your leg. You let out a soft moan, unable to contain the pleasure that was building within. His touch was like a flame igniting your desire, melting away the constraints of your undercover role.
"You're exquisite," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "I want to taste every inch of you."
With that, Jake began a slow, sensual exploration of your body. His lips trailed kisses along your inner thighs, his hands gently massaging your hips, driving you wild with anticipation. You arched your back, offering yourself to him, eager for the pleasure he promised. His tongue teased the sensitive skin just above your knee, sending waves of delight through your body.
As his lips finally reached your core, you gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation. Jake's tongue was skilled, flicking and lapping at your clit, sending shivers of pleasure through your entire being. He teased and tormented you, building the tension until you were writhing with need. His fingers joined the dance, slipping inside you, finding the spots that made you cry out in ecstasy.
"Oh, Jake," you panted, your hands gripping the sofa cushions. "I can't take much more..."
But Jake was relentless, determined to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. He sucked on your clit, his fingers working in perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher until you exploded in a mind-shattering orgasm. Your body trembled as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, leaving you breathless and utterly satisfied.
As you lay there, basking in the aftermath of your release, Jake's gentle hands caressed your face, wiping away the traces of your passion. He smiled, his eyes filled with a mixture of satisfaction and adoration.
"Baby that was incredible," he whispered. "But we're not done yet. I want to give you even more pleasure."
You smiled back, feeling a connection with Jake that went beyond the physical. In that moment, you both understood that this encounter was about more than just sex. It was a shared escape from the pressures of your respective lives, a stolen moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.
As the night deepened, Jake led you to the bedroom, where he continued to worship your body with his touch. He explored every inch of your skin, his hands and lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You returned the favor, running your hands over his muscular frame, reveling in the feel of his hard body against yours.
The passion between you escalated, and soon you found yourself straddling Jake, guiding his throbbing cock into your wetness. You rode him with abandon, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. The sensation of being filled by him was exquisite, and you couldn't help but let out a string of moans and cries as you neared the edge once more.
Just as you were about to climax, Jake flipped you onto your back, his eyes blazing with desire. He thrust into you with a primal urgency, his body demanding release. You matched his intensity, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. Together, you soared towards a shared climax, your bodies becoming one in a frenzy of pleasure.
As your orgasms subsided, you lay entangled in each other's arms, panting and sweaty. The night had been a whirlwind of passion and desire, a much-needed respite from the weight of your undercover mission. Jake's gentle touch and insatiable hunger had taken you to new heights of ecstasy, leaving you craving more.
"I never expected this," you whispered, tracing your fingers along his chest. "But I'm glad I found you." Jake smiled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "This is just the beginning.”
22/11/2024 7:00 AM – The Precinct
Morning light spills through the windows, casting sharp lines across the stacks of files on your desk. The precinct is already buzzing—officers moving in and out, reports being filed, the usual chaos after a major arrest.
And yet, something feels off.
You step inside the holding area, your stomach twisting. Jongseong sits in the same spot you left him last night—calm, unbothered, waiting.
Jungwon is the first to speak, handing you a fresh report. His voice is flat, controlled. "We have a problem."
You skim the document, your fingers tightening around the pages.
No forensic evidence. No DNA. No stolen assets found in Jongseong’s possession.
Your heart pounds.
Sunghoon’s voice is grim beside you. "We might have arrested the wrong man."
Heeseung steps forward, his expression dark. "If we don’t find anything, we’ll have to release him within twenty-four hours."
Your stomach drops.
Because if Jongseong isn’t Specter—
Then Specter is still out there.
Still watching.
And you were too distracted to notice.
22/11/2024 7:30 AM – The Precinct
The precinct is suffocating in the way only a place filled with exhausted, overworked officers and the lingering smell of bad coffee can be. The overhead fluorescent lights flicker slightly, buzzing faintly above your desk as you sit, staring at the case file spread open before you.
You’ve spent the past hour combing through the case reports, reading and rereading the timeline of Jongseong’s arrest. Everything lines up—too well, too perfectly. The location, the security breach, the direction of the escape route—it was all exactly what you expected.
But Specter has never been predictable before.
So why now?
The doubt gnaws at you, sharp and insistent, but you shove it down. You need to focus.
A sharp sound pulls you from your thoughts—the scrape of a chair being dragged against the floor. You glance up to find Sunghoon sitting across from you, arms crossed over his chest, his entire body wound tight with barely contained anger.
He looks like he hasn’t slept.
There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and his jaw is locked in a way that makes his frustration painfully obvious. His knuckles are white where they press against his biceps, tension coiling through his entire frame like he’s physically restraining himself from exploding.
You don’t have to ask him what’s wrong.
You already know.
Sunghoon has always been the most ruthless of all of you when it comes to Specter. His hatred for the man isn’t just professional—it’s personal, woven into his very being, laced into every clipped word he speaks about the case.
And right now, that hatred is radiating off of him like heat from an open flame.
"He’s laughing at us," he says finally, his voice low and strained.
You blink, setting your pen down. "Jongseong?"
Sunghoon lets out a harsh, humorless scoff. "No," he spits. "Specter."
The name alone seems to poison the air between you.
"He’s out there right now, watching us scramble, watching us pat ourselves on the back like we finally got him." He shakes his head, his upper lip curling slightly in disgust. "He set this whole thing up, and we fell for it like idiots."
His anger is palpable, simmering beneath the surface like a storm barely held at bay. You’ve seen Sunghoon mad before—you’ve seen him frustrated, seen him snap at officers who weren’t taking the case seriously.
But this?
This is different.
He’s not just angry.
He’s seething.
"You don’t know that," you say carefully, trying to sound more sure than you feel. "Jongseong fits the profile. He was at the scene, moving toward an escape vehicle. We caught him in the act."
Sunghoon lets out a breath through his nose, his hands gripping his arms even tighter. He looks like he’s one wrong word away from completely losing it.
"Jongseong is a distraction," he grits out. "That’s all he is. And do you know what makes me fucking sick?"
His eyes snap up to meet yours, dark and furious.
"We let it happen. Again."
The weight of his words crashes into you like a sledgehammer.
You don’t respond, because what is there to say?
Sunghoon isn’t wrong.
And that’s what makes it worse.
His jaw tightens, and he leans forward slightly, his voice dropping lower, quieter—but no less filled with rage.
"I hate him," he says, the words filled with so much venom you almost flinch. "I hate that every single time we think we have him, he’s already ten steps ahead. I hate that he makes us look like fucking amateurs. I hate that the media paints him like some goddamn folk hero while we’re stuck looking like corrupt bureaucrats."
His fingers dig into his biceps so hard you think he might bruise himself, but he doesn’t seem to care.
"But most of all," he continues, his voice even quieter now, almost a whisper, "I hate that no matter how hard I try, no matter how many hours I put into this case, no matter how much I want to see him behind bars—I can’t fucking touch him."
For a moment, the room feels unbearably silent.
The weight of his words presses down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs.
Because you understand.
Because you feel it too.
The helplessness. The frustration. The overwhelming, all-consuming obsession with someone who refuses to be caught.
You sit in that silence for a long moment, neither of you moving, neither of you speaking.
And then, finally—
Sunghoon exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I need to get out of here."
Without another word, he pushes back from the desk and strides toward the door, his hands still clenched into fists.
And you?
You’re left sitting there, wondering if you just saw a crack in the foundation of everything you thought you knew about him.
Because Sunghoon doesn’t just hate Specter.
He despises him with every fiber of his being
22/11/2024 9:15 AM – Jake’s Apartment
The contrast between Sunghoon’s suffocating rage and Jake’s quiet, effortless warmth is jarring.
You shouldn’t be here again.
You should be at the precinct, knee-deep in case files, trying to untangle the mess that Specter has left behind. But instead, you’re standing in Jake’s kitchen, his shirt draped over your shoulders, a cup of coffee cradled between your hands.
It feels too easy.
Too normal.
Too good.
Jake leans against the counter across from you, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. His hair is still slightly tousled from sleep, his suit jacket discarded somewhere in the other room. He looks so completely unbothered by everything—by the world, by the chaos you left behind at the station—that for a moment, you let yourself believe he really is just Jake.
Just a man.
Not a suspect. Not a ghost. Not a thief who has spent years evading you.
Just someone who makes you feel like yourself again.
"You’re thinking too much," he muses, sipping his coffee.
You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."
"It is when you do it like this," he counters, setting his cup down and stepping closer. "Like you’re trying to convince yourself that you shouldn’t be here."
Your fingers tighten around the mug.
Because he’s right.
And you hate that he sees you so clearly.
Jake tilts his head slightly, watching you. "Stay," he says softly.
A single word.
No pressure. No demand. Just an invitation.
And for the first time in years, you don’t fight it.
You let yourself fall.
02/12/2024 9:30 AM – Jake’s Apartment
The apartment is bathed in the kind of morning light that makes everything feel too perfect, golden rays slipping through half-drawn blinds, casting a warm glow over the rumpled sheets tangled around your legs. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mingling with something distinctly him—a mix of cedarwood and whatever expensive cologne he wears without trying too hard.
Jake stands at the stove, his sleeves pushed up, one hand casually flipping pancakes in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
You watch him from where you’re curled on his couch, sipping the coffee he made for you, wondering how the hell you got here—wrapped up in a man who feels like both an escape and a mistake waiting to happen.
He turns, catching you staring, and smirks.
“You look dangerously comfortable,” he muses, setting down the spatula. “Should I be worried?”
You huff, rolling your eyes as you set your coffee down. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just a good couch.”
Jake raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “So it’s the couch and not the charming man making you breakfast?”
You pretend to think for a moment, lips pursed. “Mm. Jury’s still out.”
Jake clutches his chest dramatically. “That hurts, detective.”
You roll your eyes again, but there’s a warmth in your chest that you can’t ignore. It’s been so long since you’ve laughed like this, since you’ve let yourself exist in a space that wasn’t suffocating under the weight of your job.
And Jake?
Jake makes it too easy.
He slides onto the couch beside you, two plates in hand, setting one on your lap. The pancakes are stacked high, drizzled with syrup, looking almost criminally perfect.
You raise a brow. “Okay, is there anything you’re bad at?”
Jake hums, tilting his head in fake thought. “I can’t dance.”
You snort, cutting into your pancakes. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, gesturing dramatically. “It’s embarrassing. If you ever make me dance, I’ll trip over my own feet and probably take you down with me.”
You laugh, the sound coming too easily, your walls lowering too quickly—but right now, you don’t care.
For the first time in years, you feel like a person first, a detective second.
02/12/2024 12:00 PM – The Precinct
If Jungwon notices the shift in your mood when you walk into the precinct, he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he gives you one long, knowing glance before simply shaking his head and shuffling his files into a neater stack.
You sit down at your desk, flipping through your own paperwork, waiting for the inevitable.
It doesn’t take long.
“You seem happy,” Jungwon finally says, tapping his pen against the table rhythmically. “Which is weird. Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy before.”
You roll your eyes. “Not this again.”
“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just making an observation.”
You sigh, setting your file down. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
Jungwon leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Alright. You’ve been different lately. Less stressed. Less... I don’t know. Broody?”
“Broody?” you repeat, unimpressed.
“You know what I mean.”
You sigh again, rubbing a hand over your face. “I’m not broody.”
Jungwon just looks at you.
You groan. “Fine. I just—I don’t know. I met someone, I guess.”
Jungwon’s eyebrows shoot up, his entire demeanor shifting. “Oh?”
You immediately regret saying anything. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, but he’s already grinning. “It’s just—you? In a relationship? I genuinely didn’t think it was possible.”
You glare. “I hate you.”
Jungwon snickers, leaning forward. “Okay, tell me about him. What’s his name? What does he do? Is he an accountant? He feels like an accountant.”
You exhale sharply. “His name is Jake.”
Jungwon blinks. Then blinks again. “Wait. Jake? As in Jake Jake?”
You pause. “...What does that mean?”
Jungwon shakes his head in disbelief. “You mean the guy from the gala? The one who’s stupidly hot?”
Heat creeps up your neck. “Why do you know he’s hot?”
“Because I have eyes,” Jungwon says, exasperated. “And so does half the precinct. The guy looks like he walked out of a cologne commercial.”
You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”
Jungwon laughs, slapping his hand against the desk. “No, no, I’m thrilled. This is hilarious.”
You peek at him between your fingers. “Why?”
“Because you’re you. And you’ve somehow landed yourself a hot, normal guy, and now I have to watch you try to function like a normal person in a relationship.” He grins. “This is my favorite thing that’s ever happened.”
Despite yourself, you laugh.
It’s easy with Jungwon. He’s been your partner for years, and out of everyone in the precinct, he’s the only one who knows how to keep you grounded.
And maybe...
Maybe a small part of you needed someone to tell you that it’s okay to be happy.
Even if it’s temporary.
Even if you don’t deserve it.
26/12/2024 7:45 PM – Jake’s Apartment
Falling in love with Jake is like slipping into a dream you don’t want to wake up from.
It happens slowly, piece by piece, until one day you realize he’s settled into your life like he’s always belonged there.
At first, it was the late-night conversations, stretched out across his couch, where he’d listen to you vent about your job while nursing a glass of whiskey, nodding along like he understood the weight of it. Then, it was waking up next to him, sunlight slipping through the curtains, watching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheek before he stirred, smiling lazily as if seeing you first thing in the morning was the best part of his day.
Now?
Now, it’s this—him standing in his kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, making pasta like it’s second nature, humming along to a song playing softly in the background.
It’s so damn normal that it terrifies you.
"You know," Jake muses, glancing at you over his shoulder, "for someone who spends their life chasing criminals, you seem way too impressed by my ability to make pasta."
You scoff from where you’re perched on a stool by the counter, sipping the glass of wine he poured for you. "I wouldn’t say impressed. More... mildly surprised you haven’t set the kitchen on fire yet."
Jake clutches his chest dramatically. "Wow. No faith in me at all?"
"I mean," you say, smirking, "you work in HR, not a kitchen. I think my skepticism is warranted."
Jake rolls his eyes, but there’s amusement dancing in his gaze. "I’ll have you know HR requires people skills, which I’m excellent at."
You hum, tilting your head. "So you just charm your way through workplace disputes?"
"Basically." He grins. "It’s a lot of, ‘Hey, let’s all be adults and not fight over stolen office mugs.’"
You laugh, the sound coming too easily, your walls lowering too quickly.
"You’re good at this," you admit before you can stop yourself.
Jake raises a brow. "Cooking?"
"No." You hesitate, swirling the wine in your glass. "This. Making things feel... normal."
His smirk softens into something gentler, something that makes your stomach flip. He sets down the spoon he was using, stepping closer, sliding his hands onto the counter on either side of you, caging you in.
"You deserve normal," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more serious. "You deserve good things, you know that, right?"
You don’t respond.
Because you don’t know that.
Not when your entire life has been about chasing something just out of reach.
Not when every time you think you’re getting close to something real, it slips through your fingers like it was never there to begin with.
27/12/2024 10:30 AM – The Precinct
The sense of peace from the night before disappears the second you step into the precinct.
It’s in the air—the tension, the unspoken weight pressing down on everyone. Conversations are hushed, glances are exchanged, and something is off.
Jungwon looks up from his desk when you approach, his expression more serious than usual. He doesn’t say anything at first, just motions for you to come closer.
"What’s going on?" you ask, setting your coffee down.
Jungwon exhales, rubbing his temple before flipping open a file.
“There’s talk of a mole.”
Your stomach drops.
You grip the edge of your desk. "What?"
Jungwon nods grimly. “It’s coming from higher up. Too many failures. Too many slip-ups. Someone’s been feeding Specter information.”
A cold weight settles in your chest.
A mole. Someone inside the department.
Your mind races. Who?
"Who are they suspecting?" you ask carefully.
Jungwon shrugs, but his expression darkens. “Right now? No one specific. But it’s only a matter of time before they start pointing fingers.”
29/12/2024 11:45 PM - Uptown
It happens fast.
One minute, you’re outside a high-rise in the wealthiest part of the city, waiting for Specter to make his move.
The intel was solid. Too solid. The security patterns, the movement of stolen assets, the whispers from informants—everything lined up.
And yet—
The heist never happens.
You stand there, breath misting in the cold night air, fingers curled around your radio, listening to the silence.
No breach. No alarms. Nothing.
Then—
Jungwon’s voice crackles through the earpiece, quiet, urgent.
“He’s not coming.”
Your pulse spikes. “What?”
“Specter’s not here,” Jungwon says. “There’s nothing happening. This was a dead lead.”
Your blood chills.
How? How?
This was your best shot. The kind of lead you don’t get twice. And yet, you were waiting for nothing. The truth sinks into your stomach like a stone.
Specter knew. Somehow, he knew.
And you were left standing there, like a fool, chasing shadows.
30/12/2024 2:00 AM – Jake’s Apartment
You don’t remember the drive.
You don’t remember knocking on his door.
All you know is that the second it opens, Jake pulls you inside, holds you tight, and doesn’t let go.
You’re shaking—frustration, exhaustion, helplessness all swirling in your chest like a storm. You bury your face against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him, letting the warmth of his body ground you.
Jake presses a slow kiss to the top of your head. “Rough night?”
You let out a breathy laugh, but it’s hollow.
"You have no idea."
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions. He just leads you to the couch, pulling you onto his lap like it’s second nature, letting you curl against him. His fingers skim your back in slow, comforting patterns, his lips pressing fleeting kisses against your temple, your cheek, your jaw.
You tilt your head, letting him kiss you properly this time, letting yourself melt into him, letting him pull you under completely. Because right now, Jake is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.
He’s the reason you’re falling in the first place.
31/12/2024 11:45 PM – Jake’s Apartment
New Year’s Eve in the city was a spectacle—fireworks poised to explode over the skyline, laughter and music pouring from every open window, the streets alive with the kind of energy that only came when people believed they were on the precipice of something new, something better.
But none of that mattered to you right now.
Because instead of being out there, in the chaos, you were here.
Here, in Jake’s apartment, curled up beside him on the couch, a half-empty bottle of champagne on the coffee table, and the faint hum of a jazz record playing in the background. The world outside didn’t exist in this moment. There was only the glow of the string lights he had lazily draped across his bookshelves, the warmth of his body against yours, and the quiet rightness of it all.
“Okay, so tell me,” Jake mused, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh as he leaned back against the cushions. “Are you the type of person who actually makes New Year’s resolutions, or do you just wing it?”
You smirked, shifting so you could face him better. “I don’t think I’ve ever had the luxury of just ‘winging it.’”
Jake’s lips quirked at that, his eyes soft as he studied you. “Of course you haven’t.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “You probably have a ten-year plan, don’t you?”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “I did once.”
Jake raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yeah?”
You hesitated for a moment before sighing, tilting your head back against the couch. “It was the typical checklist, you know? Make detective, take down the bad guys, climb the ranks—maybe even make lieutenant one day.”
Jake hummed, resting his chin on his hand. “And now?”
You let out a breath, watching the golden bubbles swirl in your champagne glass. “Now? I don’t know.”
The admission surprised even you. When was the last time you didn’t have an answer?
Jake shifted closer, his warmth seeping into your skin. “That’s not a bad thing.”
You met his gaze, something tight wrapping around your ribs. “Isn’t it?”
He shook his head, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think sometimes, life surprises you. You spend so long chasing one thing, thinking it’s the only thing that matters, and then out of nowhere—you realize you want something else.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest ache.
Because he was right.
What you wanted now—what you had never allowed yourself to want before—was him.
The clock struck midnight, and somewhere outside, fireworks erupted, lighting up the city.
But you barely heard them.
Because Jake was kissing you.
His hands cradled your face, his lips slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every second of this moment, of you. Your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself against him, against the dizzying warmth threatening to consume you whole.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Happy New Year,” he murmured.
You smiled, eyes fluttering open. “Happy New Year Baby.”
There was a softness in his gaze when he pulled you back against his chest, your legs tangled together on the couch. A comfortable silence stretched between you before he spoke again, voice quieter this time.
“Do you ever think about it?”
You glanced up. “Think about what?”
Jake hesitated for half a second before exhaling. “The future. What it’d look like... if we did this. If we kept doing this.”
Your heart skipped.
If we kept doing this.
The words settled in your chest, weaving into the fabric of something dangerous, something real.
A part of you wanted to be cautious. To remind him that it was too soon, that you had only known each other for a few months, that relationships—real ones—needed time to be built.
But then another part of you—the part that had spent years alone, the part that had never imagined wanting something beyond the chase—wanted to believe in this.
In him.
So you let yourself speak the words before fear could stop you.
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I think about it.”
Jake’s lips twitched into a smile. “And?”
You swallowed, shifting against him. “It’s crazy.”
He huffed a laugh. “Insane.”
You exhaled. “But it feels... right.”
Jake’s arm tightened around you. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It really does.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then—
“I’d want a house,” Jake mused. “One of those quiet ones, up on a hill. A big porch. A stupidly expensive coffee machine in the kitchen.”
You snorted. “Of course you would.”
Jake smirked. “Hey, I have priorities.”
You shook your head fondly. “And kids?”
Jake blinked, then tilted his head in mock thought. “I don’t know. How much chaos are we talking?”
You hummed, pretending to consider. “Two, maybe three? Enough to keep you on your toes.”
Jake grinned. “I like those odds.”
Your breath hitched.
Because it was crazy to be talking like this.
But it didn’t feel crazy.
It felt like standing in the sun after a lifetime in the rain.
15/01/2025 11:45 PM – Curator’s Galleria Downtown
The air inside Sunoo’s gallery hums with energy, a strange blend of sophistication and tension. The city’s wealthiest patrons sip champagne, swirling golden liquid in delicate crystal flutes, murmuring about the price of art like it’s something more than a status symbol.
But you’re not looking at the art.
You’re scanning the room, waiting for the moment everything falls apart.
Specter is here. He has to be.
Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in an expensive black suit that helps him blend into the crowd. But even in the dim glow of chandelier light, you can see the way his shoulders are tense, the way his jaw is locked. He’s waiting too.
Jungwon’s voice crackles in your earpiece. “Security is clean so far. No unusual movement.”
That only makes your stomach tighten further.
If Specter is here, he’s already inside.
And he’s waiting to make his move.
You take a slow sip of champagne, scanning the guests with careful precision. The art world is one of Specter’s favorite playgrounds—not just because of the wealth, but because it’s built on illusion. People come here flaunting riches they didn’t earn, bidding on pieces they barely understand.
And if you’ve learned anything about him, it’s that he loves stealing from people who don’t deserve what they have.
A slight movement at the far end of the gallery catches your eye. A man—tall, broad shoulders, dressed in black, his face tilted away from the light.
Your heart stutters.
Jake.
The realization hits you like a punch to the ribs. He’s here. Right in front of you.
You can’t move. Not yet.
Not when you know he’s watching you too.
He turns his head slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet across the crowded room. And in that moment, it’s as if time stops.
Jake doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t smile.
But his gaze is steady, dark, pulling you in like gravity itself.
Daring you.
And just as you step forward, ready to push through the crowd—
The lights flicker.
For half a second, the room is cast in darkness.
And then—
The alarms blare.
Your earpiece erupts with chaos.
“Security breach—third floor, west wing! Unauthorized access to the vault!”
He’s already moving.
Jake turns on his heel, slipping through a side exit before you can even blink.
You chase after him.
15/01/2025 11:50 PM – The Gallery’s Private Wing
The marble floors are cold beneath your heels as you sprint through the hallway, gun drawn, heart hammering in your chest.
Somewhere ahead, Jake moves with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.
You should call for backup. You know that.
But this is personal.
You round the corner, just in time to see him disappear into the vault room.
This time, you don’t hesitate.
You shove the door open, gun raised—
And Jake is standing there, waiting for you.
Not running. Not moving.
Just waiting.
The vault is already cracked open behind him, the security systems completely dismantled. But he’s not grabbing anything. Not moving toward the stolen art.
He’s just watching you, lips curling into the faintest hint of a smirk.
“You’re getting faster, detective,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Almost had me.”
Your hands tighten around the gun. “Hands where I can see them.”
Jake doesn’t comply.
Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step toward you, his eyes locked on yours.
“I don’t think you’ll shoot me,” he says, voice too soft, too knowing.
Your finger twitches on the trigger. “Try me.”
He takes another step.
Too close now.
You should shoot. You should.
But his eyes hold you still.
And then, just as he’s a breath away—
He leans in.
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
And before you can even react—
The window behind him shatters.
A smoke grenade explodes at your feet, filling the room with thick, choking gray.
You cough, stumbling back, but by the time you push forward—
He’s already gone.
16/01/2025 12:15 AM – The Aftermath
The gallery is chaos.
Security is swarming the scene, officers questioning stunned guests, the once-elegant evening now reduced to frantic whispers and flashing red lights.
You stand near the vault entrance, hands on your hips, trying to catch your breath.
Jake was right there.
You had him.
And you let him go.
Sunghoon stalks up beside you, his expression dark.
“What the hell happened?” His voice is sharp, accusing.
You exhale, jaw tightening. “He was here. I had him.”
Sunghoon’s eyes narrow. “And?”
You hesitate. Just for a second.
And that’s all it takes.
His gaze sharpens, something unreadable flashing across his face.
Like he knows.
Like he knows everything.
And when he speaks again, his voice is lower, almost careful.
“We need to talk.”
16/01/2025 12:30 AM – The Private Office
The walls feel like they’re closing in.
The overhead light flickers faintly, casting jagged shadows along the edges of the small security office. The space is suffocating, the air too still, too thick with something unspoken.
Your pulse is still hammering in your ears, an uneven rhythm that refuses to settle. Your grip tightens around the edges of the desk as you force yourself to breathe, in—out, in—out, but it doesn’t help.
Because Jake was there.
Because you had him.
And because you let him slip away.
The weight of it crashes over you like a wave, cold and unrelenting. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until you see the way your fingers tremble against the smooth wood of the desk.
Behind you, Sunghoon stands too still. His posture is relaxed—too relaxed. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his face is carefully unreadable.
But his silence is a warning.
And that’s what finally makes you turn to face him.
"You said we needed to talk," you say, voice strained, barely steady.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightens. He watches you for a moment, like he’s debating something, like he’s about to tell you something you won’t like.
Then he sighs.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “We do.”
Something in his tone makes the hairs on your arms rise.
Your instincts scream at you to prepare for impact.
You fold your arms, trying to keep yourself together. "Then talk."
Sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.
"I know you think you almost had him tonight," he starts, voice measured, careful. "But you need to see the bigger picture here."
Your fingers dig into your arms. "The bigger picture?" Your voice is sharp, barely concealing the frustration bubbling beneath your skin. "I saw him with my own eyes, Sunghoon. I had him in my sights. I know what I saw."
His gaze flickers. Just for a second.
And then, he shifts.
His stance changes—less defensive, more calculating.
"You saw what he wanted you to see," he says finally. "Jake has always been one step ahead. That was never going to change tonight."
Something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn.
But before you can respond, he keeps going.
"And that’s the problem," he mutters. "He always knows when we’re coming. Always." His eyes darken. "You don’t think that’s strange?"
Sunghoon shakes his head, stepping closer, lowering his voice.
"No, it’s more than that," he says. "It’s not just that he’s good—it’s that he knows things he shouldn’t."
Your chest tightens.
"What are you saying?"
Sunghoon holds your gaze, steady and unwavering.
"I’m saying there’s a mole."
A sharp chill skates down your spine.
You swallow, mind racing. No. No, that doesn’t make sense.
"We already thought that," you argue. "We looked into it."
"We looked in the wrong places," Sunghoon counters. "We thought it had to be someone feeding him details from the top. Someone high up. But what if it’s not?"
Your blood runs cold.
"What if it’s someone closer?"
The room feels too small.
Your breath catches.
Sunghoon doesn’t blink.
"What if it’s Jungwon?"
Your head snaps up.
"What?" The word barely leaves your lips.
Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. "Think about it. Every single time we’ve made a move, Specter has always been a step ahead. He doesn’t just know our missions—he knows our weaknesses. Our blind spots. He knows you."
A lump forms in your throat.
"He would know that anyway," you say, forcing yourself to stay rational. "We’ve been after him for years."
Sunghoon shakes his head. "Not like this. This is different. This is intimate."
The word sends a violent shudder through you.
Because you know he’s talking about Jake. About the way he looks at you. About the way you almost caught him tonight, only to hesitate when he got too close.
But that’s not why you lost him.
You know that.
Sunghoon watches you carefully. "We need to think logically here. Who’s the one person who’s had access to every failed lead? Who’s been working alongside us, tracking our moves? Who’s had time to slip Specter information without ever getting caught?"
Your breath comes faster, uneven. Because you know who he’s leading you to.
"Jungwon," he says.
The name feels like a gunshot.
And your first instinct is to reject it.
"No," you whisper, shaking your head. "Jungwon wouldn’t—he’s not like that. He’s—he’s one of us."
Sunghoon tilts his head. "Is he?"
The question lodges itself into your chest.
Jungwon, who has stood beside you for years. Jungwon, who has had your back through every chase, every failure.Jungwon, who believed in you when no one else did.
The doubt creeps in like poison. Because what if Sunghoon is right? What if all this time, the real mole was the person standing closest to you? You press a hand to your forehead, head spinning.
"Just think about it," Sunghoon murmurs. "We can’t afford to ignore the possibility."
You squeeze your eyes shut. Your chest is tight, your mind is unraveling. Nothing makes sense anymore.
Nothing feels real.
16/01/2025 1:10 AM – The Rooftop, Somewhere in the City
The wind is vicious this high up, howling between the buildings, biting against your skin as if trying to cut through the rage boiling underneath. You barely feel the cold.
You’re still burning—anger, betrayal, exhaustion all coiling together inside you, twisting and tightening until you feel like you might explode.
The city stretches out beneath you, a glittering sprawl of everything you thought you knew. The streets below are alive, moving, breathing—but you feel separate from it all.
Like you’re somewhere else entirely.
Like you’re on the edge of a different world.
And then—
A quiet sound behind you.
The scrape of a boot against the rooftop floor.
Your muscles go rigid, fingers twitching toward your gun, but you don’t turn around immediately. You don’t need to.
Because you already know who it is.
Jake.
His presence is unmistakable, a force that seems to push against the air itself, something you can feel even without seeing him.
And God, it suffocates you.
You force yourself to breathe, even as your pulse pounds against your ribs, even as your thoughts spiral and spin, crashing over each other in a mess of fury and confusion.
"Took you long enough," you say, voice sharp, cutting through the space between you.
There’s a pause—just long enough for you to picture his expression, the slow tilt of his head, the way his eyes will be watching, waiting.
Then—
"You were expecting me?"
His voice is smooth, controlled, but there’s something beneath it—something frayed, something tense.
You finally turn to face him.
And the sight of him makes something in your chest twist painfully.
Jake is standing near the rooftop entrance, dressed in black, suit unbuttoned, tie loosened, the faintest hint of sweat at his collarbone. Like he’s been running.
Like he’s been chasing something, too.
And maybe—maybe that’s you.
Your fingers tighten at your sides, your nails digging into your palm.
"I knew you’d come," you say, voice lower now. More dangerous.
Jake exhales slowly. "And yet, you’re still here."
You don’t answer immediately.
Because you don’t have one.
Because you don’t know why you’re still standing here, waiting for him.
"You ran," you say instead, accusing. "Again. Like you always do."
Jake flinches. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I had to." His voice is steady, but there’s a rough edge to it, something raw scraping against the surface. "You weren’t ready for the truth."
You take a slow step forward, barely aware of the way your body is coiled tight, like a wire ready to snap.
"And what truth is that, Jake?"
His jaw tightens.
"You know," he says, gaze never leaving yours. "You’ve always known."
Your breath catches.
And that’s when you lose it.
"Don’t do that," you snap, stepping closer, your voice trembling with something dangerous. "Don’t stand there and act like this was inevitable. Like you didn’t have a fucking choice."
Jake’s eyes darken.
"You think I had a choice?" His voice is lower now, sharper, strained.
You scoff, the sound bitter, painful. "Of course you did."
Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You still don’t get it, do you?"
Your hands clench into fists. "Then make me get it, Jake."
He steps closer, too close, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you can see the storm raging in his eyes.
"You want the truth?" he murmurs, voice low and rough. "The truth is, I never wanted to lie to you."
You laugh, sharp and broken.
"Then why did you?"
Jake’s breath shudders.
"Because if I didn’t, I would’ve had to watch you destroy yourself chasing something that was never going to be real."
The words hit like a bullet.
You inhale sharply, vision blurring at the edges.
"You let me," you whisper. "You let me chase you. You let me believe—"
Your voice catches, cracks, and suddenly it’s too much.
Your body moves before you can stop it, hands slamming against his chest, shoving him back.
Jake doesn’t resist.
But he doesn’t step away either.
"You let me think I was winning," you continue, breath shaking. "You let me think I was getting closer. And the whole time, it was just a game to you."
Jake clenches his jaw.
"It was never a game."
You shake your head. "Then what the hell was it?"
He exhales sharply.
"A mistake," he says, soft and broken.
Jake swallows hard, gaze locked onto yours. "Because the second I met you, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop."
His jaw tightens, his fingers twitch at his sides. "You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to let them take you down for something you never did. Come with me."
Your stomach drops.
Jake sees the hesitation flicker across your face.
"Please," he murmurs. "You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to trust me. But you can’t stay here."
And for a second—
Just one second—
You almost consider it.
And then—
The door to the rooftop slams open.
Jungwon’s voice is breathless, shaking.
"You need to see this."
Your head snaps up, your entire body going rigid. And when Jungwon steps forward, he tosses a thick folder onto the floor between you and Jake.
It lands with a heavy thud. And across the top, a single name.
PARK SUNGHOON.
Your heart stops. Jungwon’s breathing is ragged, his gaze flickering between the two of you.
"You were chasing the wrong person," he says, voice strained.
You swallow hard, but your throat is dry, tight, too tight.
Your fingers shake as you slowly, carefully crouch down, flipping open the folder.
And then—
The world collapses.
Jake is silent as you stare at the pages in front of you.
You don’t hear anything.
Not the city. Not the wind.
Not even the sound of your own heart breaking.
Sunghoon was the mole.
Sunghoon was the reason you lost every chase.
Sunghoon was the reason Jake always escaped.
It wasn’t Jungwon.
It was never Jungwon.
It was the person you trusted most.
And when you finally look up, your voice is barely a whisper.
"Where is he?"
Jake exhales slowly.
And then—
"Gone."
16/01/2025 1:35 AM
The wind cut through the rooftop like a blade, sharp and unforgiving against your skin. It howled between the buildings, drowning out the city noise below, but it wasn’t loud enough to silence the thoughts screaming inside your head.
The folder was still open in your hands, but the words blurred, letters bleeding into one another. The truth was too heavy to just exist on paper. It weighed on your chest, pressed against your ribs, and squeezed the breath from your lungs.
You tried to blink, tried to make sense of the files, the documents, the photos that confirmed everything you didn’t want to believe. But no matter how hard you stared, the reality didn’t change.
Sunghoon was the mole.
Sunghoon was the reason you had lost every chase, the reason every lead had gone cold, the reason Specter—Jake—had always slipped away at the last second.
Your partner. Your best friend.
Your traitor.
The air felt thinner, like you weren’t breathing right, like the world had tilted sideways. Somewhere behind you, Jungwon was speaking, voice quiet but firm, his words measured as he pointed to different reports in the file. He was piecing it together out loud, trying to form something logical, something tangible, but you couldn’t process any of it.
Because standing across from you, watching you with an unreadable expression, was Jake.
Jake, who had known the truth all along.
Jake, who hadn’t said a single goddamn word.
Your grip tightened around the folder until the edges of the paper crumpled beneath your fingers.
"You knew," you finally said, and though your voice wasn’t raised, it cut through the space between you like a gunshot.
Jake didn’t flinch. His posture remained loose, relaxed in that way that always made you want to hit him, but there was something else there—something almost too still, too controlled, like he was bracing for impact.
"Yeah," he said, voice even.
And that was it.
That was all it took for something inside you to snap.
"You knew." This time, your voice rose, the words scraping against your throat as you threw the folder down onto the rooftop floor, sending pages scattering between you. "You knew this whole time, and you let me—you let me chase you like a fucking idiot while my own best friend was working for you?"
Jake exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking off the weight of your anger. "It wasn’t that simple."
"Wasn’t that simple?" Your laugh came out harsh, sharp, like shattered glass. "You let me turn on the wrong people! You let me think Jungwon—Jesus Christ, Jake, I almost had him arrested!"
Jake’s jaw clenched. "I didn’t let you do anything."
"Like hell you didn’t!" You stepped closer, shoving him hard against the chest. He barely moved, but it wasn’t about that. It was about hurting him the way he had hurt you, about making him feel even a fraction of the betrayal clawing at your insides.
Jake took it.
He didn’t step away, didn’t try to stop you. He just looked at you, eyes dark, unreadable, waiting for you to finish breaking yourself against him.
"You let me think I was getting closer," you whispered, voice shaking. "You let me think I was catching up to you, that I had a chance—"
Your breath caught, and suddenly, you hated yourself.
Hated that you had ever believed in the chase, hated that you had ever let yourself fall for him.
"You played me," you said, quieter now. "You played me the whole time."
Jake shook his head, voice rough. "I never wanted to play you."
"Then what the hell was it?"
He hesitated, just for a second. And then—
"A mistake," he murmured, something raw in his voice. "Because the second I met you, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop."
Your pulse stuttered.
"I should’ve stayed away," Jake continued, jaw tight, voice lower now, rougher. "I should’ve let you be. But I didn’t. And that’s on me."
"Sunghoon and I grew up together," Jake continues, almost like he’s talking about someone else. "We were kids. We didn’t have a choice but to run. He made it into the system first, cleaned up his past, made himself useful. I followed later, but by then, we’d already figured it out—how to survive."
Your voice is barely a whisper. “You lied about everything.”
Jake’s expression doesn’t change. But for the first time, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—regret.
“Not everything,” he says.
And that’s what breaks you the most.
Because even now, even after this, there’s a part of you that wants to believe him.
He took a step forward.
You stepped back.
"I lied about a lot of things," he admitted. "But not about you."
The wind between you howled.
You wanted to believe him. That was the worst part.
You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
But then he said something that made your stomach drop.
"You need to leave."
Your head snapped up. "What?"
Jake exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "They’re turning against you next. You’re the easiest target now. Sunghoon’s gone, and the force needs someone to blame."
Jungwon, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "What are you talking about?"
Jake looked at him then, like he was deciding whether to explain, whether it was even worth it. And then—
"Heeseung," Jake said simply. "He’s running everything. The entire system is built around him."
Jake laughed, but there was nothing amused about it. "You still think the force is clean?" He shook his head. "He’s been pulling the strings since day one. Every case you thought you were leading, every step you thought you were taking forward—he let you."
You swallowed hard. "And you know this how?"
Jake gave you a pointed look. "Because I made sure I did."
Your pulse roared in your ears.
"You think you’re going to be safe after this?" Jake asked, stepping closer. "They’re going to frame you for everything, Baby. You’ve been working this case for too long, and now that it’s unraveling, they need a loose end to tie up. That’s you."
Your breath came faster, uneven, frantic.
No. No, that couldn’t be true.
But it made sense.
The second Sunghoon disappeared, they needed someone else. Someone already involved, someone already in too deep.
You.
Jake turned to Jungwon then, voice sharp. "Both of you need to run."
Jungwon’s brows furrowed. "I can’t just—"
"You can," Jake snapped. "And you will."
You couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end.
Jake looked at you, gaze steady. "I don’t care if you never forgive me," he murmured. "But I can’t let you die for this."
You hated him.
You hated that you were considering it.
"You can run with me," Jake said. "Or you can run without me." His voice softened. "But you have to run."
The rooftop felt like it was tilting beneath your feet.
Jungwon was still frozen beside you, his mind trying to process what this meant for him, for the force, for everything.
And you?
You had to decide.
The wind had died down, leaving only a heavy silence between the three of you. The world outside this rooftop continued on, cars moving through the streets below, lights flickering in windows of high-rise buildings, people going about their lives as if nothing had changed.
But up here?
Everything had.
Jake stood in front of you, shoulders tense, gaze steady despite the storm raging behind his eyes. Jungwon had gone still beside you, fingers flexing at his sides as he processed the weight of what had just been laid out.
And you?
You weren’t sure you were breathing anymore.
Because everything Jake had said made too much sense.
The force wasn’t looking for justice. The moment Sunghoon had vanished, they had needed someone else to take the fall, someone already deep enough in the case that it wouldn’t seem suspicious.
They needed a scapegoat.
They needed you.
Your hands were cold. You curled them into fists to stop them from shaking, but the feeling settled deep, twisting in your stomach like a sickness you couldn’t shake.
Jungwon cleared his throat, voice hoarse. "If Heeseung really is behind this, if he’s the one controlling everything—" He swallowed, shaking his head. "We can’t just run. We have to—"
Jake cut him off, voice sharp. "No."
Jungwon blinked.
"You don’t get it, do you?" Jake exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair. "You think you can fight this. You think you can take this system down from the inside. But you won’t. You’ll be dead before you even get close."
Jungwon’s jaw clenched, but he stayed silent.
You turned to Jake, voice low. "And what do you suggest?"
Jake’s eyes softened just slightly, but there was something else there, too.
Something like pleading.
"You know what I’m suggesting," he murmured.
The weight of his words settled between you.
You knew.
There was no fight left to win.
No justice left to seek.
The only thing left was to leave.
Jake took a slow step forward, gaze never wavering. "I told you before, I don’t care if you hate me. But I’m not letting you die for something you had no control over."
You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the finality of this moment press down on you.
He was asking you to choose.
Not just between running and staying.
But between your past and your future.
Between what you had believed in and what you were finally starting to see as the truth.
Jake extended his hand.
Five Years Later – Somewhere in Italy
The afternoon sun stretched lazily across the rolling hills, casting golden hues over the vineyards and stone-paved roads. The world here moved slower, untouched by the chaos of the life you had left behind. From the balcony of your home, the scent of citrus and sea salt drifted through the warm breeze, carrying the quiet hum of the nearby town.
This place had become your sanctuary. A world away from everything you once knew.
The house was small, nothing extravagant—two stories, white stucco walls, terracotta roof tiles that had been worn down by the Mediterranean sun. The shutters were always left open, allowing the crisp air to weave its way inside, and in the early mornings, the golden light would pour through the bedroom window, painting the sheets in soft amber.
Standing at the edge of the balcony, you ran your fingers along the cool stone railing, gaze fixed on the horizon where the ocean stretched endlessly. It had been years, but sometimes, it still felt like a dream. That at any moment, you would wake up back in that city, back in the cold alleys and smoky rooftops, back in the endless chase that had consumed you for so long.
But then you would hear him—the steady sound of footsteps behind you, the quiet exhale as he stepped closer. And just like that, the past no longer mattered.
Jake leaned against the balcony beside you, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing against your arm. He had yet to fully wake up, the faint creases from sleep still lingering in his skin, his dark hair tousled in a way that was almost careless. There was no urgency in his movements anymore, no tension coiled beneath the surface, no need to always be one step ahead. He was different now.
Or maybe, he was simply allowed to be.
"You’re up early," he murmured, voice still rough from sleep, as he cast a glance toward you.
You inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly before answering. "Couldn’t sleep."
Jake tilted his head slightly, studying your expression. He didn’t ask why, didn’t press for an answer. He already knew. There were nights when the past still found you, lingering in the spaces between dreams, seeping into the quiet moments where memories felt sharper. It wasn’t regret that kept you awake—it was the echoes of what once was.
"Thinking about the past again?" he asked, though his tone was gentle, not accusatory.
You glanced at him before turning back to the view. "Not as much as I used to."
It was the truth.
The past no longer had its claws in you. It existed, like an old scar—faint, but still there, a reminder of everything that had led you here. There was a time when you thought you would never escape it, when you thought you were trapped in an endless cycle of chasing and being chased.
But now?
Now you had chosen a different life.
Jake followed your gaze, eyes drifting over the vineyards below. "It's different, isn't it?" he said, voice quieter this time. "Not having to run."
You turned your head slightly, taking him in. There was something almost strange about seeing him like this—completely at ease. His shoulders no longer carried the weight of expectation, of deception, of a world built on calculated risks. The sharp edges were still there, but they had softened, replaced by something steadier. Something real.
"Do you miss it?" you asked, watching him carefully.
Jake was silent for a moment, considering your words. Then, he shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No," he admitted. "I really don’t."
Neither did you.
The sound of laughter echoed from inside the house, faint but familiar. Jungwon’s voice carried through the open window, followed by Jongseong’s exasperated groan—probably another one of their endless debates over who made the best coffee. It was mundane, simple, ordinary. But after years of living on the edge of survival, it was everything.
Jake turned toward you then, leaning slightly closer. "Do you ever wonder?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Wonder what?"
"If things had gone differently. If we had stayed." His gaze was steady, but there was something thoughtful in the way he studied you, like he was searching for an answer before you even gave it. "Do you think we would have made it out alive?"
You exhaled slowly, thinking back to that night on the rooftop, to the weight of your choice, to the moment you finally let go of the life you had sworn to uphold. The truth was, you didn’t know. Maybe you would have survived. Maybe you wouldn’t have. But either way, it wouldn’t have been this.
And that was what mattered.
"No," you said finally, turning to meet his gaze. "I don’t think we would have."
Jake held your stare for a long moment before nodding, as if he had expected that answer.
Then, he reached for your hand, fingers brushing over yours before lacing them together. His thumb traced absent circles against your skin, grounding, familiar.
"Do you regret it?" he asked, voice softer now.
You didn’t hesitate.
"Not even for a second."
Jake’s lips curved into a smile, warm and real, the kind that had nothing to do with deception or carefully crafted personas. It was the kind of smile you had only seen in stolen moments, in whispered confessions between tangled sheets, in the quiet spaces of a life not meant to last.
But here?
Here, it was forever.
Jake lifted your joined hands, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before murmuring against your skin, "Me neither."
The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, casting golden streaks across the fields below. The wind carried the scent of sun-warmed fruit through the air, blending with the quiet hum of the town in the distance.
You looked back at the house—the place you had built from nothing, the place that had no ghosts, no past chasing after you. It wasn’t just a hiding place.
It was home.
And finally—after years of running, of chasing something you could never quite catch—you were free.
PAIRING: Mafia!Chan x f. reader
SUMMARY: Nothing in your life ever comes easy. Not family, not money, and certainly not jobs to pay the endless stack of bills. The only thing easy is the smiles you give Chan when he comes into your convenience store at the same time every Saturday to buy his cherry sours. And then one day you run into him where you're not supposed to, and everything changes.
WC: 27,990
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Strangers to Lovers
GENRE: Romance, hint of angst, smut
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Due to the nature of this fic, warnings are under the cut. This is far tamer than either of this fic's predecessors.
A/N: This fic, though a part of a greater "collection" of fics, can be read as a standalone. I do highly recommend reading Baby and Angel, though. They provide much more color to the characters you meet in this. Welcome back Angel, Baby and Soonyoung! This fic also introduces Jeonghan :)
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta reading this absolute monster and being my biggest cheerleader.
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FULL WARNINGS: General violence associated with criminal behavior, depictions of murder, fight sequences, mentions of drug use/references to drugs, mentions of death, mentions of Syndicate War and its toll on the city, threats of physical violence, depiction of guns and knives, explicit language, some depictions of classism/reader struggling to make it by, Jeonghan is in his evil era, pls forgive him, some angst regarding reader's perception of the world/how she feels about her life, morally grey characters (but they're fun lmao), reader agrees to sort of be paid company for the night - nothing sexual happens but I don't shy away from the implication of escorting, Chan gets a bit possessive, a bit of a miscom trope, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, light cum eating, use of 'good girl' a few times. I think this mostly covers the big things, please let me know if I missed anything.
SWEAT DRIPS DOWN KANG LI YANG'S FOREHEAD. Chan watches it sharply, tracking the bead as it travels from Kang’s salt-and-pepper hairline to his thick brow. Chan has to give it to the older man - he doesn’t reach to wipe the sweat. Instead, he tries to seem unaffected and relaxed, leaning back in his chair to view the cards in his hand.
Chan already knows what the cards are. Even if he wasn’t one of the top gamblers in the room, Kang is a terrible gambler - funny, considering he owns the ornate casino they’re sitting in. It’s just the two of them at the table with a single dealer, a woman dressed in a tight-fitted, all black suit. There are tiny LED lights stitched into the fabric, glittering subtle to make it look like she’s swimming in the cosmos.
The high rollers room is quiet, the heavy privacy curtains blocking out the noise from the main gambling floors. Only a few tables are open with dealers similarly dressed as the woman in front of him passing out cards. It gives the illusion that they’re surrounded by people who will mind their business, who will afford them privacy.
It’s supposed to put Chan at ease. It doesn’t.
He might be at ease if Kang weren’t sweating through his custom suit. He might be at ease if he didn’t recognize that the people at the tables around them were Patrons of the Yong Syndicate. He might be at ease if Kang’s fingers weren’t trembling as he moved his cards around to his preferred order, trying everything in his power to do anything but look around the room for what Chan knows is an ambush.
He’d have figured it out even if Jeonghan hadn’t given him a warning. The right hand man of Choi Seungcheol is full of secrets, and though Chan has no idea why he has so much knowledge of the Yong family, he’s thankful for Jeonghan nonetheless.
Chan sighs. Kang notices, steel grey eyes flickering up to Chan. “Worried you’ll lose another hand, Lee?”
Chan does not lose games of poker - not even a single hand. He lets people win, sure, but he does not lose unless it is a part of his game to win. Because that is what Chan is good at - winning. It’s why he’s one of the most trusted members of the Choi Syndicate, a powerful Chariot whose single job is to broker and secure alliances and business to keep the money and loyalty flowing into Choi Seungcheol’s pockets.
“Do you know why The Syndicates started calling brokers Chariots?” Chan asks. He flicks his finger upward and pushes glittering chips toward the middle to raise the bet. Kang shakes his head at Chan’s question and matches his bet. “In the old days, one of the cards in a tarot deck was the Chariot.”
The dealer burns the cards on the table and deals out anew. Kang looks at his hand, a ringed finger tapping against the back of his cards. His sweat increases on his brow and his eye twitches in the corner as he risks a glance to Chan’s left.
“I didn’t know that,” Kang says eventually.
“The Chariot,” Chan explains as Kang places a bet, “is a card that represents triumph through determination and overcoming obstacles. It’s what I do for a living - I overcome obstacles and move the Choi Syndicate in a positive, forward direction.”
“I see.”
“I believe that you think you do.”
Kang glances up as Chan slides chips onto the table. “Being a Chariot is more than being charming or letting the owner of a high-performing casino beat me at hands to earn his trust and make him feel confident.” This makes Kang frown, his shoulders tensing. “It means knowing when someone is bullshiting me, and you, Kang Le Yang, are bullshitting me.”
“Excuse-”
“Three weeks ago you were more than eager to set up this meeting.” Chan presses on as the dealer moves the cards again, impervious to the crackling tension at the table. Kang is rippling with tension now, clutching his cards harder. “You’ve been wanting to lick the boot of one of the Syndicates since you opened this place.”
“Listen here, you-”
“The Tower of the Choi Syndicate was amenable to bringing on the Kang Family as a Patron serving under the banner of the mountain, so I agreed to meet with you, Kang Le Yang.” The dealer asks the men to reveal their hands, but Kang is staring at Chan, fury reddening his cheeks. “Imagine my surprise to find you less eager, and inviting me to your table with several men loyal to the Yong family in the room.”
Kang Le Yang’s face drains of color. He drops a hand from his cards to signal someone, but Chan tuts, stopping him. Chan reveals his cards - a straight flush. He doesn’t need Kang to drop his hand to know he only has a straight.
“You’ve been delaying talking about business for the last hour,” Chan observes, leaning back in his seat and leveling the older man with a heavy stare. “You’re sweating through your clothes despite the anti-perspirant modification your wife had you do three years ago, and you keep looking over my shoulder to the left, which leads me to believe you’re waiting for someone.”
“Get out of my establishment.”
Chan cocks his head. “Why? I haven’t cashed out my poker chips yet. Anyway, it looks like your wife isn’t done with playing her game yet.”
Kang spins around in his chair. He’d sat himself with his back to the entrance of the high rollers room like any good guest establishing trust would. He had given Chan a seat with a good vantage point to set the tone for confidence and to feel like he was safe.
Which meant Kang Le Yang had not watched his wife, Kang Daiyu, walk into the room and sit at a table of her own. She’s flanked by two of the personal guards belonging to the Kang family, but the player next to his wife gives Kang a glittering smile with all teeth when he looks at them.
When Kang turns to look at Chan, he is shaking and pale. “Get that demon away from my wife.”
“Her name is Angel, actually. The bible is confusing, I know.” Chan leans forward and pulls his winnings toward him. Kang doesn’t move, vibrating in his seat.
Most members of the Syndicate know the woman sitting next to Kang’s wife. Kang himself might not know her, not embroiled enough in Syndicate politics to recognize one of the Rooks of the Choi Syndicate, but he does. Which confirms Jeonghan’s contact was right - Kang Le Yang had been prepped and educated about the Choi family in a way that screams collusion with another Syndicate.
Lucky for Chan, Angel’s presence keeps Kang in his seat for the time being. Seeing one of the renowned killers of the Choi Family next to his wife is enough insurance that Chan has a few moments to spare before leaving - it was why he had Angel tag along in the first place.
“I’m going to take these poker chips, walk over to the teller and get my cash, and then I’m going to walk out of here and go home. Probably going to stop to find someone to take with me on the way because I need a good fuck after this bullshit.”
Chan points at Kang, the ring on his finger catching the light. It's a gaudy thing, all hammered gold and lapis lazuli with a chariot etching on the front. “And you are going to sit here and not do a fucking thing about it. And you’re not going to signal any of those Yong fuckers to touch me, or Angel is going to carve your wife open and play doctor with her insides.”
“You insolent-”
“Angel loves knives,” Chan interrupts. He looks at Kang seriously. Lets the casino owner see the weight of his words. “Her favorite is a pretty butterfly knife Yoon Jeonghan gave her, and that Yoon Minji taught her how to use. If that isn’t convincing, I urge you to call whoever you were waiting for to see who answers - the Yong contact you set me up with, or the Sentinel of the Choi Syndicate.”
Angel’s main purpose was to turn Kang Daiyu inside out if needed, but she was also an additional set of eyes and ears for Chan. She’d signaled Chan with a single flick of her hair fifteen minutes ago confirming that Soonyoung had removed whoever Kang was waiting for to come through the back door.
Everything about Chan’s demeanor seems unaffected, but he’s raging inside, heart pounding. He and Angel are the only two people from the Choi Syndicate in the room and they’re outnumbered five to one. Soonyoung is somewhere lurking outside the high-rollers room doing whatever it is the hired guns of the Syndicate do.
It’s not Chan’s best gamble, but he is making one right now. He is betting that Angel and Soonyoung’s reputation will be enough to terrify the casino owner into submission. Chan can be scary in his own way - he’s lethal too. But this is where he thrives, leveraging the names of two well known butchers that answer the call of Choi Seungcheol, ready to spill blood.
Kang might get to kill the three of them tonight, but not without irreparable damage. Damage he’s going to take anyway for letting them go, but not irreparable. He can survive a petty skirmish with the Yong family. He cannot survive a fight with two of the Choi Syndicates most lethal members and the long term fallout with Seungcheol.
The gamble pays off. Kang sags in his seat, the exhaustion transforming him. His apprehension turns to defeat and he nods, forehead in hand as he dismisses Chan. Chan gives him a charming smile, standing up and collecting his poker chips as he goes.
Despite his confidence that Kang won’t do anything stupid, Chan doesn’t let his guard down. He walks with even steps, fingers ready to reach for his weapon as he goes. The Patrons under the Yong’s dragon banner watch him go, confused.
None of them raise a hand to him. He gets the sense that they want to, but they haven’t been given the signal. They’re low enough on the totem pole in terms of Syndicate rank to do nothing, watching as Chan stops by the table Angel is playing poker at.
He bends down to kiss Kang Daiyu on the top of her hand politely, flashing her a smile. She flushes and fans herself as he says, “You never fail to look less than ephemeral, Lady Kang.”
It’s not untrue. Kang Daiyu has all the cosmetic enhancements money can afford, putting her appearance at somewhere around her late thirties while her physical age is somewhere in her early sixties. He still finds it uncanny, but he ignores the nervous flip in his stomach the proximity of her brings when he catches a whiff of altered pheromones, made to attract.
Daiyu smiles, her red lips sparkling. “Lee Chan, you tease.”
Angel makes a face behind her as she stands. In rare form, Angel is wearing a dress. She looks nice, which is disorienting and deceiving. Chan is used to seeing her wearing nothing but black tactical clothes or nondescript black pants and long sleeves. He’d made the mistake of asking her why she always wore black once. Because it shows blood the least had been her chipper response.
Chan winks at Kang’s wife because he can. “Until we meet again.”
She pouts. “You’re leaving so soon?” Her eyes dart to Angel and a flash of rage goes through them. “Ah, it’s always the youngest of the flock.”
Chan laughs. “I assure you, Lady Kang, nothing in the world could lure me into this one’s bed. I think I would find too many teeth and a very angry, very prickly boyfriend.”
If Angel is offended by implying she has too many teeth or that Chan thinks Vernon is prickly, she doesn’t say so. She is placid calm, watching him with even eyes as Kang Daiyu wishes him farewell and he sweeps by. She falls into step with him, saying nothing as her gaze sweeps from right to left, on high alert.
When they exit the high roller room, Chan is hit with a barrage of noise and visuals. The casino is space-dark and filled with intricate holographics casting blue and purple light around the shine and clamour of the slot machines. Above the casino floor, the ceiling seems not to exist. Instead, a whorl of stars and galaxies float above, giving the illusion that they’re looking straight up into the night sky somewhere undiscovered.
Soonyoung pushes off a slot machine, tucking his phone in his pocket. He’s dressed in all black as usual, and his silver hair is styled back and tucked behind his ears - longer than usual, like his girlfriend likes it. He falls into step easily with Chan and Angel, hands in his pocket, dark eyes like stormy seas sweeping the room.
Together, they head toward the teller. Soonyoung makes a noise in the back of his throat when he sees Chan diverting toward the glittering booth, a woman dressed in a space suit behind the counter.
“I’m collecting my chips,” Chan says seriously. “I won fifty thousand credits off that stupid fuck.”
“I’ll give you fifty thousand credits to skip it and get out of here. There are only three of us.”
Chan rolls his eyes, walking backward toward the counter. “It’s a gamble, but it’s not a bad one. Wait here.”
Soongyoung does not, in fact, wait where Chan tells him to. He follows in Chan’s footsteps up to the window, a dangerous shadow that makes Chan sigh. He knows it’s Soonyoung’s job to keep the Syndicate - and Chan by extension - safe. Soonyoung has only been the Sentinel of the Choi family for a few months, inheriting the position of militia leader when Seungcheol stepped in to lead the family business after his father’s passing.
Life has not been easy for any of them lately, least of all Soonyoung. Chan glances at his friend sidelong while the teller counts his chips. Soonyoung looks tired, circles under his eyes and a little watery at the edges. But he’s nothing like the mess he was last year, nothing like the shadow of himself he’d been before his girlfriend had made it back to him.
It makes Chan’s mouth twitch in a smile. He looks down at the counter, waiting for the teller. Seungcheol’s sister coming home and escaping the clutches of the Kim family had been the miracle that they all needed - and the start of the war that’s kept Chan busier than ever.
Syndicate war isn’t common. It always devastates the city’s infrastructure, makes the general population panic, and has been known to wipe out entire family lines. That thought alone makes Chan glance over his shoulder at Angel. She’s standing in the middle of the casino, her gaze everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She looks like that a lot these days. Lost and found. Swimming and sinking. Here and there. Burning and fading.
She’s the last of her family in more ways than one. She has no living relatives left that Chan is aware of, and though she’s not a Yoon by blood, she’s one of them by marriage and by Yoon Minji’s careful design. She’s one of two Yoon family members left in the city, the Wisdom of the Choi family and Seungcheol’s right hand man the other.
The teller hands Chan his money and asks if he needs an escort. Soonyoung snorts and pushes off the wall, sticking a stim pop in his mouth as he goes. “I’ve got it,” he assures them, narrowed eyes. “Have a nice night.”
Chan’s lips twitch again. He wishes the woman behind the counter a goodnight as well and follows Soonyoung, who charges toward the door. Angel is by his side in seconds, snapping from seemingly inattentive to alert.
As they walk ahead of him, Chan relaxes just a little. He feels safer when they’re around, though he can take care of himself well enough. His mother had been a Sword for the Choi family, a hired gun and excellent fighter both with her hands and with a knife. She’d taught him how to defend himself from a young age, giving him the tools to be scrappier than most of the other Chariots in the Choi Syndicate.
As a Chariot, it’s Chan’s responsibility to put himself in dangerous situations. He’s one of the few who has the audacity to go after deals and partnerships that put him deep in enemy territory - or walk through the doors like he did tonight to see if he can salvage a potential partnership anyway.
It’s what makes him so successful. He’s willing to do whatever needs to be done to help the family - and if he likes the feeling of winning impossible wagers, well that’s his own business.
Outside, the hiss of rain is hot on the pavement. Summer is bringing more and more rain to the city - not that it’s ever not raining - turning the world into a slick blur of watercolor. They’re in the Upper District of Hyperion, which means the storm drains actual work and the world doesn’t smell like piss and decay immediately when it rains. It doesn’t smell good, but it’s not as rotten as the gutters of the Lower District.
A car pulls up in front of the lobby doors. The driver steps out and pops up a black umbrella, looking like a black beetle as they make their way toward Chan and the others. Chan recognizes the man as one of the Choi drivers and relaxes, complying when he escorts the three of them to the car, holding the umbrella over their heads.
Inside, the interior is warm and smells like amber. Soonyoung shoves him to the side with a curse and Chan growls, moving to sit by the other window - until Angel opens the door and narrows her eyes at him. Which is how Chan, the youngest of his friends, ends up smashed in the middle between them.
He sighs and lets his head fall back against the headrest. “Can we go get fucked up?”
Soonyoung shakes his head and tells Chan his girlfriend is waiting for him at home. Chan eyes Soonyoung, whose focus is on his phone, the holographs floating above the screen showing news articles. He notes that Soonyoung doesn’t call Seungcheol’s sister Baby anymore, like the rest of them. Soonyoung says her name, rolling off his tongue soft, like it belongs to him.
Chan supposes it does.
He turns to ask Angel and she already shakes her head. “I’m meeting up with Hansol to go hunting.”
Chan doesn’t have to ask what Angel means by hunting. Ever since her stepmother’s murder the night the Kim Syndicate tried to take the Choi’s by surprise, Angel has been murdering members of the Kim family like clockwork.
Like Soonyoung, Angel says Vernon’s given name like it’s something precious. It makes Chan feel unsettled. He’s never had what either of them do with their partners, a missionary-like devotion to the people they love that borders on unstable.
The only thing Chan has ever been devoted to is his charm and his ability to talk people into a deal and into bed. He will be fucking damned if either of his friends who are in a relationship will rob him of that tonight, so he asks to be dropped a few blocks away from the casino at the corner of a strip of clubs under the Choi banner.
Soonyoung rolls down the window before the car rolls away. “Be careful,” the Sentinel warns. His dark eyes flash. “Remember our territory isn’t safe either.”
“God, you’re so serious these days.”
“Syndicate war is serious.”
“You sound like Baby.”
Soongyoung’s mouth twitches at the mention of his partner’s nickname. “Yeah, well she’s smarter than both of us.” Soonyoung looks at his watch. “Try to be no longer than an hour, Chan. You’re charming, I’m sure you can find some pussy in that time frame?”
“He’s also annoying,” Angel remarks from behind the window.
Soonyoung snaps his fingers and points to Angel, who Chan cannot see. “Right she is. Maybe make it two.”
“Thanks dad,” Chan growls. “I’ll come home when I want.” Soonyoung’s face darkens for a second, levelling Chan with a look that makes Chan happy. “But if you’re going to ruin your night worrying about me, I’ll make it two hours. Now leave.”
Soonyoung blows Chan a kiss and rolls up the dark window as the car’s tires hiss against the wet pavement.
Watching the car go, Chan has the brief feeling he should have gone with them. He is exhausted, pulling long, stressful shifts and spending longer and longer in clubs, casinos and anywhere that will accept his invitation to get more people across the finish line and united under Seungcheol’s family.
It’s not easy work. Times of unrest in the city don’t make people confident in doing business with the Syndicates until it looks like there’s going to be a winner. And right now, it’s hard to tell. The Choi family is doing a good job holding out against the pressures of the combined might of the Yong and Kim families, but two against one isn’t easy.
Stress knots in Chan’s shoulders. He rolls his neck, hissing when he feels the way the muscles coil. He’s fucking stressed. Everyone is. But the long nights weigh him down in a way that he’s not used to, and now he’s constantly walking across the edge of a knife.
Almost all of his meetings have been like the one with Kang. It’s not the first time someone has tried to maneuver him into a place where they can eliminate him, and it won’t be the last. He’s just glad that this time there was no bloodshed, unlike two weeks prior.
Determined to find someone to take home and destress with, Chan starts walking up the street. The neon lights of a corner store capture his attention and his steps slow as he thinks about it. He hasn’t eaten all night and his energy is plummeting. He pats around his pockets and realizes he’s out of stimpops. Sighing, he pivots and walks toward the door.
A blast of air conditioning hits him in the face and the airlock on the door hisses. Inside the convenience store is a cacophony of neon advertisements and rows and rows of product: snacks, medical supplies, books, food, technology, tobacco products, hygiene products.
Chan ignores it all in favor of going to the back wall, lit blue by the refrigerator lights. Multiple advertisements pop up on the screened fridges as he browses, each louder than the last. He winces, in a hurry to find the energy drink he wants so he can escape advertising hell.
Opening the fridge, he braves the cold as he snatches a cherry flavored energy drink that promises to wake him the fuck up with no added sugar or calories. He’s about to close the fridge when he thinks better of it and grabs a water as well.
He trots to the front of the store, head ducked down as he goes. There’s no one else at the checkout counter as he drops his shit on top, knocking over the can. He reaches to right it, but a hand shoots out to do it for him.
Chan startles, surprised at the human hand. Most convenient stores have little robots with singsong voices, but when he looks up at you, he freezes. You are certainly not a robot. Well - maybe you are. You look too pretty to be human, eyes glittering under the neon light above your head, casting you in a pink halo. You give him a shy smile, almost apologetic when you retract your hand back after fixing the can.
“Find everything okay?”
Chan just continues staring, items long forgotten.
Chan is so rarely thrown by a pretty face. He’s seen them all - natural and cosmetically enhanced, simple and exotic, friendly and not. He does a lot of business with a lot of people who make it their job to be pretty, whose entire purpose is to lure him in.
He’s pretty good at cutting through pretty, but you cut right through him, down to the arsenic filled core of him.
“Are you okay?” The question makes him blink a few times. Your mouth is downturned - still sweet and flush with sticky red like candy. “Sir?”
“Yes,” Chan answers finally. “Yes to both questions. Uh - found my shit and uh - sorry, that sounded rude. I found what I needed and I am okay. Yes.”
“This is my favorite flavor.”
Chan glances down at the energy drink. “Same.”
“You know they make a candy that tastes exactly like this but sour?”
He realizes that the candy you’re referencing must be what the sticky residue on your mouth is. Suddenly he’s never wanted them more. “And where would I find them?”
Your smile lights up the room and he swears his heart beats faster like he’s just done a line of frostbyte. When you point, Chan notices a tiny tattoo on your wrist. It’s in the shape of a red heart. The corners of his mouth quirk upward. Cute.
Following your direction, he walks back toward the candy aisle, hands perusing the shelf until he finds what he’s looking for. He picks up the box and shakes it as he approaches you, making you grin. Holy fuck he wants to keep making you grin.
Once you’re finished ringing his items, he hovers his phone over the pay station. The machine chimes and you slide his bag over to him, red heart catching his eye again.
“Enjoy your night,” you say.
“You too.” He steps toward the door and holds the bag up. “I’ll let you know if I like the cherry sours.”
“You will.”
Night air hits Chan in the face, humid and sticky. Even if he hates the candy, he’ll certainly tell you otherwise.
Instead of walking toward the club and cracking the energy drink, Chan calls one of the drivers for the Choi Syndicate to come get him. He passes the time by turning to look over his shoulder back into the interior of the store, but he can’t see you from where he stands.
Cute. You were cute. In a way that he can’t quite pinpoint, but that sticks with him even when he slides into the air conditioned interior of the car. Your candied smile and little heart tattoo haunt him all the way home, nearly making him forget about the candy until he’s keying into his apartment.
Tossing his shit on the counter, he reaches into the back and produces the little box. He gives it a shake, pleased at the rattle. Ripping the lid open with his teeth, he spits the spent cardboard on the counter and shakes out a few red, heart shaped candies. It immediately makes him think of your tattoo and he chuckles.
Chan pops a few of the candies into his mouth and gives a thoughtful suck, humming pleasantly. They are sour, making his eyes water for just a second before they turn sweet. The taste of cherry is perfectly balanced and doesn’t taste like chemicals like most other candies.
When he finally crawls into bed, Chan wonders if you taste as sweet as the cherry sours.
-
Chan doesn’t do drugs. Well - sort of. He eats plenty of stimpops and every once and a while he has to resort to frostbyte as a last resort. His job requires him to operate at a level of awareness for hours longer than normal, and even though he takes the supplements and does all the wellness shit in the world to keep him operating, sometimes an illegal stimulant is the best way to get it done.
It isn’t that he thinks drugs are bad - he just knows he has an addictive personality. Which is why Chan has been able to make a career out of high stakes and gambling, turning everything he does into a game. He is pretty good at not straying too far - it would cost him his life if he did - but he still gets a high from a closed deal, feels a rush of something strong when he wins.
He can’t not work. It’s what makes him one of the best Chariots in the Syndicate, and Seungcheol’s favorite. The others take too much time off, or are too patient, too okay with losing. Chan is addicted to the risk and reward of navigating backdoor deals and under-the-table transactions.
The inability to quit is why he doesn’t do drugs. Chan knows that once he starts, he won’t stop.
Which is exactly how he winds up at the same corner store every Sunday at 3:40 AM sharp. He doesn’t bother telling himself it’s because the store is on the way home and because it’s the only one that carries the new cherry sours he likes (he wouldn’t know where else to look for them, he hasn’t tried). Chan knows it’s because that’s the only time your schedule doesn’t conflict with his.
At least, that seems to be the case. He doesn’t have your schedule exactly - he has resisted doing that to feel less crazy. But Chan’s entire job is to be observant, and over a few weeks of trial and error, he knows for a fact the only time he is guaranteed to run into you is the late night hours of Sunday shifts.
You’re a breath of fresh air every time he sees you. He has no idea how you manage to be so sweet while working arguably the worst shift at a convenience store that seems chronically empty, but he likes it. You’re a tiny pocket of kindness in his overwhelmingly cruel world.
Tonight, Chan’s hands are shaking from post-adrenaline rush. He takes a few deep breaths outside the store. The air is heavy with the promise of rain, the smell of petrichor lingering. Better than the scent of blood that had filled his nose forty minutes ago. Chan hates the smell of blood.
Steeling himself, Chan enters the store. The bright lights make him squint, the flashing holograms and fluorescents above a little too much for his liking. You look up from the counter and his heart trips over itself, doubling its speed when you smile and wave at him. Friendly. Familiar.
Chan flashes you a smile in return, tilting his head in his own greeting before he ducks to the back where the freezers hold all of the drinks. He grabs his usual, taking his time as the advertisements beg him to pick their product. The cool air when the glass slides open is refreshing.
He follows the same route he does every Saturday night, moving from the fridges to the candy aisle. He glances over the top of the shelves as he goes, watching you. You’ve jumped up on the back counter, swinging your legs as you hold a tablet in your hand, the words of what appear to be an online book projecting above the screen.
You’re lost in your own world and he appreciates that. The first few times he’d come in here, you hadn’t let yourself be distracted. You’d stood and waited for him to grab his things and check out, every bit the customer service employee and attentive while someone was in your store.
Now? You let Chan do what he wants. It’s a recent development over the last two weeks, one that he thoroughly enjoys. Last weekend you’d been listening to music, humming sweetly as you sat and kicked your feet back and forth while he walked around the aisles to collect his usual.
Cherry sours in hand, Chan heads up to the counter. This part is bittersweet. He loves to chat with you, but he knows how short the shelf life of the conversation is, how quickly he has to say goodbye once he pays for the items.
As usual, you hop down from the counter. You give him a smile that lights up the entire store and it’s all Chan can do to not drop everything on the counter for you to ring up.
“How’s your night?” You ask, eyes flicking up to drink him in.
Terrible is the honest answer. Chan had nearly died under an hour ago, and had to murder his way out of a bad deal. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.
Instead, he says, “Better now. What are you reading?”
“Umm it’s some sort of ancient classic? It’s about two lovers who come from warring families.”
“Ah.” His mouth twitches. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“You’ve read it?”
He nods. “It’s one of the few books my mom owns.”
“Your mom owns books? Like physical copies?”
Chan winces. It’s easy to forget that something like a book is a simple possession to him and not the rest of the world. While most citizens of Hyperion only have access to the digital world, those with money and storied family history have access to things others don’t: physical art, tangible books and paintings, sculptures, gardens, decorations that are meant for looking and that don’t serve a purpose.
“Ah,” he scratches the back of his neck as he pays for the items. “Yeah. She’s very fortunate.”
You hum and he looks at you. There’s a look on your face he doesn’t understand. He stares until you look up at him and he shoots you a questioning look.
“You said she is very fortunate,” you point out. “So either you don’t share in the wealth - which I doubt because you’re always dressed nice - or you’re calling it hers because you don’t want to make it awkward that you own physical books and I can’t.”
Chan opens his mouth. Closes it. Your observation is dead on, leaving him at a loss of words for a moment, which is unfamiliar territory. But Chan is observant too, and he notices the way you say that you can’t own physical books. Not that you don’t. Because it isn’t a possibility for you, it’s not just something you haven’t been able to do yet. It’s something that you’ll never be able to do, a firm no.
“It’s the second one.” He opts for honesty here, in this space with you. He cheats almost everyone else, but he doesn’t want to cheat you. “I forget that it is incredibly privileged of me to just… have access to books.”
“I think it’s easy to forget what is normal for you isn’t the same for everyone.”
He doesn’t like where this conversation with you is going. He’s never talked to you this much at once, but it feels negative, feels like he’s putting distance between you instead of pulling you closer. So he switches to asking, “What do you think of it so far?”
“Despite its age, it's quite relevant. Family wars wreak havoc on everyone.”
He looks up at you sharply. “You’re referencing the Syndicate War?”
“Those are families, so I suppose they fall under the category.”
Chan narrows his eyes a fraction. You don’t look at him straight on, but your words hold meaning enough, even if you’re not brave enough yet to look him in the eyes and tell him. He doesn’t mind, hiding a small smile as he gathers his items.
“You’re not wrong,” he says evenly. You glance up at him. “About either thing.”
“Anyway, sorry to bore you. It’s a good book.”
“No apologies necessary, you’re far from boring. Have a nice night?”
You nod and step away from the register. He aches to stay, but he’s tired and the timer has burned out on this interaction. Chan turns to go, but stops when your voice calls him back from the register. “By the way?” He looks at you over his shoulder. “There is blood on your hands. I hope you’re alright?”
Surprised, he looks down at his hands. You’re right - there are smudges of dried red, not yet flaking from the rest of his skin. He looks back up at you to see real concern in your eyes. You’re leaning over the counter, hands pressed flat to the top to peer around the stand of phone charges that would otherwise block your view.
“Yeah,” he calls awkwardly, laughing a little. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
You chew the corner of your mouth. “Alright. Have a good night, Chan.”
“You too.”
Chan steps out into the humid air of the city, immediately cloyed by the sticky fingers of promised rain and heavy clouds. Instead of looking up to the swollen sky, he glances over his shoulder to look back through the door. He can’t see you, but he knows you're there, sitting and reading your story.
Fuck. Chan sighs. Like Romeo, he suddenly feels that his consequences too, are somewhere hanging in the stars.
-
Exhaustion burns your eyes. You press the heels of your palms into them, willing the burn to stop. When you remove your hands, they’re still stinging and likely red. Sighing, you slide off the counter and pull open the drawer behind the register. It’s creeping past three in the morning, and these late, never-ending shifts are starting to weigh down you.
They don’t weigh as much as the debt inherited from your father, though, so you squeeze some drops in your eyes, crack an energy drink and tell yourself that you at least have something to look forward to tonight.
Sundays are the only bright part of your nights. Maybe your life. It feels too heavy to admit that, though, so you pretend that seeing Chan for five to ten minutes once a week isn’t the only thing you look forward to for days at a time, even if it’s true.
You wish you had those fancy stimpops you sometimes see him chewing on when he wanders into the store. He always throws the paper stick out in the trash before he comes to the register, as though he’s too afraid to let on that he likes them.
In school, they told you stim was the gateway drug. Now, knee-deep in twelve-hour shifts split between two dead-end jobs, you know better. The real gateway to hard drug use is just surviving. Just waking up and existing in a world that grinds down anyone who dares to breathe too loudly. You don’t blame people for needing an escape - you need an escape.
Chan is that very escape.
You’ve never touched stim. Not because you don’t want to, but because the Taps in your neighborhood terrify you and the reward isn’t worth the risk. You can’t drown yourself in virtual reality clubs or AI lounges, either. Those require time and money, neither of which you have.
So you settle on what you do have: seeing Chan once a week in the dark hours of the night.
It’s not much, but it’s everything. Between dragging yourself through never-ending cashier shifts and folding sheets in the hotel’s laundry room until your hands are raw from the scrape of fabric, your world has shriveled to a pinpoint of focus to survive. You sleep. You eat. You work.
You think about Sunday when Chan will stroll in, grab his usual energy drink and box of cherry sours, and for a few minutes, you’ll remember what it feels like to want something just because it makes you feel alive.
And when he leaves, the moment will last for a single, ephemeral minute and then die, the embers of a fire gone cold.
A patron enters the store with a gust of rain and the melodic chime above the door. You don’t bother looking up, knowing it isn’t Chan. He arrives at a very specific time every night. No earlier, no later. You like that about Chan. It makes him feel reliable.
No one else is reliable.
You know little about Chan. What you do know is that he does something questionable, sometimes coming in with flecks of blood on his hand or on his neck where he thinks he’s scrubbed himself clean. You know that he comes from money - you’re not sure how many generations - with access to paper books, a luxury you can barely fathom. You know that he’s charming, and after the first few times he’d come in, he’d gone from shy to coy.
He’s also kind. At least, you think so. He always asks how your night is, lingering at the end of your conversation, as though he’s just as hesitant to go as you are to let him. It’s a little fantasy you play in your head after he leaves, taking his energy drink and cherry sours with him: who will break first.
Of course, you don’t think Chan is playing a game. You’d never assume that anyone with the access to the lifestyle he has would be interested in more than mindless flirting on their way home.
A man comes up to the register and buys a handful of food items. You scan them wordlessly, bagging them and handing them over the counter. He’s just as wordless, snatching them from your hands and turning on his heel to exit the store. He’s dressed nicely, evidence of tailoring and an old fashioned watch on his wrist.
That is Chan’s kind of crowd. People who move through the world blind to those beneath them, living in a bubble so self-contained they don’t even realize anyone unlike them exists.
This time when the door opens, you shoot a grin toward the door. Chan is already smiling when he sees you, lifting his hand in a small wave. He points to the back of the store, as though to tell you he’ll be with you in a moment after he grabs his things. You nod - because that’s what you always do. Because you’re just eager to see him, heart hammering as he vanishes down an aisle.
Advertisements yell at him as he goes. You swear you hear him tell one of them to shut up and the first genuine smile you’ve had all week breaks across your face. Heart skipping, you jump up on the counter behind the register, trying to appear calm. Watching. Waiting.
Chan will only be here for fifteen minutes, but you love all fifteen of them.
When he appears, it feels like your blood sings. You smile at him, sliding from the counter as he approaches. He’s dressed down today, not in his usual button up and blazer, but rather black slacks with a grey shirt tucked in, a leather jacket pulled over his arms. Beads of water cling to the leather from the rain, and his dark hair is damp and hangs in his eyes.
His hair has gotten longer over the last few weeks. You like it long, wondering if it’s as soft as it looks. You imagine it is, watching him as he brushes his hair from his forehead with the delicate tips of his fingers, looking up at you with a small smile.
“How are you?” He asks, voice warm.
“Good. Not working tonight?”
He looks down at his outfit. “Could you tell?”
“Mhmm.” You slowly ring up the energy drink first. “You’re usually dressed very fancy when you’re working.”
“I’m not always, I promise. That’s just for meetings.”
“So you are working, but no meetings?”
He winks and your heart sputters to a stop. You nearly knock over the box of cherry sours in your attempt to pick it up and ring it in. “Believe it or not, I’m just starting work.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Graveyard shift.”
“Well then I hope you have a good day.”
Chan pays, holding his phone up to the reader. You study him, drinking in each familiar part of his face, committing it to memory so you can think of him fondly until the next time you see him. His expressive eyes are downcast as he types something on his phone, the blue glow of the holoscreen bathing him in ethereal light. You admire the soft curve of his cupid’s bow, the angular cut of his jaw.
He’s beautiful in a world where beauty feels manufactured. You like the small scar on his face, untouched by lasers, left exactly as it is. You like the dark circles under his eyes, quiet evidence that nothing’s been smoothed or erased. You like the way his face shifts effortlessly from commanding to kind. Most of all, you like that it’s real. He’s entirely, unapologetically human.
When he looks up at you, you think you could fall into the dark depths of his eyes and never stop falling. Would do it, if it meant you could stay with him.
“I have something for you.”
His words break the spell. You blink, equal parts dazed and surprised. “Oh?”
“And I don’t want you to freak out when I give it to you.”
“Well I wasn’t going to, but now I think I might.”
He groans, still playful. He opens the lapel of his jacket, revealing a red, silk interior paneling. It makes the jacket that much nicer, an elegant touch to what otherwise looks nondescript. When his hand comes back out of his jacket, he’s holding a thin book.
Your heart catches as you stare at it. He holds it out to you but you pull your hands away like you’re afraid to be bitten. It’s a beautiful thing, thin and sleek with a red leather cover and gold filigree pressed across the front. Pressing your palms to your middle to keep them from shaking, you look at the cover where it says Romeo and Juliet back up to Chan, who is waiting.
“I promise that you can. I know it’s… look it’s not the only copy in my library. And I don’t say that as in ‘this means nothing to me because I have multiple.’ I mean that I can spare one, and I would like you to have it.”
In your little corner of the world, a paper book is a rarity. Only a certain level of the upper echelon have something so permanent. Everything that has always been available to you is digital screens and hollow imitations of art.
Chan’s gift - a real piece of art - hits you harder than you expect. It’s more than a gift. It’s proof that once upon a time, humans created something genuine, that humans were more than what they are now.
And Chan wants to just give it to you.
Gently, Chan leans over the counter and presses the book into your hand. You tentatively take it, pinching the tome between your fingers. He lets go, giving it to you without ceremony. There’s no bow, no note, just the weight of it in your hand.
You glance up at him. He says nothing, watching while he chews the corner of his lip. You turn it over in your hands and run your finger on the embossed title, feeling the groove of the letters. The gold glitters in the neon light of the store, flashing colors as it catches the lights.
Tears pool in your waterline, ridiculous and sudden and silly. He’s giving you this because he can, and crying feels like too much of an emotion in front of him, so you suck in a sharp breath and look up at him, giving him a smile.
“This is too much. I don’t know how to express my thanks.”
He shrugs. “None needed. I just want to know that you enjoy the physical version. It feels realer that way.”
It does, you want to say. You can’t find the words, throat constricting as Chan looks at his phone and sighs regretfully.
“I have to go.” You look at the clock. He is a minute over fifteen, one minute longer than he usually spares you. “Tell me how you like it in this version. Forgive me for all the handwriting in the margins and all of the bent pages - this specific volume has been very loved by me and I took a lot of notes when in school.”
Chan’s admission makes your heart beat harder, your fondness grow softer. He has no idea what this means to you, no idea how it’s already become your most treasured item, and it probably means little to him - almost nothing.
“Have a good night,” he murmurs, giving you a final smile before he gathers his items and heads out the store, leaving you teetering between bursting into tears and falling ridiculously in love.
-
Perched in the neon-drenched skyline of Hyperion, The Spire overlooks most of the city, boasting that it’s the tallest building in all of Hyperion. That’s true - for now. There are plenty of real estate and building architects interested in beating the luxury hotel’s claim to fame, but for now The Spire remains top of the list and top of the city, with its penthouse rented out to people you could never dream of knowing.
The building spirals upward like a helix, pulsing in the night like an aura as LED bands thrum from bottom to top. When you stand at street level and look up, the top of the building vanishing into the clouds, turning them blue and pink and purple as the LEDs flash.
You’re rarely at street level, though. Unlike the occupants who get to rent rooms and stay among the clouds, you exist in the bowels of the building, tucked deep below the guest levels in sublevel B6 of the Service Core. If the glittering building is the body, the Service Core is its nervous system, branching out like roots beneath the hotel.
There’s no glamour in the Service Core. Steam hisses as you enter into the cavernous, industrial laundry room. Above, the white-blue fluorescent lights flicker and hum. Where the hotel itself has so much color, the Service Core does not. Gunmetal walls stained with years of detergent runoff from the machines and the laundry room above, exposed pipes hissing and twisted overheard like a mechanical spider web - it’s far from the glory above.
The Service Core exists to serve a single purpose to the hotel - serve it. Kitchenstaff, waste management, laundry, engineering, housekeeping - it all exists on multiple sub-level floors. The Spire has a robust staff, churning people in and out to keep the thousands of guests above happy.
Weary and heavy-footed, you trudge to the folding station. The table hums and flickers as you approach and stick your thumb on the top of it, clocking in. Next to the table is a stack of linens that need folding. There are hundreds of types of robots that could do this for you, but part of The Spire’s pillars is giving back to the community and ensuring there are jobs for real people who need real money.
Except they don’t pay a real living wage.
Still, it’s a job. And a mindless one where you can zone out, grabbing a linen and placing it on the glowing grid of the folding table. The interactive surface recognizes the material easily and a folding guide pops up, showing you exactly which way to fold each part. You’ve been doing this long enough that you don’t need it, hands getting to work before adding it to the appropriate pile to be scanned and rated on quality of fold.
The air smells like ozone, bleach and burnt polyester. It singes your nose as you fold, but eventually you get used to it, the smell vanishing the longer you pull, fold, repeat. Pull, fold, repeat. The ambient sound of whirring machines, dripping condensation and chatter between tables brackets the soft thunk as you flip sheets over, pressing your fingers along seems, feeling the hiss and burn of silk against your fingertips.
Eventually, someone calls your name. You look up, eyes adjusting in the dim light as Cara clocks in to the table next to you. She’s dressed in the same drab, grey-blue uniform, her blinking name tag showing a little red heart. You’ve never added anything extra to yours, just your name.
“Yay, I get to work with you!” Cara gushes, brushing an auburn strand of hair behind her heavily pierced ears. “It’s been so long since I saw you!”
“You haven’t been taking shifts,” you note, arching a brow.
“Haven’t needed them until now. Ugh, I’ve been making really good money at that gig I told you about, but Bebito had some debts to pay off so…”
So naturally, Cara is picking up the slack for her piece of shit boyfriend again. You grimace but let her chatter on, filling you in on some sort of hotel staff drama dealing with names of people you don’t remember and faces you cannot recall.
Cara is pretty. The kind of pretty that gets in trouble, catching the attention of all the wrong people. Cara likes that attention, though - thrives on it. It’s why she sticks around with her deadbeat boyfriend who does nothing but low-level work for some minor Syndicates in the city and blows away his money. But the danger appeals to Cara - and apparently, the mind blowing sex.
It’s good to see her. When she goes weeks without a shift, you start to worry. You’re not friends, but she’s friendly. Kind. A flower in a world that rarely sees sun. It’s why she’s been plucked by another group of women in the Service Core to occasionally participate in the side gig she talks about.
“So I know you always say no,” Cara broaches, glancing side-long at you. “But Tivi dropped out of this high-level event we’re supposed to be doing in two weeks and we really need another girl. I swear it's safe. You just have to be pretty and stand there and sometimes sit on a lap.”
Your stomach turns sour. Cara has asked you a million times before. She makes good money being an accessory to powerful people who want to put on a show, but it’s far more dangerous than she lets on. Plus, you’ve never been keen on letting someone touch you for money, even if it’s just a hand on a waist or a brush of fingers on an arm.
Shamefully, a small part of you resists because you have Chan. You don’t need the attention of anyone else, patient like a planet eager to come back into its sun’s orbit again. The thought of someone else getting to smile at you and bat their eyelashes makes you squirm.
“I’m good,” you assure Cara. “Thank you for offering, though.”
Cara sighs, not disappointed, but a bit resigned. “Figured you say that. You ever change your mind though, you know where to call?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
You offer her a tight smile and nod, pretending to focus on the sheet in your hands. It’s soft, lavender-scented, obviously from one of the higher suites. It’s the kind of luxury you can only touch with gloves on. You slide it into the folded stack.
Cara’s offer lingers in your mind. You could do it. Just one night, one event. Stand there and look pretty. You’ve seen the other girls come into work with something new and pretty - sleek earrings, upgraded iris mods that glimmer behind their eyes like they’ve caught a glimpse of something you’re not invited to.
But the thought of someone else's hand curling around your hip, their fingers tightening like they own you, even if you’re just rented, makes you stop. You think about Chan and your throat tightens a little. He doesn’t know about these offers, you think. You’re sure he wouldn’t even be able to understand them. His world is books and soft silk. Yours is steam and callused fingers.
At the end of your shift, you wave goodbye to Cara, touching her elbow gently, happy to see her. You tell her to be safe and you head out, stopping only to check the glitching screens by the door to check your upcoming schedule.
You frown. Usually you’re scheduled for thirty hours a week, but it seems like you’ve only got ten upcoming. Ten doesn’t pay your rent. Ten doesn’t even come close.
Chewing the inside of your cheek, you head to the office tucked in the corner of the room, nestled underneath a tangle of pipes. The glass window is full of fog from the humid room, and inside is just as cloying and thick with steam.
“Ethel?” You ask gently, standing at the door. The B6 manager looks up over her foggy glasses. You jut your thumb backward toward the main floor. “I just checked the schedule and it looks like my hours are wrong.”
Ethel is a wiry woman with greying hair, gnarled fingers and swollen knuckles from decades of folding, and blotchy forearms from years of exposure to bleach. Now, she gets to sit in this small little room, the pipes clanging above her and the mold gathering in the corner giving her a wet cough.
“No,” she sighs. “Not wrong. Just received word this morning that we're cutting back hours.”
“What?”
She shrugs. “Corporate hierarchy. Costs are heavy. Syndicate war. The owner is a Patron to the Yong family. They’re not doin’ so good with them Chois.”
Everything in Hyperion starts and ends with the Syndicates. It's always been that way. In this city, three families reign supreme: the Yong family, the Kim family and the Choi family. As of a few months ago, all hell had broken loose among the top three families. As you understand it, the Kim and Yong families had joined forces against the Choi family when their patriarch finally passed, and they’ve been going at it ever since.
You have nothing to do with the Syndicates, have stayed away from them your entire life. But the Syndicates have never stayed away from you, every decision their Tower’s make trickling down to affect you, an ant beneath their boot.
This time, it seems the Yong family is going to step on you.
“I really need the hours…” You murmur, wringing your hands together.
“You and everyone else. Schedule is final.”
You leave The Spire the same way you came in - through the gutters. It’s not really a gutter, but the city drainage systems are so bad that it feels like it as you slosh through shin-deep rain runoff to get up to street level.
Outside, it smells like rain and something vaguely coppery, like blood or rust or both. You tug your jacket tighter and start walking, the wet smack of your boots on the pavement your only companion as the distant glow of buildings hover over you.
Your mind loops like a faulty video: cut hours, Syndicate war, Cara’s offer, Chan. Cut hours, Syndicate war, Cara’s offer, Chan. You’ve been careful, saving when you can and avoiding anything that is too dangerous or illegal, but being careful doesn’t pay your rent, especially in a city designed to make a criminal out of you.
At a crosswalk, you pause. There’s a newscast screen playing at one of the main squares. It’s mostly devoid of people, save the few walking with umbrellas along the street, making them look like beetles. The bright blue of the screen makes you squint against the night, shielding your eyes as you watch the scrawling text feed at the bottom of the screen.
Choi family suspected in retaliation event in Pearl District. 14 confirmed dead. Yong family still denies involvement in the death of matriarch Yoon Minji.
You look away, not bothering to look at the images of fire, blood and pictures of the fallen on the screen, not because you can’t stomach it, but because you don’t care. These people and their wars mean nothing to you so long as you can’t make a living under their thumb.
By the time you reach your apartment, your legs ache and the weight in your chest from the week has settled into something low and pulsing. Cut hours. Syndicate war. Cara’s offer. Chan.
You take the stairs. Every step up, you think about Ethel’s hands, bent, clawed, broken. You think about her arms, bleached with time. You think about her bent over her desk, crooked. Has she ever left B6 or the Service Core? Has she ever had dreams of being anything else?
You think about Chan. You think about the book he gave you, sitting under your pillow and protected.
Four days. In four days you’ll see Chan again. He’ll walk in from the rain and smile at you, asking you how your day is. You’ll tell him good, even though it’s not, and for the fifteen minutes that he leans against your counter, looking up at you with stars in his eyes, everything will be fine.
-
Everything is not fine.
The night had started out like normal - you’d gone from your last shift for the next few days at the laundry room to the convenience store, clocking in with heavy-lidded eyes and even heavier steps. But at least today was a Chan day, so it made it more bearable. Made it easier to pretend that for the next week, you weren’t going to be desperate for money.
It was a slow night, only two people coming in before three in the morning approached. Each minute the clock counted down, your heart picked up speed. You’d been looking forward to this for days, thinking of everything that you wanted to tell Chan about the little notes he took in his copy of Romeo and Juliet, thinking about gushing over the way each of the pages in the book he gifted you felt like heaven, the words typed so perfectly on paper, each one meticulously placed and -
When the door opens, you’re already smiling. Chan walks in, shaking off the rain. You start to lift your hand to wave when a woman steps in after him, elbowing him out of the way and barking at him to let her in before she drowns outside.
Your smile vanishes. It feels like someone has kicked you in the stomach, punching through to your very core. You can barely breathe as you watch Chan turn to her, shooting back a quip that has her rolling her eyes. Their affection and intimacy is immediately palpable, familiarity written in every shove as the girl walks by him and vanishes into the aisle.
He rolls his eyes and gives you a smile. You try to return it. You’re not sure if you do. He disappears down the aisle behind the girl and they restart their bickering, voices rising and falling in a steady cadence as they browse around the store.
Turning around, you press your palms to your cheeks. They feel hot-flash warm, your heart thundering in your chest, breaths coming in short, rapid bursts. Chan is with a girl. Chan has a girl. There’s a girl with Chan. A girl has Chan.
Every thought sputters like a broken engine, coming to life and cutting out, starting and stopping. When one thought begins, another one crashes into it, shattering it before you can fully get a grip on any of them and make them tangible.
A feminine voice makes you spin around, breathless. The girl is standing in front of you, bent down to look at the types of gum in front of the counter. She looks vaguely familiar, though you can’t put your thumb on it. She is gorgeous, the type of gorgeous that rips the wind out of your sails, that leaves you stranded in dead water.
Of course she’s pretty. Why wouldn’t she be? You’d always known what type of cloth Chan was cut from - it was the same type that you folded for the gods who stayed at the top of The Spire, the type you could only handle with gloves.
“Why are there so many flavors?” She mutters, scrunching her brow.
“Orange creamsicle is good,” you blurt, not really knowing where it comes from.
The girl flinches and looks up, eyes going round. “Holy shit,” she laughs. “There is an entire person there. I didn’t even see you. I thought most of these places had robots.”
“Well I’m human. Last time I checked, anyway.”
“Huh. What do you know? Good on this store.”
Of course she hadn’t seen you. You’re nothing but a ghost to these people. They don’t know the difference when you’re there or not, whether you live or die.
Except Chan.
The girl stands, groaning as she stretches. She tosses the orange creamsicle gum on the table, alongside energy drinks and a candy bar with a tiger on it. Chan appears behind her, his usual gathered in his arms. He adds his items to the collection and glances at her.
“Are you not paying?” He asks, deadpan.
“You said we had to make a pit stop. You’ll be funding this one.”
“You’re such an ass,” he mutters, pulling his phone out. “All the money in the world and you always make me pay.”
“Right. I’ll remember that next time I get you a car for Christmas, Chan.”
He flushes and looks up at you. He has the decency to look flustered and chagrined. “Ignore her. She has no manners.”
“Bullshit!” She slaps his arm. “I took like four years of etiquette classes.” She gestures to you. “By the way, I had no idea there was a person here. I thought these places had robots.”
“Baby,” he sighs, paying. The term of endearment is the nail in your coffin. It feels like the world falls out from underneath your feet and it’s all you can do to not to turn around and burst into tears, fantasy shattered. “You’re being rude. She has a name.”
When Chan says your name, it doesn’t feel like a caress this time. It lands cold, impersonal. It doesn’t settle into your chest like it usually does. It slides right off. You're just… you. She’s baby.
She giggles as Chan shoulders past her to grab his things, but she doesn't even flinch. She grins at you, polite, cheerful, effortless, plucking her items off the counter like she owns the moment, like this is her story and you're just some passing name in the credits - you are just name passing in the credits. Then she skips off toward the door, the picture of ease, popping gum like punctuation.
She sings your name to get your attention. You blink at her, surprised she remembers it. “Amazing recommendation. Thank you!”
“Ignore her,” Chan says, voice soft, sheepish, cradling his items like they might shield him from how awkward this suddenly feels. “I know she’s hard to ignore. She’s a bit of a… presence.”
“Oh.”
It’s all you can think of. Chan wavers between where he stands and the girl at the door, who scrolls on her phone. “What did you think of the book?”
“What?”
He raises his brows. “The book I gave you.”
That catches the girl’s attention from the door. Her eyes dart between Chan and you, narrowing. Your hands shake, knowing the look when a shark smells blood in the water. “You gave her a book, Channie?”
If it’s possible, he goes several shades redder. She starts to walk toward the two of you again. Her gaze has gone from dismissive to calculating, eyes narrowed, pupils dilated like a cat that has discovered a new toy.
Before she reaches you, Chan steps back. He doesn’t say goodbye. Just gives you a look—something you can’t read anymore, not after what you’ve just seen. You stare back at him, hollowed out and unsure.
We’ll talk about it next time,” he says, voice soft and too fast. “Sorry again about her.”
Then he’s gone.
Your shift drags out like something dying. Each hour longer than the last. Everything around you is gray, dulled, like someone pulled the saturation out of your world. The only thing that stays sharp is the image of Chan, but not with you.
By the time you lock up and step outside, the air has cooled. The streets are quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you don’t belong in your own life. Your footsteps echo against the pavement, louder than they should. You cross your arms tighter around yourself.
She called him Channie. He’d called her baby.
It replays again and again in your head. That voice. The way his shoulders didn’t stiffen. The way he didn’t correct her.
He gave you a book. But he let her call him that. He gave you something thoughtful. Quiet. Careful. And she still got to stand closer. Laugh louder. Be the one he left with in his orbit.
You think about Cara’s offer. It comes to you unbidden, pressing against all other thoughts until it’s all you can think of. It’s good money, a way out of your shortened hours, and… Chan isn’t yours. The fantasy is ruined. Shattered. Burned down.
Beneath the surface of the city, the subway smells like rotten rainwater. You ignore it, careful not to slip down the wet stairs as you go. Bundles of sleeping bags are shoved in the corner, people inside of them. There’s someone offering needles from his coat and a girl dressing in a translucent, LED body suit purring at people as they walk by.
You ignore them all, getting onto the subway, thankful when the doors suck shut behind you. The subway hums beneath your feet, a dull and constant shudder that rattles up your bones. You grip the cold metal pole beside you, staring at your own reflection in the window as the tunnel blurs past behind it.
Your reflection is washed out. Tired. Someone who works too long and too hard. Not someone like the girl Chan was with. Not someone who laughs like they haven’t a care in the world, not someone who argues over money despite it not being an object to them.
The train isn’t crowded. A few scattered passengers, most of them asleep or hiding in a corner away from everyone else. There’s a man whispering to what you think might be a ferret in his coat, but you’re not sure. At least he has a companion, even if it’s some lanky critter.
It feels like you’re not even on the train. You’re still stuck in that shop, watching Chan’s back as he walks away. Watching her walk toward him like she belonged there. Like you never did.
You close your eyes. You hadn’t realized how much of your hope had been pinned to the idea of him. To the what-if. The maybe. Maybe he saw you the way you saw him. Maybe he meant something when he gave you that book. Maybe you were different.
None of it was real. Like the idyllic fantasies in an alternate reality club. You suppose you’re no better than the people who get addicted to AI and alternate reality - you just didn’t need help to get there.
The train jerks, lights flickering for a moment overhead. You open your eyes again.
Cara’s offer, you think, not for the first time tonight. It drifts back to you like a ghost with impeccable timing. You look at your reflection again across the train. The lights smear across the glass now, and for a split second, you see yourself not as you are, but as you could be. Full of color.
Pulling out your phone, you text Cara and let her know that you’ll fill in for her friend. The train doors open with a hiss. You step out. You let the illusion of Chan shatter behind you without looking back.
-
Chan doesn’t get nervous.
At most, he’ll admit to heightened awareness. He knows when the air shifts, when the room tenses, when the eyes start to watch just a little too closely. But it’s not nerves. It’s instinct. Nerves are for the untrained. Nerves make one sloppy, make your hand shake. Nerves mean you’re not ready.
Chan is always ready.
Tonight, there’s something gnawing under his skin. A feeling he can’t quite name, sharp and low like the ache before a storm. He tells himself it’s the stakes—the weight of the meeting, the caliber of the people in the room. But even that doesn’t fully explain the unease.
This isn’t a standard deal, where he’s greasing the wheels of some shell corporation or smoothing over a turf-sharing agreement with one of the mid-tier syndicates. Tonight’s meeting is internal business. Formal.
He still doesn’t know why Jeonghan picked him.
Not that he would’ve said no. No one says no to Jeonghan these days. At least, not unless they have a death wish or a taste for public verbal shaming and potential Syndicate ruin. Chan had said yes immediately, without question, like a good soldier. But deep down, he’d said yes because it was Jeonghan.
Not the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. Not the youngest second-in-command in their history. Just Jeonghan.
The car is dead silent. Not even the soft hum of the radio. Just the city lights flickering past and Jeonghan sitting beside him, cold and unreadable. Not awkward, exactly. But heavy.
Oppressive.
There’s something new carved into Jeonghan. Something mean and sharp and hungry. It hadn’t always been like that. Chan remembers when Jeonghan used to laugh more, when his anger was calculated rather than constant, but the death of Yoon Minji had carved a hole in him. Killed him. Left something more sinister in his place.
Unlike most of Chan’s meetings, he is armed to the teeth. Layers of steel and weight hidden beneath his well-cut suit. Security is sure to check him at the door, but he still needs to try to get in what weapons he can. Tonight is not the kind of night that is safe. He doesn’t have Soonyoung waiting at the back door, and Angel isn’t sitting in the room with a gun pressed to someone’s wife’s stomach for insurance.
Angel has given Chan some insurance, though. She had gifted him a butterfly knife not long ago. Slim, elegant. The hilt is carved obsidian, etched with a pattern that shimmered in the light like wings in flight. Beautiful and cruel, exactly like her. It’s tucked deep into his boot now, strapped in place with anti-metal-detection mesh. One of a handful of things he’d rather die than be caught without.
A meeting with a distant branch of the Yong family had not been on Chan’s agenda at the start of the week. Chan had originally been slated for a meeting down near The Salts, but Jeonghan had added him at the last second, insisting that someone as charming and sharp as Chan needed to be a part of the discussion.
Unlike most of Chan’s deals, tonight isn’t about business or territory or partnership. It’s about influence. About getting someone on the inside to let Jeonghan and his Chois in to eat the Yongs from the inside out.
“Tell me again,” Chan says, voice quiet over the hum of the tires. “How’d you hear about Yuli having second thoughts about the current Yong leadership?”
Jeonghan doesn’t look at him. Just stares out the window, face cast in the blue glow of passing signs and headlights. His expression looks almost skeletal in the light, like the grief still hasn’t stopped hollowing him out.
Chan isn’t sure it has.
“Inside source.”
“I can’t imagine he was just… venting to strangers about how much he hates his family,” Chan adds.
Jeonghan finally turns, slowly. His mouth pulls into a humorless smile. “Inside source.”
Chan raises a brow. “Meaning?”
Jeonghan slips his phone into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, buttoning it with a deliberateness that feels almost threatening. When he answers, his voice is clipped. Cool. “Meaning stop asking questions above your station, Chariot.”
Chan bites back the instinct to wince. The title hits harder than the words. Not his name. Not Chan. Chariot. Syndicate designation. A reminder. Jeonghan is in Wisdom mode tonight.
The rebuke stings, but not enough to push him off balance. Chan swallows it. Focuses on the cold glass of the window instead. Watches the city bleed by in streaks of neon and shadow. He knows Jeonghan well enough to recognize the warning for what it is. A boundary drawn in blood and old loyalty. Just because they grew up together doesn’t mean Jeonghan won’t cut him down where he stands if he oversteps.
Chan lets it go. He’s known Jeonghan for far too long to let something so small eat at him. They’d grown up in the same rooms together, bled in the same combat classes, laughed at all the same jokes. Out of the hundreds of hands that belong to Choi Seungcheol, Jeonghan has always been the one Chan trusted most, even now, when Jeonghan teeters on the sharp edge of the knife he’s using to carve a warpath.
The car slows. They’re in a nondescript neighborhood on the far edge of town. It’s not wealthy, but it’s modest. Here, there are no flashing lights and neon holograms. There’s just buildings pressed together, cars lined up out front, like something out of a history book.
For a split second, the thought of books makes Chan think of you. It is fleeting. Heart pounding. There and gone again because as much as Chan wants to dive headfirst into thoughts and dreams of you, he can’t. Not right now.
The door is unmarked. Just black, steel-reinforced, and guarded by two men in identical suits, both broad-shouldered and blank-eyed. One of them steps forward as Chan and Jeonghan exit the car.
“Wisdom,” he says, voice even and polite. Manners is the name of the game here. “Weapons check, please.”
Jeonghan says nothing. Just holds out his arms. The sensor beeps several times on him. Jeonghan divulges an array of knives and a single gun. Chan notices a butterfly knife with symbols carved into it in one of the dead languages: brother.
His mouth twitches, knowing Angel’s work when he sees it.
Chan follows suit, keeping his expression neutral as the second guard runs a scanner over his body. A soft beep when it hits the knife at his hip. Another at the shoulder holster.
He surrenders both, smiling with professional ease. “Sentimental, not stupid,” he murmurs as they take the weapons.
The guard grunts and says nothing, stepping back and waving him through when he finds nothing else. They don’t find the butterfly knife in his boot. Good.
They step inside a dark home. Chan glances around, but it looks like a normal home. There are stairs to his immediate right that lead to the second landing, and a door to the left that goes to what looks like a study. Straight ahead, the house opens up into a living area with doors to other parts of the home.
It’s quiet inside. Chan feels tense as they are led through the house, not a single light on. He can barely make out the shapes of furniture, paintings on walls. They’re brought to a door at the far back of the house. Sound drifts up from the stairs revealed behind it when a guard opens the door, stepping down and into the dark.
Chan goes first, shooting Jeonghan a glance. The Wisdom’s face is unreadable.
Downstairs, the decor changes immediately. Chan is relieved to see that the lights are on, bathing the room in gold glow. He feels like he’s stepped backward hundreds of years in time, the old-world luxury of something like a speakeasy clashing with modern era touches. The room is small, but pristine, with black marble floors, warm lighting, oil paintings that don’t match the building’s exterior, and soft jazz playing from speakers Chan can’t see.
A woman waits for them just past the threshold, dressed in a carmine gown that clings to every curve in her body. There’s a slit up the side, showing a flash of tan thigh as she slinks over to them, a coy smile on her lips. She is stunning, reminding Chan something of a femme fatale.
“Gentleman,” she greets, voice like smoke. “Welcome. Can I grab you refreshments while you mingle? The next game starts in fifteen minutes.”
In the center of the room sits a long green felt table, crowded with men in suits and women who aren’t wearing much at all. The air buzzes with laughter, the clinking of chips, the soft background jazz that does nothing to dull the tension.
Jeonghan barely spares her a glance as he cuts toward the table. “Boulevardier.”
Her eyes cut to Chan. They are cat green and almost uncanny. “Whiskey neat, please. Yamazaki, if you have it.”
The woman bows her head, her gaze lingering a second too long before she drifts toward the bar in the back. Chan watches her go for a split second before he scans the room, drinking in all the details.
Girls circulate with silver trays carrying glasses of scotch, whiskey, and champagne. Some settle in men’s laps, some whisper into their ears, all of them part of the illusion of wealth, comfort, control. Chan steps forward, eyes adjusting to the dim glow-
He sees you and he nearly goes catatonic.
You’re dressed like the other women, but somehow even more out of place. Not because you don’t belong, but because he doesn’t expect to see you here, couldn’t even have imagined it. Not in a thousand years would he have made this gamble. You were never even in his odds of being here.
You’re standing near the far end of the room, your lips parted slightly in what looks to be mid-laughter in response to something the man talking to you has said. Chan’s chest tightens so sharp and sudden that he staggers, wondering if he’s having a heart attack.
You are painfully beautiful, dressed in a sapphire gown that ripples like water when you walk. He barely has time to register how perfect the cut of it is, the way it hugs your waist, the way you turn and it undulates like a living thing, turning you into a goddess of the sea. Maybe in another life he would appreciate how beautiful you are, but right now, he can’t.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, you weren’t supposed to be here - weren’t ever supposed to cross his path outside of that goddamn convenience store. He had prepared for tonight for days, planning everything perfectly, scripting each gamble and risk, calculating it to the fucking detail and it’s all for nothing, because you standing there in that fucking dress ruins it all.
Chan’s thoughts scatter like dropped cards. Jeonghan has already started the evening without missing a beat, greeting someone sitting at the table with a handshake dripping with charm. Chan tries to follow suit. His body moves, just barely, but his mind doesn’t, still stuck on you.
You laugh again and it feels like Chan has been stabbed.
What are you doing here? And worse, what does it mean that you are? Is this some intricate play by the Yong family? Are you here because you’re in trouble? Both are equally likely and send Chan down a violent rabbit hole of thoughts, chasing all of the possibilities. He suddenly doesn’t know if you’re a threat or someone who needs saving, and it rattles him to the core.
Chan finally starts to collect himself, dragging his eyes away from you, trying to calm himself. It’s too late. You turn to look at him, a fleeting glance that turns to shock. Recognition blooms across your face and if Chan wasn’t in such panic, he might grin at how cute you look when you’re surprised.
When you don’t smile at him, Chan cracks. He forces himself into a mask, but the damage is done. There’s already a hitch in his step, a breath he can’t seem to take. His hands twitch toward his chest as though he needs to search for a physical wound there, a gunshot he can’t see.
Chan is thrown off. Confused. Out of balance. Exposed.
The woman who took his drink order appears just as Chan siddles up next to Jeonghan. He can hardly hear what she says to him. Everything feels secondhand, the dissociation hitting him as he tries to shield himself from his own panic.
He accepts the drink and knocks it back before shoving the glass back in her hand and ordering another. He’s not even sure he says anything, just staring at the men surrounding the poker table, unfeeling and unseeing.
Jeonghan doesn’t look up at Chan right away. He’s mid-handshake with someone else, voice low and pleasant as he exchanges pleasantries. Every word from Jeonghan is barbed silk, and Chan should be at his side, watching and backing him up with easy charm, matching volley for volley.
When Jeonghan finishes his greetings, he sits in a high-backed velvet chair. His sharp eyes find Chan and narrow before they dart at the open chair next to him. Chan nearlys trips over his own feet as he scrambles to sit down.
Jeonghan watches him, his eyes sharpening like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “What,” Jeonghan growls lowly as he flashes someone’s wife a smile, “the fuck is wrong with you?”
Chan blinks. His heart’s been pounding for minutes, making him feel sick with adrenaline. “The girl from the convenience store is here.”
Jeonghan’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is flat when he asks, “Who?”
“Cherry Sours.”
There’s a tick in Jeonghan’s jaw before he turns his head a fraction, gazing in your direction. It takes Jeonghan only a second to find you across the room where you’re struggling to keep up with the conversation the man at your side is having with you.
When Jeonghan turns back to Chan, his eyes are flint. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Chan doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Jeonghan leans closer, his voice sharper than any blade Chan has ever known. “Why the fuck is someone you know here? Is she with the Yong family? Do you think we’re being set up?”
“I- fuck - I don’t know,” Chan admits. “I don’t know why she’s here. She’s only ever worked at the convenience store. I’ve never- Jeonghan, I don’t know.”
“Stop.” Chan shuts up. Jeonghan’s voice has the hard edge of the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate right now. “You have ten seconds to get your head out of your ass. Or leave if you know you can’t do this. Now.”
Chan doesn’t move. His eyes flicker to you. You’re not looking at him but he can feel your panic from where he sits, matching his own. Can Chan do this? He doesn’t know, but he can’t leave you here. Not in this pit of vipers. Jeonghan leans back slightly, drinking in Chan’s deliberation.
“Decide,” he warns, voice like velvet. “If you fuck this up, I will remove you as Chariot myself, no matter the years between us, Lee Chan.”
It hangs in the air between them. Chan nods and straightens his shoulders, falling into the casual and cocky Chariot he’s trained to be. Jeonghan turns back to the conversation, smiling like nothing ever happened as he asks someone about how their kid’s play went.
Chan sits for a second longer, disengaged and heart rattling. But he doesn’t look at you again, taking in a deep breath as he tries to relax.
This time when the woman brings him his drink, Chan’s smile is lazy and flirty, winking at her as she walks away.
The low murmur of conversation quiets as a man that Chan recognizes as Yuli stands up from across the table, his arms spread like a gracious host. He has a glass of something expensive in one hand, his suit cut to perfection and his smile even more so.
“Friends,” he says smoothly, voice carrying over the music, “thank you for making the journey tonight. I know how busy our lives have become, so I consider your presence here a personal courtesy.”
A few men chuckle, raising their glasses. Others merely nod, already watching Yuli like players waiting for the first move on a board. Chan watches with absolute focus, chin slightly lifted. Yuli’s eyes skim across the room, assessing. Weighing. When they alight on Jeonghan and Chan, they pause only for a moment before he keeps going.
Jeonghan doesn’t move, but Chan knows that he saw the acknowledgement too, that Yuli knows the stakes and is interested in this dance.
Yuli continues, “Let’s not waste time. The table is ready, the cards are warm, and luck will favor the bold.”
Those who aren’t already standing around the table move to take seats. Chan shifts in his seat to make sure he clocks every single face at the table, going over their profiles in his head. He recognizes Yuli’s sister, Anita, her long hair piled high on her head. The table is mostly men, though there is a single other woman that Chan realizes is Yuli’s wife, younger than he expected, probably due to procedures.
No one in the room or at the table is high up in the Yong Syndicate. Here are all the blue collar workers, the men and women who are cousins of cousins, or Yong by marriage. Not blood. Who are Yong by long-association, perhaps. Distant family, who, when push comes to shove, have enough claim to Yong name that with the right support, could challenge the Tower.
As the final guests settle in, a few of the girls glide through with refilled drinks and practiced smiles, heels soft on the carpet. You’re among them. Chan doesn’t look. Not yet. Instead, he watches as Yuli retakes his seat and taps his finger on the felt, signaling the dealer to shuffle.
The game starts, though Chan already knows he’s playing far more than poker. He folds into the game like he’s never missed a beat. His smile is relaxed now, easy. He leans back in his chair like he owns it, lets his sleeves roll up just enough to show off the ink curling over his forearms. The men around the table are watching each other, sizing each other up, but not Chan. Not yet. He plays the part of harmless well.
The women, though, they pay attention to him. They give him smiles and ask him questions, let him shoot flattery their way. They eat it up, even if they know it’s fake. Fake or real, it doesn’t matter to them. Any of it feels good, especially from someone they’re not used to hearing it from.
Jeonghan, always sharper, plays the opposite role. Where Chan flirts, Jeonghan flatters. Where Chan jokes, Jeonghan probes. Together, they work the table like a duet, sowing discord, planting seeds.
“You can’t really be betting that much on that hand, can you?” Chan teases the man across from him. It’s some cousin of Yuli’s, with a watch too big for his wrist and a tendency to overplay. The man laughs, but it’s the uncomfortable kind. He folds. Again.
There’s a beat of laughter around the table and Yuli points a shaking finger at Chan like he’s a troublemaker, and then a new hand begins. Chan places his bet. Doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows you’re still in the room. You’re lingering at the periphery, hovering like a ghost. You’re pretending not to watch him, and he’s pretending not to notice you. But both of you are failing. Badly.
Worse is that someone else notices you too. The man three seats down from Chan is watching you, interested. He’s older and heavyset, with a gold chain resting over his chest. Finally, he leans over and starts chatting you up, loud enough to cut through the din of conversation.
“You new?” He asks you. Chan remembers this man - he’s one of the owners of a strip of clubs under Yong jurisdiction in the Pearl District where Baby has made it all but impossible to do business with anyone but the Choi family. “I’d remember a face like yours. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Chan watches out of the corner of his eye, his stomach souring. You laugh and it’s pitched too high to be normal or polite. You don’t give him your name, but you tell him yes you’re new and you’re learning poker. The man reaches out toward you, as though to guide you over to his lap.
It makes him break.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. He just lifts his eyes and says, “Hey.”
A few people on their side of the table still, looking up at Chan. The others are actively placing bets, chatter and music still going. You’re frozen in your spot, looking at Chan, mouth parted, breath quickening.
Chan tilts his head, smile lazy but eyes sharp. “Why don’t you come sit with me, gorgeous? I’m terrible luck without a pretty girl by my side.”
You blink. Clearly thrown. “I’m… um.”
The woman who greeted Chan at the door and who is clearly in charge of the provided women swoops in, a gentle hand placed on your shoulder as she lifts you up and guides you toward Chan. “She’d be happy to, Mr. Lee. Mr. Matsuo, why don’t you show me how to play?”
She is effortless in her chess game, this woman. She easily replaces you with herself, easing the annoyance of the other man while giving Chan what he wants. If he wasn’t so distracted, he would be impressed at the way she works a room, a weapon in her own right.
You stand there a second too long, but then you move, slow steps across the plush carpet until you’re beside him. You perch on the edge of the seat, hands in your lap, eyes avoiding his. You look like you want to melt into the floor.
“Better,” he says softly more to himself than anything else.
You hear him, though, asking tightly, “What are you doing?”
“Keeping you safe.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Jeonghan gives Chan a single, sharp look. He knows the Wisdom is thrumming with rage, but he ignores it. Jeonghan ignores him in return, starting a conversation with Yuli like he is supposed to.
Instead of talking, you and Chan fall into steely silence. The cards hit the table in steady rhythm. Chips shift hands. Laughter spills out from somewhere on the other side of the felt table, sharp, hollow, and far away. You sit at Chan’s side, refusing to look at him directly. He doesn’t look at you either.
Not even when his hand brushes against your knee when he folds a hand, tossing his cards on the table. Noe even when he folds again, flicking his wrist with the same careless confidence he always wears when he’s working, letting them think he’s bad at cards.
Your eyes stay in your lap, eyes forward, throat tight. Chan fights the urge to reach up and brush his fingers across your back to tell you to relax. If he does, he’s not sure what would happen. It’s the one gamble he’s not ready to make.
Chan feels Jeonghan’s pointed stare on occasion. He ignores him, more aware instead of tension vibrating between you. It’s like a live wire, tense, thin and vibrating, so distracting that Chan might actually be losing his hand on accident instead of on purpose.
After three rounds end, Yuli stretches in his chair and calls for a cigarette break. Players rise, some lighting cigars, some leaning back to talk in low voices with their entourage. You start to rise, but Chan is quick like an adder, leaning in and growling, “Come with me.”
You don’t exactly say yes, but you stumble to your feet when Chan jerks his chair from the table, jolting you from the arm. He immediately feels guilty about it, reaching out to steady you. Instead, you snatch your arm from him and march toward a far corner of the room, half-screened by shadows and heavy drapery. The music is quieter there when he follows you over, the air a bit thicker.
He stops as you turn, and now it’s just the two of you, inches apart.
You look around. “Is this where you usually drag girls to whisper sweet nothings? Behind velvet curtains and poker chips?”
He exhales like he’s already tired of this. “What are you doing here?”
You blink. “Me? What are you doing here?
“I asked first.”
“Working. You?”
His eye twitches. “Working. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Is this what you do for a living? Syndicate bullshit and flirt with pretty girls and cheat on your girlfriend?”
That throws Chan for a loop. He stalls trying to catch up, not understanding at all.
“Don’t play stupid,” you warn. “You’re not stupid. Then again, I guess I don’t really know you, do I?”
Chan opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I’m so confused right now. Yes, my work is Syndicate bullshit. You never asked so I never told you. Also - what girlfriend?”
You take a step back. “I saw her, you know. The girl. From the store. The one you walked in with.” Chan sucks in a sharp breath. You glare up at him. “She called you Channie. You called her baby.”
He fights the urge to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, unsure how he is having this conversation at this event. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he hisses, looking around to see if he’s drawn any attention yet. As always, Jeonghan is the only pair of eyes on him in the room. “She’s not even someone I like,” he rushes on. “Her name’s Baby. That’s just what people call her. She’s the Architect of the Choi Syndicate.”
You stare. “Her name is Baby?”
Chan pinches the bridge of his nose. “That is what you’re focused on right now?” You stare at him and he nearly growls. “Yes, technically it just stuck when we were kids because she was the youngest - well I’m younger, but she was babied a lot - look, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t calling her that because she’s mine, and if I did, there is an insane blondie who likes guns that would murder me for it.”
You look away, jaw tight. “I thought…” you start to say something, then stop yourself. You shake your head, furious again. “Never mind.”
Chan’s heart is pounding. Everything he’s wanted to say since walking into this room is tangled up in his throat, clawing to get out. “Is that what bothered you? Thinking I was dating her?”
You flinch. He sees it. Sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your chin lifts like you’re bracing for a hit. “No.”
He laughs, then. The fight goes out of him because he sees the lie. Sees the vulnerability, the bitter edge of jealousy. It makes his heart flutter, realizing that you’d been mad at that. Before he can retort, someone calls for another round. You pivot on your heel, marching away and leaving him with his chest tight with everything left unsaid.
Slowly, he follows you back to the table.
When Chan slides into the seat for the next round, he’s still out of sorts. This time, it’s less panic about you being in the room and more about knowing you’d been jealous of Baby. It makes him spiral. What does you being jealous mean? He’d seen the hurt flicker across your face, so honest and raw and-
He cannot think about it right now. He needs to focus on the task at hand, even though your jasmine perfume is making it hard to think and you’re sitting so close to him that he can feel your warmth.
“The Tower has been levying heavy taxes on your businesses, right?” Jeonghan asks Yuli mildly. The question draws Chan’s focus to a needle point. Jeonghan shuffles his cards, not looking up. “A few weeks ago I saw the outcry from businesses. Steep taxes.”
Yuli’s expression tightens. “The Tower has to make a lot of decisions.” It’s a generous answer. “It is… perhaps short-sighted, though.”
Chan tries to focus. He really does. But the man next to him - Daesik, some mid-tier Yong affiliate - leans in toward you. “You know,” he offers, “you could sit on my lap the next round. Chan seems to be losing hands left and right. Maybe you could bring me luck.”
You shift uncomfortably, not responding. Chan tenses. Daesik notices, grinning. “Unless you’re taken? Are you two a thing? I thought you were hired company.”
Again, you say nothing. You stare straight forward, lips pressed in a firm line. Rage makes Chan’s hand shake, and he clenches his fists. “She isn’t available.”
Daesik looks at you. “That true?”
“Yes.”
“Could have fooled me. The way he’s been ignoring you all night, I figured you were up for grabs.”
“Well she’s not,” Chan clips. The words come out harsher than they should, but he’s already too gone to reel it in, composure cracking. “So fuck off.”
The table goes silent. Chan already knows he’s misstepped. Chan never missteps, and yet it’s all he’s done tonight, one wrong foot placed after the other.
Yuli leans back in his chair, his smile thinning. “That’s a rather pointed tone, Chan.I hired her for everyone’s entertainment. Daesik is a guest. Just like you. If he wants her attention and she’s on my clock, I expect her to oblige.”
Across the table, Jeonghan doesn’t speak, but Chan catches the flick of a finger against his glass, a silent warning: pull back. Now.
Chan tries. “She shouldn’t be here,” he says, quieter now, aiming for diplomacy. “It was a miscommunication. She’s not… that kind of staff. Not really part of this.”
Yuli’s eyes flash. “You’re saying I made a mistake?” His voice is low, but cutting. “That I hire incompetents? That I’ve hired someone inexperienced for a party of this caliber?”
“No,” Chan answers quickly, though the tension in his voice betrays him. “That’s not what I meant.”
Yuli leans forward now, elbows on the table, smile gone entirely. “She’s here. At my table. Wearing what I assigned them to wear.”
The air curdles. Chan feels the tension shift and his hand goes to your back, flattening his palm against your spine. You’re rigid, but he feels you lean into the touch, seeking safety. Your hands shake - he can see them - and he curses at himself for putting you in this position.
Jeonghan sets his drink down pointedly, eyes fixed on Yuli with a patience that is menacing. His smile is slight, but Chan knows that smile. Knows the violence in it. It’s Jeonghan’s smile before it rains blood.
“I think,” Jeonghan says softly, “we have overstayed our welcome. Come on, Chan.”
Jeonghan stands with measured grace. Chan rises, tight-jawed and unable to look at you. As he turns from the table, he realizes you’re still sitting. He hesitates, waiting for you.
“Let’s go,” he urges, quiet but firm.
“No,” Yuli announces. “She’s not going with you. I have paid her to be here tonight. She’s here under contract, and you-” He gestures lazily between Jeonghan and Chan. “You’re both leaving.”
“She’s not staying.”
Before Chan can get another word out, Yuli lifts a hand and the room fills with Yuli’s personal bodyguards, hands brushing over their jackets. Chan moves instinctively, only to feel Jeonghan’s palm grab the back of his neck, scruffing him.
“Careful,” Jeonghan growls.
Chan’s hand is on your wrist. He feels you trembling under his touch, rooted between wanting to go with Chan and knowing that if you do, there will be violence.
Yulie’s voice sharpens. “Remove your hand from her. Take her with you, and I’ll consider it theft.”
“She isn’t your property.”
“And yet,” Yuli says, rising to his feet with the theatrical air of a man who loves having the final word, “I have rented her. So is she yours? No. She stays. You go.”
Silence.
Chan’s fingers twitch. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. He can feel it beading in his hairline. Now, his heart beats as adrenaline surges through him. He’s ready for anything, eyes drifting around the room as he makes everyone a mark, ranking them in the order they need to fall.
He smells blood in the air and he’s ready for it, grip tightening on your wrist to pull you down and shield you before he acts.
Jeonghan exhales once through his nose and steps forward, light and lethal. “Yuli,” he says, almost kindly. “I suggest you let the girl come with us.”
Yuli’s grin drops. “Or what?”
“You know what.”
Yuli narrows his eyes. “That a threat?”
“No. A reminder.” Jeonghan’s voice stays soft. “I know about Arkos. The safehouse. The twins.” Yuli freezes, his face leeching of all color. “I have all the information and the addresses, the schedules. Copied on two separate drives. One is in my personal safe, and the other is with my sister. Who do you think is faster? My sister who is already in Arkos on vacation, or you driving three hours from Hyperion?”
A hush ripples through the room. This is why Yoon Jeonghan is the Wisdom of the most powerful Syndicate in Hyperion. This is the man that Yoon Minji trained to perfection to take her place, wicked sharp and more lethal than any amount of brawn or weapon could make a human being.
Chan had no idea Angel was in Arkos. Doesn’t even know if Jeonghan is bluffing or being serious. That’s the thing with Jeonghan - you never know, so all of his threats are real.
Yuli looks split between murderous and panicked, his chest heaving as he figures out what to do. He seems to weigh his options, trying to puzzle out if Jeonghan’s threat about Angel is accurate.
Jeonghan cocks his head. It’s sharp and predatory. “You think I came without insurance?”
Yuli doesn’t move for a moment. Then, his tongue runs over his teeth, followed by a sharp, bitter exhale. “Fine. Take the bitch.”
Jeonghan doesn’t speak. He simply turns, his every step calm, deliberate. Measured. A man walking a highwire and pretending it’s solid ground. Chan mirrors him, shoulder squared, jaw locked. You stick close, nearly tucked beneath his arm.
No one dares stop you.
As soon as you hit the stairs, Chan feels your body press fully into his side. He slips a hand around your waist, grounding you. You're trembling faintly. His own hands aren’t much steadier. The scent of jasmine hits him hard, a knife under his ribs. The desire for you is so strong he closes his eyes for a half-second, breaths deep.
It’s not the time, so he shoves it down.
Outside, it feels like surfacing from underwater. The night air bites, cold and honest. The car is idling, a driver opening the door while one of Soonyoung’s Swords stands with his hand in his jacket, ready to draw if he needs to.
Chan gets you into the car first, palm steady on your back as you climb in. He makes sure to block the doorway, shielding you in case anyone decides to shoot you all from behind afterall. You say nothing. Instead, you curl in slightly like you’re bracing for an aftershock. He slides in beside you, surprised when you reach for him, almost on autopilot.
He lets you. The scent of jasmine hits him again when you lean into him, still shaking.
Jeonghan slides in on the other side of Chan, shutting the door with a bang that feels louder than a gunshot. You flinch and he murmurs a soothing word, tucking you into his side. It’s the closest he’s ever been to you and he hates the circumstances, hates that somehow, he’s run out of luck afterall.
The car pulls forward. Nobody speaks. The silence is brutal.
Your fingers tremble in Chan’s lap. He tightens his grip around you, light enough to not hurt, firm enough to try and tell you that he’s got you. His other hand rests in his lap, still shaking, still wanting to draw blood.
You shouldn’t have been there. He still can’t figure out why you were there in the first place. He should have walked out the second he saw you, should have left when Jeonghan told him to, cut his losses and not gambled-
“Hello.” Jeonghan’s voice slices through the quiet like a knife on silk. Chan’s stomach knots as he glances where Jeonghan has leaned forward, his eyes alighting on you. “I’m Jeonghan. Can I call you Cherry? Chan calls you Cherry.”
You give him a tiny nod and he grins like the cat that ate the canary. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but you and your stupid lapdog of a boyfriend have thoroughly fucked up my night.”
Chan’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. There’s no point. Because Jeonghan’s not wrong, and Chan is just trying to keep you breathing next to him long enough to fix whatever the hell he’s gotten all of you into.
-
Wind makes the building creak and groan. You have long since gotten used to the moaning whispers of your apartment walls, just hoping that the old building doesn’t decide to give up and fall down on top of you.
It’s entirely possible. A few months ago, a building just like yours, old and out of code and full of people had collapsed in on itself, killing hundreds, people missing for days. The pile of rubble and rust is still there, the dust hanging in the air like the ghost of the screams of those trapped inside.
The city just… never did anything about it. The Choi Syndicate had attempted to buy the land with the intention of removing the rubble and recovering the bodies, but this strip of neighborhood belonged to the Kim family.
The Choi Syndicate.
A flash of fear and fascination goes through you. Never in a million years would you have thought that Chan was a member of the Choi Syndicate - a high ranking one, no less. When he had stepped foot into the party a few nights ago, your entire world had shattered. You had seen him and frozen in place, confused, elated, then terrified all at once.
And he’d been with Yoon Jeonghan, the fucking Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate.
You don’t know how you didn’t put it together before. Polished, charming Chan. Smooth-talking, flirty Chan. That night he had come into the store with the girl he called Baby should have been the night you put it all together. Now you know why you thought she looked familiar, her face plastered in news articles and all over screens while posing next to her brother, Choi Seungcheol, at events across the city.
Chan worked for - no, was friends with - some of the most dangerous and influential people in the city. Chan was dangerous and influential. And yet you had never known, both of you existing in your tiny bubble of cherry sours and a single, gifted paperback book.
Nausea makes your stomach roll uncomfortably. That night exists as a nightmare now, equal parts terror, intrigue and embarrassment. Fear at how close you had come to being caught in violence you’ve only seen on the news, intrigue at the way Chan had held you close and called you his, embarrassment that you’d been there in the first place.
You haven’t talked about it. Didn’t talk about it on the drive home where you muttered directions to your apartment, Jeonghan muttering a comment about how Chan should move you somewhere that wasn’t a health risk. Didn’t talk about it despite Chan forcing you to exchange phone numbers to make sure you were safe. Didn’t talk about it because you answered none of his calls and none of his texts.
Didn’t know what to say. Still don’t. So the texts and calls go unanswered, despite the gnawing desire to pick up the phone and hear his voice again, to pretend that it’s him murmuring in your ear that it’s okay like he had that night, pressed against you and warm. Safe.
But the world doesn’t pause just because your life has fallen apart. The world has never paused for you. So you peel yourself off the single chair in your apartment and get ready for your shift at the convenience store.
The floor is cold beneath your feet. You flick on the bathroom light and wait for the flickering bulb to turn on. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. It depends on the fluctuating power grid and the need for power in the Upper District and beyond.
You dress quickly and in layers. It’s cold and rainy today, a tropical storm blowing in cold hair from the far coast and chasing away the sticky humidity temporarily. It’s a simple outfit: black pants, a work hoodie with a peeling logo on the chest, and a windbreaker that you found in the lost and found bin at work two winters ago. It’s missing a zipper, but it helps with the wind.
Your backpack is already half packed. You shove a bottle of water, a granola bar - because you’re not allowed to eat anything in the store on shift for free - and the keys to your apartment. The keys are a bit of a joke, considering anyone could kick your door down with a solid attempt.
Out the door and into the hall, you lock the door behind you. Not that you have much to protect, outside of the single paperback book that burns in the back of your mind, hidden under your pillow.
The hallway is dim, lit by a single buzzing ceiling fixture that casts long, flickering shadows down the hall. Mrs. Han from 23B is arguing with her dog again, her voice echoing from the apartment next to you. You start the trek down the stairs - all twenty three flights. The elevator had long since fallen down the shaft, killing the people inside of it before you ever moved in.
Twenty three lights is a lot. But it gives you time to zone out and focus only on the movement of your legs, only the burn in your thighs and the quickness of your breath as you wind down and down and down.
Finally when you reach the bottom, you’re sweating. You adjust your backpack, strap digging into your shoulder, and push the door to enter the main lobby. The door groans when you push it and slams behind you, vibrating in the metal frame.
Outside the world is wind and mist. It still smells like smog, familiar and acrid. Your breath mists as you make your way to the subway. It’s a few blocks away, the path caved through cracked pavement, hissing cats, Taps in alleyways pushing paraphernalia and explosions of neon from screens and advertisements for pleasure clubs and alternate reality lounges.
When you pass a Tap, you faintly wonder whose banner they’re under. You remember Jeonghan saying that this was Kim territory, so you assume them. It makes you give them wide berth, suddenly wary of every member of a Syndicate in a way that you weren’t before.
The subway station looms ahead, a smear of purple and blinking neon. You head down the stairs, feet tapping against the wet tile, and scan your card at the station gate. The turnstile sticks, like always, and like always, you lift a leg to kick at it until it gives.
A man is arguing with a holographic advertisement as you pass. The hologram doesn’t see him - doesn’t know he’s there. How could it? Still, the man yells something unintelligible at it, his frame crooked and leaning heavily to the side like a reed under too much water weight.
The train arrives with a gust of wet, sour air. You step inside and grab a pole, swaying when the car lurches forward. Ads scroll past the digital screens overhead, pushing plastic surgery, new modifications, biotech pills. It’s interrupted by a headline about a Kim family member being arrested and immediately released the same night.
Nothing new. Everything new. You wonder what that means for Chan. Does something like that affect him? Did he have something to do with it? You have all of these new questions, but you’re unsure if you want any of the answers.
You ride in silence, watching the city shapeshift as you cross districts. Graffiti fades into clean walls, grime into polished chrome. The Upper District arrives like a clinical slap to the senses: clean lines, glowing storefronts, security drones.
It’s drier here when you exit the station near the convenience store. You blend into the night, invisible to the partygoers heading to clubs a single district over and the suits exiting from buildings after insane hours at work.
The store comes into view, its bright signage a familiar beacon. You let out a breath, thankful that you can return to the routine and try to forget about Chan, maybe. This is a place you know. Here, you understand the shape of things, what they’re made of.
Inside, you’re greeted by the soft hum of refrigerated cases and the scent of cleaner. It’s almost comforting. Almost. You clock in at the back, scanning your finger on a screen similar to the one you use at the laundromat. You pull on your store-issued apron, fingers tying it around your back before you pass Eren with a nod as he heads out, wordless and tired.
At least working the graveyard shift means quiet hours. No one should bother you, allowing you to do stock or to scan items in inventory. It also means all the time in the world to think, which is exactly what you do as you attempt to lose yourself in stocking shelves and fridges.
No matter how hard you try, your thoughts go back to him.
To Chan.
Chan, with his easy grin and soft eyes, who liked to buy cherry sours. Chan who offered pieces of himself in small, delicate conversations and light teases.
Chan, who was a high-ranked member of the Choi Syndicate. Who walked into that party like a blade wrapped in silk. Who had growled a warning at those men and who clung to you so hard you could still feel the imprint of his hand now.
You see the memory in your mind’s eye: Jeonghan’s gaze, sharp as glass, the casual way the men talked about you like you were a piece of furniture in the room, Cara’s panic as she watched Chan take you. The way Chan stood too still, too tense, like he had been preparing to start a war if they took you away from him.
It’s embarrassing to realize how much you hadn’t known about him. And how could you, really? You’ve only talked to him for fifteen minutes at a time over the last few weeks, needing inference and his idle conversation to give you clues about himself.
Still, you had trusted him. Trusted that despite the fact he was clearly not like you, that he was at least similar in soul. It was a dramatic kind of trust, but a quiet one. One that said you see me and I trust you to keep seeing me.
You’re restocking instant noodles when the door chimes and you hear the rush of wind. You glance up, half-expecting some salaryman or a sleepy student, but your heart lurches violently when you see him. He’s standing just inside the door, dressed down in a hoodie, but there’s no mistaking him. He looks tired. His eyes scan the store until they land on you, and his shoulders drop just slightly, like he was holding his breath.
You straighten up too fast. The cup noodles clatter onto the shelf. “You should not be here.”
“I wanted to talk.”
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He holds up his phone, annoyance twisting his face. “You haven’t answered me in days.”
You scoff. “Did you really expect me to? After—what, that? After finding out you’re not just some guy who likes sour candy and books, but someone who gets invited to parties by Jeonghan?”
“I didn’t lie to you,” he says quietly.
“No,” you agree. “You just let me believe you were harmless.”
His face screws up. “Whatever version of me you conjured up isn’t my fault. I never implied I was harmless. I never implied anything.”
It stings because it’s true. You feel bitter about it, knowing how right he is. You shove the cup of noodles on the shelf and walk toward the counter, needing to put something between you, needing a shield.
“Well, you can’t just show up here.”
“Please just let me-”
“I’m not ready to talk to you.” The silence that follows is loaded. He watches you, eyes round. Hurt. “Please.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but the words don’t come. He gives you a last look, eyes unreadable, and then turns to leave. The bell jingles gently in his wake. The silence that follows is heavy with tension.
You press a hand to your chest, trying to steady the sharp rhythm of your heart. You feel strung out and hollow, as if he’s somehow taken all the air with him when he left. Sinking behind the counter, you try to steady your shaking hands. You hate that you’re still shaking. Hate that part of you had wanted him to protest more, but begrudgingly appreciate he respected your request.
For a while, you sit there. You watch a moth flutter around a neon sign, oddly grounding. It’s quiet and for the first time in a few days, you don’t have any thoughts. No worries, no sounds, just the blue light and a single moth, fluttering as it chases something.
You peel yourself off the floor and go back to stacking ramen cups and wiping down the counters. The rhythm of work helps. It always has. Your hands remember what to do even when your brain is fogged and aching.
When the door opens this time, you don’t hear it, too caught up in the wet slosh of the mop in a bucket, eyes staring but unseeing as you press the mop into the tile door. When you come around the corner, you pull up short at the three men standing in the doorway.
Your blood runs cold.
Had more time passed, you might not recognize the man from the party a few nights ago. His name doesn’t stick - David, Donnick, Daesik. The man who had nearly started a fight with Chan over you, his hands in the pocket of a sleek jacket, like he’s attending a business meeting. There’s a tilt to his smile that makes you tighten your grip on the mop, skin crawling.
“You’re easy to find.” His eyes slide over the shelves before they make their way back to you. “But I realize that people like you don’t know how to disappear. You’re really not of this world, are you?”
Your throat tightens. “Can I help you?”
He raises an eyebrow, like the question amuses him. “You’re certainly going to.”
Terror makes you take a step back. You pull the mop in front of you, a shield or weapon you’re not sure. Your heart kickstarts, pounding so fast you swear you can feel it in your toes.
“I didn’t do anything to you,” you murmur, quiet.
He shrugs. “I’m insulted. I deserve an apology.”
“Fine. I’m sorry.”
Your phone is sitting on the shelf right next to you. You make the mistake of looking at it. He notices and you both act at the same time. He lunges for you and you leap for the phone, both of you crashing into the display. You scream as you both go down with the shelf, a tangle of limbs and chips.
It hurts, but you hit dial anyway. Daesik rolls on top of you, pinning you down by the forearms. You’re still holding the phone, unsure if it’s connected. You can’t hear anything over your own screaming and thrashing, lifting your hips and kicking your legs as you try to throw him off of you.
Daesik leans down, a smile twisting his face. You seize the opportunity and throw your head forward, your forehead connecting with his nose.
Pain explodes. Your ears ring. Your vision sputters. All you can see is red, head spinning as you fall backward, dazed from the hit. Someone is yelling and you feel a boot on your hand where it holds the phone. Something loud slices the air - your screaming, you realize.
And then something crashes, glass exploding inward. Daesik is off of you and for a moment, the world is nothing but glass glittering like rain as the window shatters inward. You hold an arm up, feeling the bite of shards cut into your arm where it’s exposed.
A car is idling in the front of the store. You’re less surprised at the car and more surprised to see Chan sliding over the hood, planting his foot into the chest of a man with enough force to send him flying into the drink fridge, the glass door cracking under the impact. The man crumples and remains motionless.
Another figure steps through the wreckage behind him, someone you don’t recognize. She’s grinning, eyes manic. Her eyes gleam with something sharp and hungry, and the moment she moves, you understand why. She doesn’t fight like a person. She flows, quick and precise, slipping past a punch and lashing out with one arm.
Red erupts from the man's throat. You gasp. You hadn’t realized she was holding a knife. Hadn’t realized she was already cutting him again. Again. Again. Fast, brutal slashes that seem almost too fluid to be real. With each flick of her wrist, more blood arcs through the air. The man crumples, clutching at his neck, choking on his own breath as he drops to his knees.
Daesik tries to scramble up, but he’s too slow. Chan slams into him like a freight train, taking him back down into the carnage of shelving and snacks. You roll away from the chaos, gasping in pain. Vomit climbs up your throat, head throbbing as you try to gain your bearings.
You sit upright and the room swims. Through the blur, you see Chan pin Daesik to the ground, one knee crushing into his chest. His hand is steady. The blade he holds is pressed flush to Daesik’s throat. His face is unrecognizable, fury distorting every line of it, a rage that is burning, holy, inhuman.
“I told you once,” Chan seethes, spittal flying. “Not. Yours. Say hello to all the other Kims and Yongs we’ve sent to the fucking afterlife.”
He drags the blade across Daesik’s throat. You turn away before you see it. You don’t need to. You hear it. Smell the iron and salt of it.
The store is a disaster of glass, blood, and chaos strewn across the floor. None of it feels real. Not yet. You sit curled up in the wreckage, your arms wrapped around your ribs, body aching in more places than you can count. Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts. You try to focus on anything that isn’t the iron tang in the air or the sticky warmth drying on your skin.
Footsteps approach, crunching through the destruction. Someone crouches in front of you and then you hear Chan’s soft, “Hey.” You look up at him, eyes scanning his face. There’s blood splattered across his tan skin. You don’t think it’s his own. “I’ve got you.”
Chan licks his lips and reaches for you and then hesitates, hovering just shy of touching you. “Can I? Are you hurt anywhere I can’t see?”
You nod. “I think I cracked a rib. My head hurts really bad.”
Chan’s eyes flit to your forehead and his mouth twitches. “Did you break his nose?”
“I think so.”
“Good girl.”
A shadow moves past behind him. Light, purposeful steps. “Gnarly. Is she coherent?”
Chan glances over his shoulder, exhaling. “Yeah. Angel, easy.”
Angel crouches beside him, resting her chin on one hand like she’s studying you. She has the same blood smeared across her sleeves, same wild glint in her eyes. She smiles. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… weirdly friendly.
“Good job breaking his nose. Pretty decent for your first time.”
The woman - Angel - offers you a hand. Her nails are painted and glossy, the juxtaposition against the dried blood on her wrist making you oggle at her.
“Don’t worry,” she winks. “I only use the knife on people who deserve it. Cherry, right? That’s what Jeonghan called you.”
Cherry. Jeonghan had called you that a few nights ago, implied that Chan had been calling you the cherry sours girl.
You nod slowly.
“Cute. Jeonghan liked you, so you must not suck.”
For some reason, the thought of Yoon Jeonghan signing off on you is not at all comforting.
Chan sighs. “Angel, please.”
“What?” she grins. “I’m being reassuring.”
You look at her hand. Then back to Chan. Then slowly, cautiously, let her help you to your feet. Pain radiates down your side and you wince, hissing through your teeth. Chan’s arm is under you instantly, steadying you.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, softer this time. “I promise.”
Angel steps back with a hum, eyes flicking around the store. “Jihoon is going to fucking kill us. Do you think Kero will come burn the place down?”
Chan glares at her. “We’re not burning it down.”
“Oh, so now arson is too far?” She gives him an innocent look. “Where was that energy ten minutes ago when I drove a fucking car through the window?”
“Yeah, what the fuck was that? That’s my car, Angel.”
“Tell Baby to buy you another one! She loves giving people shit on Christmas.”
You let out a small, choked laugh before you can stop it. A ridiculous sound. But you’re suddenly grateful for her madness, because it’s easier to focus on that than the blood drying on the floor.
“Come on,” Chan murmurs, guiding you toward the back door. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Where are we going?” you manage.
“Somewhere safe.”
Angel trails behind you, humming as she steps over a body. “I’ll drive.” Chan shoots her a look. “Right, no car. So are we walking, or?”
-
You do in fact, take a car. You have to walk a few hurried blocks first, getting away from the scene of the crime as sirens scream in the distance. Angel makes a quick call and a sleek, black car pulls up to the curb for the three of you.
You barely remember getting into the car, or Angel tossing a bloodied blade into the glove compartment like it’s a pack of gum. You don’t remember the way the city lights slid across the windows or how Chan never let go of your hand, not once. Only when the car begins winding through tree-lined roads and passing silent iron gates do you begin to come back into your body.
“Holy shit,” you mutter, looking out the window. “What is this place?”
An entire jungle exists here, snatches of drives leading up to secluded houses. It’s beautiful in a way that feels haunting, old trees, stone paths. You’ve never seen so much green in your life, breath fogging the window as you pass through the tropical paradise, tires hissing on gravel.
“Go to my house, please,” Chan tells the driver.
The car turns down a near-invisible path in the trees. You watch as the world vanishes into a world of palmetto and palms. Chan’s thumb strokes back and forth on your hand, but he says nothing, frame vibrating with tense silence.
Chan helps you out of the car, his hand gentle at your back. Angel remains in the passenger seat, grinning as the car pulls away back down the path before it vanishes.
His house is nothing like you imagined. Not glass and steel or sharp, cold edges. No guards posted out front. No high walls. Just… nature. Dense tropical trees surround the house on every side, vines thick with dew, leaves rustling overhead in the cool air.
The house itself is low and sprawling, dark wood and warm stone, glowing from the inside with soft amber light. Plants hang in pots by the porch. There’s a hammock slung between two posts. Wind chimes stir gently in the breeze.
You stare.
“What? Chan asks, a little shy.
“This is beautiful.”
“Oh, uh. Family home. A lot of us um - live on property. Angel and Vernon are just up the road and Baby and Soonyoung are in the main house.”
Inside, the house is warm. It looks lived in and cozy. There are books everywhere, some open, some dog-eared, some stacked haphazardly beside a record player. A large worn couch faces a fireplace filled with glowing coals. A low table holds three mismatched mugs, one with tea still in it. There’s a blanket thrown across the back of a chair and a pile of laundry peeking out of a hallway basket. On the wall hangs a corkboard with photos pinned to it.
A home. One where generations have lived. Chan is pressed into these walls, his entire family’s history all here.
You swallow hard as he leads you to the couch. It smells like cedar, citrus, and something distinctly Chan. He helps you sit with a soft grunt. Your ribs pang and you curl your arms around them. He murmurs that he’ll be right back before vanishing down the hall, returning just as quickly with a med kit and a bottle of water.
“Let me see,” he says gently, kneeling in front of you.
You hesitate, then pull your shirt up just enough to reveal the bruises blooming across your ribs. His fingers brush your side with clinical precision, but you still feel the tension vibrating under his skin. His eyes are laser-focused, intense and dark. He doesn’t press hard, but his fingers map the edge of the damage.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” he murmurs, looking up at you with pinched brows. “Angel will bring Dr. Ymir to confirm, though.” He gestures to your head, where you realize it’s cut. “May I?
You nod and he cleans it, his touch careful. He works in silence, tension thrumming between the two of you all the while.
When Chan finally speaks, it’s pained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen and it did and… that’s on me.”
You look at him. Really look at him. His jaw is clenched. His hair is still mussed from the fight. There’s a smear of blood, some on the collar of his shirt. And yet his eyes are full of something unbearably human.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Who you were. What you were part of. I just thought… you liked cherry sours and paperback novels.”
He huffs a faint breath. “I do. I also happen to kill people who try to hurt the ones I care about. It’s not mutually exclusive. Does it… change anything?”
What is there to change? You almost ask, but don’t. You think about his question. Then ask one of your own, “Is it always like this?”
Chan tilts his head. “Like what?”
“People showing up. Trying to hurt you. People like Angel cutting throats and then offering to make tea.”
He snorts. “I can’t lie and say it’s not. It’s worse than usual right now. The family is at war and well…” He chews his lip. “I am so fucking sorry I brought you into this. Had I just… left you alone at the party…”
After a beat, you reach for his hand and squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He looks up at you. “Leave me alone at the party, I mean. Thank you.”
“It was selfish of me. The thought of someone else touching you…” He sighs again and stands up. You wish he would finish his train of thought - want to beg him to finish. “You’re safe now, but you should probably rest. Dr. Ymir will come around to make sure your ribs aren’t broken and to check if you have a concussion. We can figure out what to do then, alright?”
You nod. Let him take you to one of three rooms - this one is clearly his. It smells like him and there are more books scattered around the room, his sheets rumbled. It’s full of earth tones and soft orange light. It’s so different from the cutting edge modern that you’re used to, feeling like you’re stepping back through time to something soft. Homey.
Chan helps you lay down and brushes his fingers across your forehead gently, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Rest. I’ll wake you when the doctor is here.”
-
You lose track of time in the days that follow. The world outside Chan’s house might as well not exist. The estate is so wrapped in dense greenery and quiet security that it starts to feel like a dream you haven't quite woken from.
Dr. Ymir arrives a few hours after the incident. She’s tall, sharp-eyed, and whip-smart, her touch clinical but not unkind as she checks your ribs, bruises, pupils, and reflexes. She doesn’t ask questions. She just hums quietly to herself, pokes you exactly where it hurts most, and tells Chan she’ll be back tomorrow. No broken ribs, no concussion, just a hard fucking head.
“Don’t let her do anything strenuous,” she says as she packs up her kit. “No stress, no stairs, no sharp objects.”
“So no Angel. Got it.”
“She’s surrounded by you,” Dr. Ymir replies dryly. “Which is worse.”
Chan scowls. You hide a smile, deciding that you like this family doctor very much.
That becomes the rhythm of your days: Ymir visits. You heal. Chan hovers. He won’t let you lift anything heavier than a fork. He follows you from the bedroom to the living room like you’re made of glass. He brings you snacks you didn’t ask for, fluffs the pillows behind you, and glares at them like it’s their fault you’re uncomfortable.
One night, you catch him asleep in the armchair beside the bed, his neck bent at an awful angle, arms crossed, a book half-open in his lap. You stare at him in the low light and wonder how long he's been sitting there watching over you.
On the fourth day, you surprise him in the kitchen. He nearly drops a glass when he sees you, rushing to make you sit down at a rustic wooden table.
“Chan, I’m fine.”
“Sit down.” He helps you sit and brings you a cup of coffee. “Drink your coffee and let me helicopter in piece.”
“At least you’re self aware,” you mutter into the mug, taking a sip. It’s sweet, flavored with cinnamon.
Finally, he sits next to you with his own cup. He looks good, dressed in a wrinkled t-shirt and pajama pants. It’s such a stark contrast to the polished Chan that you’ve always known, but you like this version of him. It feels real, now, this thing between you. You don’t know what to name it - don’t think you can give it a name - but there’s something there, buzzing.
You talk about books, about music, about everything except the night that got you here. You start to learn the layout of his home by touch and scent, by the warm corners where he likes to sit and the strange half-painted canvas hanging in the hallway, abandoned.
“Soonyoung,” he deadpans when he catches you looking at it. “Don’t ask.”
On the fifth day, your morning coffee is interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up in the driveaway. Both of you lift your heads. Chan is already moving toward the door, fingers twitching like he’s looking for a weapon. Before he can get there, the door swings open and Angel is stepping inside, dressed in an all black rain slicker and grinning.
“Hello, Household of Chan!” She moves to the kitchen, opening cupboards with practiced ease, clearly a frequent visitor despite how little she acknowledges it. “You look way better. How are you feeling?”
“Umm, better,” you offer, eyes darting to the door where Jeonghan enters like a shadow. He makes you shiver. Chan tries to shut the person behind Jeonghan out, but there’s a tussle at the door and a man with silver-blonde hair enters the room after shoving Chan out of the door. “Definitely better.”
“Hello, Cherry,” Jeonghan says, his tone light but there's an undercurrent of something else. It’s hard to tell what. “Long time no see.”
“Hi.”
The blond man tumbles into the room, still smacking at Chan. “Damn, no wonder you kept going to that goddamn convenience store. She is cute! Congrats.”
You blink, unsure if you should be offended or flattered. He doesn’t give you time to think, slinging himself onto the chair next to you. “Name’s Soonyoung,” he announces, voice practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “Don’t let Chan’s little ‘I’m too cool for everyone’ act fool you. I’m the fun one.”
You can’t help but feel a slight chill run through you. You know who Kwon Soonyoung is. The Sentinel of the Choi Syndicate is a known entity in the city, a violent predator who has been the thorn in the sides of the Yong and Kim families for months now.
“Soonyoung,” Chan says, voice low, “tone it down.”
Chan comes to stand behind you. You feel the heat of him on your back, a comfort that you lean into instinctually. Tentatively, he sets a hand on your shoulder, squeezing. Soonyoung’s stormy eyes lock on to the action and he grins, sharp.
“Sure, Chan,” Soonyoung gives him a cheeky look. “Just making sure she knows what she’s dealing with. Don’t worry, I’m mostly harmless.”
“Mostly harmless?” you ask, knowing this is someone who’s not mostly harmless at all.
“Mostly. You’d be fine. Probably. My girlfriend said you’re normal.” He takes the mug of coffee that Angel offers. He notes your confusion and clarifies, “You met her at the convenience store. That creamsicle gum, by the way? Fucking excellent. Do you have any more?”
Ah. This man belongs to Baby. You cannot imagine how. She seemed refined, regal, like someone who comes from a long line of divinity. This man is brutal, rough around the edges, a storm of blood and steel.
“Soonyoung,” Chan sighs, exasperated.
It’s late morning by the time you all move to the living room and settle, the sun filtering lazily through the wide windows of Chan’s living room. The tropical trees outside cast dappled shadows across the floor, branches swaying gentle in the breeze.
You’re curled up into one end of the long, sun-warmed couch, your knees tucked under you, a blanket draped over your shoulders. A mug of tea - made by Angel - rests in your hands, warm and comforting.
You don’t say much. You don’t need to. The others do all of the talking for you. Not that they talk over you or around you - they talk at you plenty, keeping you in the loop and trying to catch you up to speed on their world.
Across from you, they move with the ease of people who’ve known each other their whole lives. Soonyoung is sprawled across the rug like a lion in the sun, legs stretched out, gesturing wildly as he recounts something that makes Angel snort. She’s perched on the arm of the chair Jeonghan’s taken, leaning over to flick Soonyoung on the head when he gets too dramatic. It only makes him louder, more animated, like being the center of attention feeds something inside him.
Jeonghan, of course, is the calm in the chaos. Quietly smug, lazily amused, his eyes half-lidded as he listens. He’s more relaxed now, a layer of him melting. There is still something hard, there, an exterior you don’t understand. But you watch the way his affection shines through when he tilts his head and listens to Angel talk. At some point, you realized they’re adopted siblings. Once you notice, you cannot help but see the synchronicities in their movements and habits.
And Chan - he’s warmer too. He sits next to you, legs pressed against yours in a way that is overwhelming and distracting. His arms are crossed loosely over his chest, a half-smile on his face. This is the Chan you know from the convenience store.
You realize that your Chan is the same as their Chan. That this unpolished, open version that the people who he’s known his entire life is the same version of him that he gifted you. Even if it was only for fifteen minutes a week, between fluorescent lights and discount candy, he gave you this version of himself, freely, quietly, without expectation.
The thought drives you mad. Makes the room spin with possibilities. If that Chan was real, and if he looked at you then the way he’s looking now-
He is looking at you now. His gaze has drifted, as if drawn to you by an unknown power. It catches and it holds, his eyes never leaving yours. Everything recedes to a distant hum, the chaos of laugher, the quiet brush of leaves against the window - it’s all eclipsed by the weight of Chan’s eyes on yours.
His smile softens and you melt.
Chan doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His gaze dips briefly to your hands curled around your mug, then flicks back up to your face, almost shyly. It’s absurd, the way your heartbeat reacts. How quickly it speeds up.
When he meets your eyes again, there’s a question there. He straightens a little, uncrossing his arms like he might reach for you, like he wants to press you even closer to him and-
Jeonghan’s voice breaks the moment. “I have socialized enough.”
When you turn to look at Jeonghan, his gaze is pinned on you, a lazy smile spreading across his face. He’s read the moment, sees whatever is brewing on your corner of the couch. Soonyoung complains, but Jeonghan’s kicks at him playfully as he stands.
“Take me home, children.”
Angel unpeels herself from the arm of the chair like a cat, eyes flashing as she winks at you. Perhaps she noticed, too. “Bye, Cherry.”
Soonyoung gets to his feet and pouts. “Bye.”
The door clicks shut with the soft finality of departure. Now, silence. Chan hasn’t moved. The air is thick with something unspoken, something that’s been humming between you for days - no, longer. For weeks. In stolen fifteen minute increments.
He leans a little toward you, eyes half-lidded, dropping down to gaze at your mouth. He stares down at you like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s spent every spare moment these past few days trying to keep his hands to himself and is now dangerously close to giving in.
Your heart thuds.
“Chan,” you murmur, not really sure if you’re asking a question or making a statement.
That’s all it takes. Your voice. His name. He moves.
One moment there’s space between you, and the next his hands are cupping your face, and his mouth is crashing into yours like he’s breaking through the surface of water he’s been drowning beneath. It’s not tentative, not careful. It’s raw, heated, desperate. Like he’s been holding this back for far too long and the dam has finally, finally broken.
You gasp into him, the sound swallowed by his lips, by the way his fingers tighten like he’s scared you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. Your hands rise of their own accord, curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in him, anchoring yourself to the moment.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths tangling. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide.
“I can’t,” he pants, voice ragged. “I can’t do this if you don’t want this… whatever we exist in. You asked me if my life was always like this. I was honest: it is and it isn’t. You’ll never be entirely safe if you’re with me, but I will do anything to make it so.”
“I feel safe. Even at that stupid party. You made me feel safe.”
“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I know we haven’t talked about it all or what happened or what comes next. But I can’t be half in, half out with you.”
You don’t respond right away. Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers together, grounding him. Grounding yourself. “I’m good right here.”
He makes a sound, somewhere stuck between relief and desperation. His lips find yours again, softer this time, needy.
Chan presses into you, pinning you against the arm of the couch. Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him in tighter. His mouth is hungry and warm, tongue brushing against yours as he drinks you in. It’s different now. Still tender, but deeper. Slower. Lingering. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth, committing the taste of you to memory. His hands slide down, framing your waist like you’re fragile, like he’s still giving you the chance to stop him.
Instead, you curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down with you as you shift backward, sinking into the cushions. He follows, a soft groan escaping him when your hips press up, a whisper of friction that ignites something low and molten between you.
“Bedroom,” he rasps against your neck, kissing a path just under your jaw. “Not here. Not the couch.”
You nod, breathless, letting him pull you up to your feet. His hands are secure and careful, his mouth returning to yours even before you take a single step. The walk to his bedroom is a blue, a mess of heated kisses and tangled feet. By the time he nudges the door open and manages to get you onto his bed, you’re already trembling with need for him.
He pauses once, hovering above you in the amber light of his room, his chest rising and falling as he pants.
“You sure?” His voice is rough.
You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair. “Come here.”
His mouth is on yours again, hungry now, unrestrained. Clothes are pulled away in slow, dragging touches, and brushing over skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake, despite the warmth of his palms. Your eyes alight on the ink on his arms, fingers tracing delicately. There’s a mountain range covering the circumference of his forearm, all black ink and white highlights.
“Pretty.”
“Steadfast is the mountain,” he answers. It sounds practiced. A mantra.
He straightens, standing at the foot of the bed, lit only by the low lamp in the corner of the room. The shadows fall just right across his cheekbones, but it’s the smile on his face that steals your breath. That crooked, boyish grin you find so fucking charming.
Without a word, he reaches forward and grabs your ankle, pulling you toward him with one smooth tug. You yelp, half-laughing, but he just raises a brow, clearly pleased with himself as your legs dangle a little off the bed. His fingers curl around your ankle, and he brings it to rest on his shoulder, pressing a kiss there, light, deliberate. The heat of his mouth lingers longer than it should.
“So pretty,” he murmurs.
His mouth starts moving again, this time lower. A trail of kisses down your calf, his lips brushing each inch with slow reverence, only interrupted by a sudden, playful nip to the meat of your leg. It makes your leg twitch. Makes your stomach flip.
You bit your lip, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. His mouth leaves fire in its path, makes you tremble. It feels good, his breath skating across your skin, his touch reverant, like you’re something to be cherished.
Chan sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, settling between your legs like he belongs there. The carpet muffles the sound of him shifting forward as he slides your leg over his shoulder, resting your calf against his back. When you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, your breath catches.
Gone is the playful boy from the convenience store. In his place is pure hunger. Adoration. Focus.
His palms slide along the curves of your things, slow and meticulous, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs draw tiny circles near your knees, then move inward, kneading softly, coaxing you open. His hands feel too good, making your eyelids flutter.
You can’t help the sigh that escapes you. “Feels good.”
He hums in response but says nothing else. Instead, he dips his head down and kisses your thigh, then the other, then the space between, mouthing over your already damp underwear. You curse, head falling back heavily as Chan’s tongue laves over the fabric, soaking it with a mix of spit and your arousal.
Hooking his fingers in the sides of your underwear, he pulls them slowly down. He tosses them somewhere behind him and presses your legs apart, hands firm, eyes dropping to take in the sight of you, wet, aching and already trembling for him. He groans under this breath.
“Fuck.”
You bite your lip. Your heart’s hammering. The room pulses with tension.
And then he leans forward, and his tongue meets you, slow and deliberate. The first stroke is long, flat, dragging through your folds like he’s savoring you. You moan softly, your fingers fisting the sheets. He doesn’t stop, tongue exploring, teasing, avoiding your clit just enough to make you whimper.
“Chan,” you whimper, voice no louder than a whisper.
“Good girl,” he mutters, giving your cunt a long lick. “Say my name just like that.”
You do. He groans, diving back in, tongue circling your clit now, the pressure just right. Every slow, slick stroke sends heat coiling in your stomach. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.
His warm hands ground you, one gripping your thigh, the other stroking slow, soothing patterns into your hip. It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. You’re melting and coming undone in his hands, and he’s barely started.
A breathy whine leaves your mouth when Chan starts to eat you out properly. You drop down to the bed, unable to keep yourself propped up. A hand shoots to his hair, tangling your fingers in the silky threads as you tug. He grunts in appreciation, his tongue rolling up and down your slick pussy.
When he fastens his mouth on your cunt and gives a gentle suck, you nearly die. It feels so good, your thighs shaking around his thread. He hums, satisfied, tongue prodding your entrance teasingly before dragging up to circle your clit lazily.
“Tastes so good,” he mutters, more to himself than you. He lets a glob of spit drip onto your clit, his tongue chasing it. “Fuck.”
“Shit,” you squeak, feeling your orgasm loom closer. “I’m gonna- fuck.”
“Good.”
He buries his face in deeper, picking up pace. You drip into his mouth and he swallows it down, not shy about the way his mouth sucks at you, loud, wet, lewd. You’re shaking underneath him, barely able to breathe, his tongue sliding back and forth over your throbbing clit.
Chan dips his head low, suctioning his mouth to you, sucking harshly from entrance to clit. It sends you slamming into your orgasm, thighs twitching around his head, body shaking, back spasming. He continues to mouth at you, tongue circling your entrance, catching every drop of you.
When he’s done, he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs, marking you with spit and cum. You don’t care, and you definitely don’t care when he hovers back over you, mouth shining in the orange light with your arousal.
Lifting your head, you crash your mouth into his, tasting yourself on his tongue, tangy and heady. He groans, letting you consume him as the two of you shuffle up the bed. His skin hot against yours, stomach jumping underneath your touch as your nails scrape down his front to press firmly against his sweatpants.
Chan lets out a needy moan. You grin, wicked and spurred by the sound. You squeeze him through the fabric, reducing him to a whining mess, his head dropping down to your shoulder as he pants, letting you give him the barest amount of friction.
His hips twitch into your hand, little jerks of motion as your hand shocks his system. You love the way sounds for you, love how he sounds throaty, voice broken, mouth desperate where he plants kisses on your neck.
“Let me taste you,” you murmur, pulling at the band of his sweatpants. “Please.”
Chan peels off of you and shuffles up the bed. You blink at him, stars in your eyes, watching with swollen lips and your mouth parted as he knees next to you. He tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and peels them down, revealing his thick, heavy cock. It bobs, dark tip swollen and beading with precum.
Your mouth waters. You remain laying on the bed, batting your eyelashes at him as you reach for him. He’s hard in your hand, warm to the touch. He pants heavily as you stroke his velvety shaft, his head falling back a little, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut.
Chan is beautiful like this, on his knees, hands fisted against his thigh as your hand pumps him leisurely. Your hand rounds the top of his cock, thumb brushing across the sensitive tip, smearing his precum down his shaft. Then you’re rolling on your side, guiding him toward your mouth and he shifts, shuffling to accommodate the space.
“Fuck,” he hisses, air slicing between his teeth.
Your lips close around Chan, the familiar weight of him settling on your tongue. You trace the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate, feeling the warmth of his skin. His breath hitches, a quiet tremor running through him as you draw him in, your movements steady, unhurried.
You pull back, a thin thread of saliva glinting briefly before it snaps. Lying back, you meet his gaze and murmur, “Use my mouth.”
“You’re gonna kill me,” he heaves.
Still, he complies. He shifts closer, one hand steadying himself as he looks down at you, eyes dark with want. You part your lips, tongue extended, an open invitation. He shakes his head, almost disbelieving, and brushes the tip of himself against your tongue.
You give him a single, wet lick and he’s cursing again, laughing at the way you make him fall apart. This time, he sinks into your mouth carefully. You’re mindful of your teeth, suctioning your cheeks as he slides
in. It’s a challenge for him, every inch making his cock twitch.
Still, he complies. He shifts closer, one hand steadying himself as he looks down at you, eyes dark with want. You part your lips, tongue extended, an open invitation. He shakes his head, almost disbelieving, and brushes the tip of himself against your tongue.
His free hand drifts downward, fingers grazing your thigh before slipping between your legs. He groans at the wet mess he finds there, fingers slipping against your clit. You hum around him, hips twitching as you spark with pleasure. The dual sensation, his slow thrusts in your mouth, his fingers working your cunt, sets your nerves alight, a soft moan vibrating against him as he presses deeper into both your mouth.
Chan drags his fingers down, pressing them to your entrance. You nod, mouth full of cock, desperate for his fingers.
“Want my fingers?” You hum, looking up at him with a watery lash line. “Good fuckin’ girl.”
His fingers grow more deliberate, parting you with a gentle insistence, exploring your slick heat. He curls them just right, finding that spot that makes your hips buck involuntarily. Your muffled gasp around him only spurs him on, his touch steady but relentless.
Each stroke is precise, his thumb brushing against your clit in tandem, building a rhythm that matches the slow rock of his hips. Your body tenses, thighs trembling as he pushes you closer to the edge, his fingers slick and unyielding, drawing out every shudder and pulse while you struggle to keep your focus on the weight of him in your mouth.
Chan pulls out of your mouth. You protest but he shuffles down the bed and hushes you with a kiss. “I’m not cumming in your mouth.” You pout and he laughs, fingers working your cunt. “Think you can take me?”
“Please.”
He surprises you by laying next to you, reaching over and grabbing you and rolling you on him. Your knees settle on either side of his waist, your chest pressed against his. He grins down at you, hands skimming down your sides to your waist where he squeezes before continuing to your ass, dragging his nails across your skin.
“Don’t tease me,” you whine, rolling your pussy against his wet shaft.
“You don’t tease me!”
“No fun.”
Reaching between you, Chan strokes himself, spreading slick down his shaft. You lift your hips just a little, letting him press his tip against your entrance before you sink down on him slowly. You moan in tandem, his cock stretching you to the fullest. Inch by inch, you take him, until he’s fully sheathed, your body flush against his, breaths ragged.
The fullness is overwhelming, Chan buried deep, your chest pressed to his. For a moment, you stay still, breaths intertwining, lips brushing but not quite kissing. It’s raw, close, the heat of him grounding you.
His hands find your thighs, gripping firmly as he begins to move you, lifting you along his length before pulling you back down. His hips rise to meet you, a steady rhythm that sends sparks through your core. You gasp, a shiver racing through you, and you match his pace, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck. Your knees dig into the mattress, giving you leverage to rock against him, each motion drawing a soft groan from his lips.
Chan’s thrusts deepen, deliberate, each one stoking the heat coiling low in your belly. You lean forward, lips grazing his jaw, his pulse thrumming beneath your touch. His grip tightens, one hand sliding to your hip, guiding you faster, harder.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Just like that.”
His words send a jolt through you, your walls clenching around him, earning a low growl. You’re close too, the pressure building with every thrust, every brush of his cock against that perfect spot inside you.
A hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with just the right pressure. Your hips stutter, a whine escaping as the sensation pushes you to the edge. You gasp, digging your nails into the back of his neck. He doesn’t let up, his thrusts relentless, jostling you, fingers working you until your vision blurs.
It hits you first, a wave crashing over you as you tighten around him, coming undone. Your moans are broken, hips jerking as you ride your high, thighs burning, trembling against him. The way you throb around him sends him over the edge. With a choked groan, he thrusts deep a final time, spilling inside you, heels digging into the mattress.
You remain tangled limbs, you on his chest, both of you panting and slick with sweat. His arms wrap around you, loose but warm. As your heartbeats slow together, his hand begins to trace patterns up and down your spine.
After a while, Chan shifts beneath you. He leans back, looking at you. You smile, resting your chin on his chest. You’re so close you can count each one of his silk eyelashes.
“So… you’re staying, yeah?” His voice is small when he asks. Hesitant. “I don’t mean just until you’re feeling better. I mean that I want you here. With me. We can figure out what’s next. I just…”
“I’ll stay,” you whisper. Then grin, quoting Romeo and Juliet when you murmur, “For parting is such sweet sorrow.”
That gets a grin out of him. “I have lots of books for you to read.”
“I’ve noticed. You have… more books than I thought possible.”
“They’re yours. Anything of mine belongs to you.”
Your hand slides up his chest, resting over his beating heart. “I just need this.”
“You have that. You’ve had that since the first night I walked into that store and you recommended cherry sours.” He pauses. “You know that store is not remotely on my way home, right?”
“What?”
He grins. “I go out of my way every week to go there. Just to see you. It made me happy.”
Your heart thrums in time with his. “Me too.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs as you rest your face in his neck, snuggling closer. “For offering those cherry sours that night. For staying.”
You press a kiss to his collarbone, unable to articulate just how thankful you are for him, despite everything.
-
Angel stands in front of you, her arms crossed as she watches you with an intensity that makes you want to run. Her arms are corded muscle, winding with black ink. She has an image of an angel falling down her forearm, the feathers drifting upward toward a starry sky. Most members of the Syndicate are tattooed, Chan included.
Your eyes drift over to him, drinking him in. He’s squaring off with Soonyoung a few mats over, sweating through his tank top, arms up. His tattoos flex as he throws a jab, glistening under the neon lights and sweat.
“Come on,” Angel instructs, tapping her foot impatiently. “Eyes here, not on your sweaty rat of a boyfriend.”
You shift awkwardly. “I don’t know how I am ever going to be able to throw a punch like that. You make it look easy.”
“I’ve been hitting people since I was ten. I punched the Tower in the stomach when we were kids once.” Your eyes go round and she grins, all teeth. “Watch me.”
She changes her stance, twisting her arm as she slowly goes through the motion of an exaggerated jab. “Always follow through. You need to punch through something, not at it.”
You try to replicate the movement. The move is clumsy and Angel winces. “Try again.”
Before you can try again, a loud thud echoes through the gym. You glance over to see Soonyoung in the background, pinning Chan down to the mat. Chan is stomach down - you have no idea how that happened - growling and trying to throw Soonyoung off of him.
Soonyoung is grinning, clearly enjoying every moment of it. “Nice try, Chariot.”
“A bit of advice.” Angel’s voice brings you back to the present. “Don’t be stupid like your boyfriend and challenge the Sentinel every morning. He gets his ass beat most days.” She gestures to your hands. “Try again. Hit me like you mean it.”
Soonyoung helps Chan to his feet. Claps him on the back. There’s so much love in these walls, even when throwing punches and trading blows. You look at Angel and make a fist, retaking your stance.
Have you ever taken anyone’s virginity before? Well, yeah, your first time was both losing your own and taking someone else’s but, that was a long time ago. Have you ever taken the virginity of a twenty-six-year-old man who probably should have gotten laid by now anyway? Nope. Are you about to? Yep.
or the one where soonyoung has a streak of bad luck in bed and his friends make fun of him for it, you find him advertising himself on a dating app and decide to help him out.
ao3 | m.list | minors dni! | kindly leave feedback and reblog, i will kiss your forehead so fucking fast if you do.
WORDCOUNT― 12.2k
PAIRING― soonyoung x afab reader
CONTENT― virgin guy who lives with his parents!soonyoung, he’s not shy but he is very clumsy, a lot of texting so be prepared for that format for a lil bit (THIS IS NOT A SOCIAL MEDIA AU), facetime-sex, real life sex
SIDE CHARACTERS― Vernon as reader’s best friend and roommate, Seungcheol briefly as Hoshi’s friend.
WARNINGS― he’s made fun of by his friends for being a virgin, this is not an indication that you shouldn’t remain a virgin if you still are one! it’s fictional and i do not agree with mocking someone for their virginity in real life.
NOTE― i love him and i like the idea of him being clumsy during sex, i also like the idea of him being inexperienced but suuuuuuper eager to pretend he knows what he’s doing. shoutout to my redacted wife @onlyseokmins for proof reading this <3
smut tags under cut::
smut tags―big huge dick soonyoung, phone sex (ish), face time sex, masturbation, pet name: baby, making out, he eats you out twice, fingering, whining and whimpering, deep throating, premature ejaculation, desperate man wants his dick wet lmao, grinding, tit fondling/licking, clit stimulation, he bites the fuck out of his tongue to try and distract himself from coming too soon again, no condom aka cream pie, soonyoung gets feelings like immediately when u touch him
~
“Check this shit out,” you laugh, presenting your phone to Vernon with a chuckle. “right or left?”
Vernon snorts, nearly spitting out the bite of food in his mouth as he reads the bio of the man you’re showing to him.
“Depends, you trying to take his innocence or are you trying to get railed so hard that the entire building can hear?” He narrows his eyes at you, making a point to call you out for keeping him awake last weekend.
You wave him off with an apologetic look. To be fair, the dude from before knew how to make a girl moan, it’s not your fault that you managed to find a decent lay in this city. Even if he ghosted you, you assume you may have been a bad lay for him, if anything.
“I wouldn’t mind trying something new, dude seems desperate.” You swipe through his photos, seeing that he appears to be just a normal dude with normal interests. “He’s cute too, so I’m swiping right.”
Vernon groans this time, slapping a hand to his forehead and glaring at you.
“You’d better warn me if you end up bringing him home, I’m not about to listen to some guy start crying over a blowjob.”
You nod to him, sending a message to the eighty-six-year-old Soonyoung and feeling delighted at his near-instant response to you.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure you’re out of the apartment if I invite him over,” You wiggle your brows as you stand to your feet and turn toward your room, eyes now glued to the open dating app’s messages. “Maybe you should go out and find a nice girl to rail to get back at me.”
“You’re so fucking weird.” Vernon laughs but feels kind of shitty because it’s not like he hasn’t been trying to get back at you for the loud sex. Guess he just doesn’t have the magic dick to make girls moan the way you do.
Not that he wants to make you moan or anything, he definitely doesn’t. If anything, he wishes you were more like the girls he brings home.
~
You: i’ve never seen a virgin grandpa on this app before
Soonyoung: ….i’m 26, it says that in my bio
You: I think you’re lying.
Soonyoung: do u know how to change it, my bitch friends won't tell me lol
You: why would i help you lie to the women in our city
Soonyoung: i’m not lying!!1
You laugh to yourself as you text the new sex interest in your life, wondering if he’s lying about his presumed virginity.
You: ok, twenty-six-year-old “hoshi” who is five miles away from me, you’re actually a virgin? Like for real?
Soonyoung: yea….are u here to make fun of me for it too? all the girls here just turn me down even if i offer to cook for them after
You: you’re really just looking to get laid for the first time, ever? and you’re offering to cook dinner too?
Soonyoung: yea
You: you’ve never had a blowjob or anything like that? you can’t seriously think I can believe you’re 26 and have never been laid, it’s not like you’re ugly or anything
Soonyoung: u don’t think im ugly? :)
Soonyoung: and yea I’ve had a blowjob before
You: why didn’t you sleep with her then?
Soonyoung: can we stop talking about why im a virgin
You: for now, but im gonna ask again eventually.
You’re smiling at your phone, finding him charming and awkward in how he communicates with you via messenger. Of course, you’re curious as to why he’s a virgin, even more, curious as to why he’s on a dating app looking to lose said virginity.
You: do you want my number? it’s embarrassing to have the app open in public if i wanna talk to you.
Soonyoung, on the other hand, is quite literally kicking his feet and checking your profile every few minutes just to look at you. He didn’t even think too hard about you calling him attractive then not following up on it, because the fact that you just offered your number to him in case you want to talk to him? Butterflies. Given, it’s juvenile for someone of his age to still be experiencing the typical high-school crush feelings, would anyone blame him? It’s just how he is, with or without having had sex. He can’t imagine not feeling giddy inside when he’s talking to someone that he thinks is pretty.
Soonyoung: yea :) u can text me whenever [redacted phone number]
You respond to him by texting his number rather than using the app messenger, screenshotting his contact info, and sending it to him with a sly smile.
You:
Grandpa Hoshi: :|
Grandpa Hoshi: im 26
~
Okay so, here’s the thing. Soonyoung is undeniably funny, witty, and kind. Another thing, he’s wildly attractive. Especially upon fulfilling your request for a workout selfie from him. So, what gives? You read the texts he’s sent that made you laugh out loud, you look at his pictures, stare at the workout selfie, and you genuinely cannot understand how he doesn’t have women waiting in line to have at him.
You: it’s been like four days since we started talking
Grandpa Hoshi: yep, almost five
You: four days of being friends but no mention of your bio on the app, yknow, where you’re begging to have sex for the first time ever?
Grandpa Hoshi: right, yea. you wanna do it? i didn’t wanna assume lol
You: not answering that til you explain why. i mean, it’s totally ok that you are but like, you’re a green flag all around so im a little worried you might have like a micropenis or something
Disclaimer, if he had a micropenis, you’d still let him use it on you. After all, hooking up is something you enjoy doing regardless of size.
Grandpa Hoshi: i do NOT have a micropenis
You: prove it
Grandpa Hoshi: right now???
You laugh to yourself but also like, it’s the first time the two of you have done anything more than bully each other. Or rather, you bully him and he defends himself constantly.
You: answer my question first
It takes a few minutes for him to respond, but you’re doing coursework anyway so it’s not a huge deal. Totally not like your ears perk up and a smile creeps across your face every time your phone goes off or anything. Definitely not.
Grandpa Hoshi: um… i still live with my parents and before u make fun of me for that pls understand that its not like i wanna be here
Grandpa Hoshi: i have a job and everything!!! im not a mooch!
He’s getting off track again. You could honestly care less if he still lives with his parents. You wish you still lived with yours, to save money at least.
You: they won’t let you have anyone over?
Grandpa Hoshi: well, that too but
Grandpa Hoshi: listen this sounds real stupid but it just never happened? even when i tried or things almost happened, it never did
You: damn, you’re unlucky. so what happened with the girl who gave you a blowjob?
Grandpa Hoshi: her boyfriend walked in
You: WHAT
You’re trying to pity him, honestly, but damn. Did he go for a taken girl? Yikes. You hate to admit the ick that just flooded your mind.
Grandpa Hoshi: its not like i knew she had a boyfriend
You: phew
Grandpa Hoshi: so yea. do u wanna help me out or not?
The whole reason you started talking to him was specifically to help him out. Now that you know he’s not some weirdo, and is definitely super hot and funny, hell yes.
You: yeah, sure.
You: about the micropenis though,
Grandpa Hoshi: right…um
A few minutes of silence, your coursework is long forgotten in the anticipation of receiving your first nude from Soonyoung. You wait, and you wait, and you wait.
You: i mean if you can’t prove it that's ok
Grandpa Hoshi: just give me a sec damn
He’s doing his best to get the most attractive angle. It’s not like he’s never sent nudes to anyone or anything, but like– this is you. The first person to actually agree to take his virginity. Should he hold it? Put a remote next to it for size? Should he have his face in the pic? Take a mirror pic?
Of course, as he’s taking several pictures of his length to try and impress you, he had to get hard first. He can’t imagine you’d want a flaccid cock pic in your inbox, and that would also mean that he’s working himself up with the amount of touching, holding, and groping throughout the past sixteen photos he’s taken and deleted. It’s at the point that now it’s actually hard to care about taking a photo, pre-cum already dripping out of him as he continues to try.
He’s entered the realm of his regular horny self, only this time he’s texting you. Someone who wants to see what he’s packing. Taking a dick pic is insanely easy once he stops thinking with his brain, and he’s quick to send you a photo of himself this time. His chin at the top of the picture, face entirely hidden, hand wrapped around his thick and leaking cock, sweatpants shoved down.
Grandpa Hoshi: [image attachment]
In all fairness, you’ve never actually cared much for dick pics. Men always look too confident even with the smallest of girth being offered through the pixels. Soonyoung though. He looks a bit desperate even with his face hidden. His cock looks desperate, his fingers wrapped around it look desperate, the way his sweatpants hug against his thighs look desperate. And now, you feel desperate. You keep your cool though.
You: oh, you were jerking off, got it.
Grandpa Hoshi: sorry can’t help it
Then he doesn’t text you back. Which is kind of a drag because he looks to be quite big in the photo alone. Maybe you’d be okay just this once to look like the desperate one. Mostly because you’re about ten seconds from trying to figure out which direction five miles away he resides so you can go palm his cock for him. Plus, the idea of an absolute simp virgin like him seeing you act a little desperate would probably be one for the books.
You: you know i can help you out with that, right? especially since you definitely don’t have a micropenis
You’re still being ignored. The silence from your phone makes your belly flip around inside of you at the image of him doing it too. He probably does it a lot. He’s probably desperate to feel good, you can imagine how he’d act if you were in front of him right now, the very idea of taking his virginity becoming entirely too attractive.
Shrugging, knowing full well what he’s doing right now in order to ignore you, you press the call button and wait. You’re a little bit nervous, mostly because you’ve never actually heard his voice before, or better yet how he sounds when he’s getting off. You’re shocked that he actually answers.
“Hello?” He says, muffled through the phone and trying to sound not-so-out-of-breath. It’s not like he looked at who was calling him anyway. With his luck, it’s probably Seungcheol or some shit.
“Don’t hello me,” You gripe, narrowing your eyes at yourself in your mirror. “You’re just gonna jerk off without me after I agreed to help you fix your little problem?”
The silence on his end is a bit nerve-wracking until you hear the frantic sound of his palm clearly wreaking havoc on him. You smirk, leaning back on your chair and sighing. On his end, processing that it was you on the other line sent his entire body into a state of burning with arousal. Your voice is sweet even when you speak with the same sarcasm as usual. God, this alone is enough for him right now.
“Were you at least thinking of me?”
He hums into the phone, indicating that yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing. His voice is kind of soft despite only hearing one word and a hum, you want to actually hear him talk to you, or moan, whichever he decides.
“Were you looking at my pictures?”
He nods his head, forgetting that you’re not able to see him and instantly responds with a small and breathy yes instead. It’s a bit difficult for him right now to talk, especially now that he can put a voice to the photos he’s been jerking off to. It’s a bit overwhelming, actually.
“Do you want better ones?” You ask, encouraging him to speak a bit more.
“Oh god, really?” He asks through the speaker, his hand pausing on his length as if to hold off until you confirm. “Like, nudes?”
“Mhm, yeah. If you want.” You smile as you speak to him, already standing to shimmy your pajamas off of you and stand in front of the mirror. “Or, you know what would be better?”
Letting me come over and actually do it? That’s what he wants to say to you, but he doesn’t, he simply raises a brow.
“What?” He asks, still keeping his responses short because despite how into this he is, he’s a bit shy about it.
“I can facetime you.”
He panics. That means you’ll be watching him too, right? Sure he’s sent nudes, he’s received nudes. He’s sent videos too, and received them. But never has he like, you know, live masturbated on facetime so someone else can watch.
“If you don’t want to, that’s okay.” You backtrack at his silence, but you’re cut off almost immediately.
“No! no, we can facetime–”
Your stomach flips again as you fix yourself quickly in the mirror before setting your phone against your desk and rolling back a bit in your chair to determine if it’ll work this way or not. It’s not like he’s expecting you to do it too, he probably just thinks you’re gonna sit here naked for him to stare at. You’re kind of excited to see him in action, to hear him in action for you.
You hit the button to switch the call over to facetime and once again adjust your phone as you stare at yourself in the camera. Then you’re needing to catch your breath at the image of him.
There he is, his camera angled towards his face and not at all toward what's going on below his waist, but you don’t mind at first. Look at him, the lighting clearly shows that he’s a fan of mood lighting. You watch his eyes briefly, staring through the screen at you before moving your eyes to his arm, the one that clearly isn’t holding his phone because you can see it moving as he continues to jerk himself off. It’s an interesting feeling to have only seen him in photos until this moment, and it’s insanely attractive for some reason. Seeing him in motion, knowing what he’s doing, knowing that he feels good right now because of you.
“Let me see,” you say quietly, adjusting your bra strap and preparing to slip it off of you if he so much as asks. “Prop your phone up somewhere like I did.”
He nods, his eyes still staring straight through his screen at you as he moves around and the image becomes a blur of movement rather than his face. He settles in quickly, somehow looking even more attractive with the way his eyes no longer stare at the screen. You can almost sense a hint of shyness from him at this moment and it kind of floors you, given how easy he is to talk to and how easily he sent a dick pic to you.
“Feeling shy?” You ask, spreading your legs wide and cupping the seat of your panties, hiding the small spot of wetness forming there. “You act like I’m not going to be touching you at some point soon.”
You see him perk up, his eyes looking to you on the screen with more fondness than arousal. At the same time, his hand grips the base of his cock as he holds it straight up, erect and glistening proudly for you to look at.
“You look pretty big, bet you could fill me up so nicely,” You try to compliment, boosting his confidence and ego as best you can simply because he looks pretty with a smile on his face. Especially when his cock twitches at the words. “Would you want to do that for me, Hoshi?”
“Oh god,” He groans, hearing his nickname come from your mouth for the first time. His hand jerks up his length once, almost aggressively as he winces at it.
“This is going to be so embarrassing.” He admits, sliding his palm up and down shamelessly now as he watches between your spread legs.
“Embarrassing, why?” You chuckle, tapping now at the spot between your legs. “Can you not see that I’m just as turned on right now?”
He groans again, releasing his length and using that same hand to swipe his hair out of his face, then immediately grimacing at the fact that he now has pre-cum in his hair. Embarrassing, all of it.
“Well,” He tries to avoid you bringing up the fact that he just did that and only shoots his hand back to his cock in order to distract whatever off-hand shit you’re about to say. “You don’t even have your panties off yet, and I could probably get off right now.”
You laugh, not wanting to ruin the mood with the whole cum on his own face thing, so you save that for later. Instead, you instantly slip your panties off and present yourself to him much like he’s doing for you.
“Better?”
Soonyoung watched with his breath stuck in his throat, now finding it harder to breathe at the image of your pussy and the way he hopes he can touch it one day.
“Can you–” He pauses, not being used to dirty talk towards anything other than the porn playing on his phone. He thinks hard, and you can see it based on the way he, once again, neglects his cock with an unmoving palm.
“Can I do what? Go on,” You urge him, running a hand up to your chest and fondling your nipples right there in front of him, but not yet moving the fabric. “What do you want me to do for you, baby?”
Baby. You called him baby. Not that he’s into that but the fact that you did it makes him wonder if he is now. Maybe it’s because he wants you to take him for all he’s worth at this point. One, to get rid of the virginity looming over his head, and two, because you sound so fucking smooth when you’re watching him get off.
“Can you spread your pussy for me?” He whispers at first, boring a hole through his screen as he watches one of your hands tease at your hidden nipples, and the other hand sliding up and down the wet folds there. So badly does he want to see it. He wants to see your hole pulsing for him, leaking, needy.
His cock twitches wildly the second you do it for him. Two fingers spreading your pussy open and tensing your hips just to move it closer to the screen for him.
“You want to fuck this?” You chuckle softly, slowly dipping a finger into yourself and pulling it back out to present the wetness for him.
“Oh,” he sighs, now fucking into his fist at a pace that proves he’s most definitely never fucked a woman before. “Fuck.”
You nod at him, urging him to keep admitting his attraction to you. You’re aware he doesn’t see it though, as his hips continue to move quicker and quicker each time you press your finger into yourself.
“You gonna act like this when I’m riding you?” You ask with a tilted head, studying how hard he’s fucking against his hand. You can imagine how good it would feel if it were you, and quite frankly, this one finger isn’t enough at this point.
“God. You’re gonna ride me?” He moans, eyes rolling only slightly as he imagines it.
“Mhm,” you hum, now sliding in another finger and scissoring yourself open with them. “Would you want that?”
Before you can even work yourself up, and before he can even answer that question, you see him release. His cum shooting out in spurts across his stomach and nearly up to his chest. His labored breathing shifts the lighting against his abs and makes it look so entirely delicious. You’ve never wanted to lick a man clean so badly in your life.
You’re not even upset that he didn’t make it into the knitty gritty, considering he’s a virgin and all and you’re literally fucking yourself in front of him while implying riding him. You’re actually flattered.
His release caused him to see white for several moments, forgetting he’s even on camera for you. When he comes back to reality, watching you continue to finger yourself as your eyes scan your screen, all he can do is feel bashful.
“Shit, sorry,” He comments with a half laugh, looking down at his cum covered chest before looking at you again. Honestly, he could probably go again if you let him watch for a bit longer, but he’s embarrassed now. “I uh, didn’t mean to come that fast. It just kind of happened.”
“It’s okay,” You comfort him, slightly out of breath as you wonder if this is all you’re gonna get tonight. “It was cute.”
After a few moments, you sense his embarrassment and slowly slip yourself back into a sobering headspace, closing your legs and trying to ignore how wet you still are.
“Mm, no.” You smile. “But it’s okay, I’d rather make you come first anyway.”
His face lights up despite the disappointment in his gut of not being able to see you get off.
“You still wanna see me after this?”
You nod with a smile, endeared by his need to give, but inability to do it.
“When are you free?” You ask, wondering if he’s ever going to clean himself up.
“Whenever you are.” He laughs, scratching the back of his head with, once again, the same cum-stained hand.
“I’ll text you later then,” You smile through the screen and give a small wave before your genuine smile turns into a smirk. “After I take care of my little problem though.”
You notice him sitting up in protest, but you hang up with a satisfied laugh and head to the shower to both finish yourself off and clean up.
~
Grandpa Hoshi: what about 3pm on thurs?
You: you want to lose your virginity at 3pm….on a thursday???
Grandpa Hoshi: my parents have plans so ill have the house to myself for a few hours
You: or you could just come here?
Grandpa Hoshi: if ur comfortable with that? i thought u were supposed to come here lol
You: im comfortable, plus my roommate will kick your ass if you’re weird
Soonyoung contemplates hard on that last part but shrugs over it. Probably a girl thing, and it’s not like he’s an actual creep or anything. You’d be the one with power over him when the two of you are alone anyway.
You: what about tomorrow, 8pm?
Tomorrow. Hell yeah, tomorrow. Hell, he’d show up right the fuck now if you let him. He may live with his parents but he’s got a car.
Grandpa Hoshi: send ur address, ill be there :)
~
“Tomorrow, you’ll be a man.” Seungcheol croaks through the speaker at Soonyoung, totally assuming that this whole virginity loss dating app plan was actually just a joke.
“Why do you have to say it that way?” Soonyoung groans back, slapping his hand over his forehead and rubbing his temples. “I didn’t think anyone was actually gonna come through, she’s the first one.”
“What makes you think she’s actually gonna send you her address?” Seungcheol laughs, once again placing more pity onto his best friend than anything else. “She’s probably not even a real person, you’re gonna end up at some old guy’s house.”
Soonyoung laughs, or snorts really.
“Oh, she’s real.”
Seungcheol sits up in curiosity this time, switching his phone to the other ear with interest.
“Hm? Have you already met her?”
“Kind of. We like, um,” Soonyoung pauses, wondering if he sounds way too excited to tell him or not. “We facetimed a few hours ago.”
Silence.
“She got naked.”
“Oh ho ho!” Seungcheol encourages him. “So you guys did some stuff on facetime and she still wants to meet you?”
“That’s what I said!--” Soonyoung smiles to himself, about two seconds from kicking his feet before realizing what Seungcheol just said. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re kind of a loser, we’ve been over this.” Seungcheol laughs yet again. “Call me when you get your cherry popped or whatever.”
Then he hangs up.
Grandpa Hoshi: do u think im a loser?
You: yeah kinda
You’re laughing at his text as you sit across the table from Vernon.
“That him texting?” Vernon quirks a brow, watching you smile at your phone and practically ignore him.
You laugh again at Soonyoung’s string of defensive texts before responding with a short “it’s okay, i like losers”, and putting your phone down to finish telling Vernon that he’s gonna get kicked out tomorrow for the night.
“So,” You clap your hands in front of yourself, glaring at Vernon. “You’re gonna have to be gone tomorrow at eight because I'm about to literally obliterate this guy.”
“Jesus, I’m scared for him.”
“You should be scared for me. Because, well…” You trail off for a second, scrolling up your texts to see the dick pic Soonyoung sent before the facetime call. “He’s huge and–”
“I did not need to know that.” Vernon sighs, scooting back in his chair and standing to his feet.
“You act like you’re not curious nearly every time I meet someone.” You roll your eyes at him, smiling.
Vernon stands there awkwardly before shrugging and lunging for your phone.
“How big?” He laughs, not actually trying to see the dude’s dick but always way too curious for his own good despite never wanting to be around to hear what the big dicks do to his best friend.
“Stop prying, you’ll get jealous.”
He scoffs, brushing off his pants of invisible dust and crossing his arms.
“I’ll have you know, my dick is perfectly sized.”
“I’m sure it is. Anyway, tomorrow, be gone.”
He nods, sauntering to the living room and flopping down on the couch.
“Keep it in your room, please. I don’t want to sit on his gross body fluids when I come home.”
~
It’s Thursday. It’s approximately seven in the evening on Thursday and you’re well aware that Soonyoung is probably bubbling with anxiety if his texts are anything to go by.
So many are you sures, so many you can tell me to leave if you decide you don’t want tos, and even more i can’t wait to see yous.
“Vernon, aren’t you supposed to be leaving?” You ask, opening the fridge to pull out a bottled water.
You’ve already showered again today, primped yourself up for him really. Everything smooth, soft, and ready to be touched. You wonder if Soonyoung is doing the same, and smile.
“Hm, yeah. But I kinda wanna see him before I leave.”
You turn your head to him with a curious look, glaring only slightly.
“I swear to god if you scare him off, I’m kicking you out.”
Vernon laughs, patting the couch as if to invite you to sit with him to ease your own anxiety. He can smell the familiar lotion you use before dates, and he notes that you’ve really tried to look good today.
“I think you might kill him, if I’m being honest.” Your best friend laughs softly, complimenting you.
“Thanks, that’s the plan.”
And so, the two of you sit together laughing at stupid comedy shows until your phone lights up at around eight fifteen.
Grandpa Hoshi: i’m a little early, is that ok?
“Oh shit, he’s here.” You immediately feel nervous, which is pretty normal for you anyway so it’s easily overlooked by Vernon.
He jumps up, brushing off his clothes and walking toward the kitchen to grab his keys and wallet.
“Let him in then, I’ll leave when he gets here.”
You give him a knowing look before nodding.
You: second floor, take a left when you get to the top of the stairs, third apartment on the left.
Within minutes, there’s a very gentle knock on the door and Vernon is throwing himself at it to get a look at him. Unfortunately it’s a bit more awkward than he expected it to be.
Not only did Soonyoung think your roommate was a woman, but he, at the very least, expected you to answer the door. He was preparing himself all day for this moment, to knock on your door and have you open it. At first he thought that maybe he even got the wrong apartment.
“Oh, I think I got the wrong place, sorry–”
“Nope, you’re in the right place.” Vernon smiles, stepping to the side and opening the door wider for him. “You can come in.”
Soonyoung does, awkwardly. Avoiding eye contact with Vernon and barely even looking into the apartment before stepping inside.
“She’s excited, don’t worry.” Vernon whispers, throwing Soonyoung a wink before stepping out and closing the door behind him.
Soonyoung still hasn’t really looked up from the floor yet, and you make quick work to make him feel more comfortable.
“Don’t mind him, that’s both my best friend and roommate.” You say, making your way toward him and trying your best not to stare because, okay, wow. He’s kind of ten times more attractive in person, which is fucking insane considering how good he looked through a screen.
“Have you and him ever like…” Soonyoung immediately starts, realizing he might have made things weird.
“Vernon?! Oh, god no.” You laugh, reaching for his arm and feeling him lean into it with relief. “You’re allowed to look up by the way. You’ve been staring at that crack in my floor since you got here.”
Immediately Soonyoung moves his eyes up to you, the eye contact feeling more intense than it should, but you’re locked in too. The awkwardness dissolves almost instantly, he feels no need to question you further about anything really, especially with the way he feels his throat run dry at the very idea of this whole plan actually happening at some point.
When he made his profile on that app, it was kind of a half joke until like, people started talking to him. Given, no one ever followed through but you, he’s happy he stuck with it. Happy you came out of the works from said dating app, happy you picked him.
Really though, he picked you. Part of you wonders about why you want to take this from him. For power, for control, to be praised, to feel like you’re his entire world of desire for a brief time? All of those things, but you can admit now that he’s in front of you that it’s a bit intimidating. He’s not shy at all, just a bit awkward. He seems confident, he seems ready, and you find yourself lucky for being the one to get to do this for him, or with him. If at all, Soonyoung is the type of man you could see yourself hanging out with often, with or without having sex.
Given, upon seeing him face to face for the first time, the only thing you thought about was how attractive he is. Now though, as you look back at him along with the silence of this apartment offering nothing more than awkwardness, it’s not. Because you’re seeing him for all he is and he appears to not be able to help it. Is this what people mean when they say there’s an instant spark between two people? Despite how attractive he is, you find yourself thinking of how many times he’s made you laugh. How many times he’s embarrassed himself, and now for the first time he’s right there and all you want to do is…give him exactly what he wants, or needs. Whichever.
“Okay, listen,” You start, swallowing around a lump in your throat as you feel your body heat up at record speed by just having his eyes looking into yours. You know by this point that you’re not going to be keeping your hands to yourself at all. And for his sake, he’d probably prefer it that way. “If I move too fast, just tell me to stop.”
Soonyoung tilts his head with a dopey smile, eyes still fixed on you, scanning you, coming to terms with the fact that you’re absolutely everything he thought you would be and more.
“I don’t think that’s gonna be an issue,” He admits, feeling his length confined within his pants twitch wildly at the entire situation. “I struggled not to get hard just driving over.” He laughs, looking away from you for the first time with flushed cheeks.
You find that painfully adorable. No man would ever admit that to you. Especially after just a few minutes of meeting in person for the first time, but this is Soonyoung and in the short amount of time you’ve known him, you’re kind of expecting him to be really forward and say things that will have you frozen in thought.
“Oh yeah?” You ask, grabbing his hand and leading him to the kitchen. You’re pretending that his apparent inexperience isn’t getting to you, but you’re not really fooling anyone. “Let’s get you some water or something, I can see you drooling.”
Soonyoung laughs, shrugging because yeah maybe he’s drooling a little bit. You smell fucking immaculate, your hand is small in his but still manages to overpower him, your skin feels soft and slightly cold. Honestly, it’s dangerous just having you stand in front of him right now because he could absolutely blow his load just by you looking at him. Embarrassing? Always.
He follows after you, very nearly crowding up to you as the comfort sets in and the last bit of awkwardness leaves his mind. All he can think about is how you sounded over that facetime call. He’s seen what’s between your legs, and during that night all he could think about was touching you, fucking you. Now he’s here, and you’re right there. It’s hard not to crowd up, it’s hard not to cling to you, it’s hard not to be excited. Seeing your hand wrapping around that bottle of water to give to him, seeing you lean just before grabbing it– of course he’s staring. Of course he’s crowding closer, almost to the point that he’s up against your ass when you lean back up from the fridge.
You turn after grabbing him the bottle and become shocked by his close proximity when you face him. He looks down at you with a soft face, one that shows he’s not embarrassed by how he immediately attaches to you. His smile is just as clumsy as he is, you can tell he knows exactly what he’s doing too. You’re glad, because it makes it entirely too easy to drop the water bottle, grab his face, and chase his lips all the way until he’s against the counter and kissing you back.
He sighs instantly into it, wincing at the way the kitchen counter hits his back, you pressing against him so harshly just to get that first taste of his lips. He’s excited that you seem as eager as him, maybe even as desperate as him.
For you, a man has never been this eager just to kiss you, nor has a man ever kissed you this good. You can imagine that he’s probably got a lot of experience in terms of kissing, not much elsewhere though. You can tell by the way he moves his hands to all of the right places, but his blatant virginity shows through all of it as he becomes a horny mess almost instantly.
His tongue is warm and wet, small whining sounds coming from his throat as you press yourself against him briefly. His hands never leave your body and he shows no shame in touching where he wants to touch. Rubbing, groping, and caressing every inch of your waist, ass, and even moving up to your face to deepen the kiss. His hips press forward almost constantly, and all you can do is brace yourself on the counter behind him to try and tame his relentless hips and obvious attempts at rushing what he wants right now.
If you’re going to sleep with him though, he’s gonna get the full experience, not a quickie. Plus, you agreed to keep it in your room for Vernon’s sake.
“Hey,” you sigh, trying to pull back from the kiss but he isn’t having it. Still kissing against you and running his lips down to your neck when you continue to speak. “We should go to my room, your first time isn’t about to be in my kitchen.”
“Why not?” He groans against your neck, kissing harshly with faint wet sounds, his hands wrapping tightly around your waist now. “I don’t care where we do it, i just want you like, really bad.”
Still, his lips don’t leave you, nor do his hands. You find yourself giggling against him with a shake of your head at the way he protests when you pry yourself from his grip. Of course, though, he’s immediately clinging to you and chasing after you to your bedroom before practically throwing himself at you again.
You barely get the door closed before he’s pressing you against it this time, hand running down again to your waist and easily snaking up your shirt just to feel the warmth of your skin. You let him, enjoying the way he kisses you for just the second time, enjoying more the way you can feel him lose his composure every few minutes from this alone.
You’re kind of in love with the fact that he doesn’t seem to want to pull back even for a breath. He seems to love kissing, and you wonder what else he’ll come to love doing tonight too. From the way he moves his tongue and his lips on you, you can imagine he’d be fucking heavenly at eating pussy.
Successfully you push him away again, rushing to your bed before he can make you melt against his lips for a third time, and you’re instantly trying to present yourself to him much like you did over camera.
“You’re really going to let me?” He asks with a deep breath, brushing his hair out of his face and wiping his mouth. His brain malfunctions at your presumed answer to that question, watching you take your panties and shorts off in one go and leaning back to spread your legs for him.
At this moment, you’re all his and you make it a point to spread your pussy out for him like he asked you to do before. You can practically see his knees buckle that very instant.
“To think I wouldn’t want to do this is insane,” You say, wiggling your hips for him to see. “Look how wet I am.” You pause, studying the hungry look in his eyes. “Do you wanna try eating me out?”
He doesn’t even nod. He’s immediately on his knees against your bed and grabbing your thighs to pull you toward his face. You yelp only slightly at the movement, a chuckle coming out shortly after as you sit yourself up properly to take in the image of his eyes sparkling up at you.
Your breath is caught in your throat, a small groan coming out at the image alone before you’re able to process words again.
“Can’t believe how good you look down there,” You say softly, brushing his hair out of his face for him like he did to himself earlier. “Have you ever done this before?”
He shakes his head, eyes shifting from your pussy to your face. Regardless of your shock at that, he seems like he’s waiting for a green light so you decide to cut the compliments short and raise your brows at him.
“Go on then.”
You watch him and the way he doesn’t seem to think at all when he does it. Once again, he’s adorable. His tongue goes everywhere, only grazing your clit briefly every few licks, never staying on it presumably because he’s in the process of finding the clit based on how your body reacts.
He has a general idea of where it is, but the feeling of having your pussy on his lips alone is enough to overwhelm him with arousal. All he can do is taste and smell the mixture of your warmth along with the soap and lotion you must have used before he came here.
He’s quite literally tasting the entirety of you and loving every second of it. The way his hands grip your legs, both spreading them further open so that he can tilt his head and lick at different angles, and then hugging them to where they almost lock his head in place.
It feels like he does this for ages, learning your body and what makes your legs shake. He sucks in different places, kissing your entire pussy to the point that it’s almost impossible for your legs not to shake in reaction at what he’s doing to you.
Dare you say, a man who is inexperienced at eating a woman out somehow feels better than one who knows exactly where to go.
“Fuck, knew you’d be good at this,” you compliment with a shaky voice, reaching down to his hair and holding his head in place. “Stay on my clit, use your fingers on me.”
He hums, taking note of where you place his lips and reminding himself that this is the clit, just as suspected. He attaches his lips there, kissing it much like he kissed you in the kitchen.
You can feel his fingers make their way into you, each bump of his knuckle sending a delicious sensation throughout your body. You’re tingling from your head to your toes at this point and your face heats up beyond what you thought it would. Your hips move on their own, experimentally fucking against his fingers as he keeps his tongue flicking at you.
“Just like that,” you encourage him, running your hands through his hair and looking down at him. Seeing his head move with each little thrust of your hips is only more arousing in this moment. His eyes half open, watching you, tasting you, almost smiling around your clit when he makes eye contact with you.
It almost seems like he’s asking if he’s doing well, and goddamn is he. He’s doing amazing.
“So good,” you say shortly, scratching against his scalp as a thank you, still fucking your hips up just to feel his fingers plunge deeper.
He, on the other hand, is fucking feral right now. Tasting you, dipping his fingers into you, feeling that warmth for the first time, the small clenches— he’s swimming in a fantasy. Every time you move your hips up, he can smell the entirety of you, he can feel your pussy squeeze his fingers, and god. He doesn’t think he ever wants this to end.
All day, he could do this all fucking day. No wonder men make fun of other guys for not giving head. Why wouldn’t they? He can feel your legs tensing up around his head, your gentle fingers running through his hair, the sounds coming from your lips. He’s in love, he’s in love.
He doesn’t stop, tongue flicking your clit so beautifully, fingers slowly fucking in and out of you, not even in time with your jerking hips. Shockingly, you approach euphoria so fucking fast that you can barely warn him, you’re not even thinking when you put pressure on his head, pressing his lips so harshly against your clit— his moan sending a vibration straight through you.
“Faster, with your fingers—“ you choke out, curling your toes and feeling him do exactly as you say.
There, you release with his fingers plunging in and out of you, the wet sound of your pussy only sounding more messy by the time you begin to release. In the midst of it all, you feel him pull his lips from your clit and lick around his fingers before coming back up and continuing his ministrations, working you through an orgasm you’re not even sure he knows you’re having right now.
Strings of curses, little tugs against his hair, legs shaking, all of it happens at once until the feeling of his fingers become sensitive inside of you, until his tongue is flicking a bundle of nerves begging to be left alone.
You swat him away with a smile, leaning up quickly and grabbing him by the shirt.
He doesn’t really know what the fuck is going on but he laughs with you, being pulled to his feet and falling onto the bed on top of you. You can feel his length in his pants, so fucking hard, probably leaking and feeling quite neglected.
“Did you…?” He asks softly.
You smile at him, leaning up to kiss him square on the mouth before you flip him over and get between his legs.
“I did,” You laugh in a daze, starting to work on his button and zipper. You’re reeling from the recent orgasm and wanting nothing more than to let him feel the same way you do right now. “And now, you’re gonna finally get a full blow job.”
He chokes out a nervous laugh, holding your hand in place from pulling his pants down.
“Unless, you don’t want that?” You ask, tilting your head with a bit of a frown.
“No, no! It’s not that!” He reassures you, cheeks flushing more than they already were. “It’s just that like, what if I don’t last very long? I’m kind of sensitive.”
His eyes avoid yours when he says it and once again, most adorable man award goes to fucking Soonyoung.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing?” You lean forward, kissing him again. “You just gave me some of the best head in my life.”
The light in his eyes return and instantly he’s flashing a nervous smile at you.
“Hoshi, I’ve never gotten off that fast from being eaten out.” You reassure him again, making a point to use his nickname. “If you don’t get off from me sucking your cock, I might actually cry.”
Well, he can’t have that now, can he?
He releases your grip on his jeans, allowing you to pull them down. For some reason unable to look at you despite knowing you’ve seen him jerk off before. It’s the fact that like, what if it’s suddenly not big enough? What if his cock is ugly or curved in a way you don’t like?
Before he can even start to doubt himself more, he feels your lips on the tip and instantly his eyes are looking down at you. You’re the one smiling now, using one hand to hold his base and the other hand already scooping up his balls for added pleasure.
You make a point to look him in the eye as you let the saliva collect in your mouth. There, you let it fall from the tip of your tongue, all the way until you feel the wetness against your fingers wrapped around his base.
He thinks he’s going to go fucking insane watching you like this, and god, does he. You don’t even show him your struggle of taking in the sheer size of him. Lowering your mouth until you’re taking in as much as you can. You try to keep eye contact up until you have to close your eyes.
It’s not shocking that by the point you get half of his length into your mouth, he’s fucking up without full intention and letting out a choked apology. Still, you try to force your stretched lips to smile for him, even through the gag, through the harsh feeling of his cock hitting your throat.
How the fuck has a cock this good not been worshiped before? By a mouth? A hand? A pussy? You’ll be damned not to choke on it. You’d rather eat glass than to let him leave this apartment without being completely emptied and praised for every drop.
He’s actually struggling already not to come, holding himself back but failing each time his hips chase the warmth of your throat. Each time you gag, it stimulates the fuck out of him and he nearly wants to cry each time it happens. Even with that other girl who went down on him, she didn’t even attempt to fit this much in her mouth. Most of the pleasure came from her hand jerking him off while she suckled against his head, but you. You’re down there, slipping your mouth up and down on his length, gagging, tearing up, and still fucking smiling about it.
Once again, he’s in love.
He holds his hands back at least, keeping them against your sheets and gripping them so hard that he fears he’s ripping through them. Everything feels hot, you look hot, you sound hot, your tongue still manages to move against the base of his cock with what little room it does have, and god– your other hand, massaging his balls.
“Wait, wait wait–” Soonyoung groans, fucking his hips into your mouth once again until you pull off with a concerned look.
“Were my teeth hurting you?” You ask, gasping a bit for air.
“No, i was just getting really close.”
“Hm?” You sigh in disappointment, this time going all in at once and not letting yourself stop until he’s releasing into your mouth.
You feel his shaking fingers brush your cheek when you do it, hollowing it out just to fit more, more, more into your mouth before lapping your tongue against his base again.
His groaning turns into frantic moans, his hips jerking wildly, unable to escape the clenching muscles of your gagging throat, and he’s honestly in heaven once again.
Never in his life has he felt an orgasm so satisfying. His fingers go numb when he releases, pumping himself deep into your throat and not stopping until he’s dizzy. The fact that you kept your mouth on him through it, the fact that he could still feel you gagging, swallowing, and moaning all at once through it–how?
“How–” he takes a breath, pulling you off of him so you can breathe. “How did you do that?”
You shrug with a confident smile, wiping your tears and crawling up to meet his face.
“I don’t normally do that for guys.” You say with a rasp in your voice, “I certainly don’t just swallow for anyone.”
He feels special, and fucking spent but god does he want to keep going. His softening cock twitching in a relieving way, probably glad to have finally been touched by something other than his own hand. Part of him wonders if you’re done though, because by now you’ve both gotten off and usually that’s the end goal, right?
But he hasn’t lost his virginity yet, and when he looks at you hovering above him, he already knows you’re not done with him.
“We need to let you rest until you can get hard again,” You say, kissing him more easily than before. Letting him taste himself, letting you taste yourself mixed with him. “What’s something you wanna do to get you back into the game?”
He sighs out a laugh, fucking amazed that you’re his first. How lucky is that? He thinks hard, watching the way you lift your shirt off of yourself. God, he forgot tits existed for a solid part of this day and that’s a shame because instantly his sensitive cock throbs at the image of them coming into view.
You watch him stare, trailing your hands down and lifting his shirt off of him as well.
“I don’t even know at this point.” He admits, ignoring the fact that his hair is definitely sticking up all over from you taking his shirt off of him.
“I’ll just love on you while you think, then.”
He gives a short nod, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside at the way your gentle hands caress his chest and abs before you start kissing against it.
He relaxes his body, feeling your hands and lips on him. You were right when you said you’d love on him as he thinks about it. The hard part of it is actually thinking about what’s going to get him harder the fastest. You doing this could be enough, but your tits. And fuck, your pussy.
He lets out a whine, one that feels entirely out of character and it causes you to pause your gentle kiss against his nipple and pull back.
“Already?”
He shakes his head, staring straight at your chest and then down to what's between your legs.
“I want to, um, eat you out again…”
That’s new. Twice in one session? You’re not going to turn that down.
“Oh yeah? Did that get you going?”
You receive a small nod from him before his hands are reaching out for your tits and warming them up.
You relax into the feeling of his fingers on your chest only for a moment before you pull back again, this time adjusting yourself onto the bed face down, ass up. Might as well try a bunch of different positions for him too, right?
“Whenever you’re ready.” You sigh, already grabbing a pillow to hug through this.
You can feel the bed shift behind you, the weight of his body dipping right behind you before you feel his warm breath against your core. Only now do you realize that you already missed the way he ate you out the first time, you can barely contain yourself knowing he’s going to do it again.
His hands snake between your legs before his lips get any closer, spreading them before pulling his hand back up and spreading your pussy open with his fingers on his own this time.
“You have the prettiest pussy.” He says in a clear and calm voice, watching the way your hole pulses at the air that hits it. “And I've watched a lot of porn.”
You’d tell him to shut up, but you’re not gonna because it’s cute how forward he is with his thoughts. If anything, he’s treating you right now by doing this, so he can say whatever he fucking wants right now.
“Eat it then.” you try to urge him, and he does just that.
You do your best to contain any rising orgasm, solely because you don’t want to spend yourself before you actually let him inside of you in full. But goddamn, he’s just as eager now as he was the first time…if not more.
He thinks back to the things he did before, mimicking that and hitting all of the perfect spots without fail. Still, you hold back, pushing and pulling yourself away and toward him. He eventually holds you in place against him, licking you deeper than you’ve ever been licked before. It’s a different kind of sensation, and the way he groans into it is entirely too much for you right now.
You need more, you want more. You want all of him by now, so aroused by every touch, breath, and moan that it’s becoming unbearable to just be eaten out. The thought that he’s doing this to get himself hard is flooring, and the feeling of his fingers replacing his tongue much like before is intense.
After just that one time, he knows exactly how to make you come this way and it’s dangerously attractive to realize that. He goes straight for it too, pulling back to watch his fingers slip into you up to the knuckle.
Given, he can’t reach your clit with his mouth this time so he thinks hard about how to fix this little dilemma and you’re floored even more by the fact that he solves problems without questioning. You feel his fingers leave you and land on your clit, and right then you feel his tongue again, just as deep, licking into you and all over you.
He’s really going to not let you hold it in, he’s going to have you fucking unravelling again and it’s too good. Thankfully, when you try to lift to look behind yourself, you take note of his other hand working himself.
He’s hard again, and god knows how long he’s been doing that.
You pull your body away from him, his protesting moan doing nothing but heating your body up more when you flip over and watch him.
“You were really just going to get me off again and not try to fuck me yet?”
He looks down at himself and then back at you, smiling and running his hand through his hair.
“I like doing it, I wanted to see if I could make you–”
“You absolutely could have but I’m going to be honest,” You start, interrupting him and pulling yourself up to crawl over him. “I need more now, and if you’re ready, I’d like to live up to my promise.”
His eyes are much sharper than they were before when you say those words. This is actually it. He would have been perfectly happy just eating you out, getting head himself, or whatever. Over and over again. Any and all of it is better than being in his room alone, but you’re really–
“Promise?” He asks, knowing full well what it was.
“Lay back, get comfortable,” You instruct, scooting up the bed with him, keeping yourself planted on his legs despite the discomfort. “You still want me to ride you, right?”
He nods almost frantically, landing his hands on your tits without hesitation and groping them in a blatant show of how ready he’s managed to get himself for this.
Not that you want to rush, but you’re so fucking turned on by this point, the only thing you want is to be filled by him. His cock likely bigger than any you’ve taken before, and to be fair, you don’t even care if you’re the desperate one at this point. You’ve almost forgotten he’s a virgin.
“Wait,” He stops you when you slide over his cock, bare pussy coating his length in a languid grind. “Oh, fuck, wait- no, do that again.”
You smile at his frantic thoughts pouring from his lips, sliding against him again, and again, up until he’s leaning forward and attaching his lips to one of your nipples and suckling against it hard.
You groan as you grind, feeling the head of his now, fully hard, cock bumping against your previously stimulated clit. He groans with you, almost at the exact same time but continues to try and leave his mark on you. In love with finally getting your tits in his mouth, your pussy on his cock, and most of all, in love with the fact that you’re not laughing at him for any of it. You seem to melt into it much like he does and he can’t help but want to email the creator of that fucking app and personally thank them for this.
You rub yourself against him until it’s even more unbearable than before. By now, you’ve completely soaked his length and he’s completely soaked your chest in saliva and tiny swollen bite marks. Not that you mind the biting, he did it and you didn’t stop him.
“Are you ready?” You finally sigh out, deliberately grinding against him slowly now, with almost your entire weight behind the grinds.
He groans out a “please” before immediately gripping your hips and stopping you. Pulling his head back so hard and so quickly– he kind of forgot to unlatch from your nipple and it sends a sharp pain throughout your body, one that only makes you want to ride him hard. Right now.
“Hold on, there’s a condom in the pocket of my jeans–”
“Okay, and?” You laugh, sliding forward again and grinding your clit against him. “I’m on birth control, and I’m clean.”
He looks at you, his sharp eyes falling back into the sparkling doe eyes as his mouth falls open at the very idea that he gets to hit it fucking raw for the first time?
“Unless you’re lying, and you’re not really a virgin?”
He’s quick to silence your doubt. He’s 100% never had his cock inside of anything other than his own palm and– malfunction. He’s blank again, staring up at you and wincing at the feeling of you pleasuring yourself on top of him.
“Please?” He manages to get out, gripping your hips so tightly by now that he’s sure it’s hurting you.
You smile, humming at him when you lift from his length, standing on your knees to grab at his and position him in the right place.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” You ask, only now realizing that you’re genuinely about to take a man’s virginity, and it’s only fair that you give him one last time to decide if he wants you to take it from him. Despite how turned on you are, and regardless of how badly you want to fuck him, it’s not right to just do it without making him really think about it.
“Fuck, yes. Just do it already.”
You can’t help but smile at him when you do. Lowering yourself slowly on him and feeling the stretch of it. His face is something that you don’t think you’ll ever forget. He appears to be lost in it, eyes rolling back, his chest heaving, his teeth showing through a half-smile as he moans out at the sensation.
He can’t get over how warm it is inside of you, the constant clenching of your pussy dragging along his entire length. He can’t help it when he moans, he doesn’t care that his voice cracks, or that it sounds like a pathetic sob.
By the time you bottom out and sit like that for a moment, you almost feel like he’s the one who needs to adjust. Of course, you’re needing this moment to adjust too but god– just watching him made you that much more wet and it’s insane how into him you are right now. As if you haven’t been since you started talking to him.
“Feels good?” You ask, involuntary clenching around his size, letting out a small sigh yourself at the feeling of his leaking cock inside of you.
He hums at you and then takes in a deep breath before fully opening his eyes again and looking at you. Technically, he’s no longer a virgin now. It’s fucking happening, and you’re hot? So hot? You feel so good? You smell so good. You sound so fucking good.
Everything is overwhelmingly good, all he can do now is press his hips up and instantly moan out at the feeling.
You take that as an invitation to absolutely obliterate him, much like you knew you would. So, you do. Lifting yourself up and sliding him almost entirely out of you before sinking down again.
His hands shoot to your waist, then he lifts slightly to grab your ass from behind you, and then he flops himself back– seemingly unable to know what the fuck to do with himself at this feeling.
You opt to grab his hands, intertwining your fingers with his and holding them above his head, all so you can lay chest to chest with him, lips right at his neck. You start kissing, riding him so smoothly and doing nothing but listening to his little sounds that he tries to keep inside.
“You’re really cute, you know that?” You whisper against his ear, kissing there too before pulling back to look at his face.
That half-smile never leaves his face, and his fingers squeeze against yours so tightly that you actually start to worry that he may break them. Thankfully, he begins to relax after a few minutes. Adjusting to the overwhelming pleasure and now losing himself to the arousal rather than fighting it.
You nearly squeak when you feel him release your hands and grab your face, pulling you up to him as he kisses you mindlessly. Breathlessly, moaning into your mouth all while moving his own hips now. You can feel him jerk his hips, imagining how he fucked his hand through facetime. This is better than that.
You prop to stand up on your knees, offering him the space to fuck you as hard as he’d like, and god. It’s hard. It’s deep, and it’s so clumsy. No rhythm, no thought behind it at all, you can fucking tell he’s purely running on adrenaline as he plunges into you.
He’s actually going so hard, that your moans sound more pained than pleasurable, but that’s not the case at all. You actually can’t stop moaning, it’s just the fact that each time he slams into you, your throat lets out a broken sound.
For a moment, you think you can actually hear him purr, or maybe growl against your slack lips as he does it. Already he’s lasted longer than you thought he would, especially without a condom, and you’re so fucking impressed by it.
You slide your hand between your bodies, easily rubbing your own clit and drying out your throat even more with the consistent loud moans of how good he’s doing. After a few moments though, his hips stutter and you take that as a sign that you should take over again.
“I don’t know how the fuck you’re doing this to me,” You laugh out of pity for yourself, “I really thought I could last longer than this.”
He barely hears you through his ringing ears and rapid heartbeat, but he chuckles at the compliment. Feeling like he must be doing something right to have a woman say that to him. There’s one issue. He’s about two thrusts from coming again and he will be damned to ruin this for you.
You take over, riding him harshly and rubbing your clit even harder. He takes a moment to try and distract himself from how good your pussy feels clenching him and takes it upon himself to bite down hard against his tongue. Something to hurt enough to keep his orgasm from bubbling over, but also not something so awful that he’d lose his arousal entirely.
You continue, pushing yourself back up from him and watching the way he tries to focus on anything but what’s happening. You ride deliberately to get him off though, knowing that the second he does, you’ll let yourself go too. He doesn’t seem to be picking up the hints.
“Are you close?” You ask, out of breath and riding him so consistently that it’s becoming more and more difficult to hold your own orgasm. “Let it go, come with me–”
Instantly, you hear him whimper out a moan as he releases the bite on his tongue. Shooting himself forward and hugging you so tightly that the pressure of your fingers against your clit is entirely unbearable.
“Oh, shit. Wait– i’m–” You start, moaning against his hair as he hugs against you.
He’s so fucking relieved, already releasing into you as you say those words. All he can do is breathe through it, feeling your pussy come around him as he continues to empty himself into you.
It’s entirely too intense, his ears popping and heart threatening to send him to a hospital. Never did he think having sex was this intense.
Little does he know… it’s not. But even you, for some reason, find yourself wondering why the fuck that was so good.
By the time you pull yourself off of him, both of you wincing and trying to ignore the mixture of cum running down your legs, all you can do is look at him with curiosity.
He can barely open his eyes to look back at you, but he tries, he really does.
~
He’s not going home tonight. Of course he’s not. Like, how fucking rude would it be to take his virginity and send him on his way? Absolutely the fuck not.
In fact, you made him some food, wobbling on spent legs throughout the kitchen as he lays on his death bed in your room. (Not literally, both of you are just dramatic.)
All he can do is listen to the sounds of you in the other room and think hard about how he just felt. Physically, it was a lot. Surely if sex is like that all the time, he’d rather not do it as often as Seungcheol does. Honestly, his sanity would be at stake.
But like, you’re kind of amazing. Given, the two of you barely know each other past lame texts and bullying each other. Physically, you know him more than any other women and that’s a block he didn’t think would be an issue until it became one.
You made him come twice. And he thinks you did too, unless you’re lying just to make him feel better. There’s no way you didn’t feel the intensity of that though. There’s no way your wobbling legs were lying to him when you got up and told him you wanted to have a snack before bed.
There’s no way you would let him sleep over if you didn’t feel the same way he does right now.
And by the time you’re back, handing him a plate of food, he can’t help but believe that nothing will ever taste as good as you.
The thing is, that’s one of the main reasons you did this. To be praised, to have a man think you’d be the best he will ever have until he eventually meets someone else and they do better than you did. Now though, you feel weird.
This is a one night stand. A charity-fuck, as it still stands at least.
“So,” You start, taking a bite of your food still as naked as can be regardless of how stupid it must look to be eating in a come-soaked bed like this. “I guess you should change your bio in the app now.”
He looks at you, and then at his food.
“Yeah, I guess I should…”
“I’ll help you fix your age on it. Now that you know what you’re doing with a woman and all.”
It’s silent for a minute.
“Is it too forward if I say that I’d rather just delete the app and keep calling you?”
Thank fuck Soonyoung is forward and embarrassing with it. You’re not ready to give up the single life but on the other hand, after that, you’re not exactly ready to share him with other women just yet. If he wants to attach himself for a while, you’re going to let him. Purely because, like, look at him. Everything is endearing, and when he’s not being adorable he’s just being fucking hot.
You nod with a smile, wondering if he expects you to delete the app too. Because you’re not so sure about that, but also you think you probably would if he asks with those stupid doe eyes.
Strangely enough, he doesn’t even ask. He just starts eating the food with a content look on his face. Sweat having dried up but left his hair a mess, his skin is glowing– you think…oh no. Why are you looking at him like this?
“Hey, I should probably call Vernon and tell him not to come home until late tomorrow or something.”
Soonyoung nods, lifting his eyes to you and watching you take your phone out.
“I should call my friend too, he told me to let him know when I get my cherry popped.”
You snort at him with a laugh right as Vernon answers the phone, and honestly, you’d rather listen to Soonyoung’s friend than Vernon whining about having to spend even more time with his overbearing parents.
“Hey Vernon, don’t come home 'til I call you tomorrow, bye.” You say quickly before hanging up.
Instantly you’re setting your plate on your table and launching yourself at Soonyoung and his phone.
Choi Seungcheol may be your parent's best friend's son, your next door neighbour for 20 odd years and the one face you saw every damn time, every damn where but that didn't mean the two of you wanted anything to do with each other. But a business trip - one room, three nights, and seven beds - might just be what it takes to change it all....
Pairing - Choi Seungcheol x afab! Reader
Word Count- 13k (don't ask me how I thought I could do this in 5k)
Genre - Rivals to lovers? Frenemies to lovers? Lovers to lovers? Idk man, these two are idiots, that's all. Oh and smut.
Warnings - one mention of blood cause of intense make out wew, other smut warnings under the cut!
Smut warnings - oral (m and f receiving), fingering, brief face fucking, thick dick cheol lol, slight choking, allusions to a breeding kink, unprotected sex (these two are digustingly in love, extremely horny and highly irresponsible, please don't be like them), creampie, mention of the word slut like once, and I'm hoping that's all?
“Absolutely not.”
“No way in hell.”
Seungcheol glared at you as you narrowed your eyes at him.
“I’m not sharing a room with him.”
“I refuse to even breathe in her vicinity.”
“Then maybe I should do mankind a service by being around you more.”
“The only way you can help mankind is by shutting your mouth.” Seungcheol leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You’re not pretty enough for all the stupidity that comes out of it.”
You rolled your eyes. “Rich coming from you. If I had a face like yours, I’d sue my parents.”
“Aw, fifth graders can insult better than you, sweetheart.”
“That was a fact, darling.”
“Ah” The two of you turned to the receptionist, finally remembering her presence as her eyes flickered between you and Seungcheol. “So, the two of you are dating?”
Looking at her incredulously and with unadulterated disgust, the two of you immediately took a step back.
“No!”
“No!”
“I’d rather stub my pinky toe on furniture everyday than date her-”
“And I’d rather choke on my own spit everyday than date him-”
“Oh baby, I knew you were a desperate one. I can give you something better to choke on-”
“Honey, are you sure? I heard you can stack fruit loops on that skinny thing-”
“Enough!” The old woman behind the counter got to her feet, putting her hands on her hips, the never-ending squabbling finally getting to her. “If either of you say another word, I will personally put you both in the tiniest broom closet I can find and trust me, the ones in this lodge are devastatingly small.”
You immediately shut up, dreading that idea more than anything. Seungcheol too became uncharacteristically and thankfully, quiet.
“Now, as far as your room is concerned, your company booked only one room, number-” She glanced at the paper in her hand and pulled out a pair of keys from the drawer. “- 68. If you can bear each other for 4 nights, well and good, get moving. If not, then take your things and get out of here. Good luck finding another lodge in this miserable weather.”
And as though on cue, a bright light, followed by a loud thunder flooded the room, taking all three of its inhabitants aback.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Seungcheol visibly gulp, well aware of his fear of thunder. Seungcheol too heard the way you sniffled, knowing that your rhinitis would only get worse with the humidity rising outside.
Sighing with the realization that there was no way out of this, both of you reached for the keys at the same time, making the old woman snatch it faster than the damn lightning to avoid yet another fight from breaking out. Ringing for the bellboy, she handed him the keys before he took your suitcase and Seungcheol’s bag in each hand, leading the way to your despair of the night.
Seungcheol followed quietly behind you, hands tucked in his pocket, his large headphones perched on his head as he swayed to the music, blatantly ignoring you. You were thankful for that. Since you were little children, you had always craved moments where you could pretend like this man didn’t exist. Why wouldn’t you? Everything about him was a pain in your ass.
You first met Seungcheol when you were five. Your fathers were college mates turned business partners and coincidentally, your mothers were best friends since high school. Naturally, everyone expected the children of both families to be just as close as their parents but alas, even at the age of five, you could not bear him for more than five minutes. He was so aggressive and unruly, always messing up your dolls, always pulling your hair, never giving you a second of peace when he was around. Albeit that behaviour got milder over the years but there were other things now.
Like the fact that your father always preferred to have a boy, a son who could be his heir, someone like Seungcheol. It wasn’t like he didn’t love you but a different side of him came out every time Seungcheol was around, a side not even you could bring out. He would laugh louder, his eyes would shine more, he would seem so carefree. Seungcheol too never missed the chance to rub that on your face, constantly sneering and claiming that your father would be happier if he was a part of the family.
Over the years, your displeasure and annoyance at Seungcheol only grew into a deep dislike. As though it wasn’t enough that the two of you did your entire schooling together (yes, all twelve years of it), he was always present anywhere and everywhere you went - the debate club, the swim team, the dance academy, the cafes, the libraries, the movies - there was no place you were free of him. Ever since you were young, you had longed to escape to a place far away from home just to be carefree and explore and reinvent yourself without the constant looming of a figment of your past. You had hoped that at least after school you’d have the chance to go away from him but as your luck would have it, the two of you were accepted into the same business school, were interning in the same company, were working on the same project, and had come out of town for the same three-day conference together. It was one thing to have to bear this man’s presence all day, now you had to do it all night as well, thanks to your cheapskate company.
As you got in the lift Seungcheol held the doors open for you before settling in the corner opposite yours, keeping as much distance in between as possible. The bell boy looked at both of you confused.
“I thought the two of you are dating?”
You groaned, rolling your eyes, and fished out your phone, scrolling through it instead.
Seungcheol glanced at you before scoffing at the absurd idea of dating you. He wasn’t foreign to that doubt though – people often wondered if they were together and Seungcheol wondered what on earth they saw between them that even resembled a speck of liking or even tolerance for one another.
Seungcheol had honestly not met anyone as stuck up as you. He never understood why his parents constantly considered you as the ideal role model for their son - ‘Look Cheol, she joined debate, you should too’, ‘She got selected in the swim team, you should try Cheol.’, ‘What do you think about dancing Cheol? She’s really good at it.’. Seungcheol was sick of being dragged into everything you were in, only to always be second. He hated debates, he would rather play football than swim, and though he liked to dance, ever since he joined the academy with you, even dancing was not giving him any solace.
Yet he gave his best all the time. He tried and tried and tried but he was always second to you who was evidently a natural at everything. For example, back in the school days, Seungcheol would almost get the same grades as you but at the cost of sacrificing nights of sleep and putting hours and hours into teaching himself. Meanwhile, you would breeze through the notes a day before the test, get a full 8-hour sleep and still score higher than him. As if that wasn’t enough, you’d invite him home, offering to “tutor” him only to constantly berate him about his ignorance, drop snide comments about how you were better, subtly challenge him in a battle that the both of you were well aware he could not win.
No wonder you had no friends while Seungcheol was as popular as could be - who would even want to be friends with you when you were always so cold and condescending towards anything that moved or breathed. If your parents weren’t joined at the hip, forcing Seungcheol to be a constant presence in your life, he wondered who would ever even talk to you? You should have been thankful for him, that he was the one human presence in your life who was always there despite it all, yet you treated him like he was beneath you. He had hoped that at least after graduating the two of you could part ways but the universe apparently loved playing cosmic jokes, putting the two of you together yet again, at the same workplace. And completely up in each other’s space for the next few days as well.
It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t ever shared a room before - whenever your parents would meet up at each other’s house to drink and talk all night, the two of you had no choice but to crash in the same room, sharing the same bed even but thank God it was usually queen size, allowing the both of you to take two opposite ends, not even your breaths mingling. It had been years since that though…..Seungcheol felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. He had no idea how he was to spend tonight in this room. Or the next few ones.
Neither did you.
As all three of you stood before the door and the bellboy fumbled with the keys, you glanced at Seungcheol. He looked unbothered as one could be. Perhaps you were overthinking this whole thing. It was a matter of four nights, surely the two of you could at least try to be courteous right?
“What in the...?”
Seungcheol’s voice rang in the empty corridor and you leaned to see what had him so shocked. Your own jaw dropped in a strange mixture of surprise, confusion, and relief.
Room 68 was no average hotel room. It was as big as the entire lobby, 7 heavily pillowed and blanketed single beds aligned from one end to the other almost military barrack style, only small bedside tables putting space between them.
“Room 68 is uh our bachelorette party suite.” The bellboy clarified. “For, you know, those big groups of girls who are hell bent on partying all night together?” He looked away like he was recalling a horrifying memory. “Since it’s holiday season, the lodge is booked out, this was the only room we had left. Is... is it not good?”
Seungcheol looked at you and for the first time in nearly 25 years, the two of you could finally agree on something.
“No.” You stepped in. “It’s perfect.”
It had been years since you had seen Seungcheol half-naked.
Well, you frequently saw him during swim practice in those tight speedo shorts of his, ass all plump and taut but you were not talking about that. You were referring to the sight before you right now, him with a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, his wet hair falling into his eyes as he searched for something in his bag frantically – most likely his aftershave. You knew he must have cleaned up given the conference was starting tomorrow and also that his cheeks were burning because you couldn’t smell the subtle cinnamon spice aftershave that usually followed in his routine.
Seungcheol strangely felt a pair of eyes on him as he rummaged through his things and suddenly remembered he was not alone in the room. He quickly turned, looking for you, finding you curled up in your bed, writing in what he guessed was your journal, unbothered by his presence. You were wearing that cute nightgown with little tomatoes drawn all over it which Seungcheol found funny given how much you hated tomatoes with all your heart and soul. Realising he had been looking for too long, Seungcheol gulped, quickly grabbing the aftershave he finally found and rushed back into the bathroom.
You flinched as you heard the door of the bathroom slam shut, looking up from your journal. Shaking your head exasperated, you returned to your writing. Seungcheol always handled things around him roughly like he was just not built to be gentle - slamming doors hard, breaking at least one coffee mug a month, causing rips in most of his clothes when he would gym because he was so big…. And muscular…. And built…..You bit the back of your pen thinking about how good he looked in his gym wear but if you were being honest, he looked best in a suit.
He’s going to be wearing one tomorrow.
You snapped out of your thoughts realizing you were entering dangerous waters and turned your attention back to your writing. Seungcheol made that process slightly harder as he walked out, furiously rubbing his towel against the back of his head, dressed in a black t-shirt and grey sweats.
As he sat down on his bed, he looked at you sitting six beds across, all the way in the other end of the room, right by the window. The moment the two of you entered the room, he took bed 1, the one against the wall and you took bed 7, the one against the opposite wall, putting the maximum possible distance between the two of you. He let you use the bathroom first, not because he knew you preferred using it when it is dry but because he thought this was the best time for him to call his parents and wish them goodnight….. even though it was still 7:30.
He showered after you did but even now, despite being so far from you, he could still smell your bodywash, the fragrance of lilies, the mildest kind because strong fragrances irritated your sensitive nose. Throwing his towel on the chair he kicked his legs off the floor and lied on the bed, turning to the wall, hearing the faint annoyed click of a tongue. Seungcheol knew exactly what triggered it - you hated it when he tossed damp towels like that. But honestly, he couldn't care less right now, not when there were more important things to deal with tomorrow, not when he was so tired already.
You shut your journal, irritated by his behaviour remembering exactly why being in the same vicinity as this man infuriated you. Flipping the lights off and pulling the covers over your shivering body, you realigned your thoughts towards your goal - Tomorrow’s conference was crucial. You had to look your best and do your best so clocking in 8 hours of sleep was the priority, Choi Seungcheol's character development be damned.
But as you lied down turning towards the window, lightning flashed across the sky, a loud thunder following. You turned to see Seungcheol and his back was facing you, the outline of his figure moving up and down rhythmically like he was already in a deep sleep. Slightly relieved yet still unconvinced, you turned towards him before the sleep and tiredness took you away.
Seungcheol simply stared at the wall all night.
Seungcheol most definitely did not sleep all night.
You could tell by the fact that one, he was up without you waking him and two, he was not there in the room right now. That meant he was out for a run which in turn meant his face must have been all swollen which definitely meant he didn’t get enough sleep. You did notice though that his bedding had shifted from bed 1 to bed 2 and guessed it was because of the coldness of the wall - Seungcheol had the habit of tossing and turning at night and there was nothing he hated more than his bare skin accidentally brushing the cold walls. Considering you were still five beds away from him, you ignored it as you went to wash up and prepare for the day.
When he saw the time on his watch as he finished his last lap, Seungcheol realised he was way behind schedule and that you probably were already at breakfast, sitting with a dozen snide remarks, waiting for him. True enough, as he quickly showered, dressed, and headed down to the buffet, you were there already, going through the proposal, the plate beside you nearly empty. Quickly grabbing a piece of toast and stuffing it in his mouth he walked over, putting on his suit jacket in a hurry. As you saw him approach, you shut your laptop, looking at him top to down in an ensemble that fit him all too well. Seungcheol’s eyes wandered over the pretty way you did your hair, and the plunging neckline of your blouse, a sliver of your pink bra peeking from underneath the fabric-
Both of you cleared your throats and looked away.
“We should leave, the cab should be here in-” He glanced at his watch. “-should have been here ten minutes ago, fuck.”
“It’ll be here in ten.” You pushed a cup of coffee towards him, looking at him pointedly to take a seat. Seungcheol glanced at it then back at you.
“You changed the time on my watch.” He huffed annoyed. “Again.”
“Glad to know you are still capable of basic comprehension.”
“You vile woman.” Seungcheol gritted between his teeth, sitting down. “I showered so fast I thought I was going to pass out.”
“But you didn’t.” You shrugged. “And learn to be grateful Seungcheol, you’re only ever on time when I meddle, so say thanks to me.”
“I’d rather die before I thank you.” He took a sip of the coffee before the extreme bitterness hit his tongue, making him spit it out right back into the cup. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“You did say you’d rather die.”
“Fuck you.”
“I know ten minutes is more than enough for you but personally, I prefer longer.”
Every single time. Every single time you flashed him that sweet, mocking smile and every single time it pushed his buttons like no other. One day he swore to put you in your place but right now he was too low on energy for that.
Well aware that you loved strawberries more than anything, he grabbed the last one on your plate and walked off to the taxi stand, ignoring the way you whined behind him.
“Oh, real mature of you Choi Seungcheol!”
You knew in your stress about perfecting the proposal early in the morning you had forgotten something important and the moment you stepped into the room that night, you knew exactly what that was.
To close the windows.
Thanks to the pouring rain, the water had drenched your entire bed, not to forget, your bag full of your clothes which was conveniently placed right on the mattress, soaking nearly every piece of clothing you owned. Thank God the laundry in the lodge said they would handle it for you so you still had an outfit for tomorrow’s conference but there were still two major concerns - one, what to wear tonight and two, where to sleep tonight.
You solved the first problem (almost) by grabbing your umbrella and heading to the nearest clothing store as instructed by the receptionist only to find out it sold barely any ‘cloth’ at all. It was an adult shop, filled majorly with lingerie of all kinds which were aiming to cover as little as possible. Groaning inwardly, knowing you didn’t have a phone on you to go any further in this weather, you grabbed the most decent nightgown you could find and rushed back.
A hot shower, a change of clothes and a quick meal later you decided to deal with your second problem, moving your things from bed 7 to 6, not too displeased considering there were still three beds between the two of you. You glanced at Seungcheol’s empty bed and then at the time - it was well past 10. Sighing, you settled under the covers pulling out your journal to write but got lost in your thoughts instead.
You were pretty proud of what you presented today - people praised you, congratulated you for a well drafted proposal and even went so far as to offer you jobs in their company. Yet you were not satisfied. Somehow, the one thing constantly running in your mind was the swarm of women who had flocked around Seungcheol the moment the conference was done, ‘mindlessly’ touching his arms, ‘casually’ brushing their chests against his, ‘genuinely’ laughing too hard at whatever bullshit came out of his mouth.
This was not new to you, Choi Seungcheol being the centre of attention wherever he went. He enjoyed it, basked in it, and chose to make a show of it whenever he got a chance. It was all so fake and superficial; you could not bear to stand it. That’s why even though everyone decided to go out for dinner and drinks tonight, yes, all twenty-seven of them, you politely said goodbye citing a headache and took a cab back. You were not interested in casual conversation and definitely not interested in seeing Seungcheol’s pathetic flirting.
Just as you begin to relish his absence and the beautiful silence that came with it, a loud knocking on the door and his voice screaming your name ended your perfect night. Grumbling, you opened the door to a fully drenched Seungcheol looking absolutely frazzled.
“What the hell-”
He stopped when his eyes fell on you dressed in a white floor length satin gown, the material seductively clinging to the curves of your body, your leg slightly visible between the slit. You crossed your arms to cover yourself up, feeling conscious under his gaze as he gulped audibly.
“What the hell were you thinking?” He met your eyes, a slight worry flashing behind the anger. “You just disappeared without letting me know-”
“I told you I was leaving.” You walked into the room rolling your eyes. “Maybe if you could see something beyond all that pathetic fangirling you’d have heard.”
“Fangirling?” He looked genuinely confused, following you in as he stripped off his jacket. You tried your best to not stare at the way his pecs were so perfectly outlined under the wet shirt sticking to his body but Seungcheol caught you peering, his features lighting up with amusement.
“Would you look at that?” He smirked. “Someone is jealous.”
“Please.” You scoffed. “I wouldn’t be jealous even if we were the last people on Earth.”
“Obviously, if we were the last people, who would you even be jealous of?”
You sighed. “You know what I mean.”
“I actually don't, sweetheart. If a little action is all you want, you can just ask for it you know?”
“Funny coming from a guy who kissed me just because another man was talking to me.”
The first tea break of the conference had led to an introduction that was surprising to you considering people did not really tend to approach you on their own. It was even more shocking that this man chose to speak to you in the lunch break as well, completely unprompted. He was sweet, not egging you too much with conversation, simply limiting it to work and the conference and then Choi Seungcheol appeared out of nowhere, snaking an arm around your waist, uninvited. Before you could glare at him and send him away, he planted a soft kiss on your cheek, excused himself and led you away from there, only to abandon you the very next second without an explanation.
“You call that a kiss?” Seungcheol scoffed. “You were so swept off your feet, you were this close to spilling details on our quotation for the project. That was actually me shutting you up.”
“Oh yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “If you really wanted to shut me up, then you should have kissed me on the mouth.”
Seungcheol stared at you wordlessly.
As you began to walk away, he pulled you by the elbow, putting you against the wall, trapping you between his hands on either side.
“Is that how?” He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne taking over your senses. “Because there is nothing I’d love to do more than shut you up.” He cocked his head with a small smile. “And maybe also show you what a kiss really is.”
You tried not to gulp the phantom lump in your throat, cheeks suddenly hot under his gaze. Somehow, as though it had a mind of its own, your hand traced his exposed collar bone, trailing down his chest slowly, eyes following. Seungcheol held his breath under your touch. You stopped your tracks at his hard pecs, right above his heart beating just as fast as yours and looked up at him.
And then twisted his nipple.
Shrieking in pain, Seungcheol stumbled back, clutching his chest.
“What the hell mate?”
You walked towards your bed, grabbing your matching satin night robe and slipping it on. “It's ridiculous that you even think you of all people could show me a real kiss.”
“You forget sweetheart, I was your first one.”
You turned to Seungcheol as he brought up a memory you had actually done a great job forgetting. It was during your senior year - your parents had forced you to accompany Seungcheol to a house party so you could “get more involved in the social scene” instead of holing yourself up in your room all the time. It was a classic game of truth or dare and the worst dare of your life - to kiss Seungcheol for a minute.
Now the last thing you wanted to hear was him teasing you every day about how you were too scared to kiss him so you held him by the collar and pulled yourself into his lap straddling him, your mouth meeting his in a frenzy. If you were being honest, something about that kiss served as your sexual awakening - maybe it was the way he moaned into your mouth, or his hands gripped your ass, or hands entangled in his soft hair or your chest pressed up against his. Whatever it was, there was a video of it that your classmates took circulating somewhere out there, timed around five and a half minutes as opposed to the one minute it was supposed to be.
“Don’t take too much pride in yourself Cheol.” You sat on the bed, leaning back on your hands planted in the mattress. “Only I know how many other guys I had to kiss after that to know what kissing truly is.”
Seungcheol felt his jaw tighten.
Something in you had changed in junior year. Yes, you were still the same antisocial, inhospitable, unapproachable person you always were but somehow every other day, he found you in a new location with a new guy's tongue shoved down your throat. They were not boyfriends, Seungcheol knew that much, and it was the fact that they weren't that made his blood boil with anger.
“You shouldn’t take pride in yourself either sweetheart.” He looked at you with a strange mixture of anger and pity. “There's nothing to feel accomplished about not forming a single real bond in your life.”
The moment the words left his mouth Seungcheol regretted it, knowing he had hit a soft spot. It was too late now; the damage was done - pain was flashing in your eyes.
You looked at the insensitive man before you and laughed at him sadly, mirroring his hurtful words.
“No real bond? I’m afraid you filled that void Seungcheol. Hate forms really strong bonds too.”
And with that you turned away from him, tucking yourself under the sheets, turning off the lights on your side of the room. Grabbing his towel and a change of clothes, Seungcheol locked himself up in the bathroom, your words piercing his heart like no other. Over the years yes, the two of you argued and fought and annoyed each other and couldn’t stand one another but hate? He didn’t ever think that’s what you felt for him. Perhaps he deserved it - he had after all crossed a line with that comment.
He knew you had always struggled around people. He knew that even though you detested taking his help for anything, in every social setting, you would always choose to hide behind him. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to interact, you just couldn’t. You were a sick child since birth, constantly brought down by various illnesses that often confined you to your room - you didn’t go out to play with the other children, you didn’t join the kids on their trips to the ice cream shop, you didn’t go late night camping with your classmates, you didn’t do a lot of what kids your age did.
And when you were old enough, when you were healthy enough to step out into the world, you didn’t know how to anymore. Hence you continued to stay in your own shell, closing yourself off from everyone, wary of any and all interactions. Seungcheol knew all this, that’s why when he couldn't lay his eyes on you in the crowd of the conference, the panic he felt was like no other. He never thought he would ever feel his heart stop but Seungcheol felt it twice today - once when he lost you and the other when you said that. I’m afraid you filled that void Seungcheol. Hate forms really strong bonds too.
You stared out of the window, mildly annoyed by all the light falling in your face, Seungcheol’s words ringing in your ears. It might have sounded harsh but he was right. You never formed real bonds with anyone, you could never bring yourself to. Having spent years all by yourself, you didn’t know what it was like to let another person into a space that was entirely yours. That’s why, though you engaged in all sorts of flings and hookups, you never let it go beyond that - you never let yourself lose your heart to someone, walking away from them before they could walk away from you.
In that sense, Seungcheol was indeed the realest bond you had - just a constantly present, mildly irritating, oddly comforting white noise in your life. It was easy with him - you never had to think in his presence, you never had to wonder whether anything would drive him away, never had to worry about keeping him by your side unconditionally - he was always there. Somehow what you felt for Seungcheol was liberating in a way you hadn’t even realized. Hate could hardly define that; you were unnecessarily harsh earlier.
Seungcheol stepped out of the bathroom, eyes falling on your unmoving figure which he just realized was on bed 6 instead of 7. Noticing the damp sheets and piecing it together, he didn’t think too much of it as he switched off the lights and crawled into his bed.
Hearing the sounds of him shuffling, you turned towards him.
“Are you not going for the dinner?”
“It’s too late now. I would have eaten there if I didn’t have to run back here to check up on you.”
“You could have just called me.”
“I did.” He turned to you, looking at just your silhouette in the darkness. “A few hundred times.”
You checked your phone immediately and it wasn’t a hundred times but there were some fifty odd calls from him and two dozen messages.
“I put my phone on silent during the conference and forgot to take it off.” You mumbled, just a little guilty that he was missing out on a gathering because of you. “Did you at least eat?”
“I’m not hungry, thanks to all the Americanos you kept feeding me all day.”
“If not for that, you would have been snoring in the conference barely an hour after it began.” You turned to lie on your back, facing the ceiling. “And I wouldn’t have had to do that if you’d just obediently drank that double shot espresso in the morning.”
Seungcheol remembered you sliding the coffee cup to him and smiled to himself in the dark.
“Then maybe you should also listen to me and stop munching on those strawberries every chance you get, especially when you know they flare your allergies.”
You remembered Seungcheol gobbling up the last berry and smiled to yourself in the dark.
“Goodnight, you obnoxious prick.”
“Goodnight, you insufferable fiend."
When you woke up in the morning, two things had changed - one, Seungcheol had moved from bed 2 to bed 3 in the middle of the night and two, his shirt was gone, discarded somewhere in the mess on the floor. He was lying sprawled on his bare stomach, his back covered in a thin sheet of sweat, his tattoo shining as the light hit it. Ignoring the sight before you with much difficulty, you shook him awake.
“Get up Cheol, we’re going to be late.”
He groaned, rolling over, eyes slowly blinking open, falling on you first thing in the morning. Even though you were dressed in the sultriest thing he had ever seen on you, Seungcheol controlled himself and tore his eyes away.
“The radiator is right across the other bed; I was literally burning all night.” He mumbled, stretching awake, justifying his move.
You turned towards it noticing how it was in fact between bed two and three, closer to three than two to be honest. Considering Seungcheol was still drenched in sweat, his move in the middle of the night was actually quite pointless, but you chose not to say anything about it. Quickly washing up, the two of you rushed for breakfast, skimming over the presentation notes one last time. Today, neither of you noticed but Seungcheol drank the coffee and you didn’t eat the strawberries.
Day two went by in a flash much like day one. Only this time, you didn’t talk to the gentleman from yesterday, choosing to sit quietly by Seungcheol in the break and he didn’t leave your side either, regardless of all the ladies calling him to join them. In the evening, as the team headed to the city’s best karaoke bar, inviting you and Seungcheol again, Seungcheol brushed them off claiming the two of you had a little more work to do on the proposal. To his surprise, you shot him down, agreeing to join everyone, looking at him with a small smile.
“Don’t be such a killjoy darling.”
Seungcheol knew you were compensating for last night so he followed, well aware that you would most likely want to leave the moment the singing started. Well, he was almost right - you actually wanted to leave the moment you stepped foot into the room, turning to him with pleading eyes. Seungcheol turned you by your shoulder, laughing as he led you in.
“Don’t be such a killjoy sweetheart.”
You sat patiently as the beers poured in and people around you fought for the photobooth props. Seungcheol was sitting right beside you, his thigh a comforting weight against yours, laughing with everyone. As the night progressed, you had downed a beer or two, a slight buzz taking over, not noticing the way Seungcheol had his arm around you now or that you were warmly cuddled against his torso. Soon, one by one, everyone settled on the couches, tired from all the screaming, resorting to chatter instead and deciding on an old-fashioned game of truth or dare. Seungcheol smirked at you and you turned his face away with a soft push.
“So Seungcheol,” The man beside him spoke. “Truth or dare?”
“Neither actually. We should leave now.” He stood, pulling you up, stumbling slightly. “I’ve had too much to drink and it's late, Y/n needs to sleep.”
“Didn’t realize wacky wallflower here also had the bedtime of a toddler.” One of Seungcheol’s many fangirls piqued, jealousy stark on her face. “We can book her a cab, why don’t you stay a little longer, Cheolie?”
You raised an eyebrow, amused at the nickname, and at her jealousy but Seungcheol did not find anything about her words even remotely funny.
“No thanks, I go where she goes.”
“I thought you guys weren’t dating? Then why-”
“That doesn’t change what I said.” His voice dropped an octave. “I go where she goes.”
“Cheol.” You placed a hand on his chest, sensing his anger rising. “It’s fine, let’s stay for a few rounds, yeah?”
Seungcheol looked at you frowning as you sat down, pulling him with you. The girl you already disliked but quite vehemently hate now, spun the bottle with a giggle.
“We don’t have to stay.” Seungcheol whispered as the guy beside you excitedly asked the one across him a question. “You stayed long enough, you need sleep-”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not.” He spoke between gritted teeth. “Just looking at that foul woman makes me mad. I already said I wasn’t interested in her, she had no reason to be a bitch.”
“Well then don’t you want to put the bitch in her place Cheol?”
You looked at him with big doe eyes which terrified Seungcheol even more. What on Earth were you up to?
“Y/n, you get to ask Yuri!”
You looked at the bottle to see it pointing between you and your little conquest of the night. Hook.
“Truth or dare?” Line.
“Dare.” And Sinker.
“Okay Yuri, then I dare you to not take your eyes off.”
You pulled Seungcheol by the collar, smashing your lips on his, swallowing his audible moan. His hands immediately found your waist, pulling you closer, up against his body, teeth roughly tugging your lower lip. Hand sliding up his neck and across his jaw, you entangled your fingers in his hair, drawing him even closer denying even air the right to come between the two of you. Yes, it was all a show for Yuri or whatever her name was, but at a point, she stomped her foot and got up, running out of the room. Perhaps the two of you should have stopped then or at least when you were running out of breath. But you only broke apart when someone dropped a beer bottle, smashing the glass loudly on the floor. Seungcheol and you looked at it, faces flushed, lips swollen. A low whistle echoed in the room.
“We-” Seungcheol cleared his throat, trying to get his voice back. “We should get going.”
“Y-yeah.” You agreed, getting up and grabbing your things as Seungcheol smoothened his hair with his hand, muttering a small goodbye to everyone. As the two of you stepped out of the room, you found Yuri crying at the entrance, her friend trying her best to console her. Not sparing her another glance, you walked away, Seungcheol following you close behind. As the cold air hit you when you reached the taxi stand, you felt a painful sting on your lower lip, making you hiss. Hand cupping your face, Seungcheol wiped the trickle of blood with his thumb.
“Guess you desperately did need a real kiss huh?”
“Shut up.” You smacked his hand away. “I had to help the poor girl get over her pathetic taste in men.”
“By getting a taste of me?” Seungcheol smirked as you rolled your eyes. Before you could say anything, his stomach let out a loud growl making you laugh and look around, spotting a burger joint.
“Let’s get you a taste of that big boy.”
“Sometimes I wonder-” You stared out of the window at the large clouds rolling in. “-considering our parents are best friends and we are not, do you think our children would be good friends or enemies?”
“Wow, children.” Seungcheol munched on his burger furiously. “I never thought that far.”
“Then think about it now.”
“I don’t know.” He hummed. He hated thinking when he was tipsy. “Siblings tend to have a love-hate relationship.”
“I was talking about our children Seungcheol.”
“So was I.”
“No, I mean, my own children and your own children.”
“Yeah, same thing.”
You looked at him exasperatedly.
“Let’s be honest here Y/n. Who else out there can put up with us for long enough to start a family?”
“We can barely put up with each other-”
“But we have, for almost 25 years.” He slurped on his drink. “There’s a reason why you have never been in a relationship and I have never been in one that lasts. Because whatever it is we share, it’s you and I, till the end.”
“Till the end.” You muttered, reaching for his burger, taking a bite from it. Judging by your expression, Seungcheol could tell you liked his better, like you always do. That’s why he made sure to get it without the tomatoes he usually loved and settled to eat your meal instead. He was just about to ask why exactly you were so lost in thought when a loud thunder boomed across the sky sending a shiver running down Seungcheol’s spine.
Shoving the last of the burger down your throat quickly washing it down with some soda, you began gathering your things.
“We should go before the rain starts.”
Seungcheol nodded, finishing up his meal as you threw the trash in the nearby can. As the two of you left, muttering your thank yous to the waitresses, you laced your fingers with Seungcheol’s, gripping him tight as another lightning flashed across the sky. Thank God it wasn’t too hard to flag down a cab because the moment the two of you sat inside, rain began pouring like there was no tomorrow. As you glanced at the obscurity outside the window, Seungcheol stared at his hand, the one that you hadn’t left in all this time.
There were times when he used to stay over in your room, unable to sleep due to all the thundering while you dozed away oblivious to his presence. Those days, you’d turn around, reaching for his hand, holding it in your sleep. Seungcheol now wondered if that might have been a conscious effort to comfort him.
Perhaps not he thought as you began to nonchalantly hum his favourite song. He wondered if you knew he loved that piece because of how beautiful you looked when you danced to it. He wondered if you knew that the reason he was always around you was to make sure you were alright. He wondered if you knew he always carried an extra inhaler for you, that he had written a long list of your allergies in order from ‘can handle’ to ‘keep away from at all times’, that he was constantly alert about everything you ate, smelt and touched. He wondered if you knew, deep down how much he cared about you…..but sleep dragged him away before he could wonder anymore.
Sensing Seungcheol had fallen asleep, you stopped humming, turning to him, smiling at his half open mouth. Scooting closer, you slowly pulled his head to rest against your shoulder, and he groaned softly, nuzzling into it. The driver looked at the two of you through the rear-view mirror, making your cheeks go red as you looked away.
“Is your boyfriend afraid of thunderstorms?”
You nodded, ignoring the title. “Since he was a child. I don’t think he’s been sleeping too well the last few days.”
“The forecast shows it’s going to be worse today.” The driver sighed. “Look out for him.”
You nodded again. You did look out for him. In your own ways you always did - you always challenged him knowing that was what pushed him to do better. You always made sure to wake him up or at least meddle with his clocks so he was always on time. You always made sure he ate and slept enough, knowing how it threw him off whenever he was deprived of either. Even now you were humming his favourite song knowing it calmed him down. You wondered if Seungcheol knew, that deep down you really cared about him…..perhaps more than anything.
When the taxi reached the lodge, you softly shook him awake after paying, dragging his sleepy self through the lobby. The receptionist's eyes followed the two of you, stumbling away hand in hand, mouth curling into a small smile as you disappeared. You only let his hand go when you reached the room and that’s what jolted him awake.
The silence that descended the room today was different. It wasn’t because the two of you were too tired to say anything to each other, rather neither of you knew what exactly to say given there was so much to. So instead, you resorted to washing up and filling in your journal for the day while Seungcheol worked on a few changes in the proposal for the final pitch tomorrow. Just as he shut the laptop and you shut your diary, the two of you looked at each other before quickly looking away, settling in your own beds, for the night.
You were almost ready to drift off to sleep, before the driver’s words rang in your mind - the forecast shows it’s going to be worse today. Without thinking much, you moved your things from bed 6 to bed 5, muttering that the light from the streetlamps was falling in your face there. Seungcheol did not point out that you could just close the curtains instead and curled up in his own bed, glad you were closer to him now.
He looked at you across the one bed that was in between and suddenly you felt too far, like the distance was too much.
You looked at him as his eyes fluttered shut, thunder rumbling across the sky, wondering if he could hear you across all this space, humming louder than usual, lulling the two of you to sleep.
When you woke up, Seungcheol was surprisingly awake and fully dressed, trying to knot his tie unsuccessfully in front of the mirror, expression focused with a small pout. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you stared at his reflection, eyes skimming over the beautiful features of his face which you never really consciously admired - his thick hair, thicker eyebrows, plump, pillowy lips, his jawline sharp and chiselled. He was indeed handsome, in a way you really liked….a lot.
You wondered why you always looked at him like he was the bane of your existence. Was it because it was easier to bury the unresolved tension under pointless banter? Or did you wantonly show him your worst side, hoping it wouldn’t scare him away, hoping he would stay despite every flaw, every shortcoming. What did it mean if in 25 years, he didn’t leave even once?
Seungcheol groaned, annoyed at his futile attempts, eyes finally meeting yours in the mirror. You slid off your bed, walking up to him as he turned to you. Yawning, you took his tie in your hands, tying it for him. Seungcheol’s eyes drifted over the features of your face as he held his breath.
He could get used to this, the sight of waking up to a sleepy you, your hair all over the place, your eyes slightly droopy, nose red. God you were so beautiful - he knew that, but why didn’t he ever think about it? Why did he choose to fight every remote thought about you with irritating banter? Was he scared that the tension would remain unresolved? And what did it mean if you were still here, right by his side, helping him out in everything big and small, always making sure he was going the right way and doing the right thing, every single day for the last 25 years?
You pushed the knot up to his neck, smoothening the material, patting his chest with a proud smile. Seungcheol gulped as you walked away to wash up, trying to get his breath under control.
When the two of you came down for breakfast, you pointedly avoided the receptionist's gaze. There was no time to deal with more thoughts.
The rest of the day went like that, thoughtlessly. It was a little awkward at the conference considering the little show you two put up last night, so the moment it ended for good in the evening, you bid everyone goodbye, citing you had an early flight and had to leave soon. It was true though, you did have to travel in the wee hours of the morning, but leaving from the conference so soon also meant having to spend longer with Seungcheol, all alone. He agreed with you though, stating his social battery was at an all-time low and that he just wanted to go back.
Today the two of you were somehow sitting on two ends of the car backseat, bodies pressing against the door, in complete contrast to last night. It was a silent ride, a silent walk to the room and a silent session of packing up. Suddenly there were very conscious efforts to not brush hands, or accidentally walk into each other or catch the other person randomly staring, lost in thought. It was only when you were finally done that you asked Seungcheol if he wanted to order dinner. He agreed, leading to a very small and very efficient discussion about what dishes to eat and then silence descended upon the room again. While waiting for the food to arrive, Seungcheol muttered that he was going for a quick run, leaving you alone with the thoughts you could no longer stop from plaguing your mind.
Something had changed over the last 3 days. It wasn’t you or Seungcheol - he was still throwing his damp towels on dry clothes and you were still meddling with his clocks. No, the two of you hadn’t changed. Neither did the arguing, neither did the banter, neither did the subtle flirting, neither did the silent support. No…. nothing had changed. It was all the same. It was all the exact same except now, you were finally willing to acknowledge something you hadn’t even admitted to yourself since the age of five, that-
“I’m in love with him.” You whispered, smiling to yourself.
Seungcheol on the other hand thought running around the lodge would mean those thoughts wouldn’t run in his mind anymore. He was wrong - even though you were not there, like always you were on his mind, in his every thought, in his every breath. Seungcheol didn’t know of a life without you. He also knew that you would be there with him for the rest of his life but for the first time in 25 years, he finally found himself owning up to it - that he truly wanted you be a part of his future, that he could not bear to think of one without you in it, that-
“I’m in love with her.” He whispered, smiling to himself.
By the time Seungcheol had returned, dinner had arrived. Between each bite you searched for the right words to say, noticing that Seungcheol was trying the same. Somehow, neither of you could bring yourself to say anything.
You couldn’t peacefully finish up your journal and Seungcheol couldn’t take a relaxing shower, both muttering under your breaths, practicing long speeches, determined to confess everything before sleeping tonight.
But when all was done for the night, both of you laid down on your respective beds, staring at the ceiling, unable to talk, unable to sleep.
Seungcheol turned his head as you did towards him, making his heart clench a little.
Sighing, he grabbed his pillow and put it on bed 4, lying down, facing you.
You looked at him blinking slowly.
Seungcheol held his breath.
Taking a deep breath, you grabbed your duvet and joined him on the fourth bed, throwing it over the two of you, lying down, facing him.
Seungcheol slid his hand over your waist, pulling you closer.
You gripped the material of his shirt, snuggling into the warmth of his neck.
Nothing was said that night.
Nothing had to be said as the two of you drifted off to sleep.
It was the harsh morning sun and the annoying chirping of the birds that woke you up.
You stared out of the window surprised at the bright light given the last few days were as gloomy as it could be. Seungcheol’s soft breaths tickled your shoulder as his arms held you tight, your back against his chest. Smiling you wiggled in his grip turning towards him, taking in how much more stunning he looked in the morning light-
Morning?
“Cheol.”
He hummed softly.
“Cheol!”
“What?”
“It’s bright outside.”
“That’s how mornings are Y/n.”
“Oh thank you for enlightening me.” You rolled your eyes. “Might I return the favour by reminding you that we had a flight at 5am?”
Seungcheol’s eyes flew open.
He quickly grabbed his phone from the nightstand, 11am flashing on the screen.
“Fuck.” He muttered, running his hand through his hair. “Fuck fuck fuck, I can’t believe we missed the flight!”
You took the phone from him and scrolled through the app. “The next flight out is tomorrow morning, same time, 5am.”
“But the company hasn’t paid for the room tonight, where will we stay?” Seungcheol groaned. “How could you not wake me up?”
You frowned at him. “And why is it my job to?”
“Because, you don’t like it when I put alarms on my phone.”
“Uh no, I don’t like it when you continue to sleep through the dozen alarms you put on your phone.”
“Whatever your reasons are, I think its been established that you are the one who's supposed to wake us both up.”
“Yeah well thanks to you I forgot to set an alarm.”
“Thanks to me?” He looked at you bewildered. “What did I do?”
“Who asked you to..” You pointed at everything around with the wave of a hand, the two of you only just registering the situation you were in.
“You were the one who came to my bed.” Seungcheol shrugged. “This is on you because you were desperate.”
“Says the one who’s boner poking into my back woke me up.”
Seungcheol gawked at you, stuttering. “M-morning wood is a scientific phenomenon, okay? I can’t help it-”
“I could have.” You muttered, slipping out of the bed.
Seungcheol pulled you back under him, half hovering over you.
“Oh yeah?” He bit his lower lip with a small smile. “How exactly?”
You hummed, “I happen to know some good meditation techniques-”, running a finger down his abdomen, tracing a random design.
Seungcheol grabbed your hand and pinned it to the mattress by your face, leaning close.
“Think of a better way, baby.”
The nickname sent a delightful chill down your spine as you slightly squirmed under him, smiling.
“How about I get you some ice-”
“That’s not what I want right now.”
“Then what do you want right now?”
His eyes ran along the features of your face.
“I want to kiss you.” He whispered. “So bad.”
“And what are you waiting for?”
Seungcheol groaned, immediately pressing his lips onto yours, needy and ravenous, like he had been waiting eons for this. Well, so had you.
Pushing him off you and onto his back, you straddled his hips, kissing him again, rolling your tongue over his. Seungcheol moaned into your mouth, one hand wrapping around your waist, the other holding you by the nape of your neck, taking back control. When you ran your hand over his thick pecs, he pulled away with a dreamy sigh, planting a trail of kisses along your jaw, down your throat.
“Strip for me.”
Sitting up immediately, you lifted your hips a little letting Seungcheol push the material of your nightdress up your thighs and you pulled it over your head, tossing it somewhere. In the ten seconds it took you to do that, Seungcheol was a changed man. The old him wanted to take his time unravelling you slowly, pushing you to the edge but the new Seungcheol felt the animal in him come alive with a throbbing, insatiable desire. It became exponentially worse when you pulled your hair up, tying it with the hair tie on your wrist, baring your neck, perfect breasts, soft stomach….unable to reign it in anymore, Seungcheol lunged forward, hungrily sucking a tit into his mouth, making you lose your balance over him a little, grabbing his bicep half laughing.
“Huh, I really thought you were more of an ass guy.”
Seungcheol let go with a wet pop, looking up at you from between his thick lashes. Oh wasn’t that a sight.
“For you, I’m an everything guy.” His hands gripped your ass hard. “Your derriere does take the cake though.”
You laughed, “Who even uses that word?”
“I don’t know, I have no idea what is coming out of my mouth right now.” He confessed, his tongue running up the gap between your boobs, the sweet and salty taste of your skin driving him insane. “I just know what I want in it.”
“Yeah?” You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him back with a harsh grip, before he latched onto your other tit. “I have better things to put in it.”
Seungcheol grinned like he couldn’t wait, flashing his canines, biting his lower lip.
God he was going to be the end of you.
But you’ll beat him to it.
Palms planted behind you, you slid yourself back off his thighs and sat between his legs, lifting your own up for him. Seungcheol’s eyes darkened in an instant and the moment he saw the wet spot in the middle of your pink panties, he could not hold himself back anymore. With a swift movement he was up on his knees before you, hooking his fingers in the elastic by your waist and slowly dragging your underwear along your legs. Like a man starving he crumpled it in his hand, breathing it deeply, eyes fluttering shut like he was intoxicated by your scent.
“I’m going to be borrowing this, for whenever you’re not there.”
“Pervert.” You whispered as he tucked it in the back pocket of his tracks. “But I’m never not going to be there. I’m afraid you’re stuck for life now.”
Seungcheol fisted the material at the back of his neck and pulled it over his head, flinging it somewhere before he put his hands between your knees and spread your legs apart, groaning at the sight before him. You were quite literally hiding his paradise between your legs.
“Trust me,” He reached for a pillow behind him, throwing it to you. “I want to be stuck here.”
The moment you tucked it under your head lying back, Seungcheol wasted no time in crawling between your legs, tossing them over his shoulder, descending on your sex. You felt your back arch off the mattress as he devoured, his tongue, mouth, lips all showing you stars in daytime.
“Fuck Cheol.” You whimpered as his tongue slipped into your hole, his moan sending a wild vibration against it. Bringing your hands to his head, your fingers gripped his hair, pushing your hips up against him “Give me more.”
Seungcheol smirked, pressing your hips down, continuing his ministrations in a way that made your toes curl. Damn he knew what he was doing. For a split second you wondered how he knew so much and an ugly jealousy began coursing through you but it was lost almost immediately, when he began to suck on your clit.
“Cheol….” You moaned, the sudden stimulation too intense for you, a tightness growing deep inside. “F-fuck that’s good.”
Seungcheol knew he was good. Not because he was experienced, not exactly - more because he was desperate to taste every inch of you. If he thought the taste of your arousal was heavenly, the moment your legs trembled and your breaths got harsher and you came against his mouth, Seungcheol knew he’d cast aside the heavens for it. This wasn’t enough.
This was probably the fastest orgasm you ever had, waves of the buzz washing over as your jaw fell slack. You rode it out against his mouth, tense shivers running down your body as his nose grazed your clit before falling limp into the softness of the bed, chest heaving.
Seungcheol was so noisily devoted to making you fall apart on his tongue, he wasn't sure if you didn't moan his name or if he was too entranced to hear it. Either way, he had to go again, keeping in mind to put his eyes on you this time. When he looked up at you, your face was flushed, lips curled into a blissful smile and Seungcheol thought he fell more in love with you, if that was even possible.
“We're gonna have to talk about why you're so good at that.” You half laughed, trying to sit up. Seungcheol pushed you back down, throwing another pillow at you, humming.
“How good was I exactly?”
“Nice try big boy,” You stacked the pillow over the previous one, leaning back against it. “I'm not going to feed your ego.”
“I'll feed myself then.” He smirked before licking a long strip between your folds making you tremble with over stimulation.
“Cheol not yet-”
“If I don't hear you I'm not going to stop.”
And he descended upon you like a mad man again, making you gasp in surprise. You did not think he'd go through with it.
“Cheol I really can't-”
but Seungcheol did not stop.
When he didn’t listen, you reached to pull him off you but Seungcheol was quicker as he grabbed both your wrists in a flash and held them against your heaving chest, continuing to eat the life out of you.
“Seungcheol please.” You couldn’t even squirm if you tried to, held down hard by his brute strength. “I really can’t-”
He looked up, his mouth wet with his spit and your arousal as he licked his lips. Fuck you really loved this man.
“Do you actually want me to stop?”
He was taunting you but there's a slight concern laced in his voice.
You shook your head slowly.
“I thought so.” He chuckled before continuing his act of wolfing down on you.
Your second orgasm began to rush in with an unreal speed and you don't know how Seungcheol could read your body so well already but the little bitch backed out before you could cum again.
“Cheol…”
You whined, frustrated at the feeling ebbing away, desperately clenching to hold on to it.
“I said I wanted to hear you.”
You glared at him, not used to him having the upper hand. He knew he's got you under control when he finally loosened his bruising grip on your thigh to sit up and you opened your mouth on your own accord to let him slip his fingers into them.
“What a pretty little girl.” He sighed as you sucked on his digits. “My pretty girl.”
“Yes yours.” You moaned, as he pulled them out of your mouth and pushed them into his, wetting them more as you practically panted below him.
“I'll do what you want, just put them in me Cheol.”
“You're quite demanding baby.” He leaned over you looking amused. “I hope you deliver as well as you talk.”
“I'll suck the life out of your dick after this I swear, just let me cum again.”
Enticed by the idea, Seungcheol captured your mouth in another one of his messy kisses, his fingers slowly slipping into your heat. You gasped into his mouth, surprised by how thick his fingers were. Oh his dick would probably make you pass out and god were you ready for it.
“Say my name baby.” Seungcheol pressed his forehead against yours, still holding your wrists between both your bodies with his other hand. “Tell me who's making you feel so good.”
“You.” You moaned as he pumped his fingers, slowly stretching you open, your arousal dripping down between your thighs. “Fuck Cheol, faster.”
He obeyed, picking up the pace as you babbled a string of curses, legs squeezing his hand desperate to feel more. Seungcheol sucked on your neck, enjoying the way you were crumbling apart for him. How was he ever going to be away from you after this?
“Oh god yes.” You sighed, as his fingers curled hitting the spot, eyes rolling back. Seungcheol looked at you in awe.
“I apologise if I ever told you that it was annoying when you rolled your eyes.” He continued to push you over. “That was the hottest thing I've ever seen.”
“Yes yes yes.” You chanted not hearing him, too lost in your own pleasure building. Pleased with himself, Seungcheol finally put his thumb over your clit and that was all it took for you to cum all over his fingers with yet another silent scream.
Seungcheol let your hands go and sat back on his heels, admiring his artwork. Your chest heaved erratically like you had forgotten how to breathe, squeezing your tits, hands desperate to claw something. Hair sticking to your forehead, sweat running down your neck next to the bruises he marked, you were a vision to behold.
Seungcheol sucked his fingers clean, relishing the taste of you yet again. You stared at him wide eyed, curious.
“Have you never tasted yourself?”
You shook your head.
“Oh sweetheart.”
Seungcheol pushed his tracks down just a bit, enough to pull his dick out. It's not the longest you've seen but God was it thick, a stark vein running down the length which looked painfully hard. The thought of having him fill your mouth and choking around it literally made you drool.
He pumped it a few times before hooking his hands under your thighs and pulling you towards him with unsurprising ease. You scrambled to raise yourself up on your elbows, watching as he ran it up and down your slit, gathering your release on it.
“Come taste.”
You blinked at the man holding out his dick to you like it was a treat, like he expected you to crawl to him, stunned at just how cocky he had gotten in 20 minutes. Hell no.
You shook your head, tilting it in challenge.
“Come fuck my mouth.”
If Choi Seungcheol had a fatal flaw it was how much he desired control but right now, there was nothing he desired and craved more than you.
Moving over not so gracefully he aligned himself by your mouth, knees planted on either sides of your waist, looming over you.
You immediately wrapped your lips around his tip, humming at the weight on your tongue as he pushed your hair off your face softly.
“I know baby, you taste fucking divine.”
Giving him a half nod, running your tongue over his slit before hollowing your cheeks around him. The mix of your and his arousal indeed tasted….right, like they belonged together.
You tried to take in more of him but you might have underestimated his girth and overestimated your ability. Pulling back with a pop, you licked your lips.
“You're too thick.” Mumbling you tried to push him off you, onto his back. “Let me move over-”
“Oh no no.” Seungcheol clicked his tongue, grabbing the back of you neck, forcing you to look up at him. “It can't be that bad, someone claimed they could stack fruit loops on it.”
You rolled your eyes realising he was a bit too proud of himself. “I still can. I just don't have the cereal to prove it.”
“I'll buy some on the way back and when we go home that's the first thing you're going to do.” He wiped the spit leaking around the corner of your mouth with his free hand. “And if you don't manage to prove your point, that's grounds for punishment.”
You grinned at him.
“Oh you like that.” He hummed, guiding your head back to his cock. “We'll see how much of it you can take baby.”
A lot apparently.
Seungcheol should have known. You were like him - you didn't like to be challenged. That's why the moment he thrusted himself into your mouth, you held onto the back of his thighs with both hands, pushing it in a lot more than Seungcheol had thought you were capable of. Throwing his head back with a satisfied moan, he began moving his hips ever so little, slowly fucking your face, but you had other ideas, taking him as far back as you could, your throat constricting around his dick.
“Alright that's it.” Seungcheol pulled you off him, staring at your confused face. Somehow you had no gag reflex and Seungcheol suddenly had the endurance of a teenager. “Want to actually fuck you.”
He muttered drawing back, kicking off the remaining of his clothes and sitting up, trying to hide his breathlessness.
“Aw Cheol, was I right again?” You laughed, getting up and clambering onto his lap. “Is ten minutes really enough for you?”
“You'll see.” He pulled you into a deep kiss before abruptly breaking away, leaving you confused yet again. “Or not.”
“What?”
“I just realised… I don't have a condom.”
You waited for him to tell you he was kidding but he looked serious.
“Cheol….” He looked at you apologetically. “Ugh Choi Seungcheol, why not?!”
“One, don't call me that and two, I don't know, maybe because this was a work trip and the conference dress code didn't mention dick envelopes.”
You sighed annoyed. “I just always thought you'd carry one on you, xl sized.” You shot his overconfidence down before it even grew on him. “you know, for your head.”
“Oh because I'm a dick?” He rolled his eyes at the comment you had used on him too many times already. “Well, wouldn't that make you a little slut? Since you’ve been in love with me for so many years.”
“Who said I was in love with you?”
Seungcheol looked at you with the biggest, fucking cutest eyes. “Are you not?”
You smiled, surprisingly shy despite all that transpired so far. Honestly, you didn't have to answer that question. What you felt for each other was clear as day.
Putting a finger on his mouth, you whispered. “Less talking, more fucking please.”
Seungcheol groaned. “What do you want me to do? Go buy them now?”
“No…” You hated the thought of him leaving.
“Or…. I could pull out?”
“The last thing I trust in this world is your timing.” You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Besides, don't you want to be inside me when you cum? Squeezing you tight? Milking you dry?”
“Kinky.” Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, secretly delighted. “And shoot me if I ever say no to that, but you're not on birth control are you?”
“No…” You drawled. “But I can get plan b?”
“Baby, you realize how reckless this is-”
“I know.”
“-we've barely just-”
“I'm aware.”
“-plus your health-”
“Choi Seungcheol.” You pushed him back into the bed, annoyed. “Are you gonna fuck me or not? Because if you don't then I'm gonna do it myself and all you get is to watch-”
Seungcheol, tucked his arm under his head, looking like he liked that idea a little too much.
“-while I cum taking someone else's name.”
His eyes darkened as his hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you down to his eye level, “Try me sweetheart.”
“You know how I feel about challenges.”
“And you know how I feel about sharing what’s mine.”
“Then fuck me like I’m yours.”
Seungcheol smiled, dropping a soft kiss on your mouth, much in contrast to what followed. “Remember, you asked for this.”
One arm wrapped around your waist, he flipped you over, putting you below him once again, the hunger in his eyes burning a lot more now. As he shifted to push your legs apart, hand leaving your neck, a soft whine left you and Seungcheol caught it immediately.
“You’re into that too?” Seungcheol smirked as you frowned at him, annoyed.
“Apparently. I just found out as well.”
“I wonder what else you’re into.”
“You can wonder all you want, after you put that dick into me.”
Seungcheol clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t like how you think I’d listen.”
Yet before you could talk back, he slid his cock along your folds, the tip slightly dipping into your hole, pulling out the most exquisite moan from you.
“Now that’s something I’d listen to.” He pushed himself a little further, your hands immediately coming to grip his biceps, gasping again at just how big he was. Seungcheol had been dying to listen to you sound like this and god was it so worth it.
You attempted to relax, adjusting around his girth as he eased himself in, but gave up even trying to maintain the facade of composure when he bottomed out, pressing all the way in.
“Fuck yes Cheol.”
He hissed softly, feeling your soft walls flutter around him. He had never fucked anyone raw and after this, how was he expected to just not spend his whole life buried in you?
“Please, move.” You begged, and he folded immediately, his hips slowly picking up pace as he kissed you along your neck.
“We should have done this years ago.” He groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips, pounding faster, harder. “We should have been doing this for years now.”
You nodded half listening, half submerged in your pleasure, nails running down his back. “Let’s just never get out of this bed.”
Seungcheol chuckled, absolutely agreeing with that idea, snapping his hips faster, delighted by the way you were reacting under him.
He wanted to flip you around and take you from the back, mark your ass with the red prints of his hand. He wanted you sitting on him, fucking yourself on his dick while he watched, your head thrown back in pleasure. He wanted to eat you out till you cried, fuck your throat and make you swallow, pull every moan and every whine and ever chant of his name out of you. God he wanted so much but Seungcheol wasn't capable of any of those right now - he had been hard for almost an hour now and your grip around him was like a vice.
“Seungcheol more.” You whined, despite him already railing into you like there was no tomorrow. He still listened though, sliding his hand down between your bodies and finding you clit, well aware that you would probably go unbelievably tight the moment he touched it, rendering him absolutely helpless. Sure enough, you keened, clamping down on him hard the moment he began rubbing circles, a string of curses leaving your mouth.
“Cum for me.” He whispered, hips rutting against yours harshly, holding his own release back desperately. “Cum all over me.”
And you did, the pleasure washing over you in waves, legs tightening around him before they finally went slack, exhausted. Seungcheol pulled them off him, gripping your thighs instead, shifting from an erratic rhythm to quick, deep strokes as he finally came inside you, collapsing on top.
He was careful enough not to crush you under his weight, holding himself up a little so you could regain your breath, watching your eyes flutter tiredly.
“We need to get you cleaned up.” He tucked your hair behind your ear, glancing at your mixed arousals dripping out of you. “I don’t know how long the statute of limitations for ejaculate is….”
For the first time in your life, Choi Seungcheol had managed to turn you dumb, as you nodded mindlessly, not having registered the stupidity that just came out of him.
He chuckled, rolling off you, but you dragged him back by the wrist, wrapping your arms around him.
“Hold me.”
And as though the universe hated you, a sharp knock on the door made you two jump apart. Seungcheol still proceeded to hold you but the knocking only repeated, louder this time. He huffed annoyed, sliding off the bed, grabbing his shirt from the floor and threw it on. Opening the door just a little, half hiding behind it, lower half specifically, he peaked out but his plan was foiled when the receptionist pushed the door fully open and came barging in, throwing her hands around.
“Check out time was 12! You’re late-”
She froze as Seuncheol quickly covered himself with a towel from nearby and you scrambled in a hurry, hiding under the sheets, squirming in embarrassment.
The old woman slowly, still shocked to the core, muttered an apology and walked out of the room as Seungcheol smacked his head against the wall, regretting not wearing his pants.
“You…” She cleared her throat from the other side of the door. “You have till 2. Get it together and get out of my lodge.” She then walked away, the sound of her footsteps fading, before they suddenly got louder again. “I would also like to add that I knew this was going to happen from the moment you two stepped foot in here!”
You covered your face trying not to pass out from the embarrassment as Seungcheol locked the door laughing.
"Why does she sound so happy?"
“I cannot believe she saw us." You groaned. "Who walks in like that-”
“Who cares?” Seungcheol walked over to you. “I cannot believe we still have two more hours.”
“You’re not even ready to go again.” You looked pointedly at the softened dick in his hand that he was pumping lazily. “Besides, we're going to have to book the room again, for tonight.”
“2 hours isn’t enough for you? Oh baby-”
“Our flight is at 5am tomorrow you idiot, we still need a place for the night.”
“Right.” Seungcheol recalled, “I forgot we had to go… that this had to come to an end.”
“Nothing’s ending.” You clarified, putting a rest to his worries. “Didn’t you say, you and I, till the end?”
Seungcheol nodded as you held your hand out to him. He walked over taking it, dropping a soft kiss on your knuckles.
“Say.” And you knew an unholy thought was brewing in that head of his. “We have all this time and there are seven beds here.”
“I don’t care how many there are.” You laughed, pulling him into the softness of the sheets. “I only want one to share with you.”
A/n - this was supposed to be out a few hours ago but tumblr was being a bitch to me. Im adding the tags in the comments! Reblogs with tags, comments and asks are much appreciated, thank you for reading :)
Synopsis: Hoshi the Tiger Kwon, one of south korea’s best boxers from the 90. Before that, he was just the annoying guy you trained.
Pairing: Boxer!Hoshi x Trainer!FemReader
Word Count: 24.4k
Genre: Action, Romance, Smut
Warnings: Slow burn, boxing lingo and fight scenes, misunderstanding, angst, Hoshi and reader can be really mean to each other :(, kissing, unprotected intercourse, panties for safe keeping lol
A/n: LONG TIME NO SEE! <3 thank you to @svthub for being a great resource and community, @nerdycheol, @facethesunflower and @shinysobi for being there during its writing process. Also @supi-wupi and @hanniehaeo for corrections and beta reading ^^
💥 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥
“KWON ON THE ROPES, CAN HE DO A COMEBACK BEFORE THE END OF THESE 40 SECONDS?”
The stadium is a frenzy. Your ears ring as you look up through the ropes of the boxing ring. Your eyes focused on Soonyoung’s back, sweat shining on his taut muscles from the harsh lights, the sound of the rubber boxing gloves of his opponent colliding in dull hits to Soonyoung’s tight defense.
Heart beating, eyebrows furrowed as you grip onto the white towel in your hand. Stained with blood, his blood, from the earlier timeout.
“OH! — A COUNTER LANDS ON KWON’S RIGHT CHEEK!”
Your eyes widen as you watch Soonyoung’s mouth guard shoot out of his mouth, a mix of spit and blood splattering in the air as you see the outline of his face. His side profile crushed by the weight of the glove and force.
You hold your breath.
Your mind can’t help but hurl you back to your prior memories. The days, the months, the years, before all this.
When you were wiping down the worn ropes with a cloth. Face sour as you squeeze the handle of the Lysol, disinfectant spraying onto the leather ropes as you gently wipe it off. You don’t even blink an eye when the sound of the gym door opens, the familiar sound of loud men infiltrating your ears.
This gym was like a second home to you. Your father, an ex-professional boxer turned coach, used all his money to open a boxing gym while you were still learning how to walk on your own two feet.
It shouldn’t be surprising that one of your first words, well, according to your father, was weave! Weave! — Much to your late mother’s dismay.
As much as hanging out with friends was a pastime for most girls your age, yours was helping at your father’s gym. Cleaning the ring, sweeping the floor, and disinfecting the equipment. Anything really, so you could crane your neck to listen in on the practices. Like father, like son daughter, you were as interested in the sport as he was. His genes were, well, unfortunately, strong.
“Y/n, you still here?” Your dad chimes, curiosity in his low voice as he walks out of his office. Alerted by the sound of boxers falling in, from amateur ones practicing for their license, to the very few professional ones your father was training personally.
You look up, nodding with a sigh, “Yeah, well, the ring was looking rough.” You reply. Omitting the fact that you did have plans. A boy you were talking to asked you out last week, which you were incredibly giddy about. Until you heard through the grapevine that he was also talking to another girl.
Safe to say, he cancelled the plans after you threw a punch straight at his eye.
“Great! Because I need you to watch the new boy,” your father says lightly, hands on his hips as he walks up to you.
You raise your brow, putting the cleaning supplies down at your side as you face your father. “New boy? Thought you weren’t accepting any new fighters?” You remind him, throwing the rag into the bucket of supplies next to your feet.
Your father shrugs, “Seemed promising. Young, too. Your age, actually,” he says with a smile, “But I need to focus today on Seungcheol. His match is two weeks, so we have to —“
“Yeah, yeah, work on his slugging.” You say not skipping a beat. You were there when your father was going crazy in his office, trying to figure out strategies for Seungcheol’s next match. It ended up boiling down to something that matches the guy perfectly — just slugging it out.
Your father grins, “Hm, yeah. So you got this!”
You narrow your eyes.
Your father sighs, “Just give the kid a few exercises to go through,” he says, waving you off.
You nod, grabbing the bucket of cleaning supplies, as you greet all the fighters in the gym coming in.
It wasn’t long until Soonyoung came in, still baby-faced, skinny compared to everyone else. Huffing and puffing as he pushes the boxing gym door open, stumbling in. Probably running from whatever train station, as you checked the time on the clock. He was ten minutes late to what your father informed you he’d arrive by. And not to mention, his shoe laces were untied, dragging against the floor haphazardly.
You narrow your eyes, shaking your head. He definitely knew nothing about boxing, not yet, at least. Hell, what did your father see in this kid? He just looked like every guy at school.
“Hey!” You yell out, getting his attention. His head perking up like a dog being called, as he points to himself. You sigh, “Yes, you.”
He walks over to you, still surprised, catching his breath as he grips his bag. Clearing his throat, “Um, hi, I’m Kwon Soonyoung.” He introduces himself before glancing at the boxing ring in the middle of the gym. Your father in the middle of coaching Seungcheol.
He points with his thumb behind him, “I need to talk to uh, coach —“
You shake your head, “No need. He’s busy, I’ll be helping you today.” You say lightly, crossing your arms.
He turns back to you, brows raised, “You? I mean… you’re, uh, you’re a trainer or something?” He asks skeptically, eyeing you.
Your hair in a low ponytail, in a loose t-shirt, and grey sweatpants. Basically drowning in the clothes with your feminine figure, you looked like a sore thumb in the gym filled with muscular older men.
Before you can respond, your father yells out from the ring. “Oh, you finally showed up!” He muses, holding a hand up as a welcome. Taking the few seconds of Seungcheol emptying his water bottle to address Soonyoung.
“Listen to y/n, okay? She may seem unassuming, but she knows what she’s doing.” He says, before turning back to drag Seungcheol through more drills.
Soonyoung looks back at you, still hesitant, making you roll your eyes.
“Come on,” you say, heading to the shelf to grab some boxing mitts.
Soonyoung hastily follows after you, almost bumping into you when you turn back around. Making him stumble back in slight panic, before speaking.
“Uh, so you are a trainer? You look around, my age or something like that…” he starts, looking at you like a spectacle at the zoo. You roll your eyes, opening the mitts and sliding your hands in.
“I know enough to deal with you.” You respond back roughly, before glancing down at Soonyoung’s hands, realizing they aren’t even wrapped yet.
You huff, ripping the mitts off. This guy really knew nothing.
You gesture to the back, “Go to the locker room. Get dressed and wrapped.”
“Oh, okay!” He starts, nodding his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, but what do you mean by wrapped?”
You can’t help but step down on one of his loose laces, making it stretch tight as he walks. “Oh what – hey!” The boy toppling over a bench and someone’s bag.
The first few weeks of training went like that.
Soonyoung knew absolutely nothing, yet when you asked, “Why are you still doing this?”
He’d catch his breath, barely keeping his legs from shaking with his hands, finally having a chance to breathe as you grace him with a minute of rest.
Your voice is stern, “Obviously, by now you can see boxing isn’t as simple as throwing a punch and winning. How haven’t you quit yet?”
Taking a deep inhale of needed air, he looks up at you. His eyes had a sparkle to them, despite how he’s starting to form bruises from training. You could see sweat seeping into his t-shirt from the cardio, yet he still had energy to waste. His eyes said so.
“I want to box! I love it!” He’d say with a tired grin, sweat dripping down his forehead, as you sigh.
“Huh, right.” You say a bit unnerved, eyeing him. What kid would still be smiling after 3 miles of running? “Enough sprints, let’s finish your roadwork with another mile.” You add on, already sitting back down on your bike, ready to ride right on top of his ankles.
He jogs next to you; maybe, deep down, his enthusiasm was making you just a teensy bit soft. Making your pace slower for him to catch up, maybe even his breath.
He pants, “You want to do this stuff too, huh?” He attempts to say as you pedal.
“You mean boxing?” You ask, glancing at his sweating frame.
He lets out a strangled mhm that you assume means yes.
You shrug, your hands letting go of the bicycle handles to grab the water bottle from the holder. You take a few sips, and watching makes Soonyoung's mouth drier than he thought was possible. “You think I’d be doing this if I didn’t?” You respond, as you let out a sigh. “I don’t know. Just focus on your breathing.”
“Ah — wait!” He pleads, when you increase the cadence of your bike, his footsteps getting heavier to catch up.
You can’t help but snicker, “Come on, Kwon! The faster we get this last mile done, the faster you can go home!” You yell out as he pushes further to run parallel with you.
“I don’t get it,” He breathes. Trying to keep his eyes open and his feet moving. “You love boxing, yet you always want it to end.”
You stop your bike.
It takes Soonyoung a second before he stills his momentum, stopping a few feet in front of you. Hands to his knees as he takes long, deep breaths.
“Hey, watch your mouth.” You say firmly, “I’m just trying to motivate you.”
He straightens up, hands on his hips as he takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” He starts, “Well, that's not motivating to me.” He says, turning to face you. Face covered in sweat, dripping down his jaw to his neck.
He was soaked, that was for sure. The way the setting sun beams on the running path, warming both your and Soonyoung’s skin, the light outlining his torso through the thin fabric of his sweat-soaked t-shirt.
“You say you love it, but you never have a smile on your face.” He points out, his eyes flickering across your features. You had a noticeable scowl, not liking his random prodding.
You straighten up on your bike, gripping the handlebars tightly. “I love boxing,” You say simply, “It doesn’t mean I like it. Especially when I have to watch someone as annoying as you.”
He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You’ll understand later.” You huff vaguely, putting your foot back on the pedal. “Now one more mile, so I don’t have to deal with you anymore.”
"Can I have some water at least?" He calls after you, dragging his heavy feet to follow after your bike.
"Nope!"
And then it was almost the end of high school, and surprisingly enough, Soonyoung was still going to the boxing gym basically every day. And he was shaping up, slowly but surely.
He had a talent for doing things over and over again until his form was perfect. Sharp, efficient, and fast enough that the other guy couldn't even see it coming.
You didn't spend the last few years idling around either. Honestly — in all those interviews in the future, you were credited in everything. Safe to say, you were the reason he consistently improved. You didn’t let your studies suffer while helping out at the gym. Impressively, you found a good balance.
While memorizing flashcards for your school final? You reviewed them while with Soonyoung, throwing a card at the back of Soonyoung's head when he would doze off during match tapes. When you had that science project about egg drops? You taped the excess eggs to the bottom of Soonyoung's feet. Forcing him to perfect his footwork without making a mess in the boxing ring, while also seeing what random contraptions could prevent shells breaking.
This wasn't against his will, by the way. You'll say that to the end of your days, because strangely, Soonyoung took everything like a champ.
Once, you even felt a little bad as you made him throw punches until he stopped telegraphing. Your father nudged you, throwing you out of that state of pity.
"You know, you might be even harsher than me." Your dad would chime, "Is it safe to say you think he has what it takes?"
You scoff, "After two years of training? He's okay – I think he’s getting restless though." You mutter, focusing on Soonyoung's form, as he begins another set of ones and twos.
You tilt your head. He was shaping nicely. Was he always this toned?
"Hmm, well, I don't disagree." He says, nodding. "Since we got his license just a bit ago, I think it’s time we put him in an amateur tournament. I think I'll have him and Seungcheol spar a bit while training. It'll be a good warm-up for Seungcheol too."
Your heart twists, so soon? Sure, Soonyoung was improving a lot. But a little part of you wanted him to be hidden just a bit longer. But you wouldn't say that out loud.
"Right, that'd be good. Soonyoung's stamina can help with Cheol oppa's training." You muse, "And then a good jab at Soonyoung's head will rattle him a bit. Remind him how the pros are."
"You really are more ruthless than me." Your father snickers, which you respond to with a playful sticking out of your tongue.
"Careful though," He starts, his usual playful tone dissipating as he pats your back. Firm, like you're one of his many boys. It only makes you stand up straighter.
"I appreciate you picking up Soonyoung's training, but don't forget to live your life, yeah?" He points out, as he starts rifling through his pocket. You turn to him as you watch your father take out some rumpled bills.
You snicker as you hold out your hand. "Buy a dress or something. Or like, I don't know, go out with your friends and have a meal." He suggests with a shrug, as he drops the money into your open palm.
"Thanks, appa. I'll buy a dress and eat." You respond dryly. "I'll go on a date too, since I'm at it."
"Nuh-uh! Just the dress then!" He grins, snatching away one of the bills as you gasp in protest. "Well, give the boy a break. Enough reps." He adds on, using his coach voice as he nudges your shoulder. You can't help but nod in obedience as your father walks away.
You look back at Soonyoung, eyeing his form once more. After another punch, you can tell he was getting cleaner.
"Kwon, that's enough." You yell out as he catches the punching bag, stilling it with heavy breaths.
"Really? Alright," He sighs, looking over his shoulder at you, sweat dripping down his face like he was just in a sauna. He immediately rips the boxing mitts off.
You grab his towel next to his bag — "Coach said you're gonna be doing the local amateur tournament next month." You break, "You okay with that?" Asking like he has a choice.
And it was like hours of boxing drills never happened, as his eyes widened. Mouth turning in a wide grin as his cheeks rounded out against his eyes. "Seriously? Holy shit!"
You roll your eyes, "Don't get too excited. You’ve only done informal spars." You push the towel into his chest roughly, "Also, if you fail, I'm killing you for embarrassing me.” You pipe. “Got it?" Smiling sharply, making him shut up immediately.
He grips the towel, letting you step back, as he nods hastily. "Got it, don't worry." The smile finding its way back on his face. "I won't let you down."
You knit your brows, "Yeah, don't." You emphasize, pushing his forehead back with your finger, making him laugh in response. Grabbing your hand in his face, as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the towel in the other hand. His hand tightening around yours to keep it in place. Which only makes your heart skip a beat.
Wait — a beat?
He moves to hold your hand properly, squeezing it firmly. "Seriously, don't worry. I'm gonna win, and you don't need to go to jail for murder." He promises, nodding at you with that assured look on his face, brows knitted and lips pursed into a tight line.
You wrestle your grip out of his hand before you overthink. "Okay, I get it, Kwon." You respond warily, "Drink some water and rest up. I'll see you next week."
"Yeah, next week!" He chirps.
But it didn't take the whole weekend to see him again. Per your father's suggestion, you do take the money he gave you to visit the shopping district.
You weren't an avid shopper, unless it was to help with restocking boxing supplies at the gym. It's not like you didn't value a cute outfit — it's just there weren't many instances when you could show one off.
Should you have asked someone to come with you? Sure, maybe, if it wasn't for the fact that most of your friends decided to spend their last summer of school on vacation. Unlike you, they were all heading out to university, out of the country, or at least out of the town. Using their grad money and the last summer before college to enjoy life before the inevitable.
But you realized all these years, boxing was your destined life path. You weren't the one in the ring, but nothing had beaten analyzing boxing matches, watching your father celebrate with his fighters after winning matches and belts, and wanting to do the same.
You wouldn't say you wanted to do this in the first place. It was like fate pulled you into it, no matter what. Especially when Soonyoung fell into your hands at the beginning of junior year.
"Ah, y/n, is that you?"
Speaking of the devil.
You turn around to the sound of your name, seeing Soonyoung at the entrance of an arcade. Clad in baggy pants and a flashy t-shirt that almost made you squint your eyes from its loudness. God, did you just manifest him right now just thinking of him?
You raise your brows, "Kwon?" You respond, as he grins.
A loud sound rings through the arcade machine as Soonyoung whips his head back at the screen, eyes wide-eyed. His face illuminated by bright red, with the words GAME OVER on the screen. "Dammit!"
He groans, before looking over at you, walking over until he's in front of you. His hands stuffed in his unbelievably baggy jeans as he drags his feet against the pavement.
You can't help but eye them. "I'm sorry, but you're drowning in those." You can't help but comment. But he doesn't take offense, smiling as he turns so that you can see the bright graphic patched onto them. Even a small tiger plushie was attached to where his belt should be.
"Cool, right? They're JNCOs, they're from America, they're super popular right now." He says giddily, as you nod at the unfamiliar brand. Popular with who? Maybe with those American artists Soonyoung always begged to play on the boxing gym's stereo. Might as well nod along like you understand.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking down at you, eyeing you curiously. The way you're out of your normal sweats, in the typical 90s outfit most girls your age were wearing. You glance at the Hello Kitty wallet in your hand, holding the crumpled money your dad gave you.
"Uh, shopping." You respond as you stuff the wallet back into your pocket.
"Oh, cool, where’s your friends?" He adds on, making you wince.
"I’m by myself." You sigh as you look away. "Well, don't let me get in your way. Seems like you're playing games anyway." You respond, already taking a step back.
Soonyoung shakes his head, "Hm, no, it's alright." He smiles, "I can't even get past the first level." He admits holding his hands up, "You think boxing would help with video games somehow, but nooo. Can't seem to remember the combos one of my friends showed me." He mutters as he scratches the back of his head.
He clasps his hands, "You know what, what if I tagged along?" He suggests, "We've never really hung out outside of the gym before. It'd be nice, you know." He starts, before he sees the wary look on your face. His volume quiets down, "Y-you know, if you want to."
You sigh, should you? I mean, you weren't that confident in shopping by yourself, especially with how crowded it was, with friend groups all over reminding you of how lonely you really were.
"Yeah, I mean... sure." You agree reluctantly, "You probably know this place more than me anyway." You fall into step with him, letting him guide you through the busy streets.
"Are there any good clothing stores you know, Kwon?"
The answer was no.
Especially when you found yourself holding up a gaudy reflective dress to the mirror, your face pale.
Soonyoung nods, looking at the piece like it might actually be a choice for you. "That's good, it reminds me of like, Lee Hyori or something."
"Lee Hyori?" you deadpan, looking over your shoulder to glare at him. "Do I look like Lee Hyori to you?"
He blinks, looking over you like it wasn't crazy to compare you to the most popular female idol in South Korea. "You could?"
You frown, throwing the dress back into the pile of clothes Soonyoung picked out, "You know what," you sigh, bringing your hand to your temples to massage them. "Forget the shopping, I don't need new clothes anyways." You conclude as Soonyoung picks up the pile to put them back.
He peeks his head out to the side to look at you, "Really? What are you gonna do with the money then?" He asks.
Shrugging, you cross your arms. "I don't know, save it?"
"What?" He whines, throwing the pile of clothes on top of the return rack. "Coach gave you all that money and you're gonna save it? Have you ever done anything fun in your life?"
You glare at him, shocking him back into remembering you're the one in charge of his conditioning for the next month. Your eyes giving: I'll make you do drills that make your head spin.
"Uh, I mean, good on you." He nods hastily, "Very respectable. Responsible."
You sigh, as you pat the Hello Kitty wallet in your front pocket. Your dad did say to have fun, and shopping was just a suggestion.
"You know what," Clearing your throat, "Let's go get barbecue or something. On me."
Soonyoung's eyes light up. "I like that more. I know a place!"
Once again, you don't know why you keep trusting Soonyoung's recommendations, as you walk into a small barbecue place. It was hidden in a corner near the end of the shopping district, where you could easily miss it. It was quaint, a little run down, with the smell of sizzling pork belly and a musk only old buildings could have.
"This place? Why this place?" You ask, as you step in with him. Soonyoung careful with his pants, holding them up so they don't drag against the greasy floor.
"Ugh, are you serious?"
You look up to see a shorter guy, seeming around both your and Soonyoung's age. With pale skin and short stature, with a white band wrapped around his forehead to push his hair out of his eyes. A scowl present on his face as he eyes Soonyoung’s entrance.
Huh, you recognize that look. It’s a similar one you make when you see Soonyoung as well.
"Jihoon!" Soonyoung greets, as he gestures for you to come sit at an empty table. Kicking a plastic stool out for you to sit on, as he readily plops down on one across from it.
He clears his throat, holding out his hand to introduce the guy. "This is Jihoon. We went to the same school together." He beams, "Which means he won't ID us for beer –"
"God, you gonna bring every girl here? I'm gonna stop serving you if you keep –"
"Every girl?" you question, raising your brow. Was Soonyoung popular? To you, he only existed within the boundaries of the gym. Was he some sort of ladies' man or something? In that flashy t-shirt and gigantic pair of pants?
Soonyoung's cheeks flush slightly, his mouth agape as he tries to find words. "Nuh-uh!" He refutes, shaking his head, "Um, besides. This is y/n, she's not really a girl."
Your palm makes contact with the back of Soonyoung's head, not enough to injure him but to make him jolt forward in surprise. Besides, even if you did, you’re sure his skull was hard enough to withstand it.
Jihoon snickers, "Deserved."
You roll your eyes as you throw up two fingers. "Bulgogi and some bone-in beef rib, please."
"Oh, she's paying for you too. You really are something, Soonyoung." Jihoon adds on dryly, which you can't help but snicker at. "I'll bring it out." He nods, as he heads to the kitchen.
"Oh! A bottle of soju, too, please!" Soonyoung calls out as you shake your head.
"You shouldn't be drinking. It's bad for your body," You reprimand, as you settle into the plastic stool. "I'm gonna order some more water, and more banchan as well." You state, pushing the small plates of Kimchi and other vegetable side dishes towards him.
He pouts, "Even now, all you think about is boxing." He sighs, taking it upon himself to shove some kimchi in his mouth. "This is supposed to be fun! I'm sure you know how to have fun, right?"
"Mhm, but your first tournament is soon." You add on, "I'm still working out the kinks of your conditioning schedule. I don't think you need to learn any new techniques, just focus on improving and maintaining your agility. There's also the possibility that some rookies could be a problem. I need to check the fighters registered and —“
You're silenced by a piece of fish cake in your mouth. Eyes wide in surprise as Soonyoung jabs his chopsticks in your mouth. "Yeah, I appreciate that. Also, aren't the side dishes good? I swear, they put magic in these." He responds lightly, going back to pick at the different side dishes, as if he didn't just feed you. You know, like it's a date.
Hold on, is this a date?
“Besides,” He clears his throat, “I’m not worried. You and coach have been training me. What’s there to be worried about?”
You don't have time to calm your heartbeat, as Jihoon comes by with the plates of beef, settling them down and also swirling a bottle of soju.
"Right, here you go," he sighs, freeing his arms of the food. He flickers his eyes to you, "Careful. If he drinks too much, you’ll have to drag him home."
"Thanks for the warning." You say, still distracted by Soonyoung’s affection. Sure, you knew the guy for the past two years. And you’ve had your fair share of bonding, but outside the gym? Eating a real meal together? This was a whole different ballpark.
You look back at Soonyoung, who’s already piling meat onto the grill, as Jihoon grumbles — hey! Let me turn on the grill first at least!
You go quiet for a moment before clearing your throat. Chill out. This was Soonyoung for god's sake.
And as you watch him stuff his cheeks with kimchi like a chipmunk, you can’t help but wince at the sight. Right, this was Kwon Soonyoung.
“Hey, don’t forget water. Don’t choke!” You warn, as you pour some water for him, pushing it into his face, which he gladly accepts.
“Also, what the hell are you doing? That’s not how you cook meat.” You grumble, prying the tongs from his hand, in favor of flipping and spacing out the meat yourself.
He pouts, “Jeez, you’re already paying. Can’t I at least take over cooking the meat?” He complains, slouching over as he watches the smoke rise.
You shake your head. This was your expertise. “No, it’s fine. I’ve been doing this forever,” You say, “Coach always takes fighters out after matches for barbecue. I always take over and cook while they pig out.” You recount absentmindedly, the tongs being second nature to you at this point. The way boxers inhale meat, you knew how to keep up.
Soonyoung raises his brows, “You live and breathe boxing.” He states, “I like that about you.”
Your cheeks burn.
“You like boxing too, everyone at the gym does.” You mutter, focused on flipping the pork belly.
Soonyoung shakes his head, “Yeah, but you’re on the sidelines. Most of us are just dudes who like to punch.” He explains, “Sure, some guys are more involved, with knowing more technical things. But you’re boxing. Does that make sense?”
You stare at him in confusion, straightening up as you put the tongs down. “I have no clue what you’re saying. Are you saying I’m the sport? Boxing?”
He smiles as he picks up a piece of pork belly, popping it into his mouth.
“Don’t worry, you’ll understand one day.” He chimes, like he just graced you with profound words. The words themselves feel like deja vu.
“That’s not even done cooking!”
Another month passes, and you realize Soonyoung basically became your summer. Training never seemed to end. One day, you found yourself rooting your feet down into the floor, looking at him with slight hesitation.
Asking something simple like: Hey, you want to get ice cream? You know — because you finished your roadwork!
And it wasn’t a surprise when Soonyoung dominated the amateur boxing tournament, while you watched from between the boxing ring’s ropes. As much as you and fellow boxers at the gym teased him, the hard work was finally pouring out of Soonyoung’s fists.
Throwing the final punch, your eyes widen as you watch Soonyoung throw his arms up in victory, a stupid grin on his face. The bell rings as his opponent fails to get up after the count, another KO for him.
You don’t fail to push yourself up onto the ring, slipping through the ropes to reach Soonyoung, your father following in suit. Your father laughing heartily as he pulls Soonyoung into a bear hug, Soonyoung wincing but straining a smile with the mouth guard threatening to pop out of his mouth.
“Okay, tiger! Winning your first tournament — food on me, eh?” Your dad boasts, patting Soonyoung’s back hard enough to make him stumble over a bit.
But you’re there to catch him. A small smile on your face as the referee hands Soonyoung a championship belt. An amateur one — but one of the many he was gonna collect in his career.
“Good job.” You breathe, as he forces his muscles to hold onto the belt.
And in that moment, he looks at you. Like really looks at you, sweat dripping down his face, wiping his bloody nose with one arm.
Hurting all over, already feeling the throbbing of his face, where a black eye and busted lip was inevitable. He felt like it took his whole body to take deep breaths to fill up his lungs. But in the haze, the bright lights, his eyes narrowed in on you, your face coming into focus.
And he couldn’t do anything but feel at ease.
Amateur tournament after another, Soonyoung was making a name for himself. KOs, WPs, Soonyoung was keeping up a winning streak. This followed into the next few years, where your father had him get his professional license, after making a name in the amateur tournaments.
And around your twenty-second birthday, your father clinks his beer with yours.
“You know, Soonyoung may be training under my name,” He starts gruffly, “But he’s basically yours. I’ll admit that.” He points out, taking a swig of his beer.
You shake your head, joining your father by taking a sip of your beer as well. “No, you come up with his strategies during matches and his training regime.”
“Yeah, and who holds him up to it?” He smiles, “Thanks, buddy.” He laughs, moving in to mess your hair up, and even with your dramatic, annoyed look, your heart swells inside.
He sighs, taking another sip as he leans his elbows on his knees. “I know I’ve been gone a lot. Seungcheol’s been moving up —“
“And for good reason.” You tack on. Choi Seungcheol, your father’s favorite fighter under him, was taking championships left and right, making his way up in the IBF, and became the current IBF middleweight belt holder. “Oppa’s basically my brother at this point, the way you’ve raised him.” You chime with a smile.
Your father doesn’t dispute it, “Yeah, and then we’re looking into the WBA too. After this title defense, I’ll bring it up to him. It seems like his dream of holding multiple belts isn’t so stupid anymore.”
The way your father talks about Seungcheol’s future was something else. The way his eyes light up, and how he doesn’t care for the beer spilling from swinging his arms around talking about it, you can’t help but laugh.
You shake your head, sipping on your own beer. Your head might as well be in the clouds, too.
Could Soonyoung do that? Be as successful as Seungcheol?
You can’t help but feel your heart beat with the possibility of it.
“We’ll be gone for a month.” Your father points out, “Little retreat to train. Think it’d be good for his head to travel a bit, do his thing other than here.” He glances over at you, pointing his beer bottle towards your face.
“I need you to look over Soonyoung —“ you make a move to say that’s what you always do, but your father cuts you off, “— ah! Ah! I know. Like always. But this is his first pro match.” He says, his tone turning stern.
You close your mouth with a sip of your beer. Right. After getting the pro license with your father’s approval, Soonyoung’s been bouncing off walls waiting for a real pro match. Waiting almost every day for your father’s approval for a real match, not another small-time tournament. And this time, he finally has one scheduled near the end of your father’s trip.
“I should be here,” He sighs, “But, honestly, something tells me he won’t miss me that much.”
You scoff, “You should still be here anyway, it’s an important match for him.” You point out, a little bummed about it. Sure, your father was always gonna focus on Seungcheol’s career. But Soonyoung was from his gym too.
You lean back against the wall, holding the beer to your chest as you look over at your dad. Staring at the back of his head, his hair was starting to resemble salt and pepper.
“I know buddy, I know.” He says as he takes another swig. He looks over his shoulder, flashing you a smile. “The kid has you. That’s more than enough for him.”
You scoff, bringing a knee to your chest. Shaking your head, “It’s not the same.” You mutter, but your face softens. “But you have nothing to worry about. I’ll keep him in check like always.”
“Thanks buddy.”
And you aim to follow through with that. But you feel your patience start to run thin, as you open your door to Soonyoung a couple of days later.
Swinging it open after incessant knocks, he stands outside with his baggy hoodie on. Hiding his face under the hood, only illuminated by the light peeking from your house.
You take a breath, ready to berate him for whatever the problem is. Until well… he shrugs the hood off.
“It’s late, why are you here? I have you scheduled to do your roadwork at —“
Your voice fails you when you look up at him.
Stripes of yellow, orange, and what — green? Decorate strands of Soonyoung’s hair, as he lulls it down in embarrassment.
“I wanted a new look,” He starts, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “You know, before the pro match and the magazine reporter coming in this week.”
“Right, and is this the new look you wanted?” You say wide-eyed, watching him peek through his stringy bangs. “You look like a melted box of crayons a kid leaves outside.”
He stands there for a moment. Not even bothering to fight back as he accepts it, “I thought doing my hair would be easier.”
You shake your head, “Yeah, with what?” You say in awe, as you move out of the way to let him in, not missing the chance to trip him slightly with your foot coming in. “Did you use battery acid?”
He stumbles, only huffing in discontentment. He needed your help after all, he was gonna hold back his tongue until he didn’t look like, well… this.
He slips his shoes off, used to visiting your family’s house, as he places them next to the shoe rack.
“Well, I just wanted my pro debut to be cool!” He starts off, turning to face you, where he’s met with your amused eyes. You had to flip the main room’s light switch on right now, just to see the full array of colors on his head.
He runs his hands through his stringy, damp hair, “My noona had a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, so I just, you know! Did it!” He starts to explain, following you through the house to the bathroom.
His footsteps pattering behind you, “I was reading the new Dragon Ball while I waited, and then it started burning randomly? Like, my scalp was on fire, so I washed it, and then it was uneven! So I did another round, but I accidentally fell asleep while cuddling with Latte, and when I woke up, it was stiff straight! and so I washed it…”
Of course.
You let out the most tired, not-surprised-but-disappointed sigh you could muster.
Thank god you knew where your father put everything, as you grab the clippers behind the cupboard. Taking out a few guards and throwing them in the sink.
“Come on,” You start, making Soonyoung sit on the toilet cover as you browse through the different clipper guards, trying to figure out what length Soonyoung should go for. You take a glance over your shoulder to reassess the damage, before you had to bite down on your lip not to laugh.
He had to go short, no question.
You pick up the 16 guard. “Why come to me?” You ask, clicking it into the clippers.
He blinks. “Who else?”
You pause for a moment, “I don’t know. Like, Jihoon? Hell, your mom?” You list out, just trying to find an answer as you focus on the clippers.
“Jihoon would shut the door in my face. And eomma is sleeping, I don’t wanna wake her.” He explains, as he shifts on the toilet cover. He winces, “Besides, I can’t touch my hair anymore.” Pouting, “I’m scared, you do it.”
You plug the clippers into the socket next to the mirror. “Right, lean your head forward.” You start, “Also, how would you know I wouldn’t shut the door in your face?” You ask, as you gingerly hold the side of Soonyoung’s head to steady him.
You start buzzing away at his hair, a slow stripe down on the side. “I was kind of scared you would, honestly.” He admits, “But I would knock again. You would’ve helped me no matter what.”
He watches as his hair falls to the tiled bathroom floor, nudging it with his foot.
You roll your eyes as you pull back the clippers to check the length. “Shut up. I just don’t want you to embarrass the gym with hair like this.”
But there was some truth to Soonyoung’s words. Have you gotten a little soft over the years? Sure, you will always run his training like the Navy. But when it came to outside the gym — maybe there was something different there.
You fold Soonyoung's ear slightly, getting the clippers as close as you can behind his ear. “By the way, you’re sweeping all your hair after.” You add on as more hair floats to the ground.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He sighs, before a yawn follows. You push down Soonyoung’s head, getting to the nape of his neck.
You turn the clippers off, the buzzing returning the quiet silence of the room, as you put the device down on the edge of the counter.
It’s just your breathing and his, as you simply dust off his cut hair from his shoulders and the side of his neck. His eyes are on you as you make that familiar face of focus, cleaning him up. Only squinting when you brush stray hair out of his face. Fluttering his lashes as he avoids the shaved hair, but not fully closing them. He needed to look at you.
It was weird to him that you were quiet, all soft touches and careful checking of his new haircut. How you tilted his chin to make sure everything was cut off and at the right length. He liked that about you. Under the initial berating and disapproval, when it came to helping out, you always did genuinely.
“Do you think I can stay over?” He asks, looking up at you hopefully as you dust your hands against your pajama pants.
“Stay over? Why?” You question. It’s not the first time Soonyoung has crashed. Your father always invited his boxers to the house before, and offered them dinner and a night’s sleep. But he wasn’t here.
He shrugs, “It’s late now, and…” He yawns again, “I’m tired. I’ll sweep and everything and even make some instant ramen.”
You raise your brow, “You mean make instant ramen from my pantry?” You correct, gaining a sheepish grin from him.
Shaking your head, you grab the unplugged clippers. Returning them to the cupboard, shutting it closed. “No, we don’t need to risk your weigh-in soon. You can stay, but that just means the second you wake up, we’re starting your roadwork here all the way to the gym, alright?”
“Yes ma’am.” He muses, standing up with a stretch. “Let me get the broom.” He adds on, moving past you. Using the side of your waist to squeeze behind you, disappearing past the door frame. Already knowing where the dust pan and broom were located in the familiar home.
It’s like autopilot, as you set up the living room for Soonyoung. Pulling out the couch into a mattress, grabbing the blankets from the storage closet, as soft music plays from the old stereo on the coffee table.
It’s not long until Soonyoung comes shuffling in, putting the broom back after cleaning. You’ll check that bathroom in the morning to see if he properly cleaned it.
“It’s really a bummer coach isn’t here,” He mutters, running a hand through his now short hair.
“I know. Sorry about that,” You sigh, straightening up as you finish the sleeping arrangements. “We talked about it. It’s the only time right now in the schedule they can do their little trip.”
You look up at Soonyoung, a frown present on your face. “Does it bother you that much?”
He shakes his head, walking up closer to you, “No, no. It’s okay. Hyung was always his favorite. Besides — He’s doing crazy things. Like, reaching the top of his weight class in the IBF? Fuck, I wish.” He muses, calming your concern. He pushes your arm affectionately, “Besides, you’re here.”
“Yeah, lucky you.” You say dryly, not missing the chance to poke Soonyoung between the eyes.
He hums, “Yeah, lucky me.”
You don’t catch the way his eyes stay on you for a bit longer than normal. He flickers his gaze away, taking a sharp inhale. “I mean, what about you? Like,” He starts as he pushes his hands along his knees. “Seems like you want coach here pretty badly.”
You frown, “Yeah, well, this is important to you.”
He cracks a smile, “It is.” He nods. “But it’s important to you too, I think.”
You swallow down the uneasiness in your throat.
The last few weeks have been quite easy. Keeping Soonyoung on track with his regimen, you even kept the gym running smoothly with the help of other boxers who were between matches. Nothing was wildly out of place. But you guess, if anyone could tell you were on edge. It’d be Soonyoung.
You sigh, sitting down on the plush couch. Soonyoung follows, the cushions under him dipping from his weight next to you. “He should be here,” you state quietly, “For you, obviously. It’s your first pro match.” You tense, “But also, my first time handling such a big responsibility.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. ‘Like,” You start, tilting your chin down until your head is facing the floor, “Am I saying all the right things while he’s gone? Did I miss anything at all with your training? And if I’m good, if I did everything right –” you turn to Soonyoung, “— Shouldn’t he be here? To say good job?”
He’s a little wide-eyed when you turn to him for advice. Despite him asking you how you felt, a little bit of him is surprised you actually did confide in him. Just even a little bit.
You narrow your eyes, maybe you shouldn’t have told him — “Wait, wait, no, hold on.” He starts, holding up his hands in defense, before looking for your hands. Gripping them in his calloused ones. “You’re right, he should be here.” He nods, agreeing with you.
He squeezes your hands as he furrows his brows in concentration. “And you are doing a good job.” He claims, “I don’t know how you could do any better!”
“The whole gym trusts you. I trust you. Coach — your dad — trusts you.” He says, each person mentioned with a pull of your hands. “And you know what?” He clears his throat.
“What’s one winning match out of a million?” He points out, “I’ll win, and I’ll win the next one too. He’s not missing anything, right?”
You bite down on your lip. Yeah, he’s right. “So you’re confident then?” You question, looking up at Soonyoung.
He nods, brows knitted with his lower lip jutting out in a confident pout. “In winning? Of course, with your demon training, who wouldn’t be?” He reasons. “Your dad will be proud of you no matter what. I’ll make sure of that.”
And Soonyoung kept his promise, after a few mistakes and a break where you shook him by the shoulders in the corner — DO YOU WANT TO WIN OR NOT KWON? you screamed, as your stand-in cornerman dabbed his forehead — one well-placed punch to the chin knocks out Soonyoung’s opponent, resulting in a KO.
This was only the start of Soonyoung’s rise. When your father and Seungcheol returned, you got a simple pat on the back. But that was okay, you thought, as you watched Soonyoung grin at the reporter taking his interview.
“Kwon Soonyoung, rising talent in the Korean pro boxing scene,” He begins, writing down in his notepad. “From your fights, it seems like you have a good handling on stamina and technique. But there's the problem with your impulsivity and your flashy gimmicks.”
Your eye twitches just remembering how he tried to show off flashy footwork in the first round. His idiocy was rewarded with a straight jab to the nose just for playing around too much.
He laughs, “Heh, well. I can’t help it. That’s just how I am.” He grins, but stops immediately. Suddenly turning serious as he leans forward. “It’s the tiger inside me, you know?”
“Tiger?”
You couldn’t take it anymore. You turn on your heel, deciding to go bother Seungcheol, currently sitting on a bench. Retightening the gauze around his hands.
He glances up, flashing you a polite, casual smile, his dimples on display.
“Ah, Soonyoung’s getting another interview, huh?” He starts. You can’t help but nod, crossing your arms as you watch the older boxer (only by a few years!) get ready. “He’s been talking to a lot of interviewers and magazines lately.”
Sighing, you sit down next to Seungcheol. “Yeah, trying to get a tiger agenda out too.” You huff, “Coach promised Soonyoung tiger print shorts if he wins his next two bouts.” Seungcheol laughs heartily at that, shaking his head as he straightens up next to you.
“He’s got promise though,” Seungcheol shrugs. He nudges your shoulder lightly, “He always had it. That’s why coach even accepted him in the first place,” He admits, “But it’s mostly because of you.”
“Me?” You question, turning to look at Seungcheol.
He nods, raising his thick brows. “Mhm, you. You know how to manipulate that guy’s crazy amount of energy into something productive.” You guys both look up. Seeing Soonyoung pose, raising his hands into claws. Baring his teeth as the flash of the camera goes off.
“It’s good for you too.” He adds, “You unload all your stress on that guy. God, I still remember finding Soonyoung after you made him do laps around the neighborhood until you felt like it. It felt like I was returning a fish back into the water when I gave him something to drink.”
You smile at that. Right, you did that once.
Soonyoung does another pose, this time throwing an upside down peace sign at the camera with his chin tilted up. Flash. “Yeah,” You mutter. “I’m still uneasy though. His next match is in two months, against this really strong infighter. We’re gonna have to work on his counterpunches, this guy’s known for cutting off the ring. We’ll have to —”
Seungcheol pats your shoulder, “And it’ll be fine, y/n. I don’t think I’ve ever seen coach reject the schedules you make for Soonyoung.”
“Hoshi!” Soonyoung yells out, making both you and Seungcheol perk your heads up. “My name from now on – Hoshi. Horangi and Shiseon: Hoshi! Cool right?” He beams, announcing his new stage name to the reporter and to everyone else in the gym.
You stand up from the bench, “Yah! Now who said you can just decide that?!”
Unfortunately, the name plagued the next few posters across town and in the newspapers. Hoshi vs. whoever-was-unlucky-enough. And despite your worries about this fight, Soonyoung wins it with a KO in the 2nd round, after his opponent runs into a timed counter punch, that you swear, made his head spin 360 degrees.
He was making a name for himself with his flashy blonde hair, tiger shorts, and taunting. Sure, you knew this came with proboxing, the more matches Soonyoung won, the more the spotlight increased.
Brand deals? Suddenly, Soonyoung was the face of an energy drink brand that you don’t even permit him to drink. Being stopped in the street? That only happened once – but still, it was enough to inflate his head for a few weeks.
Not to mention the women as well. You saw many girls around the gym before, especially for Seungcheol. And it was starting to develop with Soonyoung as well.
You remember the first time it started to happen, as he walked into the gym with proud hickeys on his neck. Or when he offhandedly talked about a girl he was going on a date later. If there was one thing, Soonyoung was wielding this new attention well.
And while the money wasn’t that impressive yet, it grew the more matches were held. And in Soonyoung fashion, he would show up the next day in new jewelry. A pair of expensive dunks the next week, and skipping the line to exclusive places a month later. Like the club.
You sour, seeing Soonyoung begging on his knees as you spray clean the bench from god knows how many sweaty butts.
“Please – just one night. It’s to celebrate the match I just won last week!” He says, rubbing his hands together in a plead. “My black eye is basically gone, and my ribs feels better –”
“But, they won’t heal as fast if you get black out drunk, Soonyoung.” You say plainly. Soonyoung’s been partying and clubbing more, which you don’t bother bringing up. If he came back to practice on time the next day, you had nothing to complain about. At least, in a way that didn’t come off as personal. But this time it was different.
He took a bit of a beating in that last bout, Soonyoung taking a sharp punch in the ribs when he angled his initial dodge wrong. His diagnosis was to rest for a few weeks, which you wanted to honor.
He pouts, moving to bunch up the hem of the large jersey you were wearing in his hands. “Y/n, but listen! I’m just going to go dance. And not even that hard. Maybe just some fist pumping? And at most, a beer. What’s wrong with a beer?”
You warily look at him, observing his busted lip that was already healing with a small slit, the dotted brusing around his eyebrow. You push your fingers into the side of his torso.
“Ow! Shit – what the hell?!”
“You’re not going.” You say immediately, as he shoots his hand up to where you poked him. He definitely was still bruised bad if he flinched like that.
Soonyoung huffs, pushing himself back up onto his feet. “Please? I promised Jihoon. It’s his birthday,” He reasons, “I can’t leave my best friend to celebrate by himself. Who does that? Don’t you remember how many soju bottles he served us for free back then?” He complains, making you shake your head.
“The soju bottles only you drank?” You ask with raised brows, “Of course I do.” You sigh, as you push your hair back with one hand. “You need to be resting though, Kwon.”
He frowns, before stepping closer, daring to grab your shoulders. “Please?” He asks, “Ah – hold on,” He starts, eyes lighting up. “Come. You should come!”
“Absolutely not.” You shoot down immediately, that it makes Soonyoung wince from how straightforward you are.
“Why not? We can get free drinks, since I’m kinda famous now. Last time I was there, they got me a whole bottle on the house.” He claims, “And when was the last time you went out? Like, truly out?”
He leans closer, squeezing your shoulders. “We’re only twenty-four, what's your twenties without partying?” He asks, making you groan immediately.
There he goes again, reminding you of the inevitability of growing old.
You feel your blood boil a bit with annoyance, as Soonyoung continues to blabber pros of going, not letting go of your shoulders as he shakes you around. You stop him, grabbing onto the side of his arms.
“Okay, fine. Only because it’s Jihoon’s birthday.” You give in, “And I’m watching you. No crazy drinks or dancing. If I see you try and do a backflip like that one time — “
“Yay! We’re going to the club!” He beams, pulling you into a tight embrace, making you squeal as he lifts you off the ground.
“Put me down! Don’t strain yourself!” You scold, jumping out of his hold. A small pout on his lips, as he reluctantly lets go.
The club is as loud and dark as you remember, not bothering to dress up for it. All you did was change out of the normal athletic clothing you wore as a trainer (you were an official one now, thanks to your father’s acknowledgement), into a simple ringer tee and jeans, feeling a little awkward standing next to Soonyoung. Proudly wearing his designer shirt he spent too much of his money on.
You follow him, as he stops every few seconds to greet someone you don’t know. Laughing and shaking hands like they’re lifelong friends, navigating the nightlife like it was second nature to him on your way to the bar.
“Two waters please –”
“Make one a whiskey on rocks.” You chime in over Soonyoung, making him snap his head at you in betrayal.
“A whiskey on rocks?”
You shrug, “I said you couldn’t drink. Doesn’t mean I can’t.” You answer, cracking a smile at Soonyoung’s offended frown. You grab the glass of whiskey slid to you, as Soonyoung weakly takes a sip of his water.
In the club lights, you can’t help but study Soonyoung. He really was starting to change, the way his face isn’t as full as you remember as high schoolers.
His eyes were sharper now, with some eyeliner he stole from his noona, his bleached blond hair gelled up into tiny spikes. His ears were littered with ear piercings he got during the rest period he had last year. In a tight expensive brand top accentuating his muscles, and a golden chain decorating his neck, he wasn’t the fresh-faced boy you once knew.
He sets the cup down, looking over at you. “Can I have a sip though?”
You nod, “Yeah, fine. Here,” You relent, holding out the glass for a happy Soonyoung to take a sip.
Handing it back to you, he looks out across the crowd, his eyes dancing already with excitement at the moving bodies in the crowd.
You sip your drink leisurely, “Come on, I can’t wait anymore!” Soonyoung exclaims, “Jihoon can find us. Screw it!”
You have to knock your drink back to not waste a single sip as Soonyoung pulls you into the crowd, as you barely manage to throw the glass back onto the counter.
Finally in the middle of the lively crowd, you can’t help but cling to Soonyoung, the bodies around you warm and sticky with sweat. Music pounding hard, you feel the bass bumping in your legs from the vibrating floor.
“Come on! Dance!” You hear faintly, knowing it’s Soonyoung trying to yell over the loud music.
And you try to follow, nodding your head to the loud techno, still not ready from being pulled in so suddenly. You can only hear a groan from Soonyoung, before you feel him entwining his fingers with yours. “Come on, don’t worry. Follow!”
He holds your hands out, raising them with a grin, as he starts moving both of you to the beat. Jumping along, pumping your arms to the instrumental music with Soonyoung’s help. Until you felt comfortable enough, unhooking your hands from his, starting to follow the current music with the sway of your hips.
He nods in approval, smiling as he watches you get looser, following you by getting closer, his own body thumping and moving to the beat. He leans into your ear, “Not that bad, huh?”
You can’t help the small smile crawling onto your lips. Maybe it was how the whiskey was warming your body, or how the bass infiltrates your senses, but you could understand why. Why Soonyoung liked this. He notices, only smiling widely, as he dances with you. Keeping you close, as one hand moves to your waist to stay in his eyesight.
It feels intimate, despite the loud music and the many bodies around you, it was like the music was flowing through both of you. Turning into dull background noise as it quiets the more you stare into Soonyoung’s eyes. First, focused on yours, before you find them drifting to your lips.
You don’t even know how it escalates, feeling an invisible pull towards Soonyoung, his hand resting on the side of your waist as you come closer, before your noses brush.
Then you’re there. Lips against his, warm and soft, as he takes your top lip gently. It’s not long, the way you both pull back slightly. Feeling his warm breath against your lips as you lean forward to connect small chaste kisses before – wait —
Are you kissing Soonyoung?
You pull away, eyes wide. Soonyoung himself, fluttering his eyes open at the sudden disappearance of your lips.
Your mouth goes dry, the lingering feeling of his lips on yours making your cheeks burn bright in the dark club, as you swallow down your throat hard. “Y/n?” He questions, eyes widening as he sees you freeze up.
And you do freeze up. Taking a small step away from him, as he looks at you puzzled. Searching your face for an answer as he gingerly lets go of your side, giving you space.
“Um, sorry,” You say, shaking your head in an attempt to shake yourself out of it. “I just —“
You can’t be here right now.
“Say happy birthday to Jihoon for me.”
“What? Y/n —“
You follow your feet mindlessly, your mind overwhelmed by the loud sound of your pounding heart. Escaping Soonyoung’s questions as you weave through the crowd of drunk dancers until you find a semblance of peace around you.
You didn’t find that feeling of peace for a while.
Especially the next few weeks, as the energy between you and Soonyoung started to twist into something you can’t even describe.
He tried to talk to you the next day when it happened, but you stayed quiet all morning. Going through the normal routine of conditioning, as he stared at you like you had a third eye.
It wasn’t until you were putting your hands through the mitts for his padwork, that he finally spoke up again. “Y/n,” He begins softly, walking a few steps to stand in front of you. Your eyes focused on tightening the velcro around your wrist so they don’t slip off.
“We should talk, it seems like —“
“Kwon,” You start, jaw tense as you glance up at him. Fuck, why did he have to look like that? Like he cares about your wellbeing?
“It’s fine, seriously,” You shoot down, “Lets just get back to practice. We only have a week to sort out the kinks in the strategy, so lets focus on your combos.”
He frowns, “That again. Can you stop deflecting?” He asks, annoyance rising in his tone. “I’m trying to talk to you, and all you’re talking about is boxing.”
Scoffing, you cross your arms. “We’re in the middle of training, Kwon. I thought you wanted to box?”
“Not like this,” He says tightly, ripping his own gloves off, “Not when you’re being a bitch.”
Now wait a fucking second.
Even though everyone else practicing in the gym was minding their own business, doing their drills or talking amongst themselves, the sound of Soonyoung calling you a bitch rang loud enough to stop everyone. The thumping of punching bags die down, conversations stop, as everyone turns to the boxing ring you both currently were in.
Like a play on stage, everyone looks at both of you.
“Bitch?” You repeat, your voice low.
He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, a bitch. You’re being a bitch.”
You could probably hear a pin drop if you tried. The loud boxers around not even bothering to make a sound to disturb this commotion.
The only one daring, was your father, who comes out of his office with no clue of the stand down. Closing the door behind him, before his eyes shoot up to the middle of the boxing ring. Already feeling the tension in the gym, like lightning cracking through.
You let out a loud, humourless laugh. Taking the punching mitts off without breaking eye contact with Soonyoung, throwing them to the floor. “You crazy, stupid idiot — “ You start, clenching your fists, eyes wide, “ — I’ll clean out your fucking mouth with soap!”
Thank god for the trained boxers at the gym, because the second you lunge for Soonyoung, everyone else immediately sprung into action. Fighters immediately pulling into the ring, an arm around your waist, another pulling your arm back, and two more holding your flailing legs.
Soonyoung is being held back too, despite everyone knowing he’d never lay a hand on you. But he’s willing to taunt, his eyes also wide with anger, as two people hold him back by his arms.
“Yeah? Try it I dare you! Might as well, since you’re acting like nothing happened — wheres your stupid can of Lysol?”Oh, so he’s even going after your favorite cleaning product? Unbelievable!
You scream, almost deafening everyone holding you back. “Fuck you Kwon Soonyoung! You spoiled piece of shit!” You screech, straining against many arms.
“Fuck you, Y/n! Hurry up and do it!” He yells back, jerking against the hold against him as well.
“Whoa, whoa!” Your father bellows loudly, coming between the both of you. His face tense and shocked by the display you and Soonyoung created.
His loud voices does still both of you, as you stop struggling against the boxers holding you back. Letting them carefully set you back down, as you rip your arms out of anyone’s grip.
Soonyoung is let go too, as he throws daggers at you with his stare, jaw tight.
“What is going on?” Your father demands sternly, his voice loud and low, as he glances at both of you. When you finally make eye contact with your father, you can’t help but shrink.
He was mad. Like, mad mad. Something you haven’t seen in a while, other than a couple years ago when one of the fighters at your gym confessed to cheating in a match once.
You take a deep breath, “He called me a bitch.” You spit out, your voice a little shaky with hurt.
Regret flashes through Soonyoung’s eyes at the tremble of your voice.
“Kwon Soonyoung, apologize.” He orders roughly, “Thats not how you speak to y/n, no matter what happened.” He says, walking up to Soonyoung, towering over him. “Go. Apologize.” He doubles down.
Soonyoung swallows his pride down, but listens anyways. “I’m sorry,”
Your father nods, but his face doesn’t soften. He looks towards you, “Y/n, what happened? Tell me.”
Your own mouth goes dry. You glance around, seeing the amount of people really invested in the current scene. Many boxers listening and watching intently, before your father realizes your discomfort.
He claps his hands, “Everyone! Get back to what you’re doing!” He yells out, his voice reaching every corner of the gym. People immediately turning around to continue their drills at the command.
He looks back at you, “Buddy, you gotta tell me.” He starts, “So I know what to do with both of you.”
You bite down on your tongue. How could you tell your dad, hey, I kissed Soonyoung at the club, got extremely freaked out and ditched him by himself without warning? Answer is — you can’t.
“Y/n, you have to tell —“
“It’s my fault.” Soonyoung speaks up, both you and your father looking over at him. He scoffs, running his hand through his short hair. “It’s my fault, I thought there was something, but there wasn’t. I’m the idiot, so it’s my fault.”
Your heart drops.
Your father creases his brows, a frown on his face as he hears Soonyoung’s explanation. “Okay,” He starts, “I have no clue what the hell that means.”
“Either way, your next match is in two weeks. No more fighting, or I’ll kill both of you.”
Soonyoung’s next match was still another win for him, not breaking his winning streak. But it was different from his past ones. The whole prep from the locker room to the match, Soonyoung ignored you. Only listening to your father’s insight, as you faded back as just a cornerman.
At first it was looking grim — the first round, Soonyoung took a few hard hits immediately. Only being able to defend as the opponent does an onslaught of combos, trying to find a crack in Soonyoung’s defense.
And he broke his block at one point, landing a hit on Soonyoung’s cheek. It was enough for you to grip the towel in your hand tightly until your knuckles turned white.
Even when you went to put ointment on a cut on Soonyoung’s face, he jerks his head away from your touch. Only challenging you with his sharp eyes, as you attempt to do it again. Focused on just smothering the open cut with the ointment.
“Don’t worry,” He breathes, “I’m winning again.” He says, and that softens the nerves just slightly in you. “So stop looking so scared.” He adds on coldly, shrugging you off as the bell rings.
And in the end, Soonyoung prevailed. His speed finding its foot and rhythm in the ring, as he dodged all major attacks, finding times to do quick sharp jabs. The multiple well aimed sharp jabs caused a quick KO, after a failed ten count.
It was this insufferable for the next few months. Sure, you were still in charge of his training, but any semblance of friendliness halted the day you made the mistake of going to the club with Soonyoung.
He’d work out, go through drills with you, and listened to your instructions during spars. But right after training ends, he was out the gym like it was an office job.
He started going out a lot more too, just from the sightings you see in the magazines. The famous Hoshi “Tiger” Kwon, out at clubs, partying with girls and rappers.
It didn’t help your resentment either, that when he would show up hangover, or late to training, he still did well in matches. Except now, instead of to make you happy, it was to spite you. To prove he could win any match now without your real help.
It was infuriating, and even more, you still couldn’t wrap your head around the jumbled feelings in your gut.
You’ve known Soonyoung for years now — and yet this was really the first time he truly felt far away. Out of reach, with his eyes focused on his career, you were just there.
After having 5 pro matches, your father deemed it was time. Time to test of Soonyoung had what it take to aim higher, as he finally entertained the many match invitations from other gyms.
HOSHI vs. JEON WONWOO
You stare at the poster glued haphazardly on the wall, stilling you on your walk as you stare at it. Soonyoung’s flashy pose with his rebellious looking persona, contrasting with the man next to him. Tall and calm, arms crossed as he pushes a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Jeon Wonwoo, you’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? Anyone who kept up with the latest boxing magazines knew who he was, and even rumored to become one of the many candidates for the national olympic boxing team. It was definitely a high profile fight, one Soonyoung’s been chasing since forever.
And it stressed you out immensely. While your father was doing a lot to train Soonyoung this time, you can’t help but need to research. Hell, as much as you could kill Soonyoung with your bare hands, he needed to win this fight.
“I’m gonna go and —“
“Yeah, whatever.” Soonyoung cuts you off, as he throws a punch at the punching bag, drowning you out with thuds of his fists.
You tense your jaw, “Okay.” You sigh, “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Finish your drills by then.” You say tightly, before making sure your bag is securely under your arm. Stomping out the gym with a huff.
You had to take the train all the way to Jeon Wonwoo’s gym. It was a little farther away by transit, but this was important. And the transit time on the train gave you time to draw Soonyoung on the notepad you brought, letting out your frustration with shitty doodles of him being set on fire.
FUCK KWON SOONYOUNG !!! — you scribbled this until the ink started bleeding into the next sheet.
A boxing reporter you were acquainted with let you know that a practice spar was happening today. And they were right, as you step into the boxing gym. Attempting to blend in with other journalists as the practice spar is being set up, you hold your notepad timidly in your arms. Jeon Wonwoo in the corner as his coach speaks to him.
Looking at him, he didn’t seem much. He was tall with broad shoulders, with a calm face, as he takes his glasses off and hands them over to his coach. Seems like he doesn’t fight with them on. Not really note taking worthy information, but you write it down anyways.
While maybe outside of the ring he seemed normal, when he finally takes a step towards the middle to start, the room felt colder.
He was calm, calculated, as he readies his fists. Well-mannered as they begin the spar with a simple acknowledgment of boxing gloves tapping each other, before getting into stance. Just a regular orthodox stance so far.
What happens next makes your pen stop, as you watch the spar play out. Despite his tall frame, Wonwoo was light on his feet. His eyes calm and focused as he dodges and dances around his sparring partner.
There was also the fact that his reach was long. No matter how far you thought the opponent threw Wonwoo off, his glove always made contact no matter what.
And when the spar ends with Wonwoo’s obvious win, you can’t help but feel a sense of dread in your stomach. Jeon Wonwoo was gonna be a tough one for Soonyoung.
You sigh, deciding you’ve seen enough as Wonwoo leaves the ring to speak to some reporters. Ready to turn on your heel, you hear your name.
“L/n y/n, right?” A deep voice calls out, making you stiffen. You turn around in slight confusion, locking eyes with the sharp-eyed man.
Well, he knows who you are. Too late now.
You walk up to him and his coach, as he dries his sweat with one towel. But his eyes focused on you like a hawk, as you nod.
“Hi, nice to meet you. Surprised you can see that far without your glasses on.” You decide to say.
He waves his coach off, leaving you both alone in the conversation. He cracks a smile, as he wipes his glasses with the towel before putting them back on his slim nose. “Hm, yeah. Well, how could I not notice you?”
You narrow your eyes, “What do you mean?”
He shrugs as he throws the towel back onto the bench. Taking a step closer to you, his hands on his hips. “You’re from the Pledis Gym. Specifically, you train Kwon Soonyoung.” He explains, flickering his eyes around your face. “I’m a fan of your work.”
“Work?” You question.
“Your work.” He reiterates, as he glances at your notepad. He doesn’t even ask before he nabs it from your hand. “I heard you’ve been training Kwon Soonyoung since high school. It’s impressive.”
You blink, not even noticing the theft of your notepad, “What — hey!” You start, but he holds it away from you. Flipping through your notes. You shake your head, “He’s actually under Coach l/n,” You correct, “I’m just second —“
“Hm, no. You train Kwon Soonyoung.” Wonwoo interrupts plainly, looking you up and down. “No need for technicalities. He’s yours.”
Wonwoo continues, “I’ve studied Choi Seungcheol, and all the other fighters under your father. He has a specific style, Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t operate like that.” He points out.
That was true, your father tended to flock to certain boxing styles. Soonyoung’s style of boxing was a lot different than Seungcheol’s, or any other boxer he mainly trained himself.
Soonyoung’s skills were nurtured with your utmost attention, ever since you met in high school. You took what he was good at and amplified it. Engaging in strategies you built Soonyoung to adapt to easily, all tailored to fit him perfectly. Every match suited to destroy whoever he was going against with small different adjustments. When it came to your father, he trusted in the skill of his boxers. But you always took in account the opponent’s abilities.
“You’re good. Honestly, underutilized.” He admits, “You’re barely mentioned in interviews. I learned your name in a pretty old one.”
Yeah, because Soonyoung hates me now. You shake your head, “Thanks for the praise, but I don’t do anything special.”
He chuckles, “That’s what you believe? That you don’t do anything special?” He asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “These notes say otherwise.”
“I had no idea I had such a fan.” You say dryly, Wonwoo’s praises getting tiring. What was he getting at?
“Really? Anyone who cares about the current scene has talked about you.” He informs, making you even more perplexed. “Up and coming trainer, inheriting your talent from your dad. It’s admirable.“
“You’re pulling my leg.” You respond fast. You? Talked about? That was hard to wrap your head around.
As much as you threw yourself into the boxing gym, you never perceived your presence in it at all. You’ve been helping out at matches with your father since you graduated high school, being there during some Seungcheol matches, and all there for Soonyoung.
You always ignored reporters when they turn to you, always redirecting them back to Soonyoung. And you kept to yourself, only talking to the nearest people around you. When you think about it, you never really thought of your reputation now as an adult. You weren’t just a little girl following her dad anymore.
Wonwoo shakes his head, “No, I’m not.” He says matter-of-factly, “Maybe if you weren’t always hiding behind your father and Kwon Soonyoung’s shadow you’d see it.”
“Excuse me?”
Wonwoo smiles politely, shaking his head, “I don’t mean to insult you. I think, if you took your talents to another gym, your effort would stand out.”
“I mean,” Wonwoo sighs, taking a leisurely step towards you. Looking down from his tall frame. “When was the last time Kwon Soonyoung mentioned you in those magazine interviews?”
Ah, so he noticed.
He then chuckles at a page, before handing the notepad back to you. “Nice drawings by the way. Can you do one where he’s eaten by sharks?”
His words stuck with you when you get back to the gym.
Your bag heavy with Wonwoo’s question, and with notes of his skill during the spar. Soonyoung was done with his drills as you expected, as you walk in on him gulping down water.
He shakes his head, his sweat flinging into you as you grimace in disgust. “Kwon — what are you a dog?” You scold with annoyance, as he sets his water bottle down.
He doesn’t respond, just glancing at you up and down before looking away.
“Finished the drills.” He says simply, “What now?”
You sigh, rummaging through your bag as you take out the yellow notepad of hurried notes, settling it against your arm. Soonyoung leaning over to look at the notepad upside down. “Ugh, you write like its a doctors note.”
“Shut up, just listen.” You snap, shooing him away. “Your stamina training is shaping up, but we need to address some things.”
“Some things?”
“Yes,” You nod, as you shift some weight on one foot. “Jeon Wonwoo is a technique-based outfighter. He’s gonna do his best to tire you out, and his reach is no joke. It’s gonna be one where you’ll have to in-fight, cut off his reach so he doesn’t have so much power behind his punches.”
Soonyoung feels his eyes glaze over. Turning away from you as he pushes his tongue against his cheek in boredom.
“Are you listening?” You huff, putting your notepad down. Is this guy for real? Is he ignoring you?
“It’s six pm now, can we discuss this tomorrow?” He suggests, scratching the back of his head. Tomorrow? The old Soonyoung would stay hours after training, listening to you yap about strategies.
You blink, “What? Why? Do you have plans?” You ask perplexed.
He crosses his arms with a sigh, “Yeah, I do. There’s a party later, some guys —“
“Who cares?” You frown, “We need to talk about this. Jeon Wonwoo isn’t a normal opponent. He’s higher skilled than the boxers in your recent fights and I don’t say this lightly. I visited his gym to witness his spar —“
“Oh, so that’s where you were?” He huffs annoyed, “You don’t trust me enough to win, you have to visit the guy? I can’t believe you.”
You grit your teeth. “You’re getting cocky, Kwon.” You say lowly, walking closer as you poke the center of his toned chest hard. “I’m not gonna entertain this anymore. You have to listen to me, you didn’t just get here on pure luck —“
“Bite me.” He doesn’t let you finish your lecture, as he pushes your hand away. Looking at you like you’re just a buzzing fly around him. You’re starting to forget the last time he looked at you warmly.
You’re speechless for a moment at his disrespect. Your mind goes blank. God, you’ve been training this guy since you were both teenagers. Who does he think he is? With his finger in your face, looking down at you like you can’t tell him what to do.
You take his advice.
Soonyoung yelps, as you bite down on his shoulder, “Jesus! What the fuck! Y/n!”
You don’t let down as he tries to shake you off, before you finally let go when you hear the footsteps of other boxers in the gym drop what they’re doing.
Soonyoung is wide eyed, slinging his arm around to shake off the pain as he looks at the damage you caused. Your anger still boiling inside you, as you wipe your mouth.
Red-faced, “Are you CRAZY? Did you just bite me?”
You glance at the bite. It didn’t even break skin, just hard enough that the imprint of your teeth rounded out his shoulder, the skin around it red. If only you had fangs or something.
Forget being in your mid-twenties, the teenager in you can’t handle it anymore. The same girl who had Soonyoung wrapped around her finger — she couldn’t take it.
“LISTEN TO ME!” You yell out, pushing Soonyoung roughly at his chest, making him take a step back.
You bundle your hands into fists, your voice echoing through the gym.
“I DON’T CARE WHAT STUPID RAPPER OR GIRL IS WAITING FOR YOU AT SOME DINGY CLUB — YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING LISTEN TO ME WITHOUT INTERRUPTING, YOU GOT THAT?”
You lean forward, your wild eyes meeting Soonyoung’s scared shitless ones.
“I said,” You grit, “You got that Kwon?”
He nods timidly.
Seungcheol’s on the other side of the gym, chewing on his protein bar as he watches the scene from the sidelines. Lee Chan, a new kid checking out the boxing gym has his mouth agape in shock.
Seungcheol pats his shoulder, “Don’t worry, that’s normal.” He deadpans, “Welcome to Pledis gym, by the way.”
Your outburst seemed to work though. Soonyoung was a lot less bratty the next few weeks, still as cold but no longer challenging you. Were you really that scary? Either way, it was tolerable.
On your day off, you can’t even shake off the boxing mindset you were in. You spent all of the afternoon writing down possible ideas for Soonyoung’s training. You have confidence in his stamina, but with Jeon Wonwoo’s way of aggravating opponents, you could see Soonyoung burning through all his gas before the 3rd round. It was no good.
You decide to go and check out that amateur tournament happening tonight. While Soonyoung and Seungcheol were now in bigger leagues, you can’t help but gravitate towards the same tournaments that used to intimidate you earlier in your career.
The stadium was quite bare, as it was early in the bracket tournament. You couldn’t see much of an audience as you slip into a seat, looking down to watch the amateur bout.
You remember Soonyoung being in that ring. It was vivid, even to the detail of how he taps his feet at the corner, a habit he picked up to make sure his shoes were tightly on. A hard lesson he learned when his own shoes slipped off when he accidentally stepped on his laces during a match.
The memory makes your stomach warm. Back then, he’d smile sheepishly, causing a break in the middle of the round to tie them back up. Your father having to pull you off the ropes from jumping in and strangling him for being an idiot.
Those days seemed far now.
“L/n y/n?”
You perk your head up, turning to your left. To your surprise, it’s Jeon Wonwoo. Clad in a simple zipped up hoodie and jeans, pulling his hood back to reveal his face.
“Huh? Why are you here?” You question, as he walks through the aisle of seats to sit next to you. And he sits right next to you, knocking his knee against yours as he settles down in his tall frame.
He gestures at the ring, “That’s my junior. Wanted to show up and support,” He informs, “Besides. You never know what talent shows up in the amateur tournaments.”
You glance at the boxing ring, as the two men have already started the second round. “Your junior, huh?” You mutter, “He telegraphs his punches too much. It’s fortunate his opponent doesn’t notice.”
Wonwoo chuckles, “Right.”
You lean forward, leaning on your cheek. Analyzing the fight in front of you. “Not even just that, you can tell what's going through his head. But he has promise. While I can tell what he’s gonna do, it’s a good idea.” You continue, “The other guy is too slow. When he pulls back, he takes too long to shift on his feet, it's the perfect time to aim for his jaw. Throw him off balance.”
And as you say, a few seconds later Wonwoo’s junior attempts just that, but only grazing the opponent’s jaw slightly. But it’s enough for the guy to jump back to recuperate.
You bite down on your lip in concentration. “If he just practiced his form to be more tight —“
You turn your head to look at Wonwoo, your voice trailing off as you see his sharp eyes focused on you. Not on his junior, but you.
“You’re wasted on Kwon Soonyoung,” He says lowly, flickering his eyes around your face as you straighten up. “You’ve barely been watching for two rounds, and you already know what to do with Mingyu.”
You turn away, crossing your arms. “Anyone could, he’s like an open book.”
“Hmm,” He hums, “Either way, you’re right. Mingyu’s been trying to improve his technique for the past few weeks.”
You shake your head, “It’s also his stance.” You say, “He’s obviously left handed. Why is he boxing orthodox?”
“Left handed?” Wonwoo questions, as he glances back at the ring. He didn’t notice it until now, but when Mingyu hands his water bottle back to the cornerman with his left hand.
“Yeah, left handed. Thats why he’s telegraphing so hard, he’s too weak with his right jab.” You observe, your eyes dancing around the ring. Watching as Mingyu throws another punch. “There it is,” You mutter, when Mingyu’s opponent falls in Mingyu’s blind spot and Mingyu braces a hit to the side. “It’s awkward. He should switch to southpaw. A lot of amateur boxers aren’t trained to handle southpaws either, it’d be a better strategy for him.”
Wonwoo blinks, “Are you free after this?”
You don’t even know how you got here. Walking with Wonwoo alongside the river, a cup of fishcake in your hand as he goes to town on a skewer himself.
You blow on the steam from the cup, before taking a tentative sip of the broth.
“I can’t believe Mingyu never brought up he was left handed,” Wonwoo speaks up, “Or at least, the fact no one caught onto the fact he was. He really listened to our coach with no objections on anything.”
You shrug, “Yeah, you guys are… idiots.” You can’t even sugarcoat it.
Wonwoo snickers, biting off another piece of fish cake as he turns to look at you. “Why were you at the amateur tournament anyways? You don’t know any of the fighters, do you?”
You shake your head, “No, I don’t.” You admit, “I just found myself there.”
“On a Saturday night, you found yourself at a random amateur boxing tournament?” He clears his throat, throwing his empty skewer into his cup, “Even with rookies like Mingyu you pay attention so seriously. Is it safe to assume you do this often, watch matches no matter the boxer?”
You wilt. Might as well call you a crazy obsessed boxing lady — you basically grew into that. Maybe you should get a cat just to become a crazy cat lady instead.
Wonwoo notices you shrinking back, as a soft smile creeps onto his face. He looks forward at the sidewalk, “It’s not bad. It’s impressive, honestly.” He says, “We need passionate trainers, you know? Sometimes it feels like you’re throwing punches at the air, not knowing where to aim.”
You look up at him. “Getting caught in trivial things, like interviews and money. It’s nice to have someone to ground you and give you structure.”
“I don’t know about that,” you say, “There’s that, and then there’s having no life. All I think about is boxing.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Wonwoo asks, knitting his brows. “You like what you like. Just embrace it.”
Soonyoung flashes in your mind. If only it was that easy.
You both stop, as the familiar building of your boxing gym comes into focus. You take another sip of the warm broth, before looking up at Wonwoo.
“Thanks,” You start, “I’ll think about your advice.”
“Yeah of course,” He nods, “Whatever helps.”
“What advice?”
A familiar voice makes you snap your neck to the side to chase it. Seeing Soonyoung across from the both of you, in sweats and a hardened expression on his face.
Crap.
“What are you doing here?” You question, perplexed, taking a few steps forward. Your eyes dart from him to Wonwoo, who stays calm behind you.
Soonyoung holds up his hand, keys jingling in the glow of the streetlights. “Couldn’t sleep.” He says gruffly, “Wanted to grab some tapes from Coach’s office.”
His eyes shoot to Wonwoo, jaw tense. “Don’t think he’s here for the same thing.” He says tightly.
Wonwoo clears his throat, walking up to stand beside you. His face cool, nonchalant as he smiles at Soonyoung. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Kwon Soonyoung, right?” He says lowly, “Nice to meet you. Didn’t think we’d really see each other until the weigh-in.”
Soonyoung narrows his eyes, walking up closer. “Me either. Let alone seeing you with my trainer.”
You frown at the impersonal way he mentions you.
Wonwoo chuckles, scratching the back of his head. “Ah, y/n. We ended up running into each other.”
“Yeah, running into each other.” Soonyoung repeats dryly, as he eyes the food both of you are holding. His stare makes you hold the cup of fishcake lower to the ground.
“Wonwoo was walking me back,” You decide to add in, “I was gonna rewatch some tapes too.” This wasn’t a lie. After the amateur tournament, you were gonna rewatch some matches. Soonyoung’s matches to be specific, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to mention that. You just had to hope Soonyoung believed you.
“Wonwoo, huh?” He says, before letting out a dry chuckle, “First name basis. You guys must be close.” He smiles, but there's no friendliness behind his smile. Actually, this might be the first time Soonyoung has made an active chill run down your spine.
You turn to Wonwoo, an apologetic look on your face. “Uh, thanks for walking me back. And for the fishcake.” You say awkwardly, “Um, goodnight.”
Wonwoo turns to you, like Soonyoung isn’t watching you both with the intention to burn holes through your heads. “Yeah, goodnight.” He nods, “Think about it though. You’ve got a lot of potential.”
You stiffen. You can already feel Soonyoung’s confusion from that vague statement already. “Yeah, thanks. Goodnight.” You say quietly, as Wonwoo starts making his way back. But not until he locks eyes with Soonyoung.
Eyes sharp, focused like he wasn’t just looking at you so softly a moment ago. “See you in the ring, Kwon.” He says, words heavy, simple, but enough to remind you that you were galavanting with the enemy.
“It’s Hoshi!” Hoshi yells out, as Wonwoo walks away. “Fucking asshole.” He mutters, stomping towards the boxing gym door.
You catch up to Soonyoung as he fumbles with the keys. “It doesn’t turn that way —“
“I know!” He snaps at you, as he jams the key into the lock, wiggling it roughly until it clicks into place.
The door swings open with the swift kick of his foot, banging against the wall as Soonyoung walks in. Footsteps heavy. You can’t help but follow after him, closing the door.
“I thought you had plans tonight.” You say, as you follow the angry Soonyoung into your father’s office, the cup of fish cake in your hand feeling like a burden as you find a surface to rest it on. “I heard you were going out with some of the new boxers from Seungcheol —“
“Well, I didn’t go.” He interrupts, as he takes his hood off. Turning around to look at you, as you switch the light on. The blinding fluorescent light flickering on, as Soonyoung stares straight at you.
“Why not?” You dare to question, “It’s not like you to turn down a night out.”
He scoffs, ruffling his hair with one hand, dragging it down his face with a groan.
“Well,” He starts, as he turns his body to face you properly, his movements sharp and dramatic. “I wasn’t aware you’d be on a date with Jeon Wonwoo, the guy I’m fighting in two weeks. Guess we’re both wrong, huh?”
You clench your jaw. “It wasn’t a date, we met —“
“Bullshit!”
You step up to him until your finger jams into his chest. “What the fuck did I say about interrupting me?” You hiss, “I don’t care what shitty hissy fit you’re throwing. I wasn’t on a fucking date, first of all. You would know if you would just fucking listen —“
Soonyoung chest pushes into your finger, leaning his head forward into your personal space. Eyes challenging, “Oh yeah? And why should I listen to you?” He responds back with equal bite, “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve! For someone who I thought —“
“Thought what?” You ask sharply, “Come on, tell me. Are you gonna call me a bitch again? Or something new?” You say angrily, tilting your chin up to stare into Soonyoung’s eyes as intensely as he looks into yours.
His adam’s apple bobs, gritting his teeth as he searches your eyes. “For someone who I thought only had time for boxing.” He replies, his voice steady. “This whole time, I thought I mistook your interest in me for just wanting to be a good trainer.”
He sneers, “Guess I’m just a fucking idiot. You’re capable of dating someone, it’s just not me.” He swallows hard, “That your type then? Tall annoying assholes with glasses being begged to be snapped in half?”
Your face drops. “That’s not true, you’re assuming things.” You say hastily.
Soonyoung laughs humorlessly, “Really? Don’t think I am.” He claims, shaking his head. “How long have we known each other? Fuck, like eight years?” He recounts.
He furrows his brows, “You know how many damn times I told myself to wait for you?” He begins, taking a step forward, making you take one back. “Every single match — I think about confessing to you every single time. Every win, the first thing I think about is you.”
“W-what?” You choke out.
“Why do you think I never lose?” He asks, “It’s so I wouldn’t fucking disappoint you. Shit, no matter how much I wish you would disappear, your face shows up when I feel like I can’t stand up anymore.” He says hurriedly, his voice quieting down.
You’re rendered speechless. Is he being serious? Sure, you knew you hurt his feelings after ditching him at the club a few months ago. But this came out of left field, at least for you.
His breath hitches. “Don’t look at me like that.” He says pained, “Like you actually care.”
“Soonyoung, of course I do. Of course I care, why would I not care?” You say in disbelief, eyes widening as he shakes his head. “I thought you loved boxing. You can’t just say you’re doing all of this for me.”
“You’re boxing!” He basically yells at you. He lets his hands fall to his side as he groans, pacing around your father’s office as he tries to controls his outburst. “You’re boxing, y/n!”
He rushes towards you, this time his finger poking into your chest roughly. “God, for some boxing genius you’re really clueless, you know that? You think I’d be here if I didn’t see how much you love boxing?” He asks.
He sighs frustrated, “I was just some kid when I met you. All I did was mess around, before finding the gym. Sure, Seungcheol hyung was cool — but you?” He lets out a scoff, “I was gonna do a few sessions at most. But the way you pushed me, I believed that I could actually be something. That boxing was something worthwhile.”
He shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter. I could knock out Ray Jones Jr in one round and you wouldn’t blink a damn eye.” He mutters.
Clarity flashes in Soonyoung’s eyes.
“After Jeon Wonwoo, I’m moving gyms.” He states, “I’m not gonna train under you. Not anymore.”
It felt like your heart was breaking into two, the way it beats against your chest in panic. Your eyes darting around his face as your body freezes up at his words.
“You don’t mean that.” You say, your voice cracking. “Soonyoung, you love this gym.”
“Not with you in it.” He says shaking his head, “I’ve dealt with enough. You and your mixed signals, I can’t take it anymore.”
Your anger spikes, as you push Soonyoung’s chest with both hands. “Fuck you,” You hiss, “You’re gonna throw away eight years because of this?” You ask in disbelief, “I can’t believe you!” You push him again, with more force. But it barely makes Soonyoung stumble.
“I thought you were more than this Soonyoung, but you’re worse than I thought.” You say lowly, as tears gather at the corner of your eyes. “You think this has been easy for me?”
You take a deep breath, as you shove Soonyoung again. This time hard enough that the back of his legs hit your father’s desk. The old furniture rattling.
“I’ve been dealing with your mood swings, your disrespect, your lack of focus for months. Giving you space, because I felt guilty.” You say, trying to get all your words out before your voice fails you. “You think you’re the only one performing?”
You hold your hand out, the slight tremor obvious as you slam your hand onto your father’s desk. “I feel like I can’t mess up either. Disappoint my father, give you or anyone else in the gym the wrong advice. I’ve been up every night thinking about what to do with you, hell, what to do with me.” You grit, “I don’t know the answer. That's why I ran away.”
Soonyoung furrows his brows, “You don’t always need to know the answer. You think I would’ve judged you if you just admitted you were confused?” He asks, making you return his words with your own humorless laugh.
“Right, like how you’re just gonna run away because of what's happened between us?” You point out. “I don’t know who you are. Not for a while now.”
Soonyoung clenches his jaw. “I don’t know who you are either.”
You take a step back, as you move towards the office door. Gripping the doorknob tightly. “Also, you’re not leaving the gym.” You say firmly.
Soonyoung narrows his eyes, “And why’s that?”
“Because I’m leaving first.” You announce, as you swing the door open. You raise your head up, eyes cold. “I’m taking Wonwoo’s advice. I’m not gonna hide under you or my father’s shadow. You can stay at Pledis gym, I’m the one moving.”
“What?! That’s crazy —“
You glance at your father’s desk. “If you’re watching the tapes still, watch the ones marked with the blue sharpie.” You say tightly, “I taped them specifically for you.”
Soonyoung blinks, “What? Can you just — hold on, y/n —“
You slam the door closed, not giving Soonyoung a chance to finish his sentence. Bolting out the damn boxing gym, only the glow of your father’s office serving as a guide as you leave.
The next two weeks go by fast. Mainly due to the fact that you were dissociating like your life depended on it.
Your mind is anywhere else but the gym. Even to the point where when you were helping Lee Chan with his pad work, he almost hit you with an uppercut. Your heart basically popping out of your chest as you narrowly avoided it, your father on the sidelines scolding you — y/n! Watch it, you want to die before Soonyoung’s bout?
And honestly? You wish you could. Soonyoung could barely look at you, and when you told your father he could handle everything up to the match from now on, he looked at you skeptically.
“I don’t know y/n, this is an important match. I think Soonyoung would want you around, no?” He says warily, as you focus on getting rid of some sort of mysterious stain on the floor.
You shake your head as you aggressively mop the spot, “No. I have nothing else to offer, anyways. He needs your advice on something so high profile. I’ll just get in the way.” You reason.
“That’s wrong. You’ve been helping out since forever, you always have something to say.” Your father disagrees, as he stops your mopping by grabbing the hilt of the mop. “And stop it, will you? That spot’s been there for years. Your obsessive mopping right now isn’t gonna wash it away you know.” He says gruffly, shaking his head.
“Either way,” He sighs, “You’re attending the weigh-in. Just as my second, you have to.”
And you do so begrudgingly. Despite the fact both you and Soonyoung treated each other like ghosts, you find yourself standing to the side as camera flashes blind you. All documenting the weigh-in, as both Wonwoo and Soonyoung are checked for the weight limit.
They both were under the limit fortunately. And as a final end to the meet, both boxers stand beside each other for photos. Another influx of camera flashes, as you and your father stand a few feet away.
You catch Wonwoo’s eye, as he nods at you. You don’t respond back, but it’s enough for Soonyoung to narrow his eyes further at Wonwoo.
“Hey, eyes on me.” Soonyoung says firmly, “You get this distracted in the ring too? That’s fine, just means I can finish it early.”
Wonwoo flickers his eyes back at Soonyoung, before his lips curl into a mocking smile. “Confident as ever. Guess we’ll see if you’re bluffing tomorrow.” He muses. “Give y/n my regards yeah? Looks like you’re really stressing her out, are you really your best right now Kwon?”
The simple taunt was enough for Soonyoung. The sound of your name was enough for him to black out for a moment, only to come back to the sound of surprised gasps and yelling.
Your arms wrap around his waist as your father and other officials pull Soonyoung away, as cameras flash wildly until you could only see white.
“OH — WHOA! HOSHI, THE TIGER KWON, STRUCK JEON WONWOO DURING WEIGH-IN! WHAT WILL HIS PENALTY BE?”
“You idiot!” You yell, as you help drag Soonyoung away. Your eyes darting to Wonwoo, who has a smug smirk on his face as he stretches his jaw from Soonyoung’s strike.
The paper is slammed straight onto your father’s desk, the photo and title making you wince.
HOSHI “TIGER” KWON STRIKES JEON WONWOO BEFORE FIGHT!
It feels like you’re in the principal’s office. Sitting timidly in the worn out metal chair, next to Soonyoung. Wait, why the hell are you sitting here? You didn’t even do anything.
Your father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know how much they’re charging us for that?” He asks, as he leans forward with his hands on the desk. Using one hand to press a finger right on the photo, onto Wonwoo’s face.
Both you and Soonyoung don’t respond.
“Four point five million won.” He states, emphasis on each number. “Four point five million won, because this idiot here can’t keep his hands to himself!”
Soonyoung grits his teeth, looking away as he slouches in the chair.
Your father lets out another deep sigh, “Soonyoung, no matter how much the other guy taunts, you settle it in the fucking ring.” He reiterates, “An amateur boxer knows that. Hell, a little kid knows that.”
Soonyoung starts to speak, but your father puts a hand up. “No, I don’t need an explanation.” He huffs, “Your match is in less than twenty-four hours. Focus on that.”
Your father checks the time on his watch, “Now I’m going home.”
Both of you start to stand, before your father holds his hand up again to stop you both.
“Not you two.” He says firmly, “You guys can focus on the match while mopping the floors.” He says roughly, “Then you can lock up the gym and leave.”
Your mouth drops agape. “Me? What did I do?” You ask in disbelief, as your father shakes his head, waving his hand.
“I don’t know, but I have a feeling this has something to do with you.” He adds on quickly. Soonyoung snickers.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
You mopped like your life depended on it. And maybe it did, since Soonyoung didn’t bother speaking to you the whole time. At most, he would gesture for a mop, or the bucket of water. And you would do so for the sake of wanting to bolt out the door.
But when you went to the bathroom after finishing the punishment, it felt like you were mopping up your own thoughts as you splash water against your face.
In the mirror, you saw the changes. The way your hair was longer, your face slimmed down with age, and the tired look in your eyes. You weren’t that teenage girl anymore, and yet, this whole fight with Soonyoung was making you feel like you were.
You bite down on your lip. This is ridiculous.
And you bring that energy when you walk back out into the gym, “Let’s lock up now.” You yell out, but you stop in your tracks when you hear the familiar grunts and squeaking from the boxing ring.
Looking up, Soonyoung throws a hook out, before jumping back and practicing some weaves. Considering the small beads of sweat on his forehead, he’s been shadowboxing since you went to the bathroom.
His fist snaps back with a crack of the wind, filling the empty gym as you take a step forward. “Take it easy, the match is tomorrow.”
Soonyoung stills after a few combos, eyes flickering to you. He takes a breath, “Like you care. You’re moving gyms anyways.”
You place your hands on the platform, pushing yourself up and slipping through the ropes. “Maybe, but you’re still under my watch. At least for now.”
“Lucky me.” He says dryly.
You walk up to him, stopping only a foot away. Folding your arms to your chest as you attempt your best to soften your eyes. You don’t want to fight. Soonyoung has enough fights to worry about.
“Why did you punch Wonwoo earlier?” You ask, “You’ve never started a skirmish before. You taunt, sure, but you never actually attack anyone.”
Soonyoung stiffens, “It’s called hyping up an audience, there’s more to boxing than —“
You roll your eyes, “Bullshit.”
He stills. Huffing, “You’re moving to Jeon Wonwoo’s gym aren’t you?”
You frown. What? Where did he get that from? “What? Says who?”
He scoffs, “Says him! It’s all over his face, poaching you like you’re some kind of prized animal. It’s stupid, it’s annoying — why him?”
“You don’t care about anything unless you have full control. Like, I’m just some sort of puppet to you. Everyone in the gym is.” He mutters as he takes a step forward, eyebrows furrowed as he stares into your eyes. “I despise it, I hate you.”
Oh, there it is. The three words you’ve never thought would come out Soonyoung’s mouth.
He expects you to say it back. Spit in his face, strike him across his cheek. Maybe knee him in the nuts.
But you don’t.
You’re quiet, still. Your face pensive, as you stare back up at him. Your silence is loud, filling up every corner of the gym, and every crevice in Soonyoung’s brain.
You finally speak up. “I don’t feel the same way.” You start, swallowing hard. “I could never hate you. No matter how insufferable you get,” You take a deep breath, “I can’t hate you. I never will.”
Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say, a look of confusion flashing on his face, his attitude faltering as he eyes you. “What?”
You sigh, unfolding your arms as you run your own hand through your hair. “If I hated you, I would never have dealt with you this long.” You say quietly, “So I can’t do it. I can’t play along and say I hate you too, because I don’t mean it.”
Soonyoung’s face contorts into a look of hurt, like your proclamation of being fond of him was more devastating than playing along. Why couldn’t you just say the same thing, dammit!
Soonyoung takes a deep breath, looking up as he collects his thoughts. “I just don’t understand you. You — you’re exhausting,” He says, his voice cracking. “You’re making me feel like a bad person. Hate me! Why can’t you hate me?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
He scoffs, “Don’t apologize, dammit. Fuck,” He groans, wiping at his face before grabbing onto your shoulders. He pulls you close, “Why do you make me feel this way?” He cries out.
“Same way for me.” You reply back, “I can’t explain it, how I feel about you.” Pained, you swallow back the nervousness threatening to escape through your throat. “It’s confusing and it’s scary. I know nothing about it, so that’s why I’ve pretended it doesn’t exist.”
“But you exist. And I can’t stop pretending you’re not in front of me.” You say firmly, “You’re loud, stupid, and the way you run through my head all the time makes me want to pull my hair out.”
Soonyoung searches your eyes, pulling you even closer to him. Until your breath fans his face, and his nose nudges yours. Eyes focused on yours as you speak.
“You understand, don’t you?” You say quietly, “I don’t hate you. I never felt hate towards you, in all these years.” The proximity of Soonyoung is intoxicating, like his presence is finally pulling out months of your jumbled thoughts.
You swallow hard. “I miss you.”
That’s all it took. Your own three words, and Soonyoung closes the distance roughly. Pulling you by the shoulders until your mouths collide.
At first, it doesn’t feel like a kiss. Could you count this as one? It was unlike the one at the club months ago under the hazy lights. This time, you could feel everything. The way his nose sits against your cheek, and how he pushes into your mouth. Forcing to fit his against yours, so impossibly close it felt like he was merging with you.
But then he’s warm. His mouth is, the way he kisses you back. His hand snaking up to hold the side of your face and gripping like you’ll slip out of his hands. And who says you won’t? To Soonyoung, it was a very real worry. You’ve done it before, and he’d die before letting you do it again.
His tongue pushing past your parted lips as you greet him with your own. Wrapping your arms around Soonyoung’s neck to deepen the kiss. He takes a deep breath through his nose, breathing in the scent of your skin as his hands move up to thread through your hair. Pads of his fingers against your scalp before pulling slightly.
Your head is pulled back by that, finally giving you a chance to breathe. Eyes fluttering open as you detach.
“If you run away now, I’ll chase you down and tie you to the corner post.”
Funny. “You have a way of ruining the moment, don’t you?” You reply with a narrow look of your eyes.
He nods, “Yeah, and I have a way of bringing it back too.”
He grips the back of your neck with one hand, pushing you back towards him until his mouth crashes against yours once more. It’s all encompassing, not giving you a chance to really think about how cheesy Soonyoung’s lines could be.
His other hand snakes its way around your waist, pulling you against him. Making your knees fold under you, Soonyoung follows the flow with no protest as he gently pulls you to the floor of the ring.
He cushions your head with the back of his hand, letting you down easily until his body weight rests against yours. Trapping you against the boxing ring floor.
You let Soonyoung guide you, following the curve of his mouth against yours, and deepening the kiss more with the push of your tongue against his. He groans into your mouth, before softly detaching himself from you.
“Where did you learn how to kiss like that?” He asks, flickering his eyes to your lips.
You shrug under him, “You weren’t the only one running around with girls all the time. You think I’ve been completely celibate the past few years?”
He frowns. “Stop, don’t say things like that. Especially when you’re under me.”
You take a deep breath through your nose as you both kiss once more, more hands moving to the sides of his face, caressing the short strands of hair near his ears.
He pulls away, taking your bottom lip into one more kiss before trailing down your jaw. Placing chaste kisses against your skin, before leaving an open mouthed one against the crook of your neck. You sigh in response, embracing Soonyoung’s soft touches as you tilt your head back against the canvas floor.
He grabs the zipper of your sports jacket, the pull of it making a sharp sound that fills the gym. You help shrug it off, revealing your tank top under it. He looks up at you with big eyes.
Ah, he wants permission.
You nod, your cheeks pinkening slightly, as you glance away flustered. As much as he wants to tease you, he doesn’t. In favor of pulling the hem of your tank top up, revealing your chest to him in the dim gym.
He sighs, grabbing your chest with both hands, supporting his body with his knees straddling you. A shaky breath leaving your lips when you feel his calloused thumbs rub gentle circles against your nipples. Hardening even more under the cold air conditioning, and Soonyoung’s touch.
“Pretty,” He mutters, “You’ve always been pretty.”
His lips graze against your breasts, goosebumps appearing against your skin from the gentle caress. Exploring across the valleys of your chest before circling his mouth around one of your nipples, lapping his tongue against the bud.
You gasp against his touch, arching your back to fill his mouth, and his other hand palming your neglected breast. It should be illegal how into your chest Soonyoung is. The way he massages them together, and sucks your nipple to make you twitch under him. You can even feel him smiling against your boobs.
You push him off, connecting your lips against his for a string of kisses, “What’s wrong with you? I swear, if I didn’t pull you off you would just be making out with my boobs forever.” You mutter against his mouth.
“Why can’t I?” He responds back, returning your kiss with a pucker. “What, you don’t like it?”
You roll your eyes, “I’d rather our first time being intimate be more than just about my boobs.”
“Well, that's just unfair. You know how long I’ve been wanting to do that?”
You shake your head, looking at him with surprise as you push yourself up, both you and Soonyoung changing your positions to sitting upright against the floor. “No, how long?” You ask, scooting closer to him, pulling his t-shirt off, tossing it to the side.
“Everytime you wear a sports bra,” He answers, “Or a tight top in general. Like when the ac was broken for a week that one time,” He answers, as you oggle Soonyoung’s abs in the dark room. Letting your hands be your eyes as you feel his warm chiseled abs under your fingers.
You blink, “W-what? You think about it that often?” You ask in confusion, feeling a bit flustered by his shamelessness.
He nods, “Yeah. I even broke the thermostat just to see you dress like that again.”
You still your hand, slapping Soonyoung’s arm. “That was you! Oh my god, we were trying to figure out how that happened!” You scold, but Soonyoung just grins smugly, no regrets in his eyes at all.
You shake your head disapprovingly, leaning forward to land a short kiss against his lips. “You’re gross.” You huff, but there's no bite in that.
Soonyoung leans back against his elbows as you lean forward, deepening the kiss into another series of long ones, opening your mouth to press your tongue against his with a moan. His lips stutter against yours as your hand travels down, slipping into his shorts. Feeling his hardening erection against your hand.
You palm slightly, feeling his size. Oh thank god.
He pulls away from your lips, letting out a deep breath through his mouth, before biting down on his lip. “Is this heading where I think it is?” He asks, and you can’t help but feel your heart flutter the way his eyes look hopeful.
You nod, “It is, if you want to.” I say, “Do you want —“
“Yes,” He nods hastily, “Absolutely. No problem here.”
“Have a little humility, Soonyoung.” You scold lightly, as you move from palming him to gripping his shaft, dragging your fist up at a slow pace, feeling him in your hand.
He groans, “In this situation? No,” He shakes his head, “You’re getting all of me. And that includes my desperation for you.”
Your stomach flips. God, how embarrassing, the way Soonyoung being so unapologetic is soaking your panties to the point of discomfort.
You bite down on your lip, “Just stay still. I don’t want you overexerting yourself when your match is in less than twenty four hours.” You say softly, kissing his cheek despite his sulking pout.
“We’re gonna have sex for the first time, and you want me to stay still?” he asks exasperated.
You pinch his side, making him yelp. Oddly, you feel him twitch against your hand. Oh, so he likes stuff like that. Of course he does.
“Just listen to me,” you mutter, pushing his chest so that he lays down against the ring floor.
You shimmy yourself out of your pants, tossing them across the ring. You feel your confidence falter slightly when he eyes your polka dot panties.
“To be fair, I didn’t think this was gonna happen today.” You defend poorly, sliding them off hastily.
Soonyoung shakes his head with a small smile. “It’s cute.” He reassures, as you help him pull down his shorts further. Seeing the sliver of tiger print on his boxers — guess there really was no point to feel embarrassed.
You smile. Right, this was Kwon Soonyoung. There’s nothing to feel scared about.
Seeing Soonyoung’s dick was something else. The way it stands proudly, already begging you to do something about it. Especially the way the tip blushes pink, slightly angled to the side as he uses his hand to grab it and do some experimental strokes of his own. Small breaths escaping through his mouth as he smears his precum down to the sides.
You feel your stomach flutter in anticipation, warm from the idea of him inside you. You straddle him, your knees digging into the canvas floor as you hover your core over the tip of his dick.
He takes a sharp breath, “Fuck, you look so good.” He moans, not being able to restrict himself to grab your breasts. Almost like they’re his handlebars for a ride. (Well, that's one way to describe it!)
You lead the tip of his penis with your hand, gently letting it graze against your dripping folds before finally sinking down onto him. The air in your lungs escaping through your nose as you slowly stretch yourself out onto him.
Soonyoung wasn’t huge or thick like the AV stars on the tapes your friend once lent you, but it seems to be a blessing. Because the way Soonyoung slides into you, your walls hugging his shape as it angles into the gummy spot that immediately makes you bite down on your lip — he was made for you.
And you assume he feels the same way. Especially with how big his pupils dilate under his heavy lids, his mouth agape in awe. Palms finding themselves to the meat of your ass, squeezing in anticipation.
He bottoms out, your knees digging into the canvas floor as you breathe through your nose. “Fuck, if you don’t move I’m going to.”
You shoot Soonyoung a glare, this man never shuts up. Not even with his dick inside you.
You lean forward, placing your hands against Soonyoung’s chest. One of his hands coming up to squeeze your wrist and cover your hand in support.
You rock forward, a shaky breath escaping your mouth at the sensation. The way he rubs inside you at the angle you push, makes your eyes flutter close in pleasure.
For once, he’s listening to you. Letting you take reign as you establish your own pace. Slow at first — but inevitably you succumb to how your body reacts. And Soonyoung does as well.
He sits up, adjusting as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your eyes opening at the new position, Soonyoung sitting up as his forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm and heavy, fanning over your face as he starts pushing into you with focus. Your breath catching at your throat at how deep he’s pushing in. How malleable you feel, as you wrap your hands around his neck in support.
“Jesus — Soonyoung,” you gasp, as he takes control. A hand gripping your hip roughly, pushing you down onto him as he pistons up.
It’s rhythmic, the sound of skin slapping on skin, the combined moans and panting. Echoing across the empty gym. Who knew you would sacrilege the boxing ring you’ve trained Soonyoung in since day one?
“Y/n, baby, you feel so good.” He can’t help but praise, a hand wrapping around the side of your neck, supporting your head as his thumb presses into your mouth.
You respond easily, enveloping his thumb into your mouth. Sucking and circling his thumb with the tip of your tongue before you let go with a pop. A string of saliva to his thumb that he swipes across your lips.
He pulls you into a messy kiss. A stuttering one, as you feel Soonyoung’s pace becomes less consistent.
You feel it too, the way you’re starting to squirm, your own movements stuttering as moans fall from your mouth. You tighten your grip on his shoulders, staying in place as Soonyoung’s efforts become faster. Your mind melting at the pace, until you feel the familiar build up in your abdomen.
“Soonyoung! I’m going, I’m going to —“
Soonyoung doubles down as he favors sacrificing one hand to circle your swollen clit, spiking the incoming release you were basically hurling towards.
You gasp, white hot feeling flaring up in you, as you shiver and squirm. Your hands shooting up to Soonyoung’s hair, grabbing for any support.
“Fuck, so tight, Fuck —“ Soonyoung breathes. He pulls his cock out as he lifts you slightly off. A groan escaping his lips as his eyes zero in on the sight, his hips twitching forward as he releases on your stomach. Painting you quite messily. It takes you a second to recover, finally back when you feel the hasty wiping Soonyoung’s doing to your stomach with his poor t-shirt.
You look up at him, “Soonyoung.”
“Hm?” He questions, focused on cleaning you up. Rumpling up the t-shirt once finished, meeting your eyes.
Your eyes soften. Despite the intensity of just only a little earlier, You can’t help but finally let out a little bit of your feelings you had for him. You pull Soonyoung in gently to kiss his lips. It’s simple, but genuine, pulling away to see a soft smile on Soonyoung’s features.
“You know,” He whispers, “Didn’t think it would go this way.” He admits sheepishly, “Next time, I’ll promise a pillow at least.”
You chuckle, “Win tomorrow’s match first, and then we can talk logistics.”
He tosses you your clothes. But as he grabs your discarded panties off the canvas floor, he holds them up. Not to give them back to you, no, but to bundle it up and stuff it into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“For good luck.” He says smugly, making your cheeks run hot.
The air in the dressing room is static the next day.
It felt like any bristle of movement sent a chill down your spine, the room quiet as Soonyoung prepares for the bout. Your father repeating strategies to Soonyoung as you sit on the bench, wrapping his hand.
It’s all you can do for now, as you tighten the wrap around his knuckles, your hands shaking slightly from nervousness. He notices.
He squeezes your hand, making you shoot your head up.
“Calm down,” He eases, “Just checking if the wrap feels okay.” Liar. He was making sure you feel okay.
You let out a deep breath, “Is it?” Clenching your jaw, “Okay?”
“Yeah,” He says softly, “Don’t worry about it.”
And you tried. You really tried. Walking behind him and your father, the familiar hype music and cheers of the crowd turn into dull echoes as you watch Soonyoung’s back. Strong and confident like always, his head held up high, his gloves up as he greets the greedy crowd through the stadium.
The stadium is packed to the brim, people pressed up against each other as they try to get a good look at Soonyoung. But yet, the combined sweat and body heat in this room could barely rival the sweat beading down your forehead.
You can’t even register anything, just going through the motions of it all. Helping Soonyoung shrug off his robe, the loud announcement of the fighter intros, hell, even making eye contact with Wonwoo you stared through him like a ghost. You weren’t here.
Your father nudges you, “Come on buddy, leave the ring.” He reminds you, snapping you out of it as you realize the fight is about to begin.
Soonyoung bounces on his feet, turning to you as you head for the ropes. “Y/n!” He calls out as your feet hit the ground.
You glance up at him.
He doesn’t do much, taking a deep breath before mustering the biggest smile he can. The corners reach his eyes, curving into the crescent shape you know and love. Holding out his boxing glove, pointed straight at you.
“Y/n!” He calls out proudly, “Just sit pretty and watch!”
Ah.
Of course, you expected something else… but you can’t deny the way the simple words warm you. Just easing even the littlest amount of anxiety built up.
You smile softly, “If you lose I’ll knock your teeth out.” A sweet tone to your voice, contrasting the shameless threat.
Soonyoung probably should’ve expected that. He grins, nodding. “That’s definitely not happening!”
The bell rings, and both boxers start moving towards the middle of the ring. Soonyoung, his feet light, as they both circle around to size each other up.
From this angle Wonwoo’s height was more intimidating than you remember. When was the last time Soonyoung went up against someone at 6 feet? And the way his eyes are dead focused on Soonyoung, you can’t help but hold your breath.
Soonyoung tests, feigning attacks to gauge Wonwoo, the two going at it back and forth until a real swing comes. And it’s a straight jab from Soonyoung.
Wonwoo’s guard is quick, blocking Soonyoung’s exploratory straight jab. God, you hoped Soonyoung actually watched those tapes you recorded for him.
The first round ends as quickly as it started, the two using it to test each other despite the audience’s disatisfaction.
Punch him! Why are they just dancing? I thought Hoshi would be throwing hard combos by now!
You can’t help but clench your jaw. Take your time Soonyoung, you think, play it smart.
It finally starts heating up.
“OH, ELBOWS TIGHTLY IN. THIS IS A GOOD MOVE AGAINST HOSHI “THE TIGER” KWON, WHO WILL SURELY THROW BODY SHOTS!”
Wonwoo blocks smoothly at every punch Soonyoung throws. Soonyoung testing his blind spots and tolerance as the round continues, and yet Wonwoo doesn’t really break.
Soonyoung’s no easy opponent either. Dodging anything Wonwoo throws his way, maneuvering around the ring like some sort of dance routine. His feet light, and starting to get a feel of Wonwoo’s patterns the way Wonwoo’s punches slip off him like water.
But you can tell this can’t drag on longer than a few rounds. If Soonyoung wants to finish this match in a KO, he’s going to have to start making bigger moves.
“SEEMS LIKE THESE VOLUME PUNCHES ARE GETTING TO KWON HERE, WILL HE START PUSHING FORWARD?”
The fourth round, and you could tell Soonyoung’s patience was waning. Wonwoo was using his reach to throw multiple punches, none very powerful, but enough to tick him off.
He finally surges forward, making you grip tightly onto the clean towel in your hand. He pushes a punch through Wonwoo’s defense, opening up his guard to place a swift blow to his side.
“OH — A SIDE BLOW TO JEON, WILL THIS GIVE KWON THE RIGHT OPENING?”
Soonyoung manages that side blow, but Wonwoo leans forward and clinches, stopping any momentum. Goddammit.
Separated by the ref, the round continues. Both trying to wear each other down with their individual styles.
You can see both, sharp and focused in both gazes, but their bodies are starting to become a little more sluggish. After consecutive rounds of constant moving around the ring, you anticipated this.
Your father calls a timeout, giving Soonyoung a second to catch his breath. Your body moving instinctively as you join Soonyoung’s side at the corner.
“Okay tiger, not doing so bad. But you can do better.” Your father starts firmly, aware of the short timeout as he tries to hammer his words into Soonyoung’s head.
He’s breathing hard, as you wipe down sweat from his neck and face with the towel. You wipe some blood from a graze on his right cheek, from Wonwoo’s glove barely grazing him in an earlier round. Gently slathering ointment onto the small cut.
He nods at your fathers words, his eyes focused on Wonwoo in the other corner. The bell rings again.
It seems like an equal stalemate for another 20 seconds. That is, until your focus shoots forward, and you catch Wonwoo’s change in stance in slow motion.
You can barely widen your eyes as you watch Wonwoo counter Soonyoung’s heavy punch.
“OH! — THE COUNTER LANDS ON KWON’S RIGHT CHEEK!”
Your eyes widen as you watch Soonyoung’s mouth guard shoot out of his mouth, a mix of spit and blood splattering in the air as you see the outline of his face. His side profile crushed by the weight of the glove and force.
Soonyoung stumbles back, hitting the ropes as he tries to tighten his guard. Wonwoo uses it as a chance to throw a sequence of punches, each one feeling like he’s punching you instead.
The cheers and screams are deafening, the announcers voices boom with excitement as you watch the love of your life get pummeled.
When Wonwoo’s movements slug, the referee interferes immediately. Pushing him away from Soonyoung, as you and your father jump into the ring immediately.
“FOLKS, A SMALL TIME OUT TO CLEAN THE MOUTH GUARD!”
Your father drags Soonyoung to the corner, sitting him on the stool the minute you set it down. You run to grab the bloody mouthpiece off the canvas floor, ignoring your shaky hands as you retreat back. Wiping the blood and saliva off of it with your towel.
Soonyoung swishes water in his mouth, spitting out the blood into the bucket your father’s holding. His breath heavy, small grunts escaping him as he tries and blinks back the pain and shock of the rattling counter.
You can’t look scared now. If you were a trainer worth your salt, the last thing you should do is show this — that you’re scared for him.
You rinse the mouthguard with the leftover water, crouching down to Soonyoung as you smack the side of his cheek a couple times (not the one where he just got punched).
“Hey,” You start, steeling your voice. “Look at me.”
Soonyoung turns his head towards you, and you can see how wrecked he is already. The graze on his cheek from earlier, the swelling of one of his eyes, and the way his hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. It even takes some effort to focus his eyes on yours.
“Soonyoung,” You call out firmly, “Snap out of it. You hear me?” You say, holding his face. “I know you can do this. That fucker may have gotten a good counter, but he doesn’t know how hard your punches can hit.” You say hurriedly, eyes boring into his, trying to grab hold onto anything behind his eyes.
“Push forward, hit him with those sequences. You know the ones.” You instruct. He knows this. You spent half of your lives together training said combos.
And for a moment, he registers you, nodding clumsily, giving you the a-okay to shove the mouth guard back into his mouth. Your father patting his back as he rushes back out into the ring.
“He’s got it.” Your father gruffs, “You got through him.”
You hope so.
The bell rings once more, and despite your confident words to him, your legs felt like they could give out at any second.
Sure, everyone’s focused on Soonyoung’s state, but Wonwoo wasn’t perfect either. You could tell he was tired, and that if he could last the next few rounds, he could win with a points decision.
But fuck that, that’s not how your gym rolls. Especially you and Soonyoung.
Soonyoung moves forward, immediately going in to make contact first. Wonwoo anticipating it, as he jumps back.
But he can’t avoid the ropes forever, and after fifteen seconds of constant avoidance, Wonwoo’s back hits the ropes.
Finally Soonyoung’s fist collides into Wonwoo’s guard, splitting it open and throwing two jabs to his face. Before using the momentum to uppercut Wonwoo’s side.
It doubles him over, and Soonyoung throws his other fist to punch. But he slips — on his own sweat on the floor.
“OH! — AND THE TWO SLIP AND TAKE EACH OTHER DOWN!”
The room gasps for a second when Soonyoung grabs Wonwoo as they hit the canvas floor. The ref comes in to pull them apart, and because of the last few seconds, end the round. You curse to yourself.
Even in crucial moments like this, Soonyoung manages to baffle you.
“END OF ROUND FIVE, AND AN INJURY TIMEOUT! CHECKING TO SEE IF ANY OF THE FIGHTERS ARE OKAY AFTER THAT UNFORTUNATE SLIP!”
The referee asks and examines both of them, and from where you are you can only make out Soonyoung apologizing profusely, his ears red from embarrassment.
But with one glance at Wonwoo, you can tell something’s shifted.
Soonyoung’s last minute punch affected him. Did Soonyoung’s fist graze the back of Wonwoo’s head when they slipped? Either way, it shattered Wonwoo’s rhythm.
Soonyoung noticed it too. Because the brief time he has in the corner, his sharp eyes lock with yours. And whatever you saw in his eyes — confidence, willpower, or psychic foresight — you didn’t feel so worried anymore.
“ROUND SIX — FIGHT!”
Soonyoung doesn’t waste time, moving inward to get as close to Wonwoo as possible once more. Wonwoo doesn’t give up easily, throwing jabs to push him back.
He eats them like no problem, taking Wonwoo’s punches like nothing as he surges forward. Throwing a messily large left hook, following it up with an uppercut that connects.
Soonyoung doesn’t miss the chance, swinging his other fist as hard as he can at the awkward angle for another uppercut at Wonwoo’s doubling over body.
Wonwoo keeps stumbling back at each punch Soonyoung throws, his body back at the ropes.
“KWON THROWING A FLURRY OF COMBOS, BUT JEON IS STILL UP!”
After a few more seconds Soonyoung lets up at the sound of the refs whistle, clumsily stopping his combos, briefly using the ropes to stop his momentum before giving Wonwoo time to recover.
And you hold your breath.
“SEEMS LIKE JEON IS — WHOA!”
Wonwoo stands tall, as you mentally ready another round in your head. But he doesn’t give you both the time to strategize, as his once proud head lulls forward. His body following in suit as he crumbles to the ground.
“DOWN GOES JEON WONWOO! 6, 7, —“
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
The stadium erupts in screams, and at the count of eight, you’re up yourself, rushing towards the ring, your heart pounding in your ears.
“8! A KNOCKOUT! HOSHI “TIGER” KWON HAS THE FINAL BLOW!”
The stadium erupts in screams and cheers, Soonyoung himself surprised, eyes wide before snapping his head around. Not to the crowd, but to you.
He runs to the corner where you are, climbing onto the post as he holds his fists up to the crowd. His name chanted in synchronized voices that shake the very building.
You climb onto the ropes, and with a grin, he leans forward and hooks his arms around you, pulling you over them. Stumbling into his sweaty arms as he swings you around.
“Soonyoung! You did it!” You scream, as he lets you down onto the canvas floor of the ring. Your father laughing heartily in the back, as Soonyoung spits out the mouthguard onto the floor.
He runs his tongue against his teeth before responding, his voice raspy and breathy, “I told you, didn’t I?”
For the first time, you don’t have the bite in you to be defensive. Your smile widening across your face as you look at Soonyoung in awe, “You did.”
He grins back. His sore muscles, aching body and screaming lungs don’t matter. Because the smile on your face was a soothing balm that made it all feel trivial.
The cameras, the reporters, the hundreds of people in the arena were drowned out as you both exchanged looks of pride and awe. His victory was as much yours as his.
Soon his arm is grabbed, as the referee pulls him to the middle, showing off Soonyoung to the huge TV camera.
You take a step back, proudly.
You beam as you watch Soonyoung being praised, and Wonwoo respectfully shaking his hand even after the taxing match.
Your father himself patting your back, “So you finally know how it feels,” He starts.
You snap out of your trance, glancing at him, your dad. “Huh?”
“Nothing better than seeing the guy you spent your blood, sweat and tears on winning a major match.” He says with a proud smile, “And even better, seeing someone you love happy.”
“What?” You say baffled, not expecting him to add on the last part. He nudges your side, an amused chuckle escaping him.
“Congrats, buddy.” He says vaguely, before walking forward to congratulate Soonyoung loudly, shaking the beat up guy with rough affection.
“Barbecue and drinks — on me tonight!” Your father boasts with a laugh.
Which he probably regrets, when an hour later the impromptu congratulatory party is held at a familiar run down barbecue place after hours. Courtesy of Jihoon, Soonyoung’s friend. Claiming — only this one time! Because he won!
Beers and soju bottles litter the table, as your dad grumbles on a plastic chair. Already nursing his head from too many drinks.
“Lee Chan, go and run off and get some hangover cures.” Your father orders, despite Lee Chan not being quite sober either. Lee Chan blinks in confusion as he points to himself, Seungcheol reacts with laughter.
He snaps his fingers lazily, “Jihoon, another plate of pork belly. Need ta’ soak this alcohol up.”
Jihoon nods, knocking back a shot of soju himself before tiredly heading to the kitchen, “Right, on the way.”
When Jihoon disappears to the kitchen, Seungcheol pats Lee Chan’s back, “You heard the old man, I’ll come with you.” He teases, before the two leave on their little errand.
You, on the other hand, are outside. Sitting on the curb near the restaurant’s entrance. Your head turns when you hear the sound of the door, Seungcheol and Lee Chan walking out, their hoodies on.
Seungcheols greets you with a small smile, Lee Chan bowing clumsily as well. “Going to get some more drinks, want anything?” Seungcheol asks.
You shake your head, “It’s alright oppa, I’m good.” You say, nursing the half full beer in your hand.
Seungcheol nods, “Alright.” He says easily, before clearing his throat. Keeping the entrance door open with his foot as he yells out, “Kwon, she’s out here!”
And you can hear Soonyoung’s voice — What? I thought she was in the bathroom! Hold on!
Seungcheol glances back at you, “Hey, be nice to him. He won today's match.” Seungcheol aims at you, “Everything seems fine now, but if Chan and I come back and you guys are —“
“It’s fine.” You shut down, “I’ll be nice.” You reassure, cracking a smile.
Seungcheol raises his brows in intrigue, but decides not to question it. Just taking the tipsy Lee Chan with him to walk to the convenience store.
It’s not long until Soonyoung burst out the door. Freshly showered after the match, in baggy sweats and his wounds bandaged up.
“Hey,” He breathes, as he adjusts the beanie on his head. “I really thought you were in the bathroom.”
“Well, I’m not.” You shrug, “Just needed some fresh air.”
Soonyoung settles beside you on the curb, his thigh practically glued to yours as he knocks his own beer to yours. “God, my face is killing me.” He mutters, “Say what you want about that guy, his fist is deadly.”
“I warned you that already.” You chime in absentmindedly, your instinct to correct Soonyoung was just too strong.
He pouts, “Yeah, well, I was too busy being heartbroken at the time. Forgive me for not listening.” He says, before cracking a smile. He takes a swig of his beer.
“I just want to say,” He takes a breath, “Thanks. I really thought it was over around the third round.” He furrows his brows, “Or fourth? Fifth? I don’t know, at one point everything was blurry.”
You snicker, “I didn’t do anything, that was all you.”
He shakes his head, “Nope, wrong. If you didn’t snap me out of it and reminded me of the basics, I would’ve crumpled there and then.” He says strongly, “You were my rock tonight.”
Your face softens at that.
“And,” He takes another big deep breath, “I don’t want to just spring this on you, but, since we’re already on this wave,” He fiddles with his fingers before meeting your gaze.
“I want to ask you to be my girlfriend.” He asks, like it’s the scariest thing he ever has had to say. The same man who fights professional fighters in front of thousands — just simply a guy in love when he looks at you.
And for a second you see that, the awkward bumbling kid that ran into the gym late that one day.
You set down your beer on the pavement, “Your girlfriend, huh?”
“Well — you can say no. No pressure. Just because I won today doesn’t mean you have to say yes, or —“
“Soonyoung.” You stop his rambling, grabbing his hand, the same one you were wrapping only hours ago. “Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
He doesn’t register your words for a moment, but when he does, he grins wide. His eyes full of affection as he looks at you, soft as he studies your face.
He clears his throat, “Great, awesome.” He replies, “And most importantly, finally.” He adds on with a breath of relief, making you elbow his side. “Hey — ow! Not too much!”
“Oh sorry!” You say immediately, your hands shooting to his side, leaning forward in worry. But he catches you, a smug grin on his face as he matches your distance.
He catches your lips into a kiss, nothing like the ones you shared in the gym the night before. But this time, soft and comforting. Savoring the moment between the both of you before pulling away, his nose grazing yours.
“By the way,” He starts quietly, his breath fanning against your skin, “Your panties are still in my bag.”
Your face heats up, leaning back as you ignore Soonyoung’s injuries to punch his shoulder. Again, he just had to make use of his talent of ruining the mood of things.
“What — hey! I said you were my rock! It’s good luck!” He defends with a couple laughs, your punch turning into punches.
The late night street hums with the sound of the street lights, cicadas, and the buzzing of the telephone wires of the crowded alleys. Laughter and music from the celebration spilling outside, disapproving comments leave your lips while Soonyoung’s laughter carries through the streets. This night is just one of the many you’ll share together.
But one thing's for sure — you’re making sure Soonyoung omits this “lucky charm” in his interviews.
You’re broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You weren’t supposed to know his name—just clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.
minors do not interact
pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader
wc: 28k
content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.
WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe there’s a little fluff.
nene’s note: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (don’t ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.
nsfw tags under the cut
SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!
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You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweat—except sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.
By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalk—nearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the time—12:46 PM.
Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.
The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding on—like the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.
The house looms before you like a museum exhibit—grand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frame—hoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakers—and her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.
"You're late."
"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, and—" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."
Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "I—I'll stay longer if you need. P—Please don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."
That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too long—long enough for it to become pathetic—then you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.
The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgery—knowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the window—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairs—if at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.
Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.
Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."
"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaos—shoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.
"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.
This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.
Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at first—just reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.
Empty.
You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting there—your expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.
A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something important—like Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.
"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smell—so unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."
She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"
Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like that—"
"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to this—and now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."
She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."
"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"
Silence.
You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind you—not because you're afraid, but because you're done.
You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.
You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.
*•*•*
You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angry—not this morning. You're already late. Again.
You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.
It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracle—sprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the process—and squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.
You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.
The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfume—effortlessly.
"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.
She reads a passage aloud—something from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection of—and for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.
After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.
"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."
Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."
You blink. "You read my last submission?"
"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."
The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."
She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."
"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."
It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.
The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.
You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.
You answer.
"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"
You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in class—"
"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.
"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."
You frown. "A freak?"
"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suit—he's paying. You're taking it."
Your throat dries.
"How many days?"
"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softens—barely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."
You really, really do.
You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.
The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.
It's not just big—it's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.
The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.
You check the note your manager texted again:
Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.
Figures.
You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander down—a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.
The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.
Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.
Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.
You stare at the screen.
What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.
The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.
You step out.
Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.
Unlocked.
The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.
Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.
You hold your breath and step inside.
The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor plan—windows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.
You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.
Somewhere beyond the mezzanine level—a second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railings—you hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.
You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.
Don't go upstairs.
You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bag—the one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.
For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filth—just time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.
You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the same—stunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.
In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.
You pause in front of it.
It's nothing special—just a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.
By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to do—done.
But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish early—stay. No exceptions.
So you sit.
You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journal—worn leather, pages soft at the edges.
You click your pen open and start writing.
Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.
Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparison—thank God for her and her endless belief in me.
New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.
You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.
At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.
You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.
The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.
As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.
Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"
Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this month—what do you think I am, an ATM?!"
You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip past—
"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fast—softer now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"
You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"
You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"
"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's like—off his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"
You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."
Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."
"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."
Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."
Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."
You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.
And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.
But you're broke. So you move
You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.
Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall now—someone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.
The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.
This is job number two.
You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.
"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.
"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."
Jesus.
You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Still—you need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.
Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.
You wonder what he sounds like.
The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.
You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.
You stop typing.
And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.
You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.
By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your door—and your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.
The apartment is clean. Spotless even.
No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.
And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.
You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection or—"
"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."
You stare. "You what?"
Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."
You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.
Just different.
Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it open—and stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.
Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.
Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now.
but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.
Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a note—scrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.
"I'm sorry."
It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.
You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sob—and press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"
For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.
And the bathroom is yours again.
*•*•*
The next morning wakes you gently.
Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social construct—but with the smell of bacon.
You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.
You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoon—hair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.
"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.
She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.
And it tastes like actual heaven.
"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."
It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.
"I missed this."
You glance up.
"I mean—us," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae was—he j—just made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."
And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.
You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.
Deposit: $400.00 — From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.
Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.
Cee: Well done. Keep it up.
You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"
You show her the screen.
She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"
You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."
Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"
"It's not—!"
"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."
You snort.
"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."
"Us?"
"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."
You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.
You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chest—not bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.
The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.
The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route now—the elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.
Penthouse access. Floor 45.
You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.
Still—there's something about this building, this job, this man—something you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.
When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.
A man is walking out.
Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his hand—some printed, some handwritten—and he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.
Okay.
You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.
Movement. Light.
A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Right—he's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.
So, not Heeseung.
You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.
You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.
There's a note.
You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.
You folded the towels wrong.
Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It's—
You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.
And then you catch yourself.
He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too much—not for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.
You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.
Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floors—again. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.
It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.
And like last time, you finish early.
3:26.
You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.
He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhere—not a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.
Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.
A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.
Another sound. A voice—muffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.
You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.
You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.
But then... it happens again.
Your eyes flick to the closet door.
Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about it—just a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominous—but it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.
Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decision—you just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.
It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.
You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.
The door creaks open.
It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feet—and then your eyes adjust.
Not bodies. Not bones.
Photos.
Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.
You blink, stepping in cautiously.
There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Place—2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.
You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.
And then another. A close-up this time. His face.
Heeseung.
Your breath catches.
He's younger in these—baby-faced almost—but you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.
You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.
A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:
LEE HEESEUNG
It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. —With love, always, LH.
You stare at it for a long moment.
And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.
The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And now—this.
He must've been a concert pianist.
You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.
You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.
The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those images—trophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking it—the man in the penthouse was someone once.
The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fight—but it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.
"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."
You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"
She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."
You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.
"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"
You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."
"Old man, then."
You glance at her. "He's not old."
She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"
You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."
"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"
You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, just—his clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."
She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."
"Shut up."
"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.
You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.
"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."
You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"
Her jaw drops.
"And?"
You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.
She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"
"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."
There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."
You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.
First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.
Second result: Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.
Third: The Golden Boy of the Grand Piano—Why Lee Heeseung Was Next.
There are photos—clean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.
"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."
You smack her arm. "Focus."
She scrolls again—and then pauses.
You feel her go still beside you.
Her thumb hovers over the next headline.
Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.
Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.
"Holy shit," she whispers.
There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.
The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silence—and then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.
He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.
His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Then—
A violent slam of the keys.
The audience flinches.
He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.
You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.
"That's why," you whisper.
Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."
Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.
Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of music—and then unraveled by it.
The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.
Heeseung's face in that last shot—wild and glassy-eyed, haunted—lingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.
Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.
"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."
The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.
"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."
You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.
Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."
"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."
You nod. "I will. Just—gonna change first."
She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.
The quiet hits fast.
You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.
You freeze.
Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.
You check again.
Then again.
Your journal's not there.
You turn the bag upside down—shake it, even though you know how pointless it is—and the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.
You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.
Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.
A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebook—it's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.
You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoon—have you seen my journal? The brown one?"
She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"
You shake your head too fast. "No—I had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, I—I—"
She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"
You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposed—your insides exposed—makes you sick.
Your throat tightens.
"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"
But you're already crying. Not big sobs—just quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.
You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."
"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.
You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.
Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.
And somewhere—somewhere else—those pages are no longer just yours.
*•*•*
You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marks—under your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.
It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymore—just dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.
Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.
You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire time—gentle, like you'd break.
Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.
Nothing.
Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.
So when Friday comes around—when you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse job—you feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, just—
Faded.
You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.
You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.
The door opens.
And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quiet—vacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.
You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the supplies—straight to the cabinets under the sink—and that's when you freeze.
There.
On the counter.
Your journal.
You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.
You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.
It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first time—where you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.
Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.
An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:
you have no idea.
Your throat goes dry.
You run your fingertips over the words—his words—like touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.
He read it. He read it.
And not just read it—responded.
You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.
This man—this ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towels—he read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.
"You have no idea."
You don't.
But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessary—like the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.
Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."
You don't sign it.
You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee table—tucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.
And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.
*•*•*
When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.
You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.
"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"
"I didn't mean to!" "Wait—he wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Just—drew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That's—" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.
"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."
"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, but—"
"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."
"I had to. I was done, I—" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"
"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."
You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.
*•*•*
You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.
Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your blood—maybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.
You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and then—you stop. Dead.
Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that day—now unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who's— Oh fuck.
Shirtless.
Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silence—and then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he real—he's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.
The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.
As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."
You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.
"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghost—he is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.
"I—sorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't think—there was someone—upstairs, usually—" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that look—the kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.
"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past you—slow, easy, barefoot steps—disappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usual—dusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.
And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.
It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of it—almost—until he's suddenly back.
You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.
Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.
It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he is—because it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.
He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.
Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallway—the one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn face—and you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.
You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.
"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either way—it makes your chest tighten.
You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."
He doesn't flinch either.
"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"
And that's what throws you—how casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.
In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of it—but enough.
You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.
He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?
You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.
He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.
You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."
"I figured."
You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did you—"
He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."
That makes your stomach turn.
You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.
You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.
"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."
That word again.
And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymore—what he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casual—as if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.
You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.
"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.
You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.
You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.
And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"
He blinks.
It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movement—too closely—and hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.
He doesn't answer right away.
Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."
It's almost clipped, controlled.
"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."
You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"
He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."
Your mind flashes back to that moment—the doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.
Your throat feels a little dry.
"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.
He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."
It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.
You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"
He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."
There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean it—not entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.
Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.
Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.
And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.
"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.
And you believe him.
Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of him—some stories, some shadows—you haven't earned the right to touch yet.
You don't answer.
You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door
He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.
"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.
But you hear it.
And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.
You turn—just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.
"What did you ju—" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"
You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.
"Then you should go."
You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.
And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.
He just watches you go.
You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.
The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loud—some upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cooking—and the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.
Then she turns. She sees you.
And she freezes.
The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."
You blink. "What?"
"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"
You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.
So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.
"I saw him."
She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"
You nod.
"Lee Heeseung?"
You nod again.
She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.
You don't laugh. You can't.
"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.
Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.
"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."
You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."
You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.
"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."
"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."
You nod. "Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I told him he had no right to read it."
"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."
She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"
"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."
"You love that class."
"I know."
"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"
*•*•*
You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.
You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.
You start with the mirrors.
Not because they're dirty. They're not.
But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.
By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.
By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.
By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.
By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.
So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.
Maybe him.
Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.
Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.
Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.
"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."
He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.
"I missed my favorite class."
"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."
He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."
You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.
"What are you making?" you ask.
He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."
Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.
You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"
He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."
"Excuse me?"
He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"
You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.
And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.
You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.
That's insane."
Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.
You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"
He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.
You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.
The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.
And then you ask, "Why every day?"
He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.
"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.
"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."
You inhale, slow and careful.
"And then I read your journal."
You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.
"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."
You stare at him.
He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.
"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."
You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.
He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."
Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.
"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."
You whisper the final two lines without thinking.
"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."
His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.
You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."
You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."
"I know."
"I didn't write it for anyone to—"
"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."
The room is suddenly very still.
You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"
His brow creases. "Do you what?"
"Do I look at you that way?"
He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.
And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.
You blink. "What?"
He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."
"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."
He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"
You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."
That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"
"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."
He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.
You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.
His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.
And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.
It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...
Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.
You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.
And then it happens.
Your eyes meet.
His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.
His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.
And then he pulls back, all too quick and
sudden.
He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.
You flinch at the sound.
"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."
Your stomach drops.
"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."
You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.
And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."
He doesn't say anything else.
You leave quietly.
But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.
You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.
You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.
You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.
"Hello?"
"Hey. Where are you right now?"
You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"
"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."
You stop walking. "What?"
"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."
Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."
"Welcome to my fucking week."
You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.
He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.
Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.
The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:
"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"
Your breath catches.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"
You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.
"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."
"You sure?"
"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."
There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.
"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."
You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."
He hangs up.
You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.
He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.
Was he testing you?
Did he think you wouldn't come back?
You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.
And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.
You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.
The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"
"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.
"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"
You keep walking.
"Did he—?"
"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."
"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"
"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."
She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."
Your face goes hot.
"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."
She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"
You shut the door in her face.
Lock it.
Lean back against it.
Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.
You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.
And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.
Just breathing.
You write,
He said I write beautifully.
Then, slower,
He said he felt restless about not getting a response.
And then,
He pulled away.
The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.
About the poem.
How he remembered every word.
How you finished it together.
And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.
You close your journal.
And press it to your chest.
You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.
It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.
The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.
And then your eyelids get heavy.
You blink hard.
You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—
That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.
You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.
You're so screwed.
Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.
The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.
You tell yourself it's only for a second.
Just one.
Just—
You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"
You blink, brain empty.
You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.
And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.
*•*•*
You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.
Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.
You almost turn around.
Almost.
But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.
You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.
"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."
There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.
"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."
"She's not just cleaning."
There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."
You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."
You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.
And then—
"Didn't think you'd come."
You turn back around.
Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.
You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.
"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."
And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.
"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.
"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"
"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."
He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.
Quiet. Barely a whisper.
"You didn't have to stop either."
Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.
And maybe you didn't.
But you did.
And there's no taking it back.
The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.
Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.
Then you say it again. Softer this time.
"You didn't have to stop."
It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.
Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.
"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.
And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.
The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.
Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.
And just like that, you're alone. Again.
The silence is incredibly deafening.
Your hands are still trembling.
They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.
And he never came back down.
You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.
The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.
"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.
He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"
"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."
He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"
"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."
And you think that's the end of it.
But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."
You freeze.
Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."
He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."
You hesitate.
Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.
But your feet are already moving.
The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.
You can't read his expression.
"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.
"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."
There's a beat.
"I don't want that."
You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."
You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.
He doesn't move.
So you do.
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.
It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—
Nothing.
He doesn't move.
Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.
The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."
That's all it takes.
The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.
And this time, he answers the question
His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.
And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."
That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.
He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.
You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.
He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.
You nod.
That's all he needs.
He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.
Every time you whimper, he presses closer.
Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.
And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.
Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.
One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.
You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.
"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.
He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.
And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.
Intimately.
He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.
Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.
His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.
"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.
Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.
He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.
Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.
You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.
You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.
"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.
He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.
"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.
His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."
Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.
And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.
He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.
Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.
Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.
He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.
"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."
You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.
His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.
And then—
"Rina," he breathes.
You freeze for half a second.
It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.
But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.
You blink, dazed. "What...?"
But the next second, he's pushing in.
And everything else disappears.
Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.
The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.
"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."
Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.
"Heeseung—move. Please—"
He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.
Maybe he has.
Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.
"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."
You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.
And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.
Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.
"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.
His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.
"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again. You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.
You're both trembling.
Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.
You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.
Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.
"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."
Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.
The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.
He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.
You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.
He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.
There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.
*•*•*
You wake up before Heeseung does.
There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.
Panic grips you first.
Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.
You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.
You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.
What did I do?
Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—
"Why are you sneaking out?"
You squeak.
Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.
You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.
His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."
"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"
"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.
But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.
You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."
You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.
He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."
You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.
Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.
You sigh.
You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.
So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.
Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.
Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.
All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."
"Ji—"
"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"
You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.
"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"
"Jiyoon."
"What?"
"Bye."
You hang up.
Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.
*•*•*
You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.
You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?
It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.
The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.
It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.
Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,
Lee Heeseung Rina
The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.
The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.
The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.
"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.
Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"
You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."
You freeze.
The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.
Rina's not a person.
Rina's a piano.
A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there. Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.
Rina is his piano.
You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.
He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.
*•*•*
You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief, "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.
Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."
You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"
"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.
You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."
Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."
"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."
"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."
"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."
"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.
You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.
You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.
It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.
Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?
God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.
The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.
"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.
And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.
God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.
Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.
He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.
Locked.
Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.
"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.
Once. Twice—
CRACK.
The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.
There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—
Him. Heeseung.
Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.
You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.
You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"
Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.
"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."
He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."
"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."
You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.
You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.
Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.
You don't flinch.
He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.
You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.
"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.
He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."
"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.
Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.
But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.
"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.
"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.
You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"
He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.
Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.
"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.
His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.
The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.
Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.
Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.
Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.
He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.
Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.
"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."
He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.
"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,
"My nurse".
You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."
You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.
You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.
Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.
"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.
"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."
And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.
*•*•*
It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.
You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.
You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.
"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."
"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.
You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.
Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"
"Hm?"
"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."
You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.
You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.
And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.
fake bf!Heeseung x being stalked!reader - You kissed Heeseung to escape your stalker’s gaze—but the danger didn’t end there. One fake kiss, and suddenly everything is terrifyingly real.
The fluorescent lights of the subway car flicker overhead, casting an unflattering glow across the half-empty train. It's later than you'd usually be out on a weeknight, but your coworker's birthday drinks ran longer than expected. You check your phone: 11:43 PM. Only three more stops until home.
That's when you feel it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
You glance up from your phone, trying to appear casual as your eyes scan the car. And there he is. Third seat from the door. A man in his thirties, wearing a dark jacket despite the warm spring evening, staring directly at you. When your eyes meet, he doesn't look away. Instead, his lips curl into what might be considered a smile, if it weren't so utterly devoid of warmth.
You quickly look back down at your phone, heart rate accelerating. It's nothing, you tell yourself. Just another weird encounter in the city.
The train slows to a stop, doors sliding open. You remain seated, two more stops to go. From your peripheral vision, you see the man stand up. Relief washes over you—he's leaving. But instead of exiting, he simply moves to a seat closer to you. Your stomach drops.
When the doors close and the train lurches forward, you decide you're not waiting two more stops. You'll get off at the next station, find a busier platform, maybe even grab a taxi the rest of the way home. Anything to shake this feeling.
The next stop arrives. You stand quickly, moving toward the doors. As they open, you glance back—he's standing too. Following you.
Panic rises in your throat as you step onto the platform. It's nearly deserted at this hour, just a few late-night commuters waiting for trains going the opposite direction. You walk briskly toward the exit, the sound of footsteps behind you matching your pace.
That's when you see him—a young man leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone. He's striking even under the harsh station lights, with delicate features contrasted by sharp eyes and broad shoulders. Something about him radiates both gentleness and strength. You make a split-second decision.
You approach him quickly, heart pounding in your ears.
"Excuse me," you say softly, your voice shakier than you'd like. "Can you please pretend to be my boyfriend for a minute? There's someone following me."
He looks up from his phone, confusion crossing his face for only a moment before his eyes flick past you, assessing the situation with remarkable speed. His expression shifts to understanding, then determination.
"Of course, babe," he says loudly enough to be overheard, smoothly slipping his phone into his pocket. "I was wondering when you'd get here."
In one fluid motion, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body against yours is startling but comforting.
"He's still watching," the stranger whispers against your hair. "Is that the guy? Black jacket, about five-nine?"
You nod almost imperceptibly.
"I'm Heeseung, by the way," he murmurs, maintaining the charade by playing with a strand of your hair.
"I'm Y/N," you whisper back.
You both stand there for a moment, locked in an embrace that feels both foreign and strangely safe. But you can still feel the stalker's eyes boring into your back.
"He's not buying it," Heeseung says quietly, his breath warm against your ear. Then, even softer: "Want me to kiss you? Might be more convincing."
Your eyes widen slightly, but the footsteps behind you seem to be getting closer. You nod again, bracing yourself.
Heeseung's hand gently tilts your chin upward. His eyes meet yours, silently asking one more time if this is okay. There's something unexpectedly tender in his gaze that makes your breath catch. Then he leans down, pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—the kiss of strangers playing a part. But as his arms tighten around you, something shifts. His lips move more confidently against yours, and you find yourself responding, your hands instinctively moving to his shoulders. For a brief moment, you forget about the man watching you, forget that this is all pretend. There is only the softness of Heeseung's lips and the steadiness of his hands at your waist.
When you finally break apart, you're both slightly breathless. Heeseung's eyes search yours for a moment before he looks past you, his expression hardening.
"He's still there," he says, voice lower now, a protective edge creeping in. "What's this guy's problem?"
The stalker stands several feet away, his stare unrelenting, suspicious. Clearly, your performance hasn't convinced him.
Something in Heeseung snaps. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you with his body.
"What are you looking at?" he calls out, his voice echoing in the nearly empty station. "You need something?"
The man doesn't respond, just continues staring.
"What?" Heeseung's voice rises, anger evident. "You need more proof? Want me to fuck her in front of you too?"
You grab Heeseung's arm, both shocked and grateful for his protective fury. The few remaining commuters on the platform turn to stare.
The stalker finally breaks his gaze, muttering something under his breath before walking toward the exit. But the look he gives you before he turns away sends ice through your veins—this isn't over.
"Hey, are you okay?" Heeseung asks, turning back to you, his expression immediately softening. "Sorry if I went too far. I just couldn't stand the way he was looking at you."
"Thank you," you manage, suddenly aware that you're trembling. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here."
"Which way are you headed?" he asks, concern etched across his features.
"I'm two stops down, but I think I'll just get a taxi now."
"I'll wait with you," he says firmly. "Or I can ride with you the rest of the way, if you want."
As you both head toward the exit, you feel Heeseung's hand gently rest against the small of your back—a protective gesture that makes you feel safer than you have all night.
Neither of you notice the stalker watching from the shadows as you leave the station together, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and something more dangerous simmering beneath.
-
The taxi ride is quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional direction you give the driver. Heeseung sits beside you, a respectful distance between you now, but his presence remains solid and reassuring. The adrenaline from earlier is beginning to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and slightly embarrassed.
"I'm really sorry about all of this," you finally say, glancing over at him. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, his profile looks almost ethereal. "I can't believe I dragged a complete stranger into my problems."
Heeseung turns to you, his expression earnest. "Don't apologize. That guy was seriously creepy. Anyone would have needed help."
"Not everyone would have helped the way you did," you point out. "Most people would have just walked away."
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "Well, I'm not most people."
The taxi pulls up to your apartment building, and you reach for your wallet, but Heeseung already has his card out.
"Please, let me," he insists, paying the driver before you can protest.
"You really don't have to—"
"Consider it my good deed for the day," he says with a gentle smile that makes something flutter in your chest.
You both step out onto the sidewalk, and suddenly you're not sure how to end this strange encounter. A handshake seems too formal after what you've shared, but anything more feels presumptuous.
"I'd feel better if I saw you safely to your door," Heeseung says, breaking the awkward moment. "If that's okay with you."
You nod, grateful for his consideration, and lead him into the building. The elevator ride to the fifth floor is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Standing next to him, you notice he smells faintly of sandalwood and something uniquely his own.
When you reach your apartment door, you turn to face him. "Thank you again. Seriously. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."
"I'm just glad I could help," he says, and there's a sincerity in his voice that's rare these days.
An idea strikes you. "Wait here for a second?" You unlock your door and rush inside, grabbing a pen and scrap of paper from the entryway table. You quickly scribble your number on it, then return to the hallway where Heeseung waits patiently.
"Here," you say, offering him the paper. "In case you ever need someone to pretend to be your girlfriend." You attempt a joke to lighten the moment, though your heart beats a little faster as he takes the paper.
Heeseung looks at your number, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. He pulls out his phone, inputs your number, and then you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.
"Now you have mine too," he says. "If you ever feel unsafe again or if that guy shows up, call me. Doesn't matter what time."
"I couldn't possibly—"
"I mean it," he interrupts, his expression turning serious. "Promise me you'll call if anything happens."
Something about the intensity in his eyes makes you nod. "I promise."
"Good." His expression softens again. "Get some rest, Y/N. It's been a long night."
"You too, Heeseung."
He waits until you're safely inside with the door locked before you hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
-
The next morning, the whole encounter feels almost like a dream. You might have convinced yourself it was, if not for the new contact in your phone: "Heeseung (Subway Hero)."
Life returns to normal surprisingly fast. You're more cautious on your commute, taking earlier trains and staying in crowded cars, but there's no sign of the creepy man. After a week passes without incident, you begin to relax.
You think about texting Heeseung several times. Your finger hovers over his contact information, but what would you say? "Thanks again for pretending to be my boyfriend and kissing me"? "Want to grab coffee sometime when I'm not being stalked"? Everything sounds awkward or presumptuous. He was just being kind to a stranger in trouble. You don't want to mistaken his kindness for interest.
So you don't text him, and the days pass.
Almost two weeks after the subway incident, you're working late at the office. The design project you've been assigned has a tight deadline, and you've lost track of time staring at your computer screen. When you finally look up, it's past 10 PM, and you're the only one left on your floor.
You pack up quickly, suddenly aware of how quiet and empty the building feels. In the elevator down to the lobby, you check your phone and see a notification for an email from an address you don't recognize.
The subject line reads: "I SAW YOU WITH HIM."
A chill runs down your spine. You should delete it without opening it, but morbid curiosity gets the better of you. The message contains just one line:
"I know he's not really your boyfriend."
Your hands start to shake. Below the text is a photo—of you and Heeseung leaving the subway station together that night. The angle suggests it was taken from a distance, from someone following behind.
As you step out of the elevator into the dimly lit lobby, another email notification appears. Same sender.
"You're alone now. Look up."
Your heart nearly stops. Slowly, you raise your head from your phone screen and scan the lobby. At first, you see nothing unusual—just the security desk (empty at this hour), the entrance doors, the row of potted plants along the wall.
Then a shadow moves near the entrance, and you see him. The man from the subway, watching you through the glass doors, that same cold smile on his face.
Without thinking, you step back into the elevator and frantically press the button for your floor. As the doors close, you see him moving toward the building entrance.
Your fingers tremble as you pull up Heeseung's contact. It's been two weeks. He probably doesn't even remember you. But you promised.
He answers on the second ring.
"Y/N?" His voice is alert, not groggy despite the hour. "Is everything okay?"
"He found me," you whisper, watching the elevator numbers climb. "The guy from the subway. He's here at my office building. He has pictures of us. He knows—he knows you're not really my boyfriend."
There's a brief silence, then Heeseung's voice comes through, calm but urgent. "Where exactly are you now?"
"In the elevator, going back up to my office. I don't think he can get past building security without a keycard, but he was right outside."
"Okay, listen to me. Go back to your office, lock the door if you can. What's the address?"
You tell him, surprised at how clearly you remember his address despite your panic.
"I'm leaving now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay on the phone with me, okay?"
"Okay," you manage, stepping out of the elevator and hurrying down the hallway to your office. You lock the door behind you, then turn off the lights and move away from the windows. "I'm sorry to drag you into this again."
"Don't apologize," he says, and you can hear rustling in the background, the jingle of keys. "I told you to call if anything happened."
"I know, but—"
"Y/N," he interrupts gently. "I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you anyway."
Despite everything, a small flutter of warmth spreads through your chest at his words.
"He thinks I'm your boyfriend?" Heeseung continues, and you hear a door slam shut on his end. "What are you going to do about this guy?"
"I don't know," you admit, sinking down beneath your desk, phone clutched to your ear like a lifeline. "I guess I should file a police report, but—"
Your sentence is cut short by another email notification. With dread, you open it to find another picture—this one of your office building, with a simple message: "I'll wait."
"Heeseung," you whisper, fear making your voice crack. "Please hurry."
-
"I'm five minutes away," Heeseung reassures you, his voice steady despite the sound of rapid footsteps on his end. "Stay where you are and keep talking to me."
You curl up tighter beneath your desk, eyes fixed on the locked office door. The building is eerily quiet at this hour—every distant sound making your heart race. Is that the elevator? Footsteps in the stairwell? Your imagination is turning every creak and hum of the building into a threat.
"Tell me about your day," Heeseung says suddenly.
"What?"
"Your day. What were you working on that kept you at the office so late?" His tone is deliberately casual, trying to distract you from the panic.
You take a shaky breath. "A design project for a new client. They're launching a sustainable clothing line and needed the branding finalized by tomorrow morning." Speaking helps—focusing on normal things makes the situation feel slightly less terrifying.
"You're a designer?" There's genuine interest in his voice.
"Graphic designer, yeah. What about you? What do you do when you're not rescuing strangers on the subway?" You attempt a weak joke.
There's a soft chuckle on the other end. "Music production, mostly. I work at a studio downtown."
"That sounds amazing," you say, briefly forgetting your fear. "Do you work with anyone I might know?"
"Maybe. I've worked with—" He cuts himself off. "I'm at your building now. Is there a security guard?"
"There should be, but I didn't see anyone when I was in the lobby."
"There's no one here now either," Heeseung says, his voice lower. "How do I get up to your floor?"
"You need a keycard for the elevator after hours," you explain, anxiety flooding back. "But wait—if there's no security guard, where did he go? And how would the stalker get in without a card?"
There's a moment of silence before Heeseung responds, his voice tight. "I don't know, but I don't like it. Is there another way up? A stairwell?"
"Yes, but it needs a keycard too—" You stop as another email notification appears. With trembling fingers, you open it.
The message contains just three words: "I'M INSIDE NOW."
"Heeseung," you whisper, terror making your voice almost inaudible. "He says he's inside the building."
"Shit," he mutters. Then, more decisively: "I'm going to try something. What floor are you on?"
"Seventh."
"Give me two minutes."
The line goes quiet except for the sound of Heeseung's breathing and occasional grunts of effort. You're about to ask what he's doing when you hear a distant alarm begin to wail.
"What's happening?" you ask.
"Fire alarm," Heeseung explains, slightly out of breath. "Building security will unlock automatically. I'm coming up the stairs now."
Relief washes over you—until you realize that if the security systems are overridden, there's nothing keeping the stalker from accessing your floor either.
As if reading your thoughts, Heeseung speaks again. "Stay hidden. I'll be there soon. Which office number?"
"705. It's at the end of the hallway on the right when you come out of the stairwell."
"Got it. Almost there."
You hear the sound of a door banging open through the phone, then rapid footsteps. A moment later, there's a gentle knock at your office door.
"Y/N? It's me."
You scramble out from under the desk and rush to the door, pressing your ear against it. "Heeseung?"
"It's me," he confirms. "Open the door."
Your hands shake as you unlock the door. The moment it opens, Heeseung slips inside, immediately locking it behind him. In the dim emergency lighting, you can see he's breathing hard, hair slightly damp with sweat—he must have run the entire way.
Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, the relief of seeing a friendly face overwhelming in your state of fear. He stiffens in surprise for just a moment before his arms wrap around you, holding you securely.
"Are you okay?" he murmurs against your hair.
You nod against his chest, embarrassed but unable to pull away just yet. His heartbeat is rapid beneath your ear, his body warm and solid—an anchor in the storm of your fear.
When you finally step back, you notice he's scanning the room, eyes alert and wary. "We should go. The fire department will be here soon because of the alarm, but I don't want to risk running into this guy."
"Okay," you agree, quickly gathering your belongings.
Heeseung peers out the office door, checking the hallway. "Clear. Let's go to the stairs—they're closer than the elevator."
He takes your hand as you hurry down the corridor, his grip firm and reassuring. At the stairwell door, he pauses, listening intently before pushing it open.
"Stay close," he instructs as you begin descending.
You're halfway between the fifth and fourth floors when a door slams somewhere below you. Heeseung freezes, pushing you gently against the wall, his body shielding yours. You both listen, hardly breathing.
Footsteps on the stairs—coming up.
Heeseung's eyes meet yours, his expression tense but determined. Silently, he gestures upward. You nod in understanding.
As quietly as possible, you both backtrack, climbing up instead of down. When you reach the eighth floor, Heeseung carefully opens the door, checking that the hallway is clear before pulling you through.
"We'll try the elevator on this floor," he whispers. "The alarm should have reset the security lockdowns."
The eighth floor is darker than yours, with only emergency exit signs providing dim red illumination. Heeseung keeps your hand firmly in his as you navigate to the elevator bank. He presses the call button, and you both watch anxiously as the numbers climb from the lobby.
The distant sound of a door opening makes you both tense. Heeseung positions himself slightly in front of you, his stance protective.
The elevator seems to take forever. Three... Four... Five...
You're about to protest when the elevator finally arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open, and you both quickly step inside. Heeseung jabs the lobby button repeatedly, then the door close button.
As the doors begin to shut, you catch a glimpse of a figure at the end of the hallway—a man in a dark jacket. Your breath catches.
The doors close fully, and the elevator begins its descent.
"That was him," you whisper, leaning against the wall for support. "That was definitely him."
Heeseung's jaw tightens, a mixture of anger and concern crossing his features. "When we get to the lobby, we're going straight to my car. No stopping, okay?"
You nod, trying to calm your racing heart.
The elevator reaches the lobby, doors opening to reveal chaos. The fire alarm has drawn several security personnel and what looks like the beginning of a fire department response. In the confusion, you and Heeseung slip out relatively unnoticed, his arm around your waist guiding you swiftly through the crowd and out to the street.
"This way," he says, leading you to a sleek black car parked half on the curb—he must have been in a hurry when he arrived.
Once inside with the doors locked, you finally allow yourself to take a deep breath. Heeseung starts the engine but doesn't immediately drive away.
"Are you hurt at all?" he asks, turning to examine you with concern.
"No, I'm fine," you assure him, though your hands are still trembling. "Just scared."
He nods, reaching out to briefly squeeze your hand before putting the car in drive. "I'm taking you to my place," he says, pulling away from the curb. "I don't think it's safe for you to go home tonight."
Under normal circumstances, going to a near-stranger's apartment would set off all kinds of alarm bells. But nothing about this situation is normal, and the safety Heeseung represents outweighs any reservation you might have.
"Thank you," you say simply.
He glances in the rearview mirror frequently as he drives, checking that you're not being followed. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and slightly nauseous.
"I should call the police," you say after a few minutes of silence.
"Definitely," Heeseung agrees. "But let's get somewhere safe first."
His apartment turns out to be in a secure building with underground parking and a doorman—facts that provide immediate relief. Inside, the space is surprisingly homey: a modern open-concept layout with warm lighting and comfortable furnishings. A keyboard and small recording setup occupies one corner of the living area, confirming his earlier mention of music production.
"Make yourself at home," he says, gesturing to the couch. "I'll get you some water."
As he moves to the kitchen, you sink onto the sofa, the events of the night finally catching up to you. Your phone chimes with another email notification, and you nearly drop it in fear.
Heeseung notices your reaction, returning quickly with a glass of water. "Another message from him?"
You nod, unable to open it.
"May I?" he asks, holding out his hand for your phone.
You pass it to him, watching as he opens the email, his expression darkening as he reads.
"What does it say?" you ask, not sure you want to know.
Heeseung looks up, his eyes filled with protective anger. "He says he knows you're with me now. That you've 'chosen your side.' And that he'll be watching both of us." He sets your phone down. "We're definitely calling the police. This is serious stalking."
While Heeseung contacts the authorities, you sip your water, trying to make sense of this nightmare. How did this happen? One random encounter on the subway has spiraled into a genuine threat to your safety. And Heeseung—a complete stranger two weeks ago—is now putting himself at risk to keep you safe.
When he finishes the call, he sits beside you on the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth but not touching. "They're sending someone over to take your statement. They also advised documenting everything—all the messages, photos, any evidence of him following you."
You nod, staring down at your hands. "I'm so sorry for involving you in this."
"Hey," he says gently, waiting until you look up at him. "None of this is your fault. And I'm not sorry I helped you that night, even if it means being involved now."
"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Why would you do all this for someone you barely know?"
Heeseung is quiet for a moment, seemingly considering the question carefully. "I've seen what happens when people look the other way," he finally says. "My sister had a stalker in college. Not as extreme as this, but scary enough. People knew—her friends, her roommates—but no one really did anything. They thought it wasn't their problem." His voice hardens slightly. "I won't be that person. Not ever."
The personal revelation surprises you. "I'm sorry about your sister. Is she okay now?"
He nods. "She's fine. It eventually stopped, but it affected her for a long time. Made it hard for her to trust people." He meets your eyes. "That's why I want to help you end this now, before it gets worse."
His words wrap around you like a shield, and for the first time since you saw that man on the subway, you feel truly protected.
"Thank you," you say again, the words inadequate but sincere.
The police arrive about twenty minutes later—a female officer who takes your statement professionally and thoroughly. She confirms what Heeseung already said: document everything, file for a restraining order as soon as possible, and take precautions with your personal security.
"What about tonight?" you ask as she's preparing to leave. "Is it safe for me to go home?"
The officer hesitates. "We can have a patrol car drive by your residence periodically, but we don't have the resources for constant surveillance. Do you have someone who can stay with you? A friend or family member?"
Before you can answer, Heeseung speaks up. "She can stay here. I have a spare room, security building, doorman. She'll be safe."
The officer looks between the two of you. "That would certainly be safer than being alone," she agrees. "And it might be good to have someone with you for the next few days at least, until we can locate this individual."
After she leaves, a quiet falls over the apartment. You're exhausted but too wired to sleep, and the thought of imposing on Heeseung even more makes you uncomfortable.
"I can take you home if you'd prefer," he offers, reading your hesitation. "Or to a friend's place, or a hotel."
You consider the options, but the thought of being alone—or explaining this bizarre situation to a friend in the middle of the night—seems overwhelming. And a hotel doesn't offer the same security as Heeseung's building.
"If you really don't mind, staying here would make me feel safer," you admit. "Just for tonight. I can figure something else out tomorrow."
"I don't mind at all," he says, and there's such sincerity in his voice that you believe him. "Let me show you the guest room and find you something to sleep in."
The spare room is simple but comfortable, with a queen-sized bed and attached bathroom. Heeseung lends you a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that dwarf your frame but are clean and comfortable.
"Try to get some rest," he says, lingering in the doorway. "I'm right across the hall if you need anything. Anything at all."
"Thank you, Heeseung," you say, the words becoming something of a mantra between you. "For everything."
He smiles—a small, tired smile that still manages to reach his eyes. "Good night, Y/N."
After he leaves, you sit on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the events of the day. You should be terrified—and you are—but there's also a strange sense of security that comes from knowing Heeseung is just across the hall. A man who was a stranger two weeks ago has become your shield against a nightmare you never saw coming.
When you finally lay down, exhaustion quickly overtakes your racing thoughts. You fall asleep to the distant sound of Heeseung moving around the apartment, the knowledge of his presence a comfort in the darkness.
-
You wake to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the smell of coffee. For a moment, disorientation grips you—until memories of the previous night come flooding back. The stalker, the chase through your office building, Heeseung's rescue, and now... his guest bedroom.
After using the bathroom and attempting to make yourself somewhat presentable, you venture out to the main living area. Heeseung is in the kitchen, back turned to you as he works at the counter. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair slightly rumpled from sleep.
He turns at the sound of your approach, offering a gentle smile. "Morning. How did you sleep?"
"Better than I expected," you admit. "Something smells amazing."
"Coffee and breakfast," he says, gesturing to the stove where eggs are cooking. "I figured you might be hungry."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches you off guard. "Thank you. Again."
He waves it off. "Sit. Eat. Then we can figure out what to do next."
Over breakfast, you both discuss the situation more calmly than was possible the night before. You need clothes and personal items from your apartment, but the thought of going there alone makes your stomach clench.
"I'll go with you," Heeseung offers immediately. "And I still think you should stay here for a few days, at least until the police locate this guy."
"I can't impose on you like that," you protest.
"You're not imposing if I'm offering," he counters. "Look, this guy has clearly fixated on both of us now. It makes sense to stick together." His expression softens. "Plus, I'd worry about you being alone."
The admission brings unexpected comfort. "Okay," you agree. "Just until they find him."
After breakfast, Heeseung insists on driving you to your apartment to collect some essentials. The daylight makes the situation feel less threatening, but you're still jumpy, constantly checking over your shoulder. Heeseung stays close, his presence a constant reassurance.
At your apartment, everything looks normal—no signs of disturbance or intrusion. You quickly pack a bag with clothes and necessities for a few days, while Heeseung checks each room, making sure the space is secure.
"All clear," he reports when you finish packing. "But we should let your building manager know what's happening. And you might want to consider getting your locks changed, just in case."
The practicality of his advice grounds you. This isn't just a nightmare to be endured; there are concrete steps you can take to protect yourself.
Back at Heeseung's apartment, you call your boss to explain the situation (leaving out some of the more frightening details) and arrange to work remotely for a few days. Heeseung does the same, rescheduling his studio sessions to work from home instead.
"You don't have to do that," you tell him. "I'll be fine here alone."
"I know," he says. "But I'd rather be here. Just in case."
The rest of the day passes in a strange bubble of temporary safety. You work on your laptop from his dining table while he tinkers with music tracks at his home studio setup. Occasionally, one of you will make coffee or suggest ordering food, and you find yourself settling into an easy rhythm despite the bizarre circumstances.
In the evening, after dinner (takeout from a nearby Thai place), you sit together on the couch, the TV playing a movie neither of you is really watching. Your mind keeps returning to the danger lurking outside—and to the stranger who has become your protector.
"Can I ask you something?" you finally say.
Heeseung turns to you, giving you his full attention. "Of course."
"That night on the subway platform... when you helped me..." You hesitate, searching for the right words. "Why did you believe me right away? Most people would have thought I was crazy."
He's quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "The fear in your eyes was real," he finally says. "I've seen that kind of fear before. It's not something people fake." His gaze is steady, sincere. "And honestly, what did I have to lose by helping? If you were making it up, the worst that happens is I feel a little awkward for a few minutes. But if you weren't..." He shrugs. "Then maybe I could help keep someone safe."
His simple explanation touches something deep inside you. In a world where so many people turn away from others' problems, Heeseung's instinct was to step forward, to protect.
"Well," you say softly, "you definitely did that. Twice now."
A small smile tugs at his lips. "And I'll keep doing it until this is over."
Your phones sit side by side on the coffee table, both silent for now. But you know the stalker will contact you again. And when he does, you won't be facing him alone.
In this moment of quiet, with the city lights twinkling beyond the windows and Heeseung's steady presence beside you, you allow yourself to breathe. The danger hasn't passed, but for now, in this space, you're safe. And that's enough.
-
The following day, a detective calls to update you on the case. Heeseung sits next to you on the couch as you put the call on speaker, his presence steady and reassuring.
"We've identified the individual from the security footage," the detective explains, her voice professional but tinged with concern. "His name is Lee Minhyuk. He has a history of stalking behavior."
You feel Heeseung tense beside you. "What kind of history?" he asks.
There's a brief pause on the line. "I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but you should both be aware that this isn't his first fixation. He's been linked to at least two similar cases in the past three years."
"And?" you prompt, sensing there's more she isn't saying.
"And in the most recent case, the situation escalated to physical violence." The detective's voice becomes more serious. "The victim had a restraining order in place, but Minhyuk violated it. She was hospitalized with non-life-threatening injuries. He served eight months before being released on good behavior."
Your blood runs cold. Beside you, Heeseung's jaw clenches, his eyes darkening with anger and concern.
"So what happens now?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear churning in your stomach.
"We're actively looking for him," the detective assures you. "We have units checking his known addresses and places of employment. But until we locate him, you need to take every possible precaution."
"What about police protection?" Heeseung asks.
Another pause. "Unfortunately, we don't have the resources to provide continuous protection at this time. We can increase patrols in both your neighborhoods, but—"
"That's not good enough," Heeseung interrupts, frustration evident in his voice. "If this guy is violent—"
"I understand your concern," the detective says. "Believe me, I do. But the best advice I can give you right now is to stay together, maintain awareness of your surroundings, continue documenting any contact he makes, and call 911 immediately if you believe you're in danger."
After hanging up, you sit in stunned silence. The abstract threat has suddenly become terrifyingly concrete—a real person with a name and a violent history.
"Y/N?" Heeseung says softly, concern etched across his features. "Talk to me."
"I didn't think it would be this serious," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "A violent stalker? How is this happening to me?"
Heeseung reaches for your hand, his warm fingers wrapping around yours. "We'll get through this," he says firmly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. We just need to be careful until they find him."
You nod, but the detective's words echo in your mind: escalated to physical violence... hospitalized... released on good behavior.
That night, despite Heeseung's reassurances and the security of his apartment, sleep eludes you. You toss and turn in the guest bed, startling at every small noise in the building. When exhaustion finally pulls you under, your dreams are plagued by shadows and footsteps and cold, unblinking eyes watching you from dark corners.
You wake screaming sometime after 3 AM, drenched in sweat, the nightmare still vivid in your mind. In it, the stalker—Minhyuk—had broken into the apartment and was standing over the bed, watching you sleep, something glinting in his hand.
Before you can fully register what's happening, the bedroom door bursts open and Heeseung is there, hair disheveled from sleep but eyes alert and searching for danger.
"Y/N? What's wrong?" he asks urgently, scanning the room before rushing to your side.
"Nightmare," you manage, still trembling. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you."
The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, but concern remains etched across his features. "Don't apologize," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"
You shake your head, embarrassed by your reaction despite the lingering terror. "It was just a bad dream."
Heeseung studies your face for a moment, clearly unconvinced. "Would it help if I stayed? Just until you fall back asleep?"
The offer is so sincere, so free of judgment, that tears spring to your eyes. You nod, unable to voice how desperately you don't want to be alone right now.
Without another word, Heeseung moves to sit with his back against the headboard. After a moment's hesitation, you lay back down, surprised by how much safer you feel with him there. He doesn't touch you, but the sound of his steady breathing eventually lulls you back to sleep.
The pattern repeats the next night, and the next. Each time, the nightmares grow more vivid, more terrifying. Each time, you wake calling Heeseung's name, and each time he's there within moments, a solid presence against the fear.
The third morning after another disrupted night, you find Heeseung already in the kitchen when you emerge from the guest room. Dark circles shadow his eyes—clear evidence of his own interrupted sleep—but he smiles warmly when he sees you.
"Morning," he says, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter. "Just how you like it. Two sugars, splash of milk."
You're touched that he's noticed this detail about you in such a short time. "Thank you. I'm really sorry about last night. Again."
He waves away your apology. "Stop apologizing. It's not your fault."
"But you're exhausted too," you point out, gesturing to the faint shadows under his eyes.
Instead of denying it, Heeseung reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a colorful box. "Nothing that sugar can't fix," he declares with a mischievous grin, presenting the box of Frosted Flakes with a flourish. "Breakfast of champions."
The childish delight on his face as he pours two bowls is so incongruous with the somber situation that you can't help but laugh. "Seriously? Frosted Flakes?"
"Don't judge," he says, defending his choice with mock seriousness. "Tony the Tiger has gotten me through some tough times."
You accept the bowl he offers, taking a bite and exaggerating your enjoyment. "Mmm, you're right. They're grrrreat!"
Your tiger impression is terrible, and it makes Heeseung burst into laughter, nearly choking on his cereal. The sound is bright and genuine, lightening the heaviness that's hung between you for days. For a moment, it's easy to forget why you're here—that somewhere out there, someone is looking for you.
"So," Heeseung says when you've both calmed down, "I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight. Something completely mindless and happy. No suspense, no thriller elements, nothing remotely scary."
"That sounds perfect," you admit.
That evening, after you both finish work, Heeseung makes good on his promise. He builds what can only be described as a pillow fortress on the couch, complete with every cushion and throw blanket in the apartment. He microwaves popcorn and pulls out an assortment of candy that would make a dentist cry.
"What are you, twelve?" you tease, but you're smiling as you say it.
"Sometimes," he admits with a shrug. "Being an adult is overrated."
You settle into the nest of pillows as he scrolls through options on the TV. He ends up selecting an animated film about dragons that's clearly meant for children but is visually stunning enough for adults to enjoy. As the movie plays, you find yourself relaxing more than you have in days, occasionally stealing glances at Heeseung as he laughs unreservedly at the funny parts.
When the movie ends, neither of you makes a move to get up right away. The comfortable silence stretches between you, broken only when Heeseung reaches for his phone.
"Oh God," he says suddenly, covering his mouth to suppress his laughter. "Have you seen this?"
He passes you his phone, showing a ridiculous viral video of a cat walking dramatically to music. It's silly and inconsequential, but soon you're both laughing uncontrollably, sharing more videos and memes back and forth, your shoulders pressed together as you huddle over the small screen.
For the first time since this nightmare began, you feel normal. Just two people enjoying each other's company, finding joy in the absurd corners of the internet. The shared laughter creates a bubble around you both, keeping the fear at bay, if only temporarily.
Eventually, the hour grows late, and you can't suppress a yawn.
"Time for bed," Heeseung says, noticing immediately. Something flickers across his face—concern, perhaps, knowing what sleep has meant for you these past few nights.
On the fourth night, after a particularly brutal nightmare where you couldn't scream, couldn't move as Minhyuk approached, Heeseung makes a gentle suggestion over breakfast.
"Maybe it would help if I just stayed in the room from the start," he offers, his voice careful, non-presumptuous. "The guest bed is plenty big enough. I can sleep on top of the covers if that makes you more comfortable."
The idea of not being alone with your fears is so appealing that you agree without hesitation. "Are you sure you don't mind? I feel like I'm completely disrupting your life."
"You're not," he says simply. "I'd rather be here than listen to you suffer alone."
That evening, a new kind of awkwardness creeps in as bedtime approaches. You've never prepared for sleep knowing Heeseung would be there from the beginning. The nighttime routine you've developed over the past few days—brushing teeth side by side at the dual bathroom sinks, moving around each other with careful politeness—suddenly feels different, charged with awareness.
"I'll give you privacy to change," Heeseung says, retreating from the guest room after retrieving what he needs for the night.
When he returns fifteen minutes later, hair damp from a shower and wearing a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, you've already changed into the pajamas you borrowed from him (a t-shirt so large it reaches mid-thigh and a pair of shorts with a drawstring pulled tight). You're sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to appear casual though your heart beats a little faster at the sight of him.
"I found something," he says, holding up a small bottle. "Lavender spray for the pillows. My sister swears by it for better sleep." He looks suddenly self-conscious. "It's probably silly—"
"No, it's... that's really thoughtful," you interrupt, genuinely touched by the gesture.
He approaches the bed hesitantly. "May I?"
You nod, and he lightly mists the pillows with the fragrant spray. The gentle scent fills the air, surprisingly comforting.
"And I have one more thing," he adds, reaching into his pocket and producing a small portable speaker. He places it on the nightstand and connects his phone. Soft piano music begins to play, quiet enough to not be distracting. "I use this when I can't turn my brain off after a long day in the studio."
The care he's putting into making you comfortable brings a lump to your throat. "Heeseung, you didn't have to do all this."
He shrugs, a shy smile playing at his lips. "I want you to actually sleep tonight."
You both settle into the bed, Heeseung on top of the covers as promised, you underneath them. Despite the physical barrier of the duvet between you, there's an intimacy to sharing this space intentionally, rather than him rushing in after a nightmare has already claimed you.
"Good night, Y/N," he says softly, reaching to turn off the lamp.
"Good night, Heeseung," you reply, the lavender scent and gentle music already making your eyelids heavy.
You sleep better that night—not perfectly, but the nightmares, when they come, are less intense. Heeseung's presence seems to anchor you, giving your subconscious something to hold onto when the fear threatens to drag you under.
The next morning, you wake to find Heeseung already gone, the side of the bed where he slept neatly made. For a moment, disappointment washes over you until the smell of coffee draws you to the kitchen.
"Perfect timing," he says when he sees you, sliding a plate of toast and scrambled eggs across the counter. "I was just about to come wake you."
"You didn't have to cook," you say, though your stomach growls appreciatively at the sight of the food.
"I didn't mind. Besides, you slept past nine. I was starting to worry you were hibernating." His teasing smile makes the kitchen feel warmer somehow.
Over the next few days, a new rhythm emerges. During daylight hours, you share the apartment comfortably, each working on your respective projects but coming together for meals and breaks. You learn that Heeseung is meticulous about some things (the organization of his music equipment) and charmingly chaotic about others (the state of his sock drawer). He learns that you're grumpy before coffee but surprisingly cheerful during thunderstorms.
Small rituals develop without discussion. Morning coffee prepared just the way you like it waiting for you when you wake up. Evening walks around the secure courtyard of his building, his hand finding yours whenever you pass through a shadowy area. Movie nights where neither of you watches the screen as much as you share childhood stories or debate the merits of different ice cream flavors.
At night, you continue to share the bed, the arrangement becoming less awkward with each passing evening. Your bedtime routine evolves into something almost domestic—Heeseung reading a book while you finish an email, you applying lotion to your hands while he sets the alarm, both of you gravitating to your respective sides of the bed with increasing comfort.
One night, as you're both getting ready for sleep, Heeseung emerges from the bathroom wearing a ridiculous sheet mask that makes him look like a cartoon character.
"What on earth is that?" you ask, unable to contain your laughter.
"Skin care is important," he says with exaggerated seriousness, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. "This one makes me look like a panda. There's a tiger one too if you want to join me."
"Absolutely not," you declare, still giggling.
"Your loss," he shrugs, before lifting his phone. "Wait, this requires documentation."
He sits beside you on the bed, holding up his phone to take a selfie. You try to duck away, but his arm catches you around the shoulders, pulling you into the frame. "Say cheese!"
"I am not posing with you looking like that!" you protest, but you're laughing too hard to resist properly.
He snaps several photos in quick succession, capturing your failed attempts to escape and your helpless laughter. When he shows you the results, you have to admit they're hilarious—Heeseung looking serene in his panda mask while you're caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, joy written across your features.
"Delete those," you demand without any real heat.
"No way," he replies, holding the phone out of your reach. "These are artistic masterpieces."
You make a grab for the phone, but he's quicker, holding it high above his head. What follows is a playful tussle that ends with you both breathless with laughter, the momentary physical contact feeling natural rather than forced or awkward.
Later, when you're both settled in bed, lights off and the now-familiar lavender scent surrounding you, Heeseung speaks softly in the darkness.
"It was good to hear you laugh like that," he says.
You turn toward his voice, though you can only make out his silhouette in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "It felt good to laugh," you admit. "Thank you for... all of this. For making this situation somehow bearable."
"You don't have to thank me," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Besides, now I have blackmail material with those photos."
You swat blindly in his direction, your hand connecting with what feels like his shoulder. He chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside.
By the sixth day of your stay, with no word from the police about Minhyuk's whereabouts, your new routine has solidified. During the day, you both work from the apartment, occasionally sharing meals or brief conversations. In the evenings, you watch movies or talk, carefully avoiding discussion of the situation unless there are new developments. And at night, you sleep in the same bed, the space between you a boundary neither has crossed.
Until tonight.
Something wakes you—not a nightmare this time, but some small sound or shift in the atmosphere. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 AM. The room is dark except for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.
That's when you feel it. The sensation of being watched.
Your eyes dart to the window, heart hammering in your chest. The logical part of your brain knows it's impossible—you're on the twelfth floor, the windows don't open more than a few inches, and there's no balcony or fire escape. But in the shadows cast by the streetlights, every flutter of the curtain looks like movement, every reflection like eyes staring back.
You close your eyes tightly, telling yourself it's just paranoia, just your mind playing tricks in the aftermath of so much stress and fear. But when you open them again, the feeling intensifies. You swear you can see a figure in the darkest corner of the room, watching, waiting.
A sob builds in your throat, but you suppress it, not wanting to wake Heeseung again, not wanting to be more of a burden than you already are. Silent tears slide down your cheeks as you stare at the ceiling, trying to control your breathing, trying to convince yourself you're safe.
But your body betrays you. A small tremor runs through you, then another, until you're shaking with the effort of containing your fear.
Beside you, Heeseung stirs. You feel him turn toward you, hear the soft intake of breath as he realizes you're awake and crying.
"Y/N?" His voice emerges from the darkness, heavy with sleep and barely above a whisper. "What's happening?"
You can hear how deeply he'd been sleeping in the thickness of his words, the way he has to clear his throat softly after speaking. The digital clock reads 2:17 AM.
"I'm sorry," you whisper back, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."
There's a rustling of sheets as he shifts beside you. Even in the darkness, you can sense him fighting against the pull of sleep, forcing his eyes to stay open for your sake.
"No, s'okay," he mumbles, words slightly slurred. You feel his hand fumbling across the covers, searching until his fingers find yours. His touch is warm, clumsy with drowsiness. "You're shaking," he observes, concern gradually replacing the grogginess in his voice. "Another nightmare?"
You shake your head, though you're not sure if he can see the gesture in the darkness. "Not exactly. I just... I can't stop feeling like someone's watching me. Like he's here, somehow."
Heeseung makes a soft sound of understanding. You hear him yawn, then feel the mattress dip as he pushes himself up to sitting position. He reaches for the bedside lamp, missing it the first time, his movements slow and uncoordinated. On the second attempt, he manages to switch it on.
The warm glow reveals his face, softened with sleep. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up at odd angles. One cheek bears the imprint of his pillow, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, struggling to stay fully open. Despite his obvious exhaustion, there's nothing but patient concern in his expression as he blinks slowly, trying to focus on you.
"It's just us," he says softly, his voice a comforting rumble in the quiet room. "Just you 'n me here. You're safe."
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, clearly fighting the heaviness of sleep still clinging to him. The gesture is so innocent, so childlike, that it momentarily distracts you from your fear.
"I know it's irrational," you say, wiping at your tears. "But my brain won't stop. I can't turn it off."
Heeseung's eyes drift closed for a moment before he catches himself, snapping them back open with visible effort. He studies your face, his own expression thoughtful despite the sleep that keeps trying to reclaim him. His eyelids flutter, heavy, but he persists, present with you even as his body begs for rest.
"Can I..." he begins, then pauses to stifle another yawn. "Can I try something? To help distract your mind?"
There's such sincerity in his sleepy determination to help you that you find yourself nodding, willing to try anything to escape the endless loop of fear—and to allow him to go back to sleep.
"Close your eyes," he says, his voice a gentle murmur.
You comply, though a small part of you tenses at the thought of not being able to see any potential threats.
"Focus on my voice," Heeseung continues, his tone soothing despite the drowsiness that makes his words flow together like honey, slow and sweet. "Nothing else matters right now. Just this room..." He yawns again, soft and unguarded. "Just this moment."
The bed shifts as he moves closer, his movements languid with fatigue. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, sense his protective presence drawing nearer despite how desperately his body must be yearning to return to sleep.
You try to follow his instructions, concentrating on the low timbre of his voice, the warmth of his hand still holding yours.
"Y/N," he says, his voice closer now. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"
Your eyes fly open in surprise, meeting his serious gaze. There's concern there, and something else—a softness that makes your breath catch.
"To distract your mind," he explains quietly. "Give it something else to focus on besides fear."
The idea is so unexpected, so far from anything you'd anticipated, that it cuts through the panic clouding your thoughts. You find yourself nodding before you've fully processed the request.
Heeseung moves closer, the space between you disappearing as he gently cups your cheek with his free hand. "Tell me to stop if it doesn't help," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.
Then his lips meet yours, soft and questioning at first, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But instead of retreating, you find yourself responding, your body instinctively leaning into the contact, seeking comfort and connection.
When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, a soft "mmm" vibrates from his chest—a sound so quietly pleased it makes your stomach flip. You part your lips instinctively, and the moment his tongue slides against yours, a low, satisfied hum rumbles from his throat.
"Is this—" you try to speak, but his tongue sweeps deeper, stealing your words, your thoughts, your very ability to form sentences.
His kiss grows bolder, more insistent, and your brain begins to short-circuit with each stroke of his tongue. The fear that had been cycling through your mind evaporates under the wet heat of his mouth. He tastes faintly of toothpaste and something uniquely him, and when he gently sucks on your bottom lip, he makes another sound—a soft "hmm" that shoots straight down your spine.
You pull back slightly, trying to gather your thoughts. "I—" But that's all you manage before he chases your lips, recapturing them with gentle insistence, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into nothing.
"Shh," he whispers against your mouth, his breath hot against your sensitized lips. "Don't think."
And then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding alongside yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. The hand in your hair tightens just enough to send a shiver through you, and a soft groan—"Mmh"—escapes him when you respond by pressing closer.
His teeth graze your lower lip, and suddenly your mind is completely empty, wiped clean of everything except the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hand in your hair, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.
The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. You open your mouth to speak, to try to articulate how effectively he's scattered your thoughts, but all that comes out is a breathy "I—you—" before words fail you completely.
Heeseung's lips curl into a small smile, understanding in his eyes. "Not thinking anymore?" he asks softly.
You shake your head, unable to string together a coherent sentence. Your brain has turned to absolute mush, every thought process suspended in the warm haze he's created.
"Good," he whispers, and then his lips are on yours again, the gentle scrape of his teeth followed by the soothing slide of his tongue making you gasp. He makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan—"Aahh"—when your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.
Time loses all meaning as he kisses you again and again, each one melting into the next until you're not sure where one ends and another begins. Sometimes gentle and exploring, sometimes deeper and more intense, but always with that same effect—emptying your mind until there's nothing but sensation.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing uneven, pupils dilated in the dim light, you try once more to speak. "That was—" But the words won't come, your brain still offline, thoughts scattered like confetti.
"Did it help?" he asks, his voice rougher now, lower.
You nod, surprised to find that forming words feels like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. "My—" you start, then swallow and try again. "Brain... empty," is all you manage to articulate, gesturing vaguely at your head.
A smile touches his lips, genuine and slightly pleased. "Good," he says simply, his thumb brushing your lower lip, still sensitive from his attention. The small touch sends another wave of blankness washing through your mind.
He starts to move back to his side of the bed, and you make a small sound of protest, hand reaching out to stop him. Again, you try to speak, to ask him to stay close, but all that comes out is a breathy "Don't—" before words fail you once more.
Understanding flickers in his eyes. He settles beside you, closer this time, one arm wrapping around your waist as you turn toward him. The position brings your faces close together, your breath mingling in the small space between you.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much better," you admit.
He kisses you again, slower this time, more deliberate. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. Each kiss blurs the edges of your thoughts more, until your mind is blissfully, wonderfully blank—no fear, no stalker, no danger. Just Heeseung, his lips on yours, his arms around you, making you feel safer than locked doors or security systems ever could.
When exhaustion finally begins to reclaim you, Heeseung presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead. "Sleep," he murmurs. "I'm right here."
And for the first time in days, you drift off without fear, your head tucked against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm in your ear—a constant reminder that you're not alone.
The nightmares don't come again that night.
-
Sunlight filters through the curtains when you wake the next morning. For the first time in days, you've slept through the night without nightmares. The space beside you is empty, but the sheets still hold the faint warmth of Heeseung's body. You stretch, a strange mixture of embarrassment and comfort washing over you as memories of the previous night return—his lips on yours, the way your mind had emptied of everything but sensation, how easily you'd fallen asleep afterwards.
The sound of movement in the kitchen draws you from the bed. You brush your teeth and attempt to tame your sleep-rumpled hair before venturing out, unsure what to expect after crossing such an intimate boundary with someone who was a stranger just a week ago.
Heeseung stands at the counter, back to you, humming softly as he measures coffee grounds. He's wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his hair still mussed from sleep. The scene is so domestic, so normal, that for a moment you forget why you're here—that somewhere out there, someone is looking for you with dangerous intent.
He turns at the sound of your approach, a soft smile spreading across his face. No awkwardness, no regret, just warmth.
"Morning," he says. "Sleep okay?"
You nod, relief washing over you at his easy manner. "Better than I have in days."
He pushes a mug of coffee across the counter—already prepared the way you like it. The simple gesture of remembrance makes your chest tighten with something you're not ready to name.
"Thanks," you say, taking a sip to hide whatever might be showing on your face. "For the coffee. And for... last night."
Heeseung's expression softens, understanding in his eyes. "You don't have to thank me for that."
An almost comfortable silence settles between you as you both drink your coffee, the events of last night hanging in the air—acknowledged but not discussed.
"I thought I'd make us a real breakfast," you finally say, needing to do something, to contribute somehow to this strange partnership that's formed. "Since you've been cooking for me all week."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," you interrupt, already moving toward the refrigerator. "It's the least I can do."
Heeseung watches with amusement as you examine the contents of his fridge. "What did you have in mind?"
"How do you feel about omelets? You have vegetables that need to be used."
"Omelets sound perfect," he says, leaning against the counter as you gather ingredients.
The simple task of cooking is grounding. You wash and chop bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms, concentrating on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board. Heeseung moves around you, setting the table, occasionally brushing against you in the small kitchen. Each brief contact sends a small jolt through you—not unpleasant, just heightened awareness.
You're halfway through dicing an onion when a notification sound from your phone breaks the peaceful bubble. Your hand falters, the knife slipping slightly. It's probably nothing—an email from work, a news alert, anything—but your heart instantly accelerates, your mind immediately jumping to the worst possibility.
Heeseung notices the change immediately. "Hey," he says gently. "Want me to check it?"
You nod, hating how easily your calm has been shattered, how quickly fear reclaims its hold. Heeseung picks up your phone from the counter, checks the screen, and his shoulders relax.
"It's just an email from someone named Sarah. Subject line says 'Project Updates.'"
Relief weakens your knees. Just work. Not him.
But the damage is done. Your hands have begun to tremble, and the vegetables in front of you blur slightly as your mind slips back into the spiral of fear. What if he figures out where Heeseung lives? What if he's watching the building right now? What if—
"Y/N." Heeseung's voice, closer now. You didn't notice him move, but suddenly he's right behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," you lie, but the knife trembles visibly in your grip.
Heeseung gently removes the knife from your hand, setting it safely on the cutting board. Then his hands are on your shoulders, warm and steadying, turning you to face him. You expect to see pity in his eyes, but there's only warmth and understanding.
"You're not fine," he says softly. "And that's okay."
"I hate this," you whisper, frustration bleeding through the fear. "I hate that one notification can do this to me. I hate that he has this power."
Heeseung's hands slide from your shoulders to cup your face, his touch so gentle it makes your breath catch. "He doesn't have power over you," he says firmly. "This reaction—it's just your brain trying to protect you. It's not weakness."
You close your eyes, trying to believe him, trying to slow the racing of your heart. When you feel his breath against your cheek, your eyes flutter open to find his face much closer, his gaze questioning.
"Let me help you think about something else," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that immediately sends warmth spreading through your chest.
You nod, barely perceptible, and then his lips are at your jawline, not quite kissing, just brushing against the skin there. Your hands find his waist, needing something to anchor you as he traces a path down to your neck. When his mouth settles against the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, a small sigh escapes you.
The first gentle scrape of his teeth against your skin makes your thoughts scatter like startled birds. He follows it with the soothing warmth of his tongue, and your grip on his t-shirt tightens involuntarily.
"Is this okay?" he whispers against your skin.
"Yes," you breathe, tilting your head to give him better access. "Don't stop."
His lips curve into a smile against your neck, and then he's kissing the spot again, more purposefully this time. One hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other rests at the small of your back, drawing you closer until you're fully pressed against him.
The fear that had been building melts away with each press of his lips, each gentle scrape of teeth. Your mind empties of everything but the sensation of his mouth on your skin, the solid warmth of his body against yours, the faint scent of sleep and coffee that clings to him.
When he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear, your knees actually weaken. Heeseung notices, his arm tightening around your waist to support you.
"Still thinking about the notification?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.
You try to respond, but your brain feels deliciously fuzzy, unable to form words. Instead, you shake your head, managing only a soft "Mmm" that makes him chuckle.
"Good," he says, pulling back slightly to look at your face. His pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted, and the sight sends another wave of warmth through you. "Because the eggs are getting warm and the vegetables are only half-chopped."
It takes a moment for his words to register through the pleasant haze in your mind. When they do, you glance back at the abandoned breakfast preparations on the counter and can't help but laugh. "Oh god, I forgot all about breakfast."
Heeseung's answering smile is bright enough to chase away the last lingering shadows of your fear. "Mission accomplished then."
You reluctantly step out of his embrace, turning back to the cutting board. "Let me finish this before I get distracted again."
"Distracted? By what?" he teases, but he keeps a respectful distance as you resume chopping, though his eyes never leave you.
The rest of the morning passes in a comfortable rhythm. You finish making breakfast together, moving around each other in the kitchen with growing ease. The omelets turn out perfect, and the simple accomplishment of creating a meal feels significant somehow—a small island of normalcy in the storm of the past week.
After breakfast, you settle in to work on your design project, which your boss has been understanding enough to let you complete remotely. Heeseung works on his music in the corner of the living room, occasionally humming or playing soft melodies on his keyboard. The peaceful coexistence reminds you of how it might feel to share a space with someone by choice, not necessity.
But reality intrudes every time you check your email or glance at your phone. Each notification makes your heart stutter, each unknown number that calls either of your phones sends a spike of adrenaline through your system. The stalker hasn't contacted you today, but his absence feels more like the calm before a storm than any true reprieve.
By late afternoon, your eyes are burning from staring at your laptop screen, and the tension in your shoulders has returned despite your best efforts to focus on work. You save your design file and stretch, rolling your neck to release the stiffness.
Heeseung glances up from his keyboard, noting your discomfort. "Break time," he announces decisively. "You've been hunched over that laptop for hours."
"I need to finish this project," you protest weakly, but your body betrays you with another stretch.
"The project will still be there after a proper break," he counters, standing and moving toward the kitchen. "I'm making tea. Then we're going to do something completely unproductive for at least an hour."
You find yourself smiling at his determined tone. "Is that so? What did you have in mind?"
"I'm thinking..." he pauses dramatically, filling the kettle with water, "a heated battle of Mario Kart."
The suggestion is so unexpected, so delightfully normal, that you laugh. "Mario Kart? Really?"
"Don't tell me you're scared of a little competition," he challenges, raising an eyebrow as he sets the kettle on the stove. "Unless you don't think you can beat me."
"Oh, it's on," you declare, grateful for the distraction. "I'll have you know I was the reigning champion among my college roommates."
"We'll see about that," he grins, the playful light in his eyes making him look younger, carefree—a glimpse of who he might be outside the strange circumstances that have thrown you together.
The promised hour turns into two as you both get increasingly competitive, shouting good-natured insults at each other when one pulls ahead or drops a particularly well-timed shell. You haven't laughed this much in days—maybe weeks—and the release of endorphins leaves you feeling lighter, the constant undercurrent of fear temporarily pushed to the background.
"That's it, I'm cutting you off," Heeseung declares after you beat him for the fifth time in a row. "You're too good at this. It's embarrassing for me."
You raise your controller in victory. "Told you I was the champion."
"Yeah, yeah," he concedes with a mock scowl that quickly melts into a genuine smile. "Hungry yet? I was thinking we could order in. Maybe that Thai place again?"
"Sounds perfect," you agree.
As Heeseung pulls up the restaurant's menu on his phone, you find yourself studying him—the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration, the gentle slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips. The lips that were on your neck this morning, that were on your mouth last night, emptying your mind of everything but sensation. Something warm unfurls in your chest at the memory.
He looks up suddenly, catching you watching him. Instead of looking away, embarrassed, you hold his gaze. A moment of silent understanding passes between you—an acknowledgment that whatever is happening between you isn't just about distraction or safety anymore.
Heeseung breaks the moment first, clearing his throat slightly. "The usual? Or did you want to try something different?"
"The usual is fine," you say, grateful for his tact in not drawing attention to the charged moment.
After placing the order, you both gravitate back to the couch, but with a new awareness of each other. You sit closer than necessary, your thigh just barely touching his. When he reaches for the remote to turn on the TV, his arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves away from the contact.
He finds a cooking competition show that requires minimal attention, and you settle in to watch, the domestic scene surreal in its normalcy. At some point, his arm drapes over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his warmth.
"This is nice," you say after a while, the words slipping out without conscious thought.
Heeseung glances at you, his expression softening. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."
His fingers begin to play absently with a strand of your hair that falls over the couch. The gentle tugging sensation sends pleasant shivers down your spine, and you find yourself leaning subtly into the touch. Each brush of his fingers against your neck seems to short-circuit a different part of your brain until you're barely processing the show at all, focused instead on the points of contact between you.
The doorbell rings, startling you both. Heeseung's hand withdraws from your hair as he stands to answer it.
"That'll be the food," he says, but you notice he checks the peephole carefully before opening the door.
The reminder of the danger lurking outside your temporary sanctuary dampens your mood slightly. As you set up dinner on the coffee table, your phone buzzes with an incoming email. You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth, that familiar dread pooling in your stomach.
Heeseung notices your reaction and reaches for your phone. "Want me to check it?"
You nod, setting your food down, no longer hungry.
He scans the screen, relief washing over his features. "It's just a receipt from the Thai place." He hands the phone back to you. "We're okay."
But the moment has been tainted. The fear is back, hovering at the edges of your consciousness, threatening to overwhelm the fragile peace you've built throughout the day. You push your food around on your plate, appetite gone.
Heeseung watches you for a moment, then sets his own plate down. Without a word, he shifts closer to you on the couch, his thigh pressing firmly against yours now. When his hand comes up to tilt your chin toward him, you meet his eyes without resistance.
"He's not here," Heeseung says softly. "Right now, in this moment, it's just us. Okay?"
"Okay," you whisper, trying to believe him.
His thumb traces your lower lip gently, and your body responds instantly to the touch, a pleasant haziness beginning to cloud the edges of your fear. When he leans in, you meet him halfway, your lips finding his with growing familiarity.
This kiss is different from the others—not desperate or distracting, but slow and deliberate. His tongue slides against yours with unhurried confidence, and your mind begins to empty in that now-familiar way, thoughts evaporating like morning dew under the sun.
By the time he pulls back, you've forgotten what triggered your fear in the first place. Your food sits cooling on the coffee table, entirely unimportant compared to the warmth spreading through your body.
"Better?" he asks, his voice lower than usual.
You nod, offering a small smile. "You're getting good at that."
"At what?" There's a playful glint in his eye that makes your heart skip.
"Turning my brain off."
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his expression growing more serious. "For as long as you need it," he promises.
The rest of the evening passes in comfortable closeness. You eventually return to your food, eating while leaning against each other on the couch. When you finally head to bed, the routine feels both new and familiar at once—brushing teeth side by side, Heeseung waiting in the hallway while you change, the brief moment of adjustment as you both settle into the bed.
But tonight, there's less space between you than before. He still stays on top of the covers while you slip underneath, but when you turn off the lamp, his hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining naturally.
"Good night, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep.
"Good night, Heeseung," you reply, squeezing his hand gently.
You fall asleep with his fingers still linked with yours, the weight of his hand an anchor against the night terrors that might come. Your last thought before drifting off is that you've never felt safer than in this strange limbo—trapped by circumstances beyond your control, yet somehow freer than you've been in a long time.
The morning comes too quickly, sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains and painting a stripe of gold across the bed. You wake to find yourself curled toward Heeseung, who's still asleep on his side facing you. In sleep, his face is completely relaxed, all traces of vigilance gone, making him look younger and impossibly vulnerable.
You allow yourself a moment to simply look at him, to memorize the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips, the way his hair falls across his forehead. There's a strange ache in your chest at the sight—gratitude mixed with something deeper that you're not ready to name.
As if sensing your gaze, his eyes flutter open, landing immediately on your face. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across his features, unguarded and genuine.
"Morning," he mumbles, voice husky with sleep.
"Morning," you whisper back, strangely reluctant to break the peaceful bubble around you.
Neither of you moves for a long moment, content to exist in this quiet space between night and day, between danger and safety, between strangers and something more. Then reality intrudes in the form of his buzzing phone on the nightstand.
Heeseung rolls over with a groan, reaching for the device. As he checks the screen, his body goes rigid, sleep vanishing in an instant.
"What is it?" you ask, dread already pooling in your stomach.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair as he reads whatever message has appeared. When he turns back to you, his expression is carefully controlled, but you can see the tension around his eyes.
"It's from the detective," he says carefully. "Minhyuk was spotted near my building yesterday."
The fragile peace of the morning shatters completely. Fear rushes back in with a vengeance, your heart rate spiking so quickly you feel light-headed.
"He knows I'm here?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, panic rising like a tide.
Heeseung's hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "We don't know that for sure. But the detective thinks we should consider relocating, just to be safe."
"Where would we even go?" The thought of leaving this apartment—the only place you've felt secure in days—sends another wave of anxiety through you.
"I might have an idea," Heeseung says, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand. "But first, breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee."
You nod, clinging to his steady presence as your mind races with terrifying possibilities. The tiny window of normalcy you'd carved out for yourselves is closing, and the world with all its dangers is forcing its way back in.
But as Heeseung helps you to your feet, his hand never leaving yours, you realize something important: whatever comes next, you're no longer facing it alone. And for now, that will have to be enough.
-
The detective's news about Minhyuk being spotted near Heeseung's building leaves you both on edge. Despite Heeseung's attempts at normalcy—breakfast, coffee, casual conversation—there's a new tension in the air, a heightened vigilance in the way he frequently checks his phone and glances at the door.
You try to work on your design project, but concentration is impossible. Your mind keeps conjuring images of Minhyuk watching the building, waiting, planning. By mid-afternoon, you've accomplished almost nothing, your anxiety a living thing crawling beneath your skin.
That's when your phone chimes with a new email notification.
You freeze, looking up to find Heeseung already watching you from across the room, his expression tense. Without a word, he crosses to where you sit, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder as you open the message.
The subject line is blank. The sender's address is unfamiliar—a string of random numbers and letters.
Your trembling finger taps the message open.
There's no text, just an image: a photograph of you and Heeseung standing in his kitchen from earlier that morning, clearly taken through the window of his apartment. The angle suggests it was shot from the building across the street. Below the photo is a single line of text:
"Glass won't protect you forever."
A strangled sound escapes your throat as the phone slips from your fingers, clattering to the floor. Heeseung snatches it up, his face darkening as he views the message.
"That's not possible," he mutters, moving quickly to the windows. "We're twelve floors up."
But as he pulls back the curtain to scan the building opposite, you feel it start—the tightening in your chest, the sudden inability to pull in enough air, the roaring in your ears. The room seems to tilt and spin around you.
"He can see us," you gasp, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. "He's watching us right now. He can see us right now."
Heeseung is at your side instantly, closing the curtains and guiding you away from the windows. "Y/N, breathe. You need to breathe."
But you can't. Your lungs refuse to cooperate, each shallow gasp more painful than the last. Dark spots dance at the edges of your vision, and your hands have gone numb, fingers tingling.
"He's going to—he's going to—" You can't even finish the thought, terror consuming every rational part of your mind.
"Y/N, look at me," Heeseung says firmly, his hands framing your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Focus on me. Just me."
He tries all the techniques that have worked before—deep breathing instructions, gentle reassurances, even pressing his lips to yours in that way that usually empties your mind. But the panic is too overwhelming, the fear too visceral. Even his kiss, which normally blanks your thoughts completely, barely makes a dent in the terror.
When he pulls back, your breathing is still erratic, tears streaming down your face. "It's not working," you choke out. "I can't—I can't turn it off. My mind won't stop."
The helplessness in Heeseung's eyes is devastating. "Tell me what you need. Anything."
"Make it stop," you beg, clutching at his shirt. "Please, I don't care what you have to do. Make me go dumb. Turn my brain off. I can't take it anymore."
His eyes darken at your words, understanding dawning in his expression. "Y/N..."
"Please," you whisper, desperation making your voice crack. "Fuck me until I can't think anymore. Until I can't remember my own name. I need to not be in my head right now. I need everything to just stop."
Heeseung's breath catches, his pupils dilating until there's just a thin ring of brown around the black. You watch the struggle play out on his face—desire warring with concern, restraint battling with the need to help you.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice lower than you've ever heard it. "Because if we do this... I want to help you, Y/N, more than anything. But I don't know if I'll be able to hold back once we start."
A sob escapes you, your hands fisting in his shirt. "I don't want you to hold back. I want you to make me forget everything but you." You're openly crying now, beyond shame or hesitation. "Please, Heeseung. Please make it all go away."
Something snaps in his expression. His hand slides into your hair, gripping firmly as he searches your eyes one last time. Whatever he sees there must convince him, because in the next moment, his mouth crashes against yours with none of the gentleness from before.
This kiss is different—hungry, almost desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, demanding rather than asking. One arm locks around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.
When his teeth sink into your lower lip, pain mingling with pleasure, your thoughts begin to splinter. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs, and your mind fragments further.
"Tell me to stop and I will," he says against your mouth, his breathing ragged. "At any point."
"Don't stop," you gasp. "Don't you dare stop."
His eyes meet yours, something primal and protective darkening his gaze. "I'm going to help you forget everything," he promises, his voice a rough whisper. "Everything but this."
Heeseung's eyes lock onto yours, dark with a raw intensity that makes your heart pound violently in your chest. His fingers twist harshly into your hair, pulling your head back sharply, fully exposing your vulnerable throat. His lips crash against your skin roughly, teeth biting deeply, marking you as his own with bruising kisses that send sparks of pain and pleasure shooting through your veins.
Your breathing is ragged, erratic, your entire body trembling beneath him. His other hand moves urgently down your body, gripping your waist tightly, fingertips pressing deep enough into your flesh to leave bruises, marking you unmistakably as his. You arch your body against his, desperate for more contact, craving the harsh intensity that only he can provide.
"Harder," you plead breathlessly, voice quivering with desperation. "Heeseung, please—use me, ruin me. Make me forget everything else."
A dark, feral growl tears from his throat, his eyes blazing dangerously as he claims your mouth roughly, tongue pushing aggressively past your lips. You moan helplessly into the kiss, surrendering completely to his dominating embrace, your nails scratching feverishly down his back, urging him to take you harder, deeper, to erase every lingering thought from your mind.
Heeseung breaks away, his breath hot and ragged as he trails searing kisses down your trembling body, biting roughly at your collarbone, chest, and stomach, each sharp nip igniting fiery jolts of pain and pleasure that tear gasps from your lips. You writhe helplessly beneath him, mind unraveling with each aggressive touch.
"Please," you beg desperately, voice nearly incoherent, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. "Heeseung, I’ll do anything. Anything you want, just—just make me forget."
A fierce, primal growl resonates from deep in his chest. "Anything?" he rasps darkly, his eyes blazing with barely controlled hunger. "You're going to regret saying that, sweetheart."
He pushes your thighs apart roughly, fully exposing you to his hungry gaze. His mouth descends aggressively, tongue plunging deep and fast, consuming you without mercy. You scream out sharply, hips bucking uncontrollably against him, your hands clutching desperately at his hair, pulling him even closer. Every intense, relentless movement of his tongue drives you closer to a devastating climax.
But before you reach that peak, he stops abruptly, leaving you sobbing in frustration. Your eyes plead desperately for release as you gasp, "Please—don't stop."
Heeseung positions himself swiftly over you, gripping your hips with bruising intensity, plunging deep and brutally into your aching core without warning, tearing a raw scream from your throat. He sets an unforgiving pace, each powerful thrust ruthlessly tearing apart your remaining thoughts, overwhelming you completely.
"Feel that?" he snarls roughly, hips pounding mercilessly against yours. "That's me claiming you. I'm going to fuck every last thought out of your head until you're nothing but mine."
His filthy, possessive words make your entire body shake uncontrollably, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cry out shamelessly for more. His grip tightens painfully on your wrists, pinning them roughly above your head as his hips drive harder, deeper, faster, each brutal thrust sending shockwaves through your body.
"You're mine," he growls harshly into your ear, teeth scraping your sensitive skin. "Say it."
"I'm yours," you choke out weakly, mind fracturing under the relentless assault of sensation.
"Louder," he demands fiercely, slamming even harder into you, movements ruthless and unyielding.
"I'm yours!" you scream, voice cracking from the intensity.
"Good girl," he snarls, rewarding you with deeper, fiercer thrusts, pushing your body to its absolute limits. His hand wraps around your throat firmly, just enough to make your vision blur, enhancing every overwhelming sensation tenfold.
Your body writhes violently beneath him, unable to form coherent words anymore, reduced to sobbing gasps and broken pleas. Heeseung continues relentlessly, his body driving into yours mercilessly until you're utterly consumed, your mind blanking entirely, eyes glazing over, unable to do anything but feel him, hear him, lose yourself completely to him.
"Cum for me," he commands roughly, his voice low and dangerously seductive. "Show me exactly how completely you belong to me."
Your body reacts instantly, violently, shattering beneath him into waves of devastating pleasure that tear through you, obliterating any remaining thought. You collapse, trembling uncontrollably, completely and utterly surrendered to him, mind blissfully empty, lost entirely in the overwhelming force of his claim.
Then his hands and mouth begin their relentless campaign to empty your mind completely, and thinking becomes impossible.
-
Hours later, you lie boneless and spent in Heeseung's arms, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank. No fear, no anxiety, no thoughts of Minhyuk or danger or what comes next. Just the pleasant hum of your body and the steady rhythm of Heeseung's heartbeat beneath your ear.
He's been silent for a while, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft with something that might be concern.
"Are you okay?"
You have to concentrate to form words, your brain still deliciously fuzzy around the edges. "Mmm. Better than okay."
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "I didn't hurt you?"
You shake your head against his chest. "You did exactly what I needed."
His arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "Your mind quiet now?"
"Completely empty," you murmur, surprised to find yourself smiling. "Mission accomplished."
You feel rather than see his answering smile, his whole body relaxing beneath yours. For several long moments, you both drift in comfortable silence, the world beyond this bed temporarily forgotten.
Until Heeseung's phone buzzes on the nightstand.
The tension returns to his body immediately, but he doesn't move to check it, unwilling to disturb the peace you've found. The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time.
"You should get that," you say softly. "It might be important."
Reluctantly, he reaches for the phone, keeping you tucked against him with his other arm. You watch his face as he reads the message, preparing yourself for bad news.
"It's the detective," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "She thinks we should consider temporary relocation—somewhere Minhyuk wouldn't think to look."
The fear starts to creep back in at the edges of your consciousness, but you fight it, focusing on the warmth of Heeseung's body against yours, the lingering pleasant numbness in your limbs.
"She says they can arrange a safe house, but it would take a few days." He scrolls through more of the message. "Or... we could go somewhere on our own. Somewhere only we know about."
You push yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "Like where?"
A thoughtful expression crosses his face. "My family has a cabin in the mountains. It's remote, secure. Only a handful of people even know it exists."
"How far?"
"About three hours' drive. Completely isolated." His eyes search yours. "We'd be alone out there."
The thought should be terrifying after everything that's happened, but instead it brings an unexpected sense of relief. Somewhere Minhyuk can't find you. Somewhere you could breathe again.
"When can we leave?" you ask.
Heeseung studies your face, perhaps looking for signs of fear or hesitation. "Tomorrow morning, first light. We'll need to be careful, make sure we're not followed."
You nod, settling back against his chest. "Tomorrow then."
His arm wraps around you again, protective and warm. "Get some rest," he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead. "I'll be right here."
As sleep begins to claim you, one last coherent thought floats through your mind: whatever happens next, whatever Minhyuk tries, you're not alone. You have Heeseung—your protector, your sanctuary.
Your mind emptier.
-
You wake before dawn, the sky outside still ink-dark. For a moment, you forget why you're rising so early—then memories of yesterday's message flood back. Minhyuk knows where you are. You're no longer safe here.
Heeseung is already up, moving quietly around the apartment, packing essentials into a duffel bag. He pauses when he notices you watching him, a small smile crossing his face despite the tension in his shoulders.
"Morning," he says softly. "I was trying not to wake you."
"I don't think I was really sleeping," you admit, sitting up. "Too much on my mind."
He crosses to sit beside you on the bed, his hand finding yours. "We'll be okay," he promises. "The cabin is safe. My family's owned it for generations, and it's not listed under my name. There's no way he could trace it."
You nod, drawing strength from his certainty. "What do you need me to do?"
"Just pack whatever you need for a week or so. Clothes, toiletries. I've got everything else covered—food, first aid supplies." He squeezes your hand. "And we should get moving soon. I want to be on the road before the city wakes up."
Thirty minutes later, you're both ready. The apartment is locked down—lights on timers to simulate occupancy, mail delivery paused. Heeseung has even arranged for a neighbor to occasionally move his car in the garage to maintain the illusion that you're both still here.
The detective has been notified of your plans, though not your specific destination. "Just tell her we're heading north," Heeseung had instructed during your call. "The fewer people who know exactly where we are, the better."
Dawn is just breaking as you slip into Heeseung's car in the underground parking garage. He drives cautiously, taking a circuitous route through the awakening city, frequently checking the rearview mirror for any signs of being followed.
"You really think he could track us?" you ask, watching Heeseung's vigilant eyes scanning the traffic behind you.
"I'm not taking any chances," he says simply. "Not with your safety."
The city gradually gives way to suburbs, then to open countryside. With each mile that passes, you feel the vise-grip of fear around your chest loosening slightly. By the time you're an hour into the journey, the weight of constant vigilance has lightened enough that you notice your surroundings—the spectacular autumn colors painting the landscape, the mountains rising in the distance, shrouded in morning mist.
Heeseung must notice your gaze, because he reaches across the console to take your hand. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
You nod, surprised to find yourself capable of appreciating beauty after days of seeing only danger. "I didn't realize how much I needed to get out of the city."
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. "We both did."
The drive continues, winding steadily upward into the mountains. Cell service becomes increasingly spotty, then disappears altogether. The isolation that would have terrified you days ago now feels like a blessing—a barrier between you and the danger you've left behind.
"Almost there," Heeseung says as he turns onto a narrow dirt road that seems to disappear into the forest. "It's a bit hidden."
'A bit hidden' proves to be an understatement. The road—little more than a trail—winds through dense trees for nearly a mile before suddenly opening into a small clearing. And there, nestled against a backdrop of pines with a breathtaking view of the valley below, stands the cabin.
It's not what you expected—not the rustic, primitive structure the word "cabin" had conjured in your mind. This is a beautifully crafted home of stone and timber, with large windows facing the valley and a wide porch wrapping around two sides.
"Heeseung," you breathe, taking in the scene. "This is..."
"Home," he says simply, a soft smile playing at his lips as he watches your reaction. "At least, it always has been for me."
He parks beside the cabin and comes around to open your door, offering his hand to help you out. The mountain air hits you immediately—crisp, pine-scented, revitalizing. You take a deep breath, feeling something tight in your chest unfurl.
"Come on," Heeseung says, retrieving your bags from the trunk. "Let's get inside before it gets cold."
The interior of the cabin is even more beautiful than the exterior—an open-concept living area with soaring ceilings, the far wall dominated by a stone fireplace. The furnishings are simple but high-quality, clearly chosen to complement the natural surroundings. Large windows frame the valley view like living paintings.
"This is incredible," you say, turning slowly to take it all in. "Your family built this?"
"My grandfather," Heeseung confirms, setting the bags down. "He wanted a place where the family could escape, reconnect with nature. I spent every summer here as a kid." A wistful smile crosses his face. "Haven't been back in a couple of years though. Work always seemed more important somehow."
You move to the windows, gazing out at the panoramic view. The valley stretches below you, a patchwork of golds and reds and deep greens in the autumn sunlight. In the distance, more mountains rise, their peaks ghostly in the afternoon haze.
"I've never seen anything like this," you admit, momentarily forgetting why you're here—not a vacation, but an escape from danger.
Heeseung comes to stand behind you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. "Good," he says softly. "I wanted you to see something beautiful after everything you've been through."
The simple statement, so earnest and thoughtful, brings unexpected tears to your eyes. You turn to face him, finding his gaze already on you, warm and steady.
"Thank you," you whisper. "For all of this. For keeping me safe."
His expression softens further. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do," you insist. "Most people wouldn't have done half of what you have for someone they barely know."
Something shifts in his eyes at that. "I think we're well past 'barely know,' don't you?"
Heat rises to your cheeks as memories of yesterday flood back—his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, the way he'd made you forget everything but him. "Yes," you agree quietly. "I guess we are."
The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken things. Then Heeseung clears his throat, stepping back slightly. "I should get the generator going and check the water. Make yourself at home."
As he busies himself with the practical aspects of opening the cabin, you explore the space that will be your sanctuary for the foreseeable future. Besides the main living area, there's a well-equipped kitchen, a bathroom with a surprisingly modern shower, and two bedrooms—one large, one small. You peek into the larger one, noting the king-sized bed with its blue-and-white quilt, the bedside tables with reading lamps, the large window offering the same spectacular view as the living room.
Your exploration is interrupted by Heeseung's return. "Everything's working," he announces. "Water's running, generator's humming along. We're all set." He glances at his watch. "I should try to call the detective while we still have daylight. The satellite phone works better outside."
You nod, suddenly remembering the reason for this idyllic retreat. "I'll unpack some of the food supplies."
While Heeseung steps onto the porch with the satellite phone, you busy yourself in the kitchen, organizing the groceries you picked up on the drive. The domesticity of the task is soothing—arranging canned goods in cupboards, filling the refrigerator with fresh produce, setting out cooking utensils. For a few minutes, it's possible to pretend this is just a vacation, a romantic getaway rather than a desperate flight from danger.
When Heeseung returns, his expression is more relaxed than before. "Good news," he says, setting the satellite phone on the counter. "They've got leads on Minhyuk. Apparently he's been spotted in the city, which means he doesn't know we've left."
Relief floods through you. "So we're safe here?"
"For now, at least," he confirms. "The detective says to stay put. They'll contact us as soon as they have him in custody."
You lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted as the tension of the day catches up with you. "So what do we do now?"
Heeseung steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with gentle fingers. "Now," he says softly, "we rest. We breathe. We let ourselves feel safe for a while."
"I'm not sure I remember what that feels like," you admit.
His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "Then I'll help you remember," he promises.
The first evening in the cabin passes in a peaceful haze. Heeseung builds a fire in the massive stone hearth while you prepare a simple dinner from the supplies you brought. The routine feels surprisingly natural—him pausing to taste the sauce you're making, you passing him logs for the fire, both of you moving around each other with an ease that belies how new this closeness really is.
After dinner, you settle on the comfortable sofa facing the fireplace, a blanket draped over both of you. Outside, night has fallen completely, the darkness absolute in a way it never is in the city. Inside, the fire casts dancing shadows on the walls, bathing everything in warm golden light.
"What are you thinking?" Heeseung asks, noticing your contemplative expression.
You consider the question, surprised by your answer. "That I can't remember the last time I felt this calm."
His arm around your shoulders tightens slightly. "Good. That's what I wanted for you here."
You turn to look at him, studying his face in the firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the warmth in his eyes as he returns your gaze. Something swells in your chest, a feeling too new and fragile to name.
"What about you?" you ask. "What were you thinking?"
A small smile plays at his lips. "That I've never brought anyone here before. Not like this."
The admission sends a pleasant warmth spreading through you. "Not even your...?"
"No," he says simply. "No one. This place has always been just for family." He pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. "But having you here feels right somehow."
The words hang in the air between you, weighted with meaning. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, you both lean in, lips meeting in a kiss that's different from any you've shared before—not desperate or distracting, but slow and deliberate, a question and an answer all at once.
When you break apart, something has shifted between you yet again. The pretense that this is merely about safety, about distraction from fear, has fallen away completely. What remains is something new and uncharted, fragile but intensely real.
"It's getting late," Heeseung murmurs, though he makes no move to pull away. "We should probably get some sleep."
The practical concern brings a sudden awkwardness. There are two bedrooms in the cabin, but after everything that's happened between you, the thought of sleeping apart feels strange, almost wrong.
As if reading your thoughts, Heeseung adds hesitantly, "I can take the small room if you want space, or..."
"No," you say quickly—too quickly perhaps. "I mean, I'd rather not be alone. If that's okay."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise. "More than okay," he assures you.
The nighttime routine you establish feels like an extension of the easy domesticity you've been building—brushing teeth side by side at the single bathroom sink, taking turns changing in the bedroom, pulling back the covers together. When you finally settle into bed, Heeseung's arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against his chest as naturally as if you've been falling asleep this way for years.
"Good night, Y/N," he murmurs, lips brushing the nape of your neck.
"Good night, Heeseung," you whisper back, marveling at how quickly terror has given way to tranquility.
As you drift toward sleep, one last coherent thought forms in your mind: here, miles from civilization, cut off from the world, entirely alone with a man who was a stranger just days ago, you've never felt safer in your life.
-
Heeseung's eyes soften, his gaze lingering warmly on yours as sunlight filters through the window, bathing your tangled bodies in golden warmth. His thumb brushes gently over your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine.
Over the next few days, your intimacy deepens, boundaries dissolving entirely as your desire grows increasingly insatiable. Mornings find you waking to his warm body pressed firmly against yours, his hands already exploring your skin, teasing sensitive spots until you're fully awake, panting and desperate for him.
Afternoons turn into hours spent in relentless pursuit of pleasure—Heeseung pressing you against cabin walls, your bodies colliding roughly, passionately. His hands gripping your hips tightly, thrusting deep and mercilessly, leaving you screaming his name, your thoughts scattering as he repeatedly takes you over the edge. His mouth is everywhere, biting, sucking, and marking you until your body feels entirely claimed.
Late nights, he has you bent over the couch, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you firmly in place as he drives into you with powerful, possessive strokes, whispering filthy praise into your ear. He loves seeing how quickly he can make your eyes glaze over, leaving you utterly mindless and completely his, each climax more intense, more consuming than the last.
One rainy afternoon, your bodies slam together against the window overlooking the forest, your cries blending with the sound of raindrops hitting the glass. Heeseung lifts you effortlessly, pinning you hard against the cold surface, entering you sharply and deeply, pushing you to the edge with a brutal, relentless rhythm. You cling desperately to him, sobbing from pleasure, your vision blurring as you lose yourself entirely to the sensations he's inflicting upon your body.
In quieter moments, he lays you out on the bed, spreading your legs wide, taking his time teasing you mercilessly with slow, torturous strokes of his tongue and fingers, pushing you to the brink repeatedly until you're begging him shamelessly for release. He enjoys reducing you to pleading incoherence, knowing that only he can unravel you so completely.
One evening, under the flickering glow of candlelight, you ride him slowly at first, then harder, more desperately as your need overtakes you. His fingers dig painfully into your hips, urging you on, thrusting up into you roughly until your body shatters, leaving you trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overwhelming pleasure.
"How did we ever survive without this?" you whisper afterward, your voice soft, your body warm and languid against his.
Heeseung smiles darkly, pressing a possessive kiss to your temple. "I don't know," he murmurs, pulling you impossibly closer. "But I plan to make sure you never forget exactly who makes you feel this good."
This time, there's no fear driving you together, no desperate need to escape your thoughts. There's only want—pure and simple and mutual. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss intentional. And when you come together, it's with a sweetness that brings tears to your eyes, your mind emptying not from desperate distraction but from sheer overwhelming pleasure.
"That was..." you begin afterward, struggling to find words as you lie tangled together in the sunlit bed.
"I know," Heeseung says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "For me too."
The admission brings a smile to your lips. "How is this real?" you wonder aloud. "two weeks ago, you were a stranger."
He traces patterns on your bare shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe sometimes life compresses. A week feels like months because we've experienced so much together."
You consider this, watching sunlight play across his features. "I like that explanation."
His fingers continue their gentle exploration of your skin. "Or maybe," he adds more softly, "this was always going to happen, somehow. Maybe we were meant to find each other, even if the circumstances were..."
"Completely terrifying?" you supply with a small laugh.
He smiles, but his eyes remain serious. "I would never wish what you've been through on anyone," he says. "But I can't regret that it brought you into my life."
The simple honesty of his words makes your chest tighten with emotion. You lean up to kiss him, trying to convey without words what you're not yet ready to say aloud.
The satellite phone rings that afternoon—the detective with an update. They've narrowed down Minhyuk's location but haven't apprehended him yet. The news casts a brief shadow over your idyllic retreat, a reminder that the danger hasn't passed. But somehow, it doesn't hold the same power to terrify you anymore.
"We're safe here," Heeseung reassures you after the call. "And they're getting closer to finding him."
You nod, surprised to realize you truly believe him. The panic that has been your constant companion for days has receded to a dull concern, manageable rather than overwhelming.
That evening, a storm moves in, bringing wind and rain that lash at the windows. You build the fire higher, creating a cocoon of warmth against the elements. The electricity flickers once, twice, then goes out completely, leaving you in firelight and shadows.
"Generator must have cut out," Heeseung says, already reaching for a flashlight. "I'll go check it."
"Be careful," you call as he heads for the door, suddenly anxious about him leaving, even briefly.
He pauses, returning to press a quick kiss to your lips. "Always am," he promises. "Keep the fire going—I'll be back in ten minutes."
While he's gone, you add logs to the fire, then gather candles from the kitchen cupboards, placing them strategically around the living area. The storm seems to intensify, rain drumming against the roof, wind howling through the trees outside. For the first time since arriving at the cabin, you feel a prickle of unease, attuned to every sound.
When the door finally opens, admitting a rain-soaked Heeseung, relief rushes through you so strongly that you cross the room in seconds, throwing your arms around him despite his wet clothes.
"Hey," he says, clearly surprised by the reaction. "It's okay. Just a blown fuse—I fixed it, but the power company's out anyway. We'll have to wait out the storm."
"I don't care about the power," you murmur against his chest. "I just... I didn't like you being out there alone."
He pulls back slightly to look at you, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his face. "I'm right here," he says softly. "Not going anywhere."
You help him out of his wet jacket, insisting he change into dry clothes while you make hot chocolate on the gas stove. By the time he returns, you've created a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the fireplace, the closest source of warmth.
"What's all this?" he asks, a smile playing at his lips.
"Camping," you declare with mock seriousness. "Indoor version."
He laughs, the sound warming you more than the fire. "I like the way you think."
You settle into your makeshift camp, sipping hot chocolate, listening to the storm rage outside while remaining perfectly safe and warm within. The contrast isn't lost on you—how something that would have terrified you a week ago now feels almost romantic.
"Thank you," you say suddenly, looking up at Heeseung.
"For what?" he asks, brow furrowing slightly.
"For this," you gesture around you. "For keeping me safe. For... everything."
His expression softens. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know," you admit. "But I want to. Not just for the practical things—the protection, the cabin. But for making me feel..." You search for the right word. "Normal again. Like myself, not just someone who's afraid all the time."
Heeseung sets down his mug, turning to face you fully. "You're extraordinary," he says, his voice low and sincere. "The way you've handled everything that's happened—most people would have broken down completely. But you're still here, still fighting."
The earnestness in his eyes makes your breath catch. "Only because of you."
He shakes his head. "No. I may have helped, but the strength was yours all along." He takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "Do you know what I thought when you first grabbed me that night on the subway?"
You shake your head, curious.
"I thought, 'This person is brave.' Not just because you asked a stranger for help, but because I could see in your eyes that you were scared but refusing to be paralyzed by it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "I still think that. Every day."
Emotion swells in your chest, too big to contain. You lean forward, closing the distance between you, your lips finding his in a kiss that tries to convey everything you're feeling—gratitude, yes, but also something deeper, something that's been growing quietly in the shadow of fear.
The kiss deepens, hands beginning to wander, the storm outside forgotten entirely as you create your own tempest within the circle of firelight. Heeseung's lips trace a path down your neck, finding the spot that makes your mind go blissfully blank, and you surrender to the sensation, to him, to the unexpected gift of feeling safe in a world that had become nothing but danger.
The warmth of the fire bathes the room in soft golden light, shadows dancing gently across your intertwined bodies. Heeseung's fingers glide slowly over your skin, tracing sensual, languid patterns that ignite a slow-burning fire within you. His eyes meet yours, heavy-lidded and filled with desire, making your heart race with anticipation.
He gently guides you to move above him, hands firmly gripping your hips, positioning you carefully until you're comfortably settled with your thighs on either side of his face. A thrill of excitement courses through your body, and you tremble slightly at the intimate vulnerability of the position. Heeseung's gaze reassures you entirely, filled with warmth, adoration, and undeniable lust.
"Take your time," he whispers huskily, warm breath teasing your sensitive skin. "I want to savor you."
His hands slowly stroke your thighs, fingertips pressing lightly into your skin as he draws you closer. Your breath hitches when his lips press softly, sensually along your inner thighs, lingering kisses growing hotter, more intense, making your muscles relax as desire pools deep within your core.
You release a soft, breathless moan as his tongue finally makes contact, moving slowly and deliberately, dragging in slow, teasing strokes, sending waves of languid pleasure cascading through you. Your fingers thread into his hair, guiding his movements gently, hips beginning to rock instinctively, chasing the irresistible sensations he creates.
"Heeseung," you sigh, voice thick with desire, body melting under the slow, sinful movements of his tongue. He hums appreciatively against you, the vibrations rippling pleasure deeper into your body, making you gasp softly.
His touch remains unhurried, deliberately teasing, each slow, tantalizing swipe of his tongue pulling you further into a blissful haze of sensation. He explores every inch of you thoroughly, lips and tongue moving expertly, alternating between slow, gentle strokes and firm, demanding pressure, making you whimper and moan his name repeatedly.
"You taste so good," he murmurs, voice deep and rough, eyes blazing with passion as he briefly pulls away to gaze up at you. "I could do this all night."
Your hips move more insistently now, grinding slowly against his mouth, savoring the deep, languid rhythm you've fallen into. Pleasure coils tighter within you, slow-building yet powerful, as he continues to worship you expertly, driving you steadily toward the edge.
Your breathing becomes ragged, body trembling with need, fingers tightening in his hair as the exquisite sensations push you gently yet inexorably toward release. Heeseung senses your closeness, intensifying his efforts, tongue moving deeply, urgently, drawing you over the edge into a languid, shuddering climax that leaves you breathless and softly trembling above him.
When you finally sink back beside him, his arms wrap around you possessively, pulling you flush against his chest, your bodies tangled intimately as he presses slow, sensual kisses along your skin. The firelight flickers warmly around you, creating a perfect cocoon of warmth, sensuality, and unspoken promises.
Heeseung's fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare skin, his breathing slow and even against your hair.
"What happens when this is over?" you ask softly, the question that's been lingering in the back of your mind finally finding voice. "When they catch him and we go back to the city?"
Heeseung is quiet for a long moment, his hand stilling against your shoulder. Then he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression so serious it makes your heart stutter.
"Whatever you want to happen," he says simply. "But I hope... I hope we don't go back to being strangers."
The vulnerability in his voice melts something inside you. "I don't think we could if we tried," you confess. "Not after everything."
Relief softens his features. "Good," he says. "Because I've gotten used to this. To you."
"Me too," you admit, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I can't imagine waking up and you not being there."
His smile is so tender it makes your chest ache. "Then don't," he says, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. "Don't imagine it."
As you drift toward sleep in his arms, the rain pattering gently against the roof, you realize something profound: in running from danger, in seeking refuge, you've somehow found something you weren't even looking for—a connection that transcends the circumstances of your meeting, a sanctuary not just in this remote cabin but in each other.
Whatever comes next—whether Minhyuk is caught tomorrow or weeks from now—that connection remains. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you find yourself looking toward the future with something like hope.
-
The storm rages through the night, wind howling around the cabin and rain lashing against the windows. Despite the exhaustion weighing on your limbs, sleep comes in fitful bursts, each crack of thunder or creak of the cabin jolting you awake. Beside you, Heeseung maintains his vigil, dozing occasionally but never fully surrendering to sleep. The baseball bat remains within reach, a grim reminder of the danger lurking beyond the walls.
Just before dawn, the storm begins to subside, rain softening to a gentle patter against the roof. Through a small gap in the blanket covering the bedroom window, you can see the sky lightening from black to deep blue, the first hint of morning approaching.
"We should start packing," Heeseung says, his voice low and tense. "I want to be ready to leave as soon as it's fully light."
You nod, slipping from the warmth of the bed into the chill morning air. The satellite phone still shows no signal—the storm's aftermath continuing to block transmission. You move through the cabin with careful efficiency, gathering only the essentials, keeping away from windows despite the coverings.
"Do you think he's still out there?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper despite the unlikelihood of being overheard.
Heeseung pauses in his methodical packing, his expression grave. "I don't know. But I'm not taking any chances. We leave in twenty minutes, head straight for the car, and don't stop for anything."
The gravity of his words settles heavily between you. For all your planning, there's still the most dangerous moment to navigate—the brief exposure between cabin and car, when you'll be completely vulnerable.
As the minutes tick by, tension builds in your chest, a familiar tightness that signals the approach of panic. You focus on your breathing, on the practical tasks at hand, on Heeseung's steady presence beside you. When everything is packed and ready, you stand together in the kitchen, the duffle bags at your feet, steeling yourselves for departure.
"Ready?" Heeseung asks, the baseball bat in one hand, car keys in the other.
You nod, swallowing hard against the fear. "Ready."
He moves to the door, checking through the peephole before unlocking the deadbolt with deliberate quietness. The metallic click of the lock releasing seems unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn stillness. Heeseung turns the knob slowly, easing the door open just enough to scan the porch and clearing beyond.
"Clear," he whispers, opening the door wider. "Let's go."
You step onto the porch, the wooden boards still slick with rain, the air cool and misty after the storm. The clearing surrounding the cabin is eerily still, trees dripping quietly, no wildlife sounds yet greeting the dawn. Everything appears peaceful, normal—and that, somehow, makes your nerves stretch tighter.
Heeseung goes first, bags slung over his shoulder, bat held ready. You follow closely, your footsteps seeming thunderous despite your attempts at stealth. The car is only thirty feet away, but the distance feels vast, exposed, each step taking too long.
You're halfway to the car when you see it—movement at the forest edge, a dark shape detaching from the deeper shadows beneath the trees. Heeseung notices in the same moment, his body tensing, placing himself between you and the approaching figure.
"Get in the car," he says, voice low and urgent. "Now."
You fumble with the bag, trying to move faster, but your limbs feel heavy with dread. The figure steps fully into the clearing, and even in the dim pre-dawn light, there's no mistaking who it is. Minhyuk—his face gaunt, clothes dirty and wet from the storm, eyes fixed on you with a terrible intensity.
"Go," Heeseung urges again, pressing the car keys into your hand. "Get inside and lock the doors."
But before you can reach the car, Minhyuk calls out, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing. "Don't bother. I cut the fuel line."
Heeseung freezes, a curse escaping under his breath. You can see his mind racing, calculating options, weighing the truth of Minhyuk's claim against the risk of finding out too late.
"What do you want?" Heeseung calls back, his voice steady despite the tension evident in every line of his body.
Minhyuk takes another step forward, and now you can see what he's holding—the metallic glint of a knife catching the growing light. "I just want to talk to Y/N. To explain things." His voice is eerily calm, almost reasonable, which somehow makes it more terrifying. "You've turned her against me. I just need a chance to make her understand."
"She understands perfectly," Heeseung responds, his grip tightening on the bat. "You need to leave. Now."
A strange smile crosses Minhyuk's face. "Always the hero, aren't you? Playing the protector." His eyes shift to you, somehow both pleading and menacing. "He's not really your boyfriend, Y/N. We both know that. This is all an act."
Fear roots you to the spot, but anger rises alongside it—anger at this man who has terrorized you, forced you from your home, hunted you across counties. "It doesn't matter," you find yourself saying, your voice stronger than expected. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Leave us alone."
Something shifts in Minhyuk's expression—the calm facade cracking to reveal something darker, more volatile. "You don't mean that," he says, his voice hardening. "He's manipulating you. Making you say these things."
"No one's manipulating anyone," Heeseung says, taking a half-step forward. "Y/N has made herself clear. You need to go."
Minhyuk's gaze snaps back to Heeseung, hatred twisting his features. "This is between me and her. You're the intruder here."
"Heeseung," you whisper, terror clawing at your throat as you watch Minhyuk's grip tighten on the knife. "Please."
The tension stretches between the three of you, the clearing silent except for the dripping trees and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Then Minhyuk moves—a sudden lunge forward that sends panic surging through your veins.
Heeseung reacts instantly, pushing you toward the cabin. "Run!" he shouts, raising the bat as Minhyuk charges.
Time seems to slow and accelerate simultaneously—Minhyuk closing the distance with terrifying speed, Heeseung bracing to meet him, the sound of your own ragged breathing as you stumble backward. You want to run as instructed, but can't bear to leave Heeseung alone, your feet refusing to carry you to safety while he faces danger.
The two men collide with violent force. Heeseung swings the bat, forcing Minhyuk to dodge, buying precious seconds. But Minhyuk is fueled by obsession, by a deranged determination that makes him reckless and unpredictable. He feints left, then strikes right, the knife slashing through the air.
Heeseung avoids the worst of it, but the blade catches his arm, tearing through his jacket. He doesn't cry out, doesn't falter, swinging the bat again with controlled precision. This time it connects, striking Minhyuk's shoulder with a sickening thud.
Minhyuk staggers back, but doesn't fall. The injury seems to fuel his rage rather than slow him down. "You think you can protect her?" he snarls. "You think you deserve her?"
"This isn't about deserving," Heeseung responds, voice steady despite the blood now visible on his sleeve. "This is about her choice. And she didn't choose you."
The words seem to strike Minhyuk more powerfully than the physical blow. His face contorts with fury, and he charges again, knife held high.
You're still rooted to the spot, terror paralyzing your limbs. But as Minhyuk rushes toward Heeseung again, survival instinct finally kicks in. Not for yourself—for Heeseung. Without conscious thought, you grab the nearest object—a large rock dislodged during the storm—and throw it with all your strength.
It strikes Minhyuk's back, not hard enough to injure seriously, but enough to distract him, to disrupt his attack. He whirls toward you, eyes wild with betrayal and rage.
"You," he hisses, changing direction, now advancing on you. "After everything I've done to find you..."
Heeseung doesn't hesitate. He lunges forward, tackling Minhyuk from behind before he can reach you. Both men go down hard, grappling in the mud and wet grass. The knife glints in the growing light as they struggle for control, a deadly variable in the chaotic fight.
You search desperately for another weapon, anything to help, when a new sound cuts through the terrible sounds of combat—sirens, distant but approaching. Relief floods through you, followed immediately by renewed fear. Will help arrive in time?
The sound reaches the fighting men as well. Minhyuk freezes for just an instant, his head turning toward the road—and in that moment of distraction, Heeseung strikes. His fist connects with Minhyuk's jaw, a powerful blow that sends the stalker sprawling backward. The knife falls from his grip, landing on the wet ground between them.
Both men lunge for it simultaneously. Your heart seems to stop as they grapple again, the knife now the focal point of the struggle. Then Heeseung shouts in pain, and you see a flash of red—blood, his blood—and terror unlike anything you've ever known seizes your heart.
But Heeseung doesn't falter. Despite the wound, he manages to knock the knife away, sending it skittering across the clearing. Then, with a final surge of strength, he pins Minhyuk to the ground, his knee on the stalker's chest, one hand gripping his throat.
"It's over," Heeseung says, his voice ragged with exertion and pain. "Do you hear those sirens? It's over."
Minhyuk struggles for a few more seconds, then goes still, the fight seeming to drain from him as the sound of approaching vehicles grows louder. Heeseung maintains his grip, not trusting the sudden compliance.
The sirens grow louder, then headlights appear through the trees, illuminating the clearing with harsh white light. Police cars—three of them—bumping down the rough access road, followed by what looks like an ambulance.
"Here!" you shout, waving frantically. "Over here!"
Everything moves quickly after that. Officers pour from the vehicles, guns drawn, shouting commands. Heeseung carefully backs away from Minhyuk, hands raised to show he's not a threat. Minhyuk is immediately handcuffed, his expression eerily vacant now, the manic energy gone.
You rush to Heeseung, heart pounding violently in your chest as you see the blood staining his sleeve, another patch rapidly spreading across his side. His jacket is torn open, revealing a deep gash that makes your stomach lurch.
"You're hurt," you cry out, your voice breaking as tears immediately flood your eyes. Your hands hover over his wounds, afraid to touch and cause more pain but desperate to help. "Oh my god, you're hurt. You're bleeding so much."
"I'm okay," he assures you, though his face is alarmingly pale, his breathing shallow with pain. "It's not as bad as it looks."
"Don't say that!" Your voice rises with panic, tears now streaming freely down your face. "Look at you! This is all my fault. You're hurt because of me."
Your hands tremble as they finally settle on his face, cradling his cheeks as if he might shatter. "You're my baby and you're hurt," you whisper, the words tumbling out without thought, raw with emotion. "Please, you need help right now."
His eyes widen slightly at your words, a softness passing through them despite his pain. He tries to lift his hand to wipe your tears but winces with the movement.
"Don't move," you plead, becoming more frantic as you notice how the blood continues to seep through his clothes. You turn toward the approaching paramedics, desperation in your voice. "Please hurry! He's losing too much blood!"
You turn back to Heeseung, pressing your forehead gently against his, uncaring about the mud and blood. "Stay with me," you whisper fiercely. "I can't lose you. Not now. Not after everything."
Paramedics approach, guiding Heeseung to sit on the steps of the cabin while they examine his wounds. You hover anxiously nearby, unable to tear your eyes from him even as a female officer gently questions you about what happened.
Across the clearing, Minhyuk is being loaded into a police car, his vacant expression finally shifting as his eyes find yours one last time. There's something in his gaze—not remorse, not exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of understanding that his obsession has led him to ruin.
"He'll be going away for a long time," the detective says, appearing at your side. She looks tired but satisfied. "Attempted murder, stalking, violation of restraining orders—the list goes on. He won't hurt anyone else."
Relief makes your knees weak. You look to where Heeseung sits, enduring the ministrations of the paramedics with stoic patience. When he catches your eye, he manages a small, reassuring smile despite everything.
"You should go to him," the detective says, following your gaze. "We can finish the statements later."
You don't need to be told twice. You cross to Heeseung, carefully sitting beside him on the cabin steps. The paramedics have cut away his sleeve to reveal a long gash on his forearm, already partially bandaged. Another wound at his side has been dressed, though blood still seeps through the white gauze.
"How bad is it?" you ask one of the paramedics.
"He'll need stitches," she replies. "But no major arteries were hit. He was lucky."
Lucky isn't the word you'd use. Brave. Selfless. Incredible. Those come closer.
"We need to transport him to the hospital," the paramedic continues. "Would you like to ride along?"
"Yes," you say immediately, your hand finding Heeseung's uninjured one. "I'm not leaving him."
Heeseung's fingers tighten around yours. "It's over," he says softly, just for you. "Really over."
As they help him onto a stretcher, you remain by his side, your hand never leaving his. Behind you, the cabin stands silent in the growing daylight, its brief role as both sanctuary and battleground now complete. Around you, police officers document the scene, take photographs, collect evidence. Minhyuk is driven away, the police car disappearing down the access road toward a future of concrete and steel bars.
In the ambulance, as paramedics hook Heeseung to monitoring equipment and start an IV for pain medication, he keeps his eyes on you, as if afraid you might disappear if he looks away.
"You saved me," he says, his voice slightly slurred as the pain medication begins to take effect. "With that rock. You saved me."
Tears fill your eyes as you shake your head. "No. You saved me. From the very beginning, you saved me."
His lips curve into a tired smile. "Maybe we saved each other."
As the ambulance begins its journey down the mountain, you hold tight to his hand, to that simple truth. Whatever comes next—hospital rooms, police statements, the eventual return to normal life—you'll face it together. The nightmare is over. Minhyuk can no longer reach you, no longer control your life with fear.
For the first time since that night on the subway platform, you feel truly, completely free. And despite the trauma of the morning, despite Heeseung's injuries and the lingering shock, there's something else growing beneath the relief—hope. Hope for what comes after fear. Hope for a future neither of you expected to find in the midst of danger.
A future together.
-
Three months later
The afternoon sunlight filters through the café window, painting golden patterns across the table between you. Heeseung sits across from you, absently tracing the faint scar on his forearm—a permanent reminder of that morning in the mountains. You reach across the table, your fingers covering his, interrupting the unconscious movement.
"You're doing it again," you say softly.
He smiles, turning his hand to intertwine his fingers with yours. "Sorry. Habit."
It's been exactly twelve weeks since Minhyuk was arrested. Twelve weeks of healing—both physical and emotional. Twelve weeks of rebuilding what had been so violently disrupted. Twelve weeks of discovering who you are together when fear isn't the foundation of your connection.
The legal proceedings had moved swiftly. Minhyuk pleaded guilty to all charges, perhaps finally recognizing the gravity of his actions. His psychiatric evaluation revealed a disturbing pattern of obsessive behavior dating back years before he ever saw you on the subway. The judge had been uncompromising in his sentencing: fifteen years with mandatory psychiatric treatment. You'd attended the sentencing hearing, Heeseung's hand tight around yours as you faced your stalker one final time.
"Whatever made him fixate on you wasn't your fault," the detective had told you afterward. "Some people just break in ways we can't understand."
Those words had helped, as had the therapy sessions you began shortly after returning to the city. But what helped most was Heeseung—his unwavering presence, his patience as you worked through lingering fears, his understanding on the nights when you still woke gasping from nightmares.
"What time is your appointment?" Heeseung asks now, bringing you back to the present.
"Four o'clock," you reply, glancing at your watch. "Dr. Kim says this might be our last weekly session. She thinks we can move to bi-weekly."
Pride flickers across Heeseung's face. "That's great. You've come so far."
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I have a good support system."
His thumb traces circles on your palm, his eyes warm with an emotion neither of you has put into words yet, though you both feel it. "Are you still okay with dinner at my parents' place tonight? We can reschedule if you're tired after therapy."
"I want to go," you assure him. Meeting his family had been a major step—acknowledging that what began in crisis had evolved into something lasting. His parents had welcomed you with genuine warmth, never asking too many questions about how you met, somehow understanding that those details weren't what mattered.
"They like you, you know," Heeseung says, as if reading your thoughts. "My mother keeps asking when you're coming back."
You laugh, the sound still feeling like a small victory each time. "She just wants someone to appreciate her cooking more than you do."
"True," he concedes with a grin.
The waiter arrives with your check, and Heeseung reaches for it automatically. You let him, having learned to pick your battles. Some protective instincts run too deep to challenge—and if you're honest, his devotion is something you've come to cherish rather than resist.
Outside the café, the early autumn air carries just a hint of the coming cold. Heeseung's arm slips around your waist, a gesture that has become as natural as breathing. You lean into him briefly, savoring the solid warmth of him.
"I'll walk you to Dr. Kim's office," he says. "Then I need to stop by the studio for an hour before dinner."
Your paths have settled into a comfortable rhythm over the past months. You returned to your design firm, picking up old projects and beginning new ones. Heeseung resumed his work at the music studio, though he now keeps more regular hours, prioritizing evenings with you. You still have separate apartments, but most nights are spent together, switching between your spaces with easy familiarity.
The walk to your therapist's office takes you past the subway station where it all began—a route you initially avoided but now traverse without the surge of anxiety it once triggered. Progress, Dr. Kim calls it. Reclaiming your city, your life.
"I'll see you at my place around seven?" Heeseung confirms as you reach the office building.
"I'll be there," you promise. "Should I bring anything?"
"Just yourself." He pauses, then adds, "And maybe pack an overnight bag. My parents usually insist we stay late, and I don't want you taking the subway alone after dark."
Once, you might have chafed at the protectiveness in those words. Now, you recognize it as care rather than control. "Already packed," you admit. "It's in my work bag."
He smiles, leaning down to kiss you briefly. "That's my girl."
As he turns to go, you catch his hand, pulling him back for a moment. "Hey," you say softly. "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous," he teases gently. "About what?"
You hesitate, then take the plunge. "My lease is up next month."
His expression shifts, a cautious hope lighting his eyes. "Is it?"
"I was thinking maybe I shouldn't renew it."
The implication hangs between you, clear but unspoken. Heeseung's hand tightens around yours, his voice dropping to match your quieter tone. "Any particular alternative in mind?"
You hold his gaze, your heart beating faster but not with fear—with anticipation, with certainty. "Your place is bigger. And you have that spare room you're using as storage that would make a perfect home office for me."
A smile slowly spreads across his face, transforming his features with such joy that it takes your breath away. "I think that could be arranged."
"Yeah?"
"Definitely." He pulls you closer, public setting forgotten as he kisses you properly this time, his hands cradling your face with the same tender care he's shown since that very first night.
When he pulls back, you're both slightly breathless. "Go talk to Dr. Kim," he says, reluctantly releasing you. "I'll see you tonight."
You watch him walk away, struck by how far you've come from that terrified person who grabbed a stranger on a subway platform. The journey hasn't been easy—there are still moments when fear creeps in, still days when you check over your shoulder more often than necessary. But those moments are becoming rarer, overshadowed by new memories, better ones.
As you turn to enter the building, your phone buzzes with a text. Heeseung, already missing you:
"Just realized we never used the small bedroom at the cabin. Maybe we should go back someday. Make some better memories there."
You smile, typing your reply:
"I'd like that. As long as you're with me."
His response comes instantly:
"Always."
A promise that began in crisis, tested by danger, and now—finally—has the chance to unfold in peace. You pocket your phone and head into your appointment, ready to talk about the future rather than the past.
A future with Heeseung. A future without fear.
A future that began with two strangers on a subway platform, and against all odds, became home.
arranged husband!Jungwon x trophy wife!reader - confronting cold arranged husband on your first anniversary.
ENHA HARD HOURS 18+ MDNI, Angst, fluff, a second chance, the smut is crazy im ngl to u but the angst is worse, he actually goes insane like insane he loses it.
-
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times, its deep resonance echoing through the marble corridors of your estate. Without opening your eyes, you knew Jungwon was already awake. The mattress dipped slightly as he carefully extracted himself from beneath the Egyptian cotton covers, his movements deliberately gentle to avoid disturbing you. You kept your breathing steady, maintaining the pretense of sleep as you had so many mornings before.
Through barely-parted lids, you watched his silhouette move through the predawn darkness. Jungwon's routine never varied—not on weekends, holidays, or even the morning after your anniversary celebration when he'd had perhaps one glass of Château Margaux too many. Five a.m. meant feet on the floor, regardless of circumstance.
He disappeared into the expansive en-suite bathroom, closing the door with practiced quietness before the shower began to run. You rolled over to face the floor-to-ceiling windows, abandoning the charade of sleep. Outside, the manicured gardens remained dark and still, mirroring the atmosphere that permeated your mansion despite its immaculate decoration and luxurious furnishings.
One year of marriage. Three hundred and sixty-five mornings of this same choreographed dance.
By the time Jungwon emerged from the bathroom, you had straightened your side of the bed and donned your silk robe. He nodded in acknowledgment, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
"Good morning," he said, voice pleasant but neutral. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."
"No, I was already awake," you lied, the response automatic after months of repetition. "Will you be joining me for breakfast on the terrace today?"
He checked his watch—the elegant Patek Philippe you'd given him on your six-month anniversary. "I have an early meeting. I'll grab something at the office."
You nodded, expecting this answer. Despite your chef preparing an elaborate breakfast spread every morning, Jungwon rarely sat down to eat it. You'd long since stopped taking it personally, instead viewing it as simply another aspect of your peculiar marriage.
"Madame," came a soft voice from the doorway. Your personal maid stood waiting respectfully. "The blue gown has been pressed for tonight's charity auction, and Mrs. Yang called to confirm your appointment at the salon at two."
"Thank you. Please tell the chef I'll be down shortly."
Jungwon's expression softened momentarily with what might have been gratitude. "The blue gown is a good choice. It matches the sapphires."
The brief warmth in his eyes vanished so quickly you questioned whether you'd imagined it. He dressed efficiently, selecting the navy suit you'd suggested earlier in the week. You busied yourself reviewing the day's schedule on your tablet, giving him space while maintaining the illusion of comfortable domesticity.
"I'll send the car for you at six," he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. Perfect Windsor knot, as always. "The auction starts at seven, but your mother-in-law suggested we arrive early to greet the host committee."
"I'll be ready," you assured him. "The blue complements the sapphires your family gifted me last Christmas—perfect for the society photographers."
He nodded approvingly. "Perfect. The Yangs must maintain appearances."
The phrase hung in the air between you, a reminder of what truly bound you together. Not love or passion or even friendship, but appearances. The Yang family name and reputation, upheld through generations and now entrusted to Jungwon—and by extension, to you.
Before leaving, he stopped at the bedroom door. "The new arrangement in the grand foyer—the one with the peonies and orchids. My mother asked for the name of your florist."
"I'd be happy to share their contact information," you replied, surprised that he'd noticed the flowers at all.
He hesitated, as if considering saying something more, then simply nodded and left. Moments later, you heard the soft purr of his car starting in the circular driveway below.
The suite fell silent, save for the continuing measured tick of the antique clock.
By eleven, you had completed your morning inspection of the household: reviewing the dinner menu with the chef, approving the landscaping plans for the east garden, and confirming that the linens for Friday's dinner party had been properly pressed. The mansion operated with clockwork precision under your supervision, a showcase of domestic perfection that visitors frequently praised.
Your phone chimed with a text message from Mrs. Yang—your mother-in-law.
The charity auction tonight is a perfect opportunity to connect with the Singhs. Their daughter returned from Oxford and has taken over their foundation. Jungwon could use their support for the new community project.
You typed a gracious reply, assuring her you would make the introduction. This was part of your unspoken role: social facilitator, network cultivator, the charming counterbalance to Jungwon's more reserved demeanor in public. Mrs. Yang had explicitly voiced her approval of your social graces during the marriage negotiations, though she'd phrased it more delicately at the time.
In the solarium, you sipped tea and reviewed correspondence on your tablet. The household staff moved efficiently around the estate, their presence indicated only by the occasional distant voice or the soft closing of a door. This cocoon of luxury and service had become your domain—a gilded cage, perhaps, but one you managed with impeccable skill.
The charity auction venue sparkled with crystal chandeliers and the gleam of expensive jewelry. You stood beside Jungwon, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm as he conversed with an important international investor. Your blue gown complemented the subtle blue in Jungwon's tie, a coordinated detail that Mrs. Yang had encouraged early in your marriage.
"And what do you think of the market's new direction?" the investor asked, unexpectedly turning to include you in the conversation.
Without missing a beat, you offered a thoughtful response based on fragments you'd gathered from Jungwon's rare comments about business. Your husband's arm tensed slightly beneath your hand—in surprise or approval, you couldn't tell.
"You've got yourself a perceptive wife, Yang," the man laughed, clearly impressed. "Better be careful or I'll recruit her for my advisory board."
Jungwon smiled, a genuine expression that transformed his handsome face. "I'm very fortunate," he agreed, turning to look at you with apparent pride.
For a moment—just a moment—the warmth in his eyes seemed real. Then a passing waiter offered champagne, and the connection broke as he reached for two glasses.
The evening continued in this manner: introductions, small talk, strategic conversations with selected guests, and the careful maintenance of the image you projected as a couple. Jungwon's hand occasionally rested at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with gentle pressure. To anyone watching, the gesture appeared intimate and caring.
"Your work with the children's literacy foundation has been inspirational," commented Ms. Singh as you were introduced. "My father is quite impressed."
You played your part flawlessly. Laughed at the right moments. Showed appropriate interest in business discussions. Made mental notes of important names and connections to record later in your planner. You orchestrated the introduction to the Singh family that appeared completely spontaneous, fulfilling your mother-in-law's request with such subtlety that even Jungwon seemed unaware of the manipulation.
During a lull in the event, you excused yourself to visit the ladies' room. Standing before the mirror, you studied your reflection: perfectly applied makeup, not a hair out of place, the picture of a successful young wife. Other women came and went, exchanging pleasantries, complimenting your gown or asking about upcoming social events.
"You and Jungwon always look so happy together," sighed a fellow socialite as she applied fresh lipstick. "My husband can barely remember which events are on our calendar, let alone coordinate his tie with my outfit."
You smiled politely. "Jungwon is very attentive to details."
When you returned to the main hall, you spotted your husband across the room, engaged in conversation with the Singh patriarch as you had arranged. His posture was relaxed, confident, his expression animated as he discussed something that clearly interested him. You rarely saw that expression at home.
As if sensing your gaze, he looked up and met your eyes across the crowded room. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. He excused himself from the conversation and made his way to your side.
"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly.
"Of course," you assured him. "Mr. Singh seems interested in your project."
He nodded. "Yes, thank you for the introduction. He mentioned you'd spoken highly of the initiative."
"That's what wives do, isn't it?" you replied, the words emerging more wistfully than you'd intended.
Jungwon studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you tired? We can leave if you'd like."
"No," you said quickly. "Your mother would be disappointed if we left before the final auction lot."
The mention of his mother was enough to settle the matter. Jungwon nodded and offered his arm again, leading you back into the social whirl. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of smiles and small talk, your practiced responses on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.
The mansion was quiet when you returned just after midnight, though a few lights remained on for your arrival. The night butler opened the door as the car pulled up.
"Welcome home, Madame, Sir," he greeted with a respectful bow. "May I bring anything before you retire?"
"No thank you," Jungwon replied, loosening his tie. "That will be all for tonight."
As the butler disappeared, Jungwon turned to you in the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft chandelier light. "Successful evening," he commented, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "The Singhs have invited us to their summer compound next month."
"That's wonderful," you replied, slipping off your heels with a small sigh of relief. "Your mother will be pleased."
He set down his keys and looked at you directly, something he rarely did at home. "You don't need to keep mentioning my mother. I'm capable of recognizing business opportunities on my own."
The unexpected sharpness in his tone surprised you. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise."
He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disheveling it slightly. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
The apology hung awkwardly between you. Jungwon rarely expressed irritation, maintaining the same polite distance whether discussing dinner plans or household accounts.
"It's late," you said finally. "We're both tired."
He nodded, the momentary crack in his composure already repaired. "I have some work to finish. Don't wait up."
You watched him retreat to his home office, the door closing firmly behind him. In the kitchen, you found the chef had left a covered plate of small desserts and a pot of tea keeping warm. The thoughtful gesture—understanding your tendency to skip dinner at formal events—brought an unexpected lump to your throat.
The mansion was beautiful—spacious, elegantly decorated, with every luxury and convenience. The marriage looked perfect from the outside: handsome, successful husband; accomplished, supportive wife; respected families united through a beneficial alliance. You wanted for nothing material.
And yet.
Upstairs, your nightwear had already been laid out and the bed turned down. In the adjoining bathroom, you methodically removed your jewelry and makeup, the familiar routine requiring no thought. Your reflection stared back, younger without the carefully applied cosmetics but somehow sadder too.
When you finally slipped between the cool sheets, Jungwon's side of the bed remained empty. You knew from experience that he might not come upstairs for hours. Sometimes you woke briefly in the night to feel the mattress dip as he joined you, maintaining a careful distance even in sleep.
As exhaustion pulled you toward unconsciousness, you wondered—not for the first time—what thoughts occupied your husband's mind during his late-night work sessions. Whether he ever questioned the arrangement that had brought you together. Whether he ever wished for something more than this immaculate, empty performance you both maintained.
Outside, a gentle rain began to fall against the panoramic windows, drops catching the moonlight like silver tears against the darkness.
-
The first anniversary dinner had been your mother-in-law's idea.
"A small celebration," she'd said during your weekly tea. "Nothing extravagant, of course. Just family to commemorate the successful first year."
You'd nodded and smiled, playing your part. "I'll coordinate with the chef for a special menu."
A successful first year. The phrase echoed in your mind as you supervised the staff arranging peonies and orchids in the dining room—Jungwon's mother's favorites. The crystal gleamed under the chandelier light, the silver polished to mirror brightness, the napkins folded into perfect swans. Success measured in appearances, in business connections forged, in social obligations fulfilled.
Not in moments of genuine connection, in shared laughter, in the casual intimacy of a hand brushing hair from your face. Those metrics of success remained conspicuously absent from your marriage ledger.
"The wine selection has been brought up from the cellar, Madame," said the butler. "And the chef has prepared the appetizers exactly as you specified."
"Thank you," you replied, adjusting a place setting minutely. "Mr. Yang will be home by seven, and his parents will arrive at seven-thirty."
The butler nodded and withdrew, leaving you alone in the perfect dining room of your perfect mansion in your perfect marriage that was, somehow, entirely empty.
Jungwon arrived precisely at seven, as predictable as the sunrise. You heard the familiar sound of his car, followed by his measured footsteps in the foyer. When he appeared in the doorway of the dining room, he was already dressed in the suit you'd laid out—the charcoal gray Tom Ford that his mother once commented made him look distinguished.
"Everything looks lovely," he said, surveying the room with appreciative eyes. "You've outdone yourself."
"Thank you," you replied, accepting the compliment with practiced grace. "Your mother mentioned Mr. Kim might join them. I've set an extra place just in case."
Something flickered across Jungwon's face—annoyance, perhaps. "He wasn't mentioned to me."
"He's the family attorney. Perhaps there's business to discuss."
"On our anniversary dinner?" The edge in Jungwon's voice surprised you. "Some things should remain separate from business."
You studied your husband's face, wondering at this unusual display of emotion. "Would you prefer I call your mother and inquire?"
"No," he said, composure returning like a mask sliding back into place. "It doesn't matter."
But it did matter, and the tension in his shoulders told you so. This was new—this momentary crack in the facade. You wanted to press further, to understand what had triggered this response, but years of social conditioning held you back.
Instead, you said, "There's time for a drink before they arrive. Would you like something?"
He nodded, following you to the sitting room where the bar cart awaited. You poured him two fingers of the Macallan 25-year he preferred, your movements precise and practiced. When you handed him the crystal tumbler, your fingers brushed his—an accidental touch that shouldn't have felt significant but somehow did.
"One year," he said quietly, staring into the amber liquid.
"Yes," you agreed, pouring yourself a small measure of the same. "It's gone quickly."
The silence between you stretched, filled with all the words neither of you knew how to say. Jungwon seemed on the verge of speaking when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of his parents.
The moment, whatever it might have been, evaporated.
Dinner progressed with the same choreographed precision as every family gathering. Mrs. Yang complimented the decor, inquired about your recent charity work, and dominated the conversation with updates on various family connections. Mr. Yang, stern and reserved like his son, contributed occasional comments about business or politics. And Mr. Kim, who had indeed accompanied them, observed it all with the calculated interest of someone evaluating an investment.
"The first year is always the most challenging," Mrs. Yang declared over the entrée, smiling at you and Jungwon with evident satisfaction. "And you two have managed it beautifully."
"Indeed," agreed Mr. Kim, raising his wine glass in a small toast. "The Yang family's standing has only strengthened. Your partnership has proven most advantageous."
Partnership. Not marriage. The distinction wasn't lost on you.
"And the foundation gala last month," Mrs. Yang continued. "Several board members commented on how impressive you both were. The Choi family was particularly taken with you, dear." She directed this last comment at you. "Mrs. Choi mentioned how fortunate Jungwon is to have found such an accomplished wife."
"I am fortunate," Jungwon agreed smoothly, the response automatic. He didn't look at you as he said it.
"Now, about the expansion into renewable energy," Mr. Yang began, turning to his son. "The board is meeting next week to discuss the proposal."
Business at the anniversary dinner, just as you'd predicted. You caught Jungwon's eye across the table, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. For once, it felt like you were truly on the same side, united in your recognition of the situation's irony.
As the men discussed business, Mrs. Yang leaned closer to you. "You know, dear, I've been meaning to ask... it's been a year now. Any news you'd like to share? Any... expectations?"
The delicate emphasis made her meaning clear. You felt heat rise to your face, embarrassment mingling with a deeper discomfort.
"Not yet," you replied quietly, maintaining your composure despite the intrusive question.
"Well, there's still time," she said, patting your hand. "Though of course, an heir is important for the Yang legacy. My husband's grandmother used to say, 'A tree without new leaves withers.'"
You nodded politely, taking a sip of wine to avoid having to respond further. Across the table, you noticed Jungwon's shoulders tense, though he gave no other indication of having overheard.
The rest of the evening passed in a similar vein—discussions of business, thinly veiled inquiries about family planning, and reminiscences about the wedding that focused primarily on its beneficial outcomes for the Yang family interests.
Not once did anyone ask if you were happy.
After seeing his parents and Mr. Kim to the door, Jungwon returned to the sitting room where you were nursing a final glass of wine. The house felt unnaturally quiet after the departure of the guests, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"My mother was pleased," he said, loosening his tie and pouring himself another whiskey. "She said the dinner was perfect."
"Of course she did," you replied, a hint of bitterness seeping into your voice despite your best efforts. "Everything about us is perfect on the surface."
Jungwon looked at you sharply. "What does that mean?"
The wine, the emotional strain of the evening, the accumulation of a year's worth of silences—something inside you finally cracked.
"It means this," you gestured between the two of you, "isn't a marriage. It's a business arrangement with living quarters."
His expression hardened. "That's unfair. I've given you everything you could want."
"Everything except yourself," you countered, your voice rising slightly. "We live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but you might as well be a thousand miles away."
"I don't know what you expect," he said stiffly. "We both understood the nature of this marriage from the beginning."
"Did we? Because I didn't agree to a lifetime of politeness and distance. I didn't agree to be nothing more than the perfect hostess and social coordinator for your business connections."
Jungwon set down his glass with careful precision. "You've never complained before."
"When would I have complained, Jungwon? During the three minutes of conversation we have each morning? Or perhaps during our public performances where we pretend to be a loving couple?"
He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling its perfect arrangement. "I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement. You manage the household, attend the events, fulfill your responsibilities—"
"Responsibilities?" The word struck like a match against your accumulated frustration. "Is that all I am to you? A set of responsibilities to be fulfilled?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean? Please, enlighten me about my role in this arrangement, since clearly I've misunderstood."
His jaw tightened. "You're my wife."
"Your wife," you repeated, the word suddenly sounding hollow. "And what does that mean to you? Because from where I stand, I might as well be your assistant or your housekeeper for all the genuine connection between us."
"You're being dramatic," he said dismissively. "Perhaps you've had too much wine."
The condescension in his tone was the final straw. A year of suppressed emotions—loneliness, frustration, yearning—erupted like a volcano too long dormant.
"Don't you dare dismiss me," you snapped, rising to your feet. "I have spent a year of my life walking on eggshells, trying to be perfect, trying to please you and your family, and for what? A thank you when I select the right tie? A nod of approval when I make the right business connection?"
Jungwon stared at you, clearly taken aback by your outburst. "I don't understand where this is coming from."
"Of course you don't! You've never bothered to see me as anything more than a convenient addition to your perfectly ordered life. Wake up at five, ignore wife, go to work, come home, work more, sleep. Repeat until death."
"That's not fair," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Isn't it? When was the last time you asked me about my day? Or shared something personal about yours? When was the last time you looked at me—really looked at me—not as the 'Madame' of this house or as an accessory at a business function, but as a woman? As your wife?"
The color drained from Jungwon's face, but you were beyond stopping now. The floodgates had opened, and a year's worth of unspoken thoughts poured forth in a torrent.
"We haven't even consummated our marriage, Jungwon! One year, and you've never once reached for me in the night. Never once kissed me with anything resembling passion. Do you have any idea how that feels? To lie beside someone night after night, wanting to be touched, to be desired, and meeting nothing but polite distance?"
His eyes widened in shock at your bluntness. "I—I thought you preferred our current arrangement. You never indicated—"
"Indicated?" You laughed, the sound brittle. "Would it have mattered if I had? You barely look at me when we're alone together. You keep yourself locked in your office until I'm asleep. Tell me, Jungwon, are you repulsed by me? Is that it?"
"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. "That's not it at all."
"Then what? What keeps you at arm's length? Because I can't live like this anymore—this half-life of appearances and politeness with nothing real beneath it."
You moved closer, anger giving you courage you'd never had before. "How do you satisfy your desires, Jungwon? Do you have someone else? Some mistress in an apartment downtown who gets to see the real you? Who gets to feel your touch, your passion?"
He looked genuinely shocked. "There's no one else. I would never—"
"Then what?" Your voice broke slightly. "Are you simply that cold? That disconnected from your own body, your own needs? Because I refuse to believe a healthy man in his prime feels nothing, wants nothing."
Jungwon's jaw tightened. "This conversation is inappropriate."
"Inappropriate?" You were nearly shouting now. "We're married! This is exactly the conversation we should have had months ago! Do you have any idea what it's like to wonder if there's something wrong with you? To lie awake wondering why your husband never reaches for you? To start believing that maybe you're fundamentally undesirable?"
"That's not—" he began, but you cut him off.
"I've started inventing stories in my head, Jungwon. Elaborate scenarios to explain why my husband treats me like a porcelain doll. Maybe you're secretly in love with someone from your past. Maybe you prefer men. Maybe you have some medical condition you're too embarrassed to discuss. I've considered everything because the alternative—that you simply feel nothing for me—is too painful to bear."
His face had gone pale. "It's none of those things."
"Then help me understand," you pleaded, anger giving way to raw vulnerability. "Because the silence is killing me. The wondering is killing me. Are you like this with everyone? This... removed? This contained? Or is it just me you can't bring yourself to touch?"
Jungwon paced away from you, his composure cracking visibly. For a moment, he looked like he might retreat to his office—his usual escape—but instead, he stopped at the window, staring out at the darkness.
"I live in my head," he said so quietly you almost missed it. "Always have. Physical... intimacy... doesn't come naturally to me."
"Have you ever let yourself feel something?" you asked, your tone softer now. "With anyone?"
He was silent for so long you thought he might not answer. When he did, his voice was strained. "There was someone in college. It ended badly. I lost control, became... emotional. My father said it was embarrassing. Unbecoming of a Yang."
The confession surprised you. This tiny glimpse into his past felt like more intimacy than you'd experienced in a year of marriage.
"And since then?"
"Since then I've learned to be careful. Controlled." He turned to face you. "I thought I was respecting your space. Your independence."
"Respecting my space?" You stared at him incredulously. "There's a difference between respect and indifference, Jungwon."
"I'm not indifferent to you," he said quietly.
"Then what are you? Because from my perspective, I might as well be living alone for all the emotional connection between us."
He turned away again, his shoulders rigid with tension. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"This." He gestured vaguely. "Marriage. Intimacy. I wasn't raised for it."
"Neither was I," you countered. "But I'm trying. I've been trying for a year while you've been hiding behind work and politeness and duty."
You moved to stand beside him at the window, close but not touching. "Do you ever look at me and feel anything, Jungwon? Anything at all? Because sometimes I catch you watching me when you think I won't notice, and there's something in your eyes that disappears the moment I turn toward you."
He swallowed visibly. "I notice everything about you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "The way you arrange flowers according to your mood. How you always leave the last bite of dessert. The small sigh you make when you're reading something that touches you."
The revelation stunned you. "Then why—"
"Because wanting leads to needing," he interrupted, his voice suddenly raw. "And needing makes you vulnerable. My father taught me that. The moment you need someone, you've given them the power to destroy you."
The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of truths finally spoken aloud. When Jungwon finally turned back to face you, his expression was uncharacteristically vulnerable.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, and for once, the question seemed genuine.
The simplicity of the question momentarily deflated your anger. What did you want? It was a question you'd asked yourself countless times during sleepless nights.
"I want a husband, not a housemate," you said finally. "I want to know the man behind the perfect facade. I want to feel wanted, desired, known. I want the possibility of love, even if it's not there yet."
Your voice cracked on the last words, and you felt tears threatening. "Sometimes I think if I sleep with you once and let you get me pregnant, at least I won't be so damn lonely. At least I'd have someone who needs me, truly needs me, not just for appearances or social connections."
"A child deserves better than to be born from desperation," Jungwon said softly, surprising you with his insight.
"And a wife deserves better than emotional abandonment," you countered. "I look at other couples sometimes—even the arranged marriages in our circle—and I see moments of genuine tenderness. A hand on a shoulder. A private smile. Small intimacies that say 'I see you, I choose you.' We have none of that, Jungwon."
He flinched as if struck. "Is that what you think? That I only see you as a means to an heir?"
"How would I know what you think?" you demanded. "You barely speak to me about anything that matters. For all I know, you've mapped out our entire future in that methodical mind of yours—the optimal time for children, their education, their role in continuing the Yang legacy—all without once considering what I might want, what I might need as a woman, as a person."
"That's not true," he protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
"When have you ever shared your fears with me, Jungwon? Your hopes? Your dreams beyond the next business deal or family obligation? When have you ever asked about mine?"
He had no answer, and his silence was damning.
"I can't do this anymore," you said, suddenly exhausted. "I can't keep pretending that this empty performance is enough. I need more than politeness and perfect appearances. I need connection. I need intimacy. I need to at least feel that there's the possibility of love someday."
"And if I can't give you that?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
The question hung in the air between you, a challenge and a plea at once. You met his gaze directly.
"Then this marriage is already over, regardless of what we show the world."
The words fell like stones into still water, ripples of consequence expanding outward. Jungwon's face paled, and something like genuine fear flickered in his eyes.
"You would leave?" he asked, the question revealing more vulnerability than he'd shown in a year of marriage.
"Not in body, perhaps," you replied. "The scandal would devastate both our families. But in spirit? I'm already halfway gone, Jungwon. Every day of polite distance pushes me further away."
He sank onto the sofa, looking suddenly lost. This wasn't the composed, controlled man you'd lived alongside for a year. This was someone else—someone real and raw and unsure.
"I don't know how to be what you need," he admitted finally.
"I'm not asking for perfection," you said, your anger giving way to a profound sadness. "I'm asking for effort. For honesty. For the chance to build something real together, even if it's difficult. Even if we don't know exactly how."
Jungwon stared at his hands, his wedding ring catching the light. For a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally looked up, his eyes held a complexity of emotion you'd never seen before.
"I need time," he said. "To think. To... process all of this."
The request was reasonable, but it still stung. Even now, faced with the potential collapse of your marriage, he couldn't give you an immediate response.
"Fine," you said, suddenly bone-weary. "Take your time. You know where to find me."
You turned to leave, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion, when his voice stopped you.
"Where are you going?"
"To the blue guest room," you replied without turning. "I think we both need space tonight."
He made no move to stop you as you left the sitting room, your anniversary dress rustling softly with each step. The grand staircase seemed longer than usual, each step an effort. Behind you, you heard the clink of glass—Jungwon pouring another drink, perhaps, or simply moving restlessly in the silent house.
The blue guest room was immaculate, as was every room in the mansion, but it felt cold and impersonal. You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your evening dress, too tired even to cry. The confrontation had drained you completely, leaving nothing but a hollow ache where hope had once resided.
From the nightstand, your phone chimed with a message. Mechanically, you reached for it, expecting perhaps your mother-in-law with some post-dinner comment.
Instead, it was Jungwon.
I do want you. I always have. That's what frightens me.
You stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as you read them over and over. A text message—that was what it had taken to finally glimpse the man behind the mask. Not a conversation, not a touch, but characters on a screen.
Another message appeared below the first.
I'm sorry. I should have said this to your face.
I'll be in the study when you're ready to talk. No matter how late.
The formality, even now. The careful distance maintained even in apology. You placed the phone back on the nightstand without responding, a weariness settling over you that went beyond physical exhaustion.
For a moment, you sat motionless on the edge of the guest bed, the weight of the past year pressing down on your shoulders. The perfect house with its perfect furnishings suddenly felt suffocating—every object a reminder of the performance your life had become.
You rose and moved to the window, pressing your palm against the cool glass. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the night remained dark and close. The mansion grounds, usually so meticulously maintained, seemed oppressive in their perfection. Even the garden paths were laid out with mathematical precision, every plant and stone exactly where it should be.
Like you. Exactly where you should be. The proper wife in her proper place.
The realization came suddenly, with absolute clarity: you couldn't stay here tonight. Not in this guest room, not in this house, not with Jungwon waiting in his study for a conversation that would likely end with more careful words and measured promises.
You needed air. Space. A place where you could remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.
With deliberate movements, you changed out of your evening dress and into simple clothes. Packed a small overnight bag with essentials. Found your personal credit card—the one not connected to the Yang family accounts.
You hesitated only when it came time to write a note. What could you possibly say that wouldn't be misinterpreted or dismissed? In the end, you kept it simple:
I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
You left it on the bed, where it would surely be found when someone came looking for you. Then, silently, you made your way down the service stairs and through the side entrance—avoiding the main foyer where you might encounter Jungwon.
The night air hit your face as you stepped outside, cool and clean and startlingly fresh. You took a deep breath, perhaps the first real one in months, and felt something inside you loosen just slightly.
You didn't call for the driver. Instead, you walked down the long driveway and past the gates, your heartbeat quickening with each step that took you farther from the mansion. Only when you reached the main road did you order a rideshare, giving the address of an old friend—one who predated your marriage, who had no connection to the Yang family circle.
As the car pulled away, you glanced back at the house—a magnificent silhouette against the night sky, lights burning in the study window where Jungwon waited for a conversation that wouldn't happen tonight.
Tomorrow would bring complications, explanations, perhaps reconciliation. But tonight, for the first time in a year, you were choosing yourself.
Your phone buzzed with a message from Jungwon.
Are you coming down?
You turned off the notifications and watched the mansion recede in the distance, growing smaller until it disappeared from view entirely.
-
The city lights blurred through your tears as the car wound its way through the quiet streets. The driver, sensing your distress, maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing at you in the rearview mirror with concern. You kept your face turned toward the window, watching as elite neighborhoods gave way to more modest surroundings.
When the car finally pulled up outside Leah's apartment building, you sat motionless for a moment, suddenly uncertain. It was past midnight. What if she wasn't home? What if she had company? What if—
"We're here, ma'am," the driver said gently, interrupting your spiraling thoughts.
"Thank you," you managed, gathering your small bag and stepping out into the night.
Leah's building was nothing like the Yang mansion—a six-story pre-war structure with a faded charm that stood in stark contrast to the sleek modernity you'd grown accustomed to. You hesitated at the entrance, then pressed her apartment number on the intercom.
After a long moment, a sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"
"Leah," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "It's me. I'm sorry it's so late, but—"
"Oh my god!" The sleepiness vanished instantly. "Are you okay? I'm buzzing you up right now."
The door clicked open, and you made your way to the third floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Before you could even knock, Leah's door swung open, revealing your oldest friend in mismatched pajamas, her curly hair wild around her face.
"What happened?" she demanded, then stopped as she took in your appearance—the elegant makeup now streaked with tears, the designer clothes hastily exchanged for whatever you'd grabbed, the overnight bag clutched in your trembling hand.
"Oh, honey," she said, simply opening her arms.
Something inside you broke. You stumbled forward into her embrace and the tears you'd been holding back for months—perhaps for the entire year of your marriage—finally erupted. Great, heaving sobs that shook your entire body, that made it impossible to speak or breathe or think.
Leah didn't ask questions. She simply guided you inside, closing the door behind you, and held you while you fell apart. Her apartment was cluttered and lived-in, books stacked on every surface, half-finished art projects leaning against walls—the complete opposite of your sterile perfection at the mansion.
"I can't—" you tried to speak, but the words dissolved into more tears.
"Shh," she soothed, leading you to her worn but comfortable couch. "Just breathe. That's all you need to do right now."
You don't know how long you cried—long enough for your eyes to swell, for your throat to grow raw, for Leah's shoulder to become damp with your tears. Eventually, the storm subsided enough for you to become aware of your surroundings again. Leah had wrapped a soft blanket around your shoulders and was pressing a mug of hot tea into your hands.
"Small sips," she instructed, settling beside you. "It has honey for your throat."
You obeyed, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily calming the chaos inside you.
"I left him," you said finally, your voice hoarse from crying.
Leah's eyebrows shot up. "Jungwon? You left Jungwon?"
"Just for tonight. Maybe a few days. I don't know." You shook your head, struggling to articulate the tangle of emotions. "I couldn't breathe there anymore, Leah. In that perfect house with its perfect things and its perfect emptiness."
"I always wondered," she said cautiously, "if you were really happy. You stopped talking about the real stuff after the wedding. It was all charity events and dinner parties, but never... you know. The actual marriage part."
"There was no marriage part," you confessed, fresh tears threatening. "That's the problem. We live side by side like strangers. Polite, distant strangers who happen to share the same address."
Leah reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. "Did something specific happen tonight?"
You nodded, the evening's confrontation flashing through your mind in painful fragments. "We had our anniversary dinner with his parents. And after they left, I just... broke. All the things I've been holding back for a year came pouring out."
"Good for you," Leah said firmly.
"Is it?" You looked at her, uncertain. "I said terrible things, Leah. I accused him of seeing me as nothing but a showpiece, a means to an heir. I asked if he was repulsed by me. If he was sleeping with someone else."
"And what did he say?"
"He was shocked, mostly. I don't think anyone's ever spoken to him like that before." You took another sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. "But then he said something about... about wanting me but being afraid of needing someone. Of being vulnerable."
Leah nodded thoughtfully. "That actually makes a strange kind of sense. Your husband always struck me as someone who keeps himself under tight control."
"You've met him twice," you pointed out with a watery smile.
"Twice was enough." She grinned briefly, then grew serious again. "So what happens now?"
You shook your head, feeling utterly lost. "I don't know. I just knew I had to get out of there tonight. To remember what it feels like to be... me. Not Mrs. Yang, not the society hostess, just me."
"Well, you came to the right place," Leah said, gesturing around her chaotic apartment. "Nothing perfect or polished here. Just real life in all its messy glory."
For the first time that night, you felt a small laugh bubble up. "I've missed this. I've missed you."
"I've been right here," she reminded you gently. "You're the one who got swept up into the Yang universe."
The observation stung because it contained truth. After the wedding, you had gradually withdrawn from your old friendships, immersing yourself in the role expected of Jungwon's wife. It hadn't been a conscious choice, but rather a slow submersion into a new identity that had eventually consumed the person you used to be.
"I don't know who I am anymore," you confessed, the realization dawning as you spoke it. "I've spent so long being what everyone else needed me to be that I've forgotten what I actually want."
"Then maybe that's what this time away is for," Leah suggested. "To remember."
You nodded, exhaustion suddenly washing over you. The emotional release had drained what little energy you had left after the confrontation with Jungwon.
"The guest room is a disaster area right now—art supplies everywhere," Leah said apologetically.
"The couch is perfect," you assured her, overwhelmed.
"Shut up, you'll sleep next to me,"
-
Jungwon sat in his study, crystal tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him, as he stared at his phone screen. The message showed as delivered, but not yet read. He refreshed the screen again, a gesture he'd repeated dozens of times in the last hour.
Are you coming down?
The timestamp mocked him. It had been nearly two hours since he'd sent it, and still no response. Unease had gradually transformed into concern, then alarm when he'd finally ventured upstairs to find the blue guest room empty, save for a handwritten note on the perfectly made bed.
I need space to breathe. Please don't follow me. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
The words had hit him with physical force. He stood there staring at the note, reading it over and over as if the sparse sentences might reveal some hidden meaning. Space to breathe. Had he really been suffocating you all this time without realizing it?
Now, back in his study, Jungwon fought against his instinct to act—to call security, to track your phone, to send drivers searching the city. You had asked for space. Following you would only prove that he couldn't respect your wishes, your independence. The very thing he'd convinced himself he'd been protecting all this time.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Jungwon picked up his phone again, debating whether to try calling. His thumb hovered over your contact information before he set the device down with a sigh of frustration. What would he even say if you answered? The right words had eluded him for an entire year of marriage; they weren't likely to materialize now, in the middle of the night, after the worst fight of your relationship.
A relationship. Was that even the right word for what you had? You had called it a "business arrangement with living quarters," and the brutal accuracy of the description had left him speechless.
Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it completely. The careful composure he maintained at all times had crumbled the moment he'd found your note. Now, alone in his study, there was no one to witness his distress, his uncertainty, his fear.
Fear. That was the emotion he'd denied for so long, burying it beneath layers of control and duty. Fear of needing someone. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of repeating his father's cold, loveless existence.
And in trying to avoid his father's mistakes, he had made his own. Different in method, perhaps, but identical in result: a wife who felt unseen, unwanted.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed two in the morning. Jungwon hadn't slept, had barely moved from his position at the desk. The silence of the mansion pressed in around him, no longer the peaceful quiet he'd always preferred, but an emptiness that echoed your absence.
On impulse, he rose and left the study, walking through the darkened house toward the master suite. Inside the bedroom, everything remained exactly as you'd both left it hours earlier—your perfume bottle on the vanity, your book on the nightstand, your robe draped over a chair. He moved to your side of the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and picked up the book you'd been reading.
A collection of poetry. Jungwon hadn't even known you liked poetry.
What else didn't he know about the woman he'd married? What interests, dreams, fears had you kept hidden—or worse, had tried to share only to be met with his characteristic reserve?
He opened the book to where a silk bookmark held your place. The poem was circled lightly in pencil:
Between what is said and not meant, And what is meant and not said, Most of love is lost.
The simple lines struck him with unexpected force. Jungwon stared at the words, wondering how many times you had tried to tell him what you needed, how many signals he had missed or misinterpreted.
From his pocket, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. His heart leapt as he fumbled to answer, but the caller ID showed his father's name, not yours.
"Father," he answered, struggling to keep his voice even. "It's very late."
"Where is your wife?" Mr. Yang's voice was sharp, cutting through the pretense of pleasantries.
Jungwon tensed. "How did you—"
"Mrs. Park saw her getting into a taxi. Alone. After midnight. She naturally called your mother with concerns."
Of course. The gossip network never slept. "She's visiting a friend," he said carefully.
"In the middle of the night? Without you?" His father's skepticism was palpable. "Do you take me for a fool, Jungwon? What's going on?"
A familiar pattern attempted to reassert itself—the urge to placate his father, to maintain appearances, to ensure the Yang family reputation remained unsullied. For a moment, he almost slipped into the expected response.
But the circled poem caught his eye again. Most of love is lost. He couldn't lose any more.
"We had a disagreement," Jungwon said finally, the admission feeling like ripping off a bandage. "She needed some space."
"A disagreement?" His father's tone grew icier. "Serious enough for her to leave the house? To risk being seen by others, creating speculation? What were you thinking, allowing this?"
The word "allowing" ignited something in him—a flicker of the same defiance he'd felt when his father had demanded he end his college relationship.
"I wasn't 'allowing' anything, Father. She's my wife, not my subordinate. She made a choice, and I'm respecting it."
The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Never in his adult life had Jungwon spoken to his father with such open opposition.
"This is unacceptable," Mr. Yang said finally. "You will resolve whatever childish spat has occurred and bring her home immediately. The gala next week—"
"Is not as important as my marriage," Jungwon interrupted, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.
"Your marriage? Suddenly you care about your marriage?" His father's laugh was without humor. "For a year you've treated it exactly as I advised—as a beneficial arrangement. Now you're telling me you've developed feelings? Become sentimental?"
The contempt in the older man's voice was unmistakable, but instead of cowering as he might have in the past, Jungwon felt a strange calm settle over him.
"Yes," he said simply. "I have feelings for my wife. I always have. And I've been wrong to hide them."
"This is disappointing, Jungwon. I expected better from you."
"I'm beginning to think your expectations are precisely the problem, Father." Jungwon took a deep breath. "I need to go now. It's late, and I have some thinking to do."
"Don't you dare hang up on—"
Jungwon ended the call, staring at the phone in mild disbelief at his own actions. Then, with deliberate movements, he silenced the device and set it aside.
Returning to the poetry book, he carefully noted the page number of the circled poem, then moved through the house to your closet. There, among the designer clothes and accessories, he searched for some clue to the woman behind the perfect facade—the woman he'd married but never truly allowed himself to know.
In the back of a drawer, he found a small wooden box, simple and clearly personal. For a moment, his ingrained respect for privacy warred with his desperate need to understand you. Privacy won—he couldn't begin rebuilding trust by violating it—but the box's existence gave him hope. There were parts of yourself you'd kept separate from your arranged life, a core identity preserved despite the pressures of being Mrs. Yang.
Jungwon returned to the study, his earlier paralysis replaced by a growing resolve. He wouldn't chase you—you'd asked for space, and he would respect that. But he could prepare for your return, could begin the work of becoming someone worthy of a second chance.
The task seemed monumentally difficult, decades of conditioning standing in opposition to what he now knew he needed to do. He had no model for the kind of husband he wanted to become, no example of vulnerability balanced with strength.
But for the first time since you'd walked out, Jungwon felt something like hope. If you gave him the chance, he would find a way to be better. To be real. To tear down the walls he'd built over a lifetime of emotional suppression.
Dawn was breaking outside the study windows when he finally drafted a message, simple and without expectation:
I understand you need space, and I respect that. I'll be here when you're ready to talk—whether that's tomorrow or next week. I'm sorry for a year of silence. I'm listening now.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then set the phone down and moved to the window. Outside, the gardens were beginning to emerge from darkness, the first light revealing dew on the perfectly manicured lawns.
For once, Jungwon didn't see the perfection. Instead, he noticed how the morning light caught in a spider's web between two branches, transforming the fragile structure into something beautiful and strong. Perhaps there was a lesson there, in vulnerability's unexpected resilience.
As the mansion gradually woke around him—staff arriving, coffee brewing, the day's preparations beginning—Jungwon remained at the window, watching the light change and wondering if you, wherever you were, might be watching the same sunrise.
-
The mansion felt impossibly silent as Jungwon moved through the darkened hallways, your poetry book clutched in his hand like a lifeline. Sleep had become not just elusive but impossible, the vast emptiness of your shared bed a physical manifestation of what had been missing between you for a year. The sheets still carried your scent—a subtle perfume that he'd never properly acknowledged until now, when its absence made the fabric seem cold and lifeless.
He couldn't bear to remain in that room, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand nights spent in careful distance. Instead, he found himself back in his study, the room that had been his refuge from intimacy for so long. Now it felt like a prison of his own making, walls lined with business achievements that suddenly seemed hollow.
With trembling hands, he placed your book on his desk and opened it once more to the marked page, the one with the circled verse that had first pierced his carefully constructed armor:
Between what is said and not meant,
And what is meant and not said,
Most of love is lost.
His fingers traced your handwriting in the margin—small, delicate notes that revealed more about your inner thoughts than a year of careful conversation had. Next to this poem, you'd written simply: Us? with the question mark trailing off like a fading hope.
One word, followed by a question mark. So much longing contained in those three small letters. Had you written this recently, or months ago? Had you been silently questioning the emptiness between you while he maintained his facade of contentment?
Jungwon turned the page, discovering more of your markings. Some poems had stars beside them, others had entire stanzas underlined. Some had exclamation points, others question marks. It was like finding a secret language, a code he should have deciphered long ago.
A poem about two rivers running parallel without ever meeting carried your annotation: This is what marriage feels like. So close yet never touching.
His breath caught. When had you written that? While lying beside him in bed, bodies carefully not touching? While sitting across from him at breakfast, exchanging polite comments about the day ahead?
He continued reading, unable to stop himself now. Each page revealed more of your hidden inner life. A poem about seasonal changes had reminds me of childhood summers before expectations written in the margin. Another about distant mountains carried the note wish we could travel together somewhere without his family or business associates.
Each annotation was a window into desires you'd never expressed, dreams you'd kept hidden. Why had he never asked what you wanted? Where you longed to go? What made you happy?
The night deepened around him, but Jungwon barely noticed. He was falling into your world, glimpsing for the first time the woman behind the perfect wife he'd taken for granted.
Then he found a page with the corner folded down, a poem about physical love:
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Your handwriting beside it was more hurried, almost feverish: too much to hope for? would he ever lose control enough?
Jungwon's throat tightened painfully. All those nights lying beside you, maintaining a careful distance, while you marked poems about passion and wrote desperate questions no one would see. How many nights had you lain awake, wanting him to reach for you? How many times had you considered reaching for him, only to retreat in fear of rejection?
He turned more pages, finding increasingly intimate selections. Next to Pablo Neruda's words:
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes
You'd written: I dream of his mouth on my skin. Would he be disgusted by such thoughts?
The pain that shot through him was physical. Disgusted? How could you think that? But then, what else could you think when he'd maintained such careful distance, when he'd retreated to his study each night rather than face the vulnerability of desire?
Another poem, this one about hands tracing the geography of a lover's body, carried your note: I've memorized the shape of his hands during dinner parties, imagined them on me instead of on his wine glass.
Jungwon looked down at his own hands, remembering all the times they'd almost touched you—passing dishes at dinner, handing you into the car, the brief contact when giving you a gift—and how he'd always pulled back just slightly too soon. What would have happened if he'd let his fingers linger? If he'd given in to the urge to trace the line of your jaw, to feel the softness of your skin?
Hours passed as he lost himself in your secret thoughts. Some poems had tear stains, barely perceptible wrinkles in the paper where droplets had fallen and dried. Those broke him most of all—the tangible evidence of your solitary tears, shed perhaps just feet away from where he sat working, oblivious to your pain.
One poem about loneliness had simply: I am disappearing inside this house, inside this marriage, becoming nothing but "Mrs. Yang" scrawled across the bottom in handwriting that shook with emotion.
Dawn found him still at his desk, eyes burning from reading and from tears he hadn't realized he was shedding. The morning staff moved quietly through the house, shocked to see him disheveled and unshaven, the immaculate Yang heir looking like a man undone.
He ignored their concerned glances, your poetry book still open before him. But it wasn't enough. One book couldn't contain all of you. He needed more.
"Sir," the housekeeper approached hesitantly as Jungwon emerged from his study, still in yesterday's clothes, "would you like your breakfast now?"
"No," he replied, his voice hoarse from a night without sleep. "I need to see all of Madame's books. Every book in this house that she's ever touched."
The housekeeper exchanged a worried glance with the butler. "All of them, sir?"
"Every single one. Novels, poetry, anything with her handwriting in it. Bring them to the library."
He moved with feverish purpose to the library, pulling books from shelves himself—any that showed signs of your touch. Dog-eared pages, bookmarks, the slight cracking of spines that indicated frequent opening to favorite passages.
Throughout the day, the staff delivered more and more books—novels from your nightstand, reference books from the sunroom shelves, journals from your writing desk. Jungwon created careful piles around him, transforming the library floor into a map of your mind.
He found a travel book about Greece with dozens of Post-it notes marking specific locations. The private cove where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked read one note that made his heart race. Another, beside a picture of a small village: No social obligations, no family expectations—heaven.
You'd been dreaming of escape. From the mansion, from the Yang name, from him? The thought was unbearable.
In your copy of Jane Eyre, he found your underlining of Rochester's passionate declaration: "I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you." Beside it, your handwriting: To be truly SEEN by someone. What would that feel like?
"Oh god," he whispered, the words escaping involuntarily. "You've never felt seen."
How could he have failed so completely? He, who prided himself on his attention to detail in business, had missed everything that mattered about the woman who shared his home, his name, his bed.
As afternoon turned to evening, Jungwon discovered a small leather journal tucked between larger books on a bottom shelf. He hesitated, knowing this was crossing a line from reading your notes to reading your private thoughts. But his need to know you, to understand what he'd missed, overrode his sense of propriety.
The journal wasn't a diary but a collection of poems you'd written yourself, clumsy in places but raw with emotion:
I practice conversations with you in my head
Witty things I might say that would make you look at me
Really look at me
But when you enter the room
My words evaporate like morning dew
And we speak of dinner parties and business associates
Never of stars or dreams or why your eyes
Sometimes follow me when you think I don't notice
Jungwon felt his careful composure—the mask he'd worn his entire adult life—shatter completely. You had seen him watching you. Had known there was something beneath his polite facade. But he'd never given you enough to be sure, had never been brave enough to let you see his wanting.
Another poem, dated just two months ago:
Your fingers brushed mine as you handed me a glass
Accidental touch that burned through my skin
I wonder if you felt it too
That current between us, electric and dangerous
Or if I imagined it, desperate for connection
For any sign that beneath your perfect suit
Beats a heart that could want me
As much as I want you
He had felt it. Every accidental touch, every brush of your hand, every moment when you stood close enough that he could smell your perfume. He had felt everything and denied it all, retreating into work and duty and the expectations drilled into him since childhood.
The worst entry was the most recent, written just days before your anniversary:
One year of marriage
Three hundred sixty-five nights of lying beside him
Listening to his breathing
Wondering if he's awake
Wondering if he ever thinks of touching me
Of breaking through the invisible wall between us
One year of perfect Mrs. Yang While the woman inside me slowly suffocates
Sometimes I think if I just reached for him once
If I was brave enough to cross that divide
But what if his rejection destroyed the last piece of me
That still believes I'm worthy of being
Wanted.
Jungwon closed the journal, his vision blurred with tears. You had been silently begging for him to reach across the divide while he had been congratulating himself on respecting your independence. The magnitude of his failure crushed him.
He didn't eat that day. Didn't change clothes. Didn't acknowledge the increasingly concerned staff who hovered at the library's periphery. Instead, he immersed himself in your hidden world, learning you through the books you'd loved, the passages you'd marked, the words you'd written when you thought no one would see.
Dawn arrived, but Jungwon had lost all sense of time. The library floor was covered with open books, each one containing fragments of your soul. He had read himself into a state of emotional exhaustion, discovering more and more evidence of your loneliness, your desire, your gradual loss of hope.
A desperate energy seized him. Reading wasn't enough. He needed to act, to change, to create physical evidence of his awakening before you returned—if you returned.
He summoned the head gardener, ignoring the man's shocked expression at his disheveled appearance.
"I need every peony on the estate moved to the front garden," he announced, his voice rough from disuse. "Every single one. From all the gardens, the greenhouse, everywhere."
"Sir, that would be hundreds of plants," the gardener protested. "And the formal design—"
"I don't care about the design," Jungwon interrupted, thinking of a note he'd found beside a picture of a wild garden: Why must everything be so ordered? So perfect? I long for beautiful chaos. "I want them arranged naturally. The way they would grow if they chose their own placement."
"But sir, your mother's landscape plan—"
"Is no longer relevant." Jungwon's eyes flashed with an intensity that made the gardener step back. "The peonies were always her choice, not my wife's. I want a garden that reflects what she loves."
"This will take all day, possibly longer," the gardener warned.
"Then start immediately. And I need something else. The bookshelves from the east parlor—bring them to the east garden. All of them."
The staff exchanged alarmed glances, but Jungwon was beyond caring about their concerns. He continued issuing instructions, driven by the need to transform the mansion—to break the perfect mold that had trapped you both.
"Sir," the butler ventured cautiously when the others had gone to carry out these strange orders, "perhaps you should rest. You haven't slept or eaten—"
"How can I rest?" Jungwon's voice broke with emotion. "Do you know what I've discovered? She's been living here for a year, lonely and unfulfilled, while I congratulated myself on being a proper husband. I've failed her completely."
The butler, who had served the Yang family for decades, had never seen the young master in such a state. "Sir, if I may... it's never too late to change course."
Jungwon looked at him sharply. "Have you seen her? Has she contacted anyone?"
"No, sir. But knowing Madame, she's not one to leave matters unresolved."
With renewed determination, Jungwon returned to the library. He selected dozens of books containing your most revealing notes and had them brought to the east garden. As the shelves were positioned on the grass, he began arranging the books, creating a physical testament to what he'd learned.
The gardeners worked throughout the day, transplanting hundreds of peonies to the front garden in a naturalistic arrangement that would horrify his mother but, he hoped, would speak to you. The once-formal approach to the house transformed into an explosion of your favorite flowers, arranged with the organic randomness of nature rather than the rigid precision of Yang tradition.
By late afternoon, Jungwon had created an outdoor library in the east garden—the private corner of the grounds where you often walked alone. He placed books on the shelves and opened others on the grass around him, creating a circle of revelations.
He had sent the staff away, needing to be alone with the evidence of his awakening. His phone buzzed repeatedly—his father, his mother, business associates all demanding attention. He ignored them all.
Instead, he picked up your poetry journal again, reading and rereading your most vulnerable confessions. The precise handwriting becoming more jagged with emotion. The careful Mrs. Yang breaking through to the woman beneath.
As sunset painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, Jungwon sat amidst the books, surrounded by the fragments of you he'd collected, feeling more alive and more terrified than he had ever been. What if it was too late? What if you had already decided that the year of emotional solitude was too high a price for the Yang name and fortune?
He wouldn't blame you. How could he? He had offered you everything except himself.
Night fell, and still he remained in the garden, under stars you had once described in a margin note as witnesses to all our silent longings. He read your words by the light of lanterns the staff had silently provided, losing himself in the labyrinth of your unspoken desires.
In the faint light, he reread the poem that had started his journey—the one about love lost between what is said and not meant, what is meant and not said. He traced your question mark with his finger, feeling the slight indentation in the paper where you had pressed the pen, perhaps harder than you intended, the physical evidence of your frustration.
"I see you now," he whispered to the empty garden, to the books that held pieces of your soul. "I see you, and I'm terrified it's too late."
The night deepened around him, but Jungwon remained among the books, keeping vigil, waiting, hoping you would come home—and fearing you would not.
-
Five days since you'd left. Five days of freedom from the perfect imprisonment that had become your life. Five days to remember who you were before becoming Mrs. Yang.
On the morning of the sixth day, as you sat on Leah's small balcony with a chipped mug of coffee, your phone lit up with a text from Jungwon's personal assistant.
Mr. Yang has canceled all appointments for the foreseeable future. The household staff reports concerning behavior. If you could contact them, they would be grateful.
You stared at the message, rereading it several times. Jungwon never canceled appointments. Even when he'd had the flu last winter, he'd conducted meetings by video rather than reschedule. His schedule was sacred, immovable.
"What's wrong?" Leah asked, noticing your expression.
You handed her the phone. She read the message and raised her eyebrows.
"Sounds like someone's having a breakdown."
"Jungwon doesn't have breakdowns," you said automatically, then paused. The man you'd confronted before leaving—the one who'd admitted his fear of vulnerability, who'd texted you his feelings rather than say them aloud—perhaps that man did have breakdowns after all.
"Are you going to go check on him?" Leah asked.
You sighed, setting down your coffee. "I have to, don't I? At the very least, I need to get more of my things." You'd left with only a small overnight bag, having no plan beyond escape.
"Want me to come with you?"
"No," you said, more decisively than you felt. "This is something I need to do alone."
As you showered and dressed, you tried to prepare yourself for what awaited. Would Jungwon be coldly angry, his moment of vulnerability already locked away? Would he have summoned his parents, ready for a united front to convince you of your duties? Or would he simply be absent, buried in work as a shield against emotion?
In the rideshare on the way to the mansion, you rehearsed what to say. You would be calm but firm. This wasn't about blame anymore but about whether a real marriage was possible between you. You needed honesty, vulnerability, true partnership—not just the performance of marriage you'd endured for a year.
But as the car approached the gates of the estate, your carefully prepared speech evaporated. The formal gardens that had always greeted visitors with mathematical precision had been transformed. Instead of the orderly rows of seasonal blooms, there was a riot of peonies—your favorite flower—planted in natural, wild groupings that looked almost as if they had grown there spontaneously.
"Wait here," you told the driver. "I may not be staying."
As you walked up the long driveway, your heart hammered against your ribs. The front door opened before you reached it, the butler appearing with an expression of profound relief.
"Madame," he said, bowing slightly. "Thank goodness you've returned."
"I'm not staying necessarily," you clarified, stepping into the foyer. "I just came to—" You stopped, noticing more changes. The formal floral arrangements that always occupied the entryway tables had been replaced with wild, exuberant bouquets of peonies and wildflowers. "What's happening here?"
"Mr. Yang has been... making adjustments to the household," the butler replied diplomatically. "He's in the east garden. He's been there nearly two days now."
Two days? "Is he... is he all right?"
The butler hesitated. "I believe he's waiting for you, Madame."
You made your way through the house, noting more changes as you went. Books that had always been perfectly arranged on shelves now sat in haphazard stacks on tables, many open to specific pages. Your books, you realized, from your private collection.
When you reached the doors leading to the east garden—your favorite part of the grounds, where you often walked alone—you paused, gathering your courage.
Nothing could have prepared you for what you found.
The garden had been transformed into an outdoor library. Bookshelves stood on the grass in a semicircle, filled with books—your books—many open to display specific pages. And in the center, sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by open volumes, was Jungwon.
You'd never seen him like this. His usually immaculate appearance was completely undone—hair disheveled, several days' stubble on his jaw, clothes rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was reading intently from what you recognized as your private poetry journal, his expression a mixture of pain and wonder.
He looked up as your shadow fell across the page, and the naked hope and fear in his eyes made your breath catch.
"You came back," he said, his voice rough as if from disuse.
"What is all this?" you asked, gesturing to the surreal scene around you.
Jungwon carefully closed your journal and set it aside. He rose slowly to his feet, a man moving carefully so as not to shatter something fragile.
"I've been trying to find you," he said. "The real you. The one I should have been looking for all along."
You stepped closer, picking up one of the books from the grass. It was your copy of Neruda's love sonnets, open to a page where you'd scribbled Would he ever touch me like this? in the margin.
Heat rose to your face. "You've been reading my private notes?"
"Yes." Jungwon didn't try to justify or excuse it. "I needed to understand what I'd missed, what I'd ignored. I needed to see you—really see you."
You should have been angry at the invasion of privacy, but something in his broken expression stopped your protest. This wasn't the controlled, perfect Jungwon Yang you'd married. This was someone else entirely—raw, desperate, real.
"Do you have any idea," he continued, taking a step toward you, "how much you've wanted? How much you've needed? All these books, all these words you've underlined, notes you've written—they're full of longing I never acknowledged."
You remained silent, unsure what to say as he moved closer, stopping just short of touching you.
"I found your poem about lying beside me at night, wondering if I was awake, wondering if I ever thought about touching you." His voice broke slightly. "I did. Every night. I lay there wanting you, terrified of reaching for you, convinced that maintaining distance was the same as showing respect."
Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he must hear it. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I almost lost you." The simple truth hung in the air between you. "Because I realized that the thing I feared most—vulnerability, need, the possibility of rejection—was nothing compared to the emptiness of letting you walk away without ever knowing how much I want you. How much I've always wanted you."
To your shock, Jungwon suddenly dropped to his knees before you, looking up with eyes that held none of his usual composure.
"I don't deserve another chance," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "I've been a coward, hiding behind duty and family expectations. But if you're willing—if there's any part of you that believes we could start again—I swear I will spend every day trying to be worthy of you."
You stood frozen, overwhelmed by his declaration, by the sight of Jungwon Yang—heir to an empire, always in perfect control—on his knees before you, walls finally shattered.
"I want to build a life with you," he continued, the words spilling out as if he couldn't contain them any longer. "A real life, not this performance we've been trapped in. I want mornings where we don't pretend to sleep through each other's routines. I want to hear about your day and tell you about mine. I want to take you to that cove in Greece where no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked."
Your cheeks flamed at the reference to your private note in the travel book.
"I've read every word you've written in the margins," he confessed, his voice dropping lower. "I've memorized your poetry. The ones you circled, the ones you starred. Neruda's words—'I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees'—I understand them now. I feel them in my veins."
His eyes locked with yours, their intensity almost unbearable.
"I dream of you. Of being inside you. Of knowing nothing but the depth of your eyes when you look at me. Of drowning in your skin until my mind forgets every lesson in restraint I've ever learned." His voice shook slightly. "All those nights I lay beside you, rigid with control, while you wrote of desire in book margins—it was never indifference. It was fear. Fear of how completely I would surrender to you if I allowed myself a single touch."
You couldn't breathe, couldn't speak as he continued, years of suppressed desire breaking through the dam of his composure.
"I found where you wrote 'would he ever lose control enough?' The answer is yes. God, yes. Every moment of every day I've wanted to lose myself in you. To press you against walls, to taste every inch of your skin, to hear my name in your voice when I'm buried so deep inside you that we can't tell where I end and you begin."
He trembled visibly now, hands clenched at his sides to keep from reaching for you.
"I want children who know their father can feel, can love," he went on, his voice breaking. "I want to be the man you deserve—not the perfect Yang heir, but a husband who sees you, hears you, wants you exactly as you are."
Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. This was what you'd wanted—wasn't it? The real man beneath the perfect facade. But now that he was here, raw and vulnerable, you found yourself terrified of your own power to hurt him, to be hurt again.
"I don't know if I can trust this," you admitted softly. "What happens when your father calls? When your mother visits? When business demands return? Will you retreat back behind those walls you've built over a lifetime?"
Jungwon nodded, acknowledging the fairness of your question. "I already told my father I won't be controlled by his expectations anymore. I hung up on him—" He gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "I actually hung up on him when he tried to order me to bring you back for appearances' sake."
Your eyes widened. In the Yang family hierarchy, defying the patriarch was unthinkable.
"I can't promise I'll never struggle," Jungwon continued. "A lifetime of conditioning doesn't disappear in a week. But I can promise to try. To talk instead of withdraw. To let you see me—all of me, even the parts I was taught to hide." He swallowed hard. "And I can promise that no business meeting, no family obligation, nothing will ever be more important to me than you are."
The morning sunlight filtered through the garden trees, casting dappled light across his face, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes, the vulnerability in his expression. In that moment, all the trappings of wealth and status fell away, leaving just a man asking a woman for another chance.
"I love you," he said quietly, the words clearly strange on his tongue. "I think I have from the beginning, but I didn't know how to show it, how to say it, how to let myself feel it without fear."
Your carefully constructed walls began to crumble. The honesty in his eyes, the tremor in his voice—this wasn't another performance. This was real in a way nothing between you had been before.
You took a deep breath, making a decision that would change everything.
"Stand up," you said softly.
Jungwon rose slowly, uncertainty in every line of his body. He stood before you, not touching, waiting.
"I need time," you said finally. "Not away from you—I think we've had enough distance. But time here, together, building something real. Day by day. No quick fixes, no grand gestures, just... honest effort."
Relief washed over his face. "Anything. Whatever you need."
You reached out slowly, your hand trembling slightly as you placed it against his cheek. The stubble was rough under your palm—a tangible sign of his unraveling, his transformation.
"We start again," you said. "As equals. As partners. As two people choosing each other every day, not just fulfilling an arrangement."
Jungwon covered your hand with his own, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes," he agreed simply. "That's all I want. The chance to choose you, and to be chosen by you, every day."
You stood there in the garden surrounded by the evidence of his awakening—the books, the wildflowers, the breaking of perfect order that had defined your lives together. Nothing was resolved yet, not really. The real work of building a marriage would take time, patience, courage from both of you.
But as Jungwon's fingers tentatively interlaced with yours, you felt something you hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope.
Not the desperate hope that had led you to mark passages in poetry books, dreaming of connection. But a quieter, stronger hope built on the foundation of truth finally spoken, of walls finally breached.
A beginning, at last, after a year of beautiful emptiness.
-
The transformation didn't happen overnight. Real change never does. But it began with small, deliberate steps—each one a silent promise, a brick in the foundation of what you both hoped would become something genuine and lasting.
The first week was tentative, both of you navigating an unfamiliar landscape of honesty. You moved back into the master bedroom, but Jungwon slept on the chaise lounge across the room, respecting your need for physical space while closing the emotional distance. Each night, you talked—sometimes for hours—about everything and nothing. Your childhoods. Your dreams. The books that had shaped you. The places you longed to visit.
"I never knew you wanted to see Greece so badly," Jungwon said one evening, sitting cross-legged on the chaise, looking younger and more relaxed than you'd ever seen him. "We could go. Whenever you want."
"It's not just about going," you explained, hugging your knees to your chest as you sat against the headboard. "It's about going somewhere simply because we want to, not because it's expected or beneficial to the family business."
He nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "A trip just for us. No schedules, no business meetings disguised as vacations..."
"Exactly."
Two days later, you found a travel guide to the Greek islands on your pillow, with a note in Jungwon's precise handwriting: Pick the places that call to you. No expectations. No time limit. Just us.
-
The second week brought the first real test. Mrs. Yang arrived unannounced, sweeping into the foyer with the authority of someone who had never been denied entry.
"I've heard disturbing reports," she announced, eyeing the wildflower arrangements with thinly veiled distaste. "The garden completely rearranged. Appointments canceled. Your father says you're not taking his calls. And now this..." She gestured to the informality of the house, the books scattered on surfaces, the general disruption of the perfect order she'd helped establish.
In the past, Jungwon would have immediately adjusted his behavior to appease her. You braced yourself for his retreat back into the perfect son role.
Instead, he surprised you.
"Mother," he said calmly, "we're in the middle of some changes here. I should have called to tell you it's not a good time for a visit."
Her eyes widened. "Not a good time? Since when do I need an appointment to visit my own son's home?"
"Since now," Jungwon replied, his voice gentle but firm. "We're working on our marriage, and we need space to do that properly."
Mrs. Yang turned to you, expecting you to be the reasonable one, to smooth over this unprecedented friction. "Surely you understand that family obligations—"
"Are important," you finished for her, "but not more important than our relationship. Jungwon and I are learning to put each other first."
Her mouth opened and closed, momentarily speechless. "This is your influence," she finally said to you, her voice sharp. "My son has never been so disrespectful."
You felt Jungwon tense beside you, but before he could speak, you placed your hand on his arm. A silent communication—I've got this.
"It's not disrespect to establish healthy boundaries," you said, maintaining a respectful tone despite the accusation. "We both value you and Mr. Yang, but we're building something here that needs protection and care."
Mrs. Yang looked between the two of you, noting the united front, the way Jungwon stood slightly closer to you than necessary, the casual intimacy of your hand on his arm. Something in her calculation shifted.
"I see," she said finally. "Well. Call when you're ready to rejoin society. The foundation gala is in three weeks, and people will talk if you're absent."
"Let them talk," Jungwon said simply.
After she left, you turned to Jungwon, studying his face for signs of regret or anger. Instead, you found him looking almost relieved.
"That was the first time I've ever said no to her," he confessed with a shaky laugh. "It feels... terrifying. And right."
You squeezed his hand. "You were perfect."
"Not perfect," he corrected. "Real. There's a difference."
-
By the third week, physical barriers began to dissolve. Jungwon moved from the chaise to the bed, though always maintaining a careful distance. But one night, half-asleep and cold from the air conditioning, you instinctively shifted closer to his warmth. Without fully waking, he draped an arm over you, pulling you against him with a contented sigh.
You froze, suddenly wide awake, your heart racing at the casual intimacy. His breathing remained deep and even, clearly still asleep. Slowly, you relaxed into the embrace, allowing yourself to feel the solidity of him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth that radiated through his thin t-shirt.
It was the first time you'd slept in each other's arms. In the morning, when you both woke to find yourselves entangled, there was a moment of awkward uncertainty before Jungwon smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face.
"Good morning," he said softly, making no move to pull away.
"Good morning," you replied, marveling at how natural it felt to be here, in this moment, with him.
That day, the staff noticed the shift between you—the lingering glances, the casual touches as you passed each other, the private smiles. The mansion seemed to exhale, as if the building itself had been holding its breath, waiting for life to finally fill its rooms.
-
A month after your return, Jungwon came to you with a proposal.
"I've been thinking about the house," he said over breakfast, which you now took together every morning before he left for work. His schedule had been completely reorganized, with strict boundaries between work and home time. "It's beautiful, but it's never felt like ours. It's been my family's vision of what our home should be."
You nodded, understanding immediately. "It's always felt like living in a museum."
"Exactly." He pushed a folder across the table. "What would you think about this?"
Inside were architectural plans for a new house—smaller, more intimate, designed around shared spaces and natural light.
"You want to move?" you asked, surprised.
"I want us to build something that belongs to us," he clarified. "Something that reflects who we are together, not who everyone expects us to be."
You studied the plans more carefully, noting the library with two desks facing each other, the open kitchen designed for cooking together, the master bedroom with windows that would catch the sunrise.
"There's room for a nursery," you observed quietly, looking up to gauge his reaction.
His eyes softened. "I thought... someday... if we decided..." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I want children with you. Not for the Yang legacy, but because I can't imagine anything more beautiful than creating a family with you. But only when we're ready. Only when our foundation is solid."
You reached across the table, taking his hand. "I'd like that. Someday."
He squeezed your fingers, a simple gesture that had become precious in its newfound ease. "So, the house?"
"Yes," you decided. "Let's build something that's truly ours."
-
Two months into your new beginning, you attended your first social event as a changed couple. The charity auction—ironically, the same type of event where you'd played your roles so convincingly before—now became the stage for your authentic selves.
When you entered on Jungwon's arm, the subtle changes were immediately apparent to the careful observers of high society. The way his hand rested at the small of your back—not for show, but because he liked the connection to you. How he kept you within his sight even during separate conversations. The private smiles you exchanged across the room, small moments of complicity in the public setting.
Mrs. Singh approached you during a lull in the evening. "There's something different about you two," she observed shrewdly. "You seem... happier."
You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room. He was engaged in conversation but looked up at that exact moment, as if sensing your gaze, and smiled back with undisguised affection.
"We are," you replied simply.
Later, when the dancing began, Jungwon led you to the floor. Unlike the choreographed movements you'd performed at countless events before, this time he held you closer, his cheek occasionally brushing against your temple, his hand warm and secure against yours.
"Everyone's watching us," you murmured, feeling the weight of curious eyes.
"Let them," he replied, his lips close to your ear. "Maybe they'll learn something."
The evening continued, but unlike before, you weren't simply playing a part. The genuine connection between you was unmistakable, and as the night progressed, you felt something shift in the atmosphere around you. The calculated social maneuvering gave way to something more genuine, as if your authenticity had granted others permission to drop their own facades, if only slightly.
When you returned home that night, the tension that had always accompanied these performances was absent. Instead, there was a shared sense of accomplishment, of having navigated the social waters together without losing yourselves in the process.
"That wasn't so bad," Jungwon admitted as you both prepared for bed. "Being real in public."
"It was actually nice," you agreed, sitting at your vanity to remove your jewelry. "Though I think your mother nearly fainted when you declined the board seat Mr. Lee offered."
Jungwon laughed, the sound still new enough to delight you. "The old me would have accepted immediately, even though we both know it would have meant even less time at home." He moved behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "I have different priorities now."
He reached for the clasp of your necklace, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helped you remove it. The simple intimacy of the gesture—one that might have seemed ordinary in most marriages but was revolutionary in yours—made your breath catch.
When he finished, his hands remained on your shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the exposed skin above your dress. Your eyes met in the mirror, and the desire you saw there—no longer hidden or denied—sent heat cascading through you.
"May I kiss you?" he asked softly.
It wasn't your first kiss since the reconciliation—there had been gentle pecks, cautious explorations—but something about this moment felt different. More significant.
You turned to face him, rising from the vanity bench. "Yes."
He cupped your face with reverent hands, studying you as if committing every detail to memory, before leaning in slowly. The kiss began gentle but deepened as months of carefully banked desire kindled between you. His arms encircled your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the rapid beating of his heart against yours.
When you finally separated, both breathless, Jungwon rested his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispered, the words no longer strange or difficult but natural, necessary.
"I love you too," you replied, the truth of it filling every part of you.
That night, for the first time, you truly became husband and wife—not through social obligation or family expectation, but through choice. Through desire. Through love that had fought its way past barriers of conditioning and fear to find expression at last.
-
Six months after your confrontation, the new house was completed. It stood on a hillside overlooking the city, modern in design but warm in execution, with natural materials and spaces designed for living rather than showcasing wealth.
The move was symbolic in more ways than one—leaving behind the mansion with its rigid expectations and cold perfection, stepping into a home created specifically for the life you were building together.
On your first night there, after the movers had gone and the essentials were unpacked, Jungwon opened a bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses as you both stood in the expansive living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city lights spread below.
"To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.
"To us," you added, clinking your glass against his.
After you both drank, he set his glass aside and reached for your hand, his expression turning serious.
"I want to ask you something," he said, leading you to the sofa. When you were both seated, he took both your hands in his. "This past year—these six months especially—have been the most transformative of my life. I feel like I'm finally becoming the person I was meant to be, not the perfect heir my father designed."
You squeezed his hands encouragingly. "I'm proud of you. The changes you've made, the boundaries you've set—none of it has been easy."
"It's been worth it," he said simply. "And I want to keep growing, keep becoming better. With you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "Which is why I want to ask you to marry me. Again. For real this time."
He opened the box to reveal a ring nothing like the elaborate diamond he'd given you during your engagement. This one was simpler, more personal—a band of intertwined gold and platinum with a small sapphire that matched the color of your favorite flowers.
"Our first marriage was arranged for us," he continued. "I want this one to be chosen by us. No families planning, no strategic alliances, just two people who love each other deciding to build a life together."
Tears filled your eyes, but unlike the lonely tears you'd shed in that first year, these were born of joy, of wonder at how far you'd both come.
"Yes," you whispered, watching as he slipped the ring onto your finger, alongside the formal engagement diamond you still wore. The contrast between them—one chosen for appearance, one chosen for meaning—perfectly symbolized your journey.
"I thought we could have a small ceremony," Jungwon said, pulling you close. "Just us and a few people who truly care about our happiness. On that Greek island you've been reading about."
You laughed through your tears. "Your mother would never forgive us."
"She'll survive," he said with a smile. "This isn't about the Yang family or social connections or business advantages. It's about you and me, choosing each other. Every day. For the rest of our lives."
As you kissed to seal this new promise, you marveled at the journey that had brought you here—from empty performance to authentic partnership, from silent longing to expressed love, from arranged marriage to chosen commitment.
The road hadn't been smooth. There had been setbacks, moments when old patterns threatened to reassert themselves. There would be more challenges ahead, more work to maintain the vulnerability and honesty you'd fought so hard to establish.
But looking into Jungwon's eyes—eyes that now held nothing back from you—you knew with absolute certainty that the difficult path was worth it. That true connection, once found, was worth fighting for. That love, real love, could grow even from the most barren beginnings, if only given the chance to breathe.
-
The most shocking transformation in your renewed marriage wasn’t the tenderness.
It was the hunger.
Jungwon, who used to sleep with a polite space between your bodies, now touched you like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of distance.
The man who once bowed his head before kissing your hand now dropped to his knees and begged to taste you.
It was as if years of restraint had finally snapped—like some tight, internal knot had come undone—and he was feral from the release.
The first night you truly became intimate, you realized just how much he’d been suppressing.
His hands, once always tucked in his lap, now gripped your thighs like a lifeline, dragged you down onto the sheets with a growl. He shook when he touched you, but not from nerves—from sheer fucking relief.
His mouth, which had always only spoken in formal tones and quiet dinner conversation, now whispered against your skin—
“I’ve dreamed of spreading your legs and living between them.”
You gasped. He kissed lower. His breath hot between your thighs.
“Every night beside you, pretending I didn’t hear how you breathed heavier when I got too close. I wanted to fuck you so bad I used to take cold showers just to stop myself from humping the fucking mattress.”
You were already soaked, trembling.
You cupped his face, forced him to look up. “You don’t have to hold back anymore.”
His pupils were blown wide. He licked his lips, nodding.
“I don’t think I could if I tried.”
He broke.
He devoured your pussy like it owed him rent. Like it was his first and last meal.
No teasing. No patience. Just his tongue, buried deep, moaning into you like your taste was the only thing that ever made him lose his composure.
You came once on his mouth—fast and loud—and he didn’t even let up.
“Again,” he groaned, “fuck, again, I want to feel you fall apart.”
And when he finally hovered over you, flushed and trembling and naked between your legs?
“Tell me,” he whispered, cock dragging through your soaked folds, “tell me what you want. What you’ve been aching for. Let me ruin you the way I’ve dreamed about.”
So you did.
You told him all of it. The fantasies. The positions. The filthy little things you’d only ever written down in notebook margins when he was still cold and distant.
And Jungwon?
Did. Not. Flinch.
He nodded, breath shaking, and said—
“You want to be face down? Crying? Begging? I’ll give it to you. Just know when I start, I won’t stop until you’re fucked stupid.”
And he meant it.
He took you face down on the mattress, hips locked in place by his grip, his cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. He growled things you’d never imagined him saying—
“This pussy’s mine. All fucking mine. You think I don’t know how wet you get when I talk like this?”
“Look at you—slutty little wife, dripping down your thighs like you’ve been waiting to be treated like a whore.”
“How many times you make yourself cum thinking about me breaking like this, huh?”
You choked on your moans. You were sobbing by the time he made you cum again, legs shaking, jaw slack, vision blurry.
He kissed your spine afterward. Slowly. Tenderly. Like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides.
Pulled you into his arms and whispered, “I used to leave the room when I got too hard just looking at you. I thought wanting you like this made me weak. My father always said a Yang man should control his urges.”
He paused. Smiled against your neck.
“I’ve never been so happy to disappoint him.”
-
In the weeks that followed your first night together, the shift between you became impossible to ignore. And impossible to contain.
Jungwon couldn’t stop touching you.
He didn’t even try. His hand found yours under the breakfast table.
His palm slid across your lower back when you walked past him in the hallway—lingering there, possessive.
He stole kisses while you were brushing your teeth, while you answered the door, while you loaded the washing machine.
It was as if his body was always reaching, always chasing, making up for a year of self-denial all at once.
You gave in to him every time.
One afternoon, he came home early from the office to find you kneeling in the garden, soil smudged on your knees, digging holes for the last peony bush you’d saved from the mansion.
You didn’t hear him approach.
But you felt it—the change in the air. The heat behind you. The sound of breath catching.
Hands on your waist. A sharp inhale. And a low, devastating voice.
“That’s what I come home to?”
You turned your head, startled—and then flushed under the weight of his gaze.
He was already unbuttoning his sleeves.
Already breathing too hard.
“Jungwon—”
He hauled you to your feet. Didn’t flinch at the dirt. Didn’t care about the sunlight.
Just gripped your waist, pulled you close, and kissed you like you’d been killing him in his dreams. You gasped against his mouth, hands braced on his chest, heart pounding.
“What was that for?”
His eyes were black with need. He didn’t let you go.
“Because I can,” he said. “Because I spent a year not touching you. Not letting myself want you. Not letting myself want to bend you over every surface in our house.”
You trembled.
He pulled you closer.
“I refuse to waste another fucking day.”
The peonies were forgotten.
He dragged you inside, dirt on your hands, sweat beading on your spine—and kissed you again against the door.
His jacket hit the floor first. Then yours.
Then his belt, as he backed you into the living room like a man possessed.
When your knees hit the rug, he dropped with you.
Didn’t even bother removing your clothes properly—just shoved your dress up and pulled your underwear down like it offended him.
“Here,” he growled, palming your ass as he pressed you forward onto all fours. “Here on the floor, where I can see every inch of you. Where I can fuck you raw and you can scream for me.”
You moaned, breath hitched.
“God, I wanted to do this the first night I married you. I wanted to wreck you. I wanted to see what sounds you’d make with my cock in you.”
You were dripping by the time he pushed inside.
No teasing. No patience. Just one smooth thrust that made you cry out, already clenching.
“So fucking tight,” he hissed. “So wet and hot and mine.”
He fucked you hard, fast, hips slapping against your ass as your moans echoed through the empty house.
You didn’t care. You let him take everything.
He gripped your hips, pulled you back onto him harder, chasing your high like he’d been dying for it. You came shaking on him, and he groaned, low and broken, before following with a curse buried into your shoulder.
You collapsed to the rug in a tangled heap, both of you breathless, glowing in the afternoon sun. Later, still half-naked, your cheek resting on the rug, he lay beside you—head on your stomach, smiling like a teenager.
“My father would be appalled,” he murmured. “The Yang heir behaving like this. Desperate. Loud. Fucking his wife on the floor.”
You laughed, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
“And what do you think?”
He tilted his head. Kissed your bare hip, then lower.
Then smiled.
“I think we should do it again in the kitchen.”
A pause.
“Then the stairs. Then the study. Then maybe the floor again.”
You didn’t even get a chance to answer. Because his hand was already sliding between your legs again.
-
What amazed you most was his attentiveness. Jungwon, who had once seemed completely disconnected from physical needs, now anticipated yours with an almost uncanny perception. He noticed when tension gathered in your shoulders and appeared with warm hands to massage it away. He registered which touches made your breath catch and revisited them with deliberate intent. He cataloged every sensitive spot, every preference, every response with the same meticulous attention he'd once reserved for business reports.
"How did you know?" you asked one evening when he drew you a bath exactly when you needed it, complete with the lavender oil you preferred when tired.
"Your left eyebrow tenses slightly when you're exhausted," he explained, kneeling beside the tub to wash your back with gentle hands. "And you roll your shoulders every few minutes. Plus, you've been on your feet all day with the interior decorator."
The fact that he noticed such small details—that he paid such close attention to your physical comfort—moved you deeply. This wasn't just passion; it was care, consideration, genuine desire for your wellbeing.
One night, as you lay tangled together in the afterglow of particularly intense lovemaking, Jungwon traced patterns on your back with his fingertips, his expression thoughtful.
"I used to think that needing someone physically was a weakness," he confessed. "That it gave them power over you. My father warned me about it—how desire could cloud judgment, make a man vulnerable."
"And now?" you prompted, propping yourself up to look at him.
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features in a way that still took your breath away. "Now I think vulnerability is its own kind of strength. The courage to need someone, to show them exactly how much you want them..." He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I've never felt stronger than when I'm completely undone in your arms."
-
The physical transformation in your marriage rippled outward, affecting every aspect of your lives together. Jungwon, once rigid in his schedules and plans, now embraced spontaneity. He would cancel meetings to spend the day in bed with you, laughing as you expressed shock at his newfound willingness to prioritize pleasure over work.
"The company won't collapse if I take a day off," he said, pulling you back under the covers when you suggested he shouldn't neglect his responsibilities. "And this—" he kissed you deeply "—is a responsibility too. To us. To what we're building."
Even in public, the change was evident to anyone with eyes to see. Though still mindful of appropriate boundaries, Jungwon couldn't seem to stop himself from small touches—his hand at the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours, the way he would occasionally lean down to whisper something in your ear that made heat rise to your cheeks.
At a corporate gala, Mrs. Yang cornered you by the refreshment table, her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "Your husband's behavior has become rather... demonstrative lately," she observed acidly. "It's unseemly for a man of his position to be so openly affectionate."
You smiled, watching Jungwon across the room as he spoke with investors. Even engaged in business conversation, his eyes sought you out regularly, as if making sure you were still there, still his.
"I disagree," you replied calmly. "I think it shows remarkable strength for a man to be secure enough in himself to express his feelings openly."
Your mother-in-law's lips thinned, but before she could respond, Jungwon appeared at your side, his hand automatically finding yours.
"Mother," he greeted her with polite warmth. "I see you've found my wife. I hope you'll excuse us—this is our song."
There was no song playing that held any special meaning, but Mrs. Yang couldn't know that. With a small bow, Jungwon led you to the dance floor, pulling you closer than was strictly proper for such a formal event.
"Rescued you," he murmured against your ear, his breath sending delicious shivers down your spine.
"My hero," you teased, relaxing into his embrace. "Though your mother might never recover from the shock of seeing the Yang heir so besotted with his own wife."
"Let her adjust," he replied, his hand splayed possessively against your lower back. "This is who I am now. Who we are together."
Later that night, he touched you like he’d been holding it in all day—like the hours of careful, public restraint had coiled inside him, pressing tight under his skin, begging for release.
Now, with you spread beneath him in your shared bed, every breath he took seemed heavy with need.
His thrusts were deep, deliberate, dragging moans from your throat with each slow roll of his hips.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He studied you.
His dark eyes locked onto yours, watching every flicker of expression, every twitch, every gasp, like he wanted to memorize the exact second you shattered.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice low, tight, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.
You blinked up at him, dazed, overwhelmed. “That I hardly recognize you sometimes.”
His rhythm stuttered—hips faltering, jaw tensing.
His brows drew together. “Is that… disappointing?”
You couldn’t help the breathless laugh that escaped you. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and pulled him closer, arching up to meet him.
“No. Quite the opposite.”
Your fingers slid into his hair, your voice thick with wonder and arousal.
“I’m amazed that all of this—”
Your hands trailed down his chest, to where your bodies met, to the heat and slick and stretch between your legs,
“—was hidden inside that perfect, restrained man.”
Relief washed over his face, followed by a crooked, mischievous smile—so at odds with the version of him you’d once known that it sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.
“I have years of self-control to make up for,” he said, lowering his mouth to your throat, his voice a warm rasp against your skin. “You don’t think I’ve imagined this? Every night. Every day. Watching you walk around like you didn’t know how badly I wanted to fuck you into the mattress?”
You whimpered, breath catching.
“You think I didn’t notice how soft your thighs looked in those dresses? Or how your voice changed when you said my name?”
His tongue flicked over a sensitive spot just below your ear, and your back arched without thinking.
“I used to jerk off in the shower,” he whispered, filthy now, “biting my lip so you wouldn’t hear. Palming my cock like a coward while I imagined you moaning for me just like this.”
You gasped as he pinned your wrists above your head, not rough, just firm—controlling, possessive. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers circling your clit with devastating precision.
“You’re mine now,” he said against your collarbone. “I don’t have to hide it anymore. Don’t have to pretend I don’t want you crying and shaking under me every night.”
The need in his voice made your toes curl.
“I don’t think anyone could be prepared for this version of you,” you managed to gasp, hips bucking as his thumb pressed harder.
He chuckled darkly. “Good. I like catching you off guard.”
Then his lips ghosted over your pulse, and he murmured:
“I like knowing no one else gets to see you like this. Just me. The mess. The begging. The way you moan when I hit you right there.”
His hips snapped, and your whole body trembled.
“I like owning this version of you. The version that melts under me. That asks for more even when I’m already inside.”
The sheer possessiveness in his voice—raw and reverent—nearly undid you.
Your whole body clenched, eyes wide, breath gone. “Only you,” you whispered, completely wrecked. “Always you.”
He kissed you then. Deep. Unrelenting.
And when you came again, shaking apart in his arms, you knew:
You’d never seen the real Jungwon before this.
Afterward, as you drifted toward sleep in his arms, you reflected on the journey that had brought you here. From polite strangers sharing a bed without touching, to lovers who couldn't bear even the smallest distance between them. From a marriage of appearance to a union of body, heart, and soul.
Jungwon's arm tightened around you, even in his sleep unwilling to let you go. The man who had once feared needing someone now embraced that need without reservation, transforming what he'd been taught was weakness into his greatest strength.
As you snuggled closer to his warmth, you silently thanked whatever courage had prompted you to finally break the silence between you, to demand more than the empty performance your marriage had been. The risk had been terrifying, but the reward—this man who loved you without restraint, who showed that love in every look and touch and whispered word—was beyond anything you could have imagined.
Epilogue: Aegean Dreams
The light breeze carried the scent of salt and wild herbs through the open French doors of your villa, perched on the cliffs of Santorini. Dawn had just begun to paint the horizon in shades of gold and rose, the Aegean Sea below reflecting the spectacle like a mirror. You stood on the private terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, drinking in the view that had once been nothing more than a wistful note in a travel book margin.
Warm arms encircled you from behind, and Jungwon's lips found the curve where your neck met your shoulder.
"I woke up and you were gone," he murmured against your skin. "For a second, I panicked."
You turned in his embrace, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. No product kept it in place here—just like no tailored suits or carefully crafted personas had made the journey to this small Greek paradise.
"Just wanted to see the sunrise," you explained, smiling at the vulnerability he no longer tried to hide. "Old habits. Though I'm not used to you noticing when I slip out of bed."
"I notice everything about you now," he said, tightening his hold. "Especially when your warmth disappears from beside me."
Two years had passed since that fateful anniversary night when everything had broken open between you. Two years of learning each other, rebuilding trust, discovering what it meant to truly choose one another every day. The small, intimate wedding you'd held on this very island six months ago had merely formalized what your hearts had already decided.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Jungwon asked, noticing your contemplative expression.
"I was just thinking about that travel book," you said, leaning into him. "The one where I marked all those Greek islands, never believing I'd actually see them."
"And now you've seen five of them in three weeks," he replied with a smile. "With three more to go before we have to think about heading back."
The itinerary for this trip had been deliberately open-ended—a luxury neither of you had ever permitted yourselves before. No business calls, no social obligations, not even a fixed return date. Just the two of you moving at your own pace through the islands you'd dreamed of.
"Remember that cove I mentioned in my notes?" you asked, a mischievous glint in your eye. "The one where 'no one would expect Mrs. Yang to swim naked'?"
"How could I forget?" Jungwon's voice dropped lower, his hands sliding down to your waist. "It's circled on the map in our bedroom. I've been wondering when you'd bring it up."
"The boat captain said he could take us there this afternoon. Completely private, accessible only by sea."
His eyes darkened with desire—a look that still thrilled you, even after months of uninhibited passion. "I'll tell him we'll double his fee if he drops us off and doesn't return until sunset."
You laughed, stretching up to kiss him. "Always the efficient businessman."
"Only when efficiency serves pleasure," he countered, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless.
When you finally pulled apart, the sun had fully crested the horizon, bathing the white-washed villa in golden light. Jungwon led you to the small table on the terrace where he'd already set up breakfast—fresh fruit, local yogurt, honey, and coffee prepared exactly the way you liked it.
"I have something for you," he said, reaching into the pocket of his linen pants as you both sat down.
He placed a small package wrapped in simple brown paper on the table between you. His expression held an endearing mix of anticipation and nervousness that reminded you how far he'd come from the controlled, emotionless man you'd married.
"What's this for?" you asked, picking up the package. "It's not my birthday or our anniversary."
"Do I need a reason to give my wife a gift?" he countered with a smile. "Open it."
You carefully unwrapped the paper to find a leather-bound journal, its cover soft and supple. When you opened it, you discovered it was filled with poems—some typed, others handwritten in Jungwon's precise script.
"I've been collecting them," he explained, watching your face closely. "Every poem that made me think of you. The ones that helped me understand what I was feeling when I didn't have the words myself."
You turned the pages, eyes widening as you recognized some of the poems you'd once secretly marked in your books, now preserved in this new collection. But there were others you didn't recognize—contemporary pieces, older classics, even what appeared to be original works.
"Did you... write some of these?" you asked, looking up in surprise.
A flush crept up his neck—the unguarded reaction still so different from the controlled man he'd once been. "I tried. They're probably terrible, but..." He shrugged, a gesture of vulnerability that would have been unthinkable in the old Jungwon. "I wanted to find a way to tell you what you mean to me that wasn't borrowed from someone else's words."
You found one of his original poems, dated from the early days of your reconciliation:
I lived behind walls so high
Even I forgot what lay inside
Until your voice broke through
And light flooded places
I had kept dark for so long
I had forgotten they could shine
Tears pricked your eyes as you continued reading. The progression of the poems—from hesitant early attempts to more recent, confident expressions—mirrored the journey of your relationship.
"This is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me," you said finally, closing the journal and holding it against your heart.
"There's one more thing," Jungwon said, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I've been thinking about what you said last week, about not being ready to go back to real life yet."
"I was just being silly," you assured him, though the thought of returning to schedules and obligations did fill you with a certain dread. "We can't stay on vacation forever."
"Why not?" He smiled at your startled expression. "Not forever, but... longer. I've been working on something." He pulled out his phone—rarely used during the trip except for taking photos—and showed you a property listing. "It's a small villa on Paros. Nothing extravagant, but it has a garden for you and a study for me with a decent internet connection."
"You want to buy a house here?" you asked, stunned.
"I want us to have a place that's just ours. Not tied to the Yang name or business or social expectations." His eyes held yours, serious despite his smile. "A place where we can come whenever we need to breathe. Where no one expects anything from us except being ourselves."
"But your work—"
"Can be managed remotely for extended periods," he interrupted gently. "I've been talking with the board about restructuring my role. Less day-to-day management, more strategic direction. It would mean fewer hours, more flexibility."
You stared at him, processing the magnitude of what he was suggesting. The old Jungwon would never have considered stepping back from his corporate responsibilities, would never have prioritized personal happiness over professional ambition.
"What about your father?" you asked, knowing that Mr. Yang would view such a move as a betrayal of family duty.
"He'll adapt," Jungwon said with surprising calm. "Or he won't. Either way, I'm not living my life to meet his expectations anymore." He squeezed your hand. "What do you think? Not about him—about the villa."
You looked out at the endless blue of the Aegean, then back at the man who had transformed himself for love of you—who continued to transform, to grow, to choose your shared happiness over prescribed obligation.
"I think," you said slowly, a smile spreading across your face, "that I'd like to plant bougainvillea along that terrace wall in the photos."
His answering smile was radiant. "Is that a yes?"
Instead of answering with words, you stood and moved around the table, settling onto his lap. His arms came around you automatically, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in his world—which, you knew now, you were.
"It's a 'you make me happier than I ever thought possible,'" you said, framing his face with your hands. "It's a 'I love the life we're building together.'"
"Even if it scandalizes my mother?" he asked, laughter in his eyes.
"Especially then," you replied, leaning in to kiss him as the Greek sun climbed higher in the sky, warming your skin, illuminating the future stretching before you—unplanned, unprescribed, and gloriously your own.
Behind you, the pages of the poetry journal fluttered in the sea breeze, open to the last entry, written in Jungwon's hand just days before:
you and ni-ki exchanged filthy words to each other at the same time, your voices were sharp and loud enough to turn your other coworkers heads. and even though they had long grown accustomed to your rivalry, they always still look at the two of you in shock.
it's like the office practically lived in fear whenever the two of you were around,
and it got to a point where the HR was already forced to intervene.
you both found yourselves sitting across from a visibly exhausted HR rep after a particularly heated argument during a department-wide meeting.
"l/n, nishimura... this is really out of control." they said while rubbing their temples. "you're sabotaging projects, disrupting meetings, and making the workplace hostile."
"tell her that. she started it." ni-ki pointed out.
you rolled your eyes.
"effective immediately, you're being reassigned to different departments."
and it should've ended there but somehow, despite being on separate teams, you both still found ways to make each other's lives miserable. you found loopholes and more ways to sabotage each other without making it obvious.
ni-ki took every ounce of restraint not to strangle you, and you might've run him over in the parking lot already if it weren't for security cameras around the building.
that late night, the office was already empty. you thought everyone had clocked out except for you.
you were also ready to leave, your bag is already over your shoulder but something was missing.
the important file, you knew you had just printed it.
"looking for this?"
it was the first time you saw ni-ki again. he's standing across the room, holding the folder between his fingers with a serious expression.
your stomach dropped. no fucking way.
"you're so fucking dead," he shook his head. "say goodbye to your career."
"gi-give me that!"
he held it high, stepping back when you tried to take it.
you almost had it but he made it more out of reach.
the folder has the confidential criteria of the next manager promotion, he knew you're a bad person but he didn't know that you'll just fucking cheat.
"yes, i'll give this back," he scoffed and nodded. "right to our manager."
your desperation turned to rage, that paper would literally ruin you. your eyes landed on a thick book sitting on a nearby desk, and you could've just explained and asked nicely to give it back but hell no, so you grabbed the hard thick book and threatened to swing.
ni-ki panicked, he looked around for a weapon of his own and in a split-second decision, he grabbed a cup off the desk and threw it at you...
very cold water splashed all over you and your clothes.
your jaw dropped. "you-"
"i- i didn't-"
then your foot slipped on the wet floor, ni-ki reacted fast, catching your head before you could crash to the ground but the momentum sent him stumbling too.
you groaned, his hands braced against the floor to keep himself from completely crushing you and next thing you knew, you were on the floor, your back against the cold tiles, and ni-ki was right on top of you, with his face buried on your tits.
he slowly moved, his eyes locked onto the view in front of him... your soaked blouse sticking to your skin, making your black bra and cleavage very much visible.
ni-ki cleared his throat before turning his head away from you. he was about to grab the scattered papers but you were quicker, you grabbed onto his collar, pulling him before he could escape.
"let go!"
"not a chance."
he struggled, trying to push you off but you were holding onto him so hard that the buttons of his shirt ripped, exposing his toned chest and abs.
you smirked slightly when you noticed ni-ki stopped pushing you away and his breaths became heavier.
he's still a guy after all.
your fingers roamed around his exposed chest, teasing him just to test something, to see if you could turn the tables,
you could feel his muscles tensed under your touch and ni-ki closed his eyes when you leaned close to give him a soft kiss on the lips.
the sound your lips made as they parted was too sexy so he leaned in to kiss you just to hear it again.
the kiss deepened, it became hurried, hard, aggressive, and messy.
like all his hate had nowhere else to go except right here.
ni-ki groaned against your lips, hands gripping on your waist.
you fingers slid down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin more beneath the open shirt again and before you knew it, you were helping him remove his shirt off completely, tossing it aside like it meant nothing.
"this is unbelievable." he thought, while his fingers worked hastily, unbuttoning each one from your blouse with urgency, making your heart race even more.
"you're impatient." you whispered, breathless.
"just wanna get this over with." he said before his lips crashed into yours to shut your annoying voice.
you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he easily lifted you, his other hand sliding down your back to remove your bra.
ni-ki watched the way your boobs bounce and spread free right in front of his eyes.
he lay you down on a nearby couch, removing your skirt and stockings so he can have you naked completely.
you arched on his touch but ni-ki grabbed your wrist and pulled you on top of him with no effort.
and even though you won't openly admit or say it, you knew everyone found your coworker is attractive but damn, he's this big too?
so now it made it harder to stop all this and it's been so long too since you had sex, you already forgot how it felt.
you watched ni-ki slicked himself with his own spit, barely easing what was about to come because just as you suspected, the stretch really hurts.
maybe it just the tip but it was already too much. your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto.
ni-ki started moaning, his entire body tensing as he felt the way your walls squeezed around him. it's so tight, so impossibly hot too like you were already milking him for everything he had and his cock's not even fully inside yet.
"fuck," he groaned, "you're sucking me in."
yes, ni-ki hates you and even though he wanted you to suffer for everything you did to him, he would never be cruel when it came to sex. his own self-control was also hanging by a thread, yet he still moved carefully, pushing in slow and deep, letting you feel every inch of him.
your head tipped back, moaning too as you adjusted to his size, tightening more around him involuntarily.
ni-ki smiled, probably the first time he did. "there you go," he thought, watching your reaction as he rolled his hips up to meet yours, slow while keeping your legs in it's place.
you couldn't even think now already, the way he filled you up, the way his body pressed against yours, it was overwhelming. your nails raked down his back as he picked up the pace, going deeper, and deeper that you just might pass out.
and when the pain faded into pleasure, your body moved on its own, you rolled your hips until you found a good rhythm, lifting yourself slightly before sinking back down, to take his dick even deeper inside you.
ni-ki threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut as you rode him with no mercy, your warm, soaked walls dragging over his cock at a pace that was too much. it felt like he had no control anymore, he could barely think.
"y/n, slow down-" his voice broke, desperate and strained but you ignored him, rolling your hips even more fast because then maybe you'll get to see him snap.
his whole body was trembling beneath you, muscles tensed as his breath came out in sharp, ragged gasps. he already came once, and it had already been so deep inside you but you just wouldn't stop.
"you wanted to fuck me, right?" you taunted, your thighs were shaking from how much pleasure was coursing through your overstimulated body. "then just take it."
ni-ki buckled up into you too, he's so close again, teetering on the edge, but he refused to give in to your words.
"you- you're one to talk," he rasped, "when you're so fucking soaked."
and he was right, you could feel how drenched you were, could hear how messy and filthy it sounded every time your hips met his.
the pleasure became too much again, unbearable ache building deep inside you it felt like you're going to pee anytime soon, you pulled his hair for support as your rhythm started slowing down.
ni-ki noticed even through his dazed, wrecked state before smirking again. "gonna fall apart on me?"
his hands held your hips down, forcing his cock so deep inside you that your vision blurred, a sob tore from your throat as the pressure snapped, crashing through your body so intense that you couldn't even moan.
your lips parted, body trembling uncontrollably as you came hard on his lap.
you didn't know how but somehow now, he had you on your hands and knees, chest pressing against your back as he drove into you, relentless, unforgiving.
"n-no, fuck!" you sobbed, your arms nearly giving out as he buried himself inside you again and again, ni-ki's lips trailing over your shoulder, hot and ragged.
and your pussy clenched around him again, he started losing it.
his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling it to where your back can press against his chest, his other hand gripping on your throat.
he cupped your tits, you could feel his cock twitch inside you, the thrusts of his hips turned frantic as he chased his own release.
...now the office fell silent but the reality of what just happened started creeping in slowly between the two of you.
you reached for your discarded clothes, your limbs were feeling heavy as you clumsily pulled your skirt back on. ni-ki, still catching his breath, sat up to and started buttoning his ruined shirt though half the buttons were missing, making it completely useless.
then, he held something up between his fingers.
"can i keep these?"
your head turned towards him, eyes widening when you realized he was holding your panties.
you snatched it from his grip. "are you fucking sick in the head?" you hissed, slipping them back on as quickly as possible.
he just laughed and shook his head.
maybe he's sick, after all, he just slept with the worst person he ever knew.
next day you and ni-ki sat across from each other in the office, both unusually quiet. no bickering, no scheming, everything was just... gone.
your coworkers noticed but ignored it, just enjoying while it's happening.
ni-ki exchanged awkward glances with you before quickly looking away.
your lips were still tingling from last night. you swore that your body still felt him, and every time you move in your chair, the memories just keeps on flooding back to your head. "stop... please... oh, my god."
he wasn't doing any better too, he can't stop smiling and running a hand through his hair, his knee were bouncing under the desk every time his eyes landed on you.
then he caught you alone.
you were at the copy room, trying to focus on literally anything else when suddenly, you felt him.
ni-ki pressed up behind you, my dick misses you, is what he wanted to say. "what the fuck are you doing here?"
you blushed, your fingers were curling into the edge of the machine. "p- printing, what else?" you stuttered.
"y/n..." his hands found your waist, squeezing lightly. "you don't miss it?"
you swallowed hard before turning around to face him, "keep dreaming."
liar.
the asshole ni-ki you know would never say these things and if he did, the old you would've punch his mouth and punching it once once so you'd make sure it'll bleed.
so what happened?
"remember, i still got the files."
you hushed him, "give that shit back," you whispered.
he hummed, tilting his head. "it's at my house. you can come get it."
"just bring it here!"
"like i said," he dragged the word out, stepping closer, "come get it."
you still found yourself standing outside his apartment later that night even though knew it was probably a trap.
ni-ki opened the door, leaning against it with that same smug expression like he knew you'd be here... he's wearing nothing but a loose bathrobe.
you looked down. is he naked underneath? he's this pervert? then you quickly shook your head, forcing yourself to look back up. "where is it?"
he sighed, stepping aside to let you in. "hmm, i put it somewhere over there," he murmured.
you shoved him away before he could try anything, making him chuckle.
so you started searching, bending down to check under his sofa and through the mess on his coffee table.
ni-ki stood behind you, watching. no, he was checking you out.
his tongue slipped to wet his lips, looking at your ass and if he stared any longer, he knew his dick will get hard.
you stood and stomped your foot. "just give it back!"
ni-ki sighed and fixed his hair. "okay, fine!" he said, "i already shredded it. you don't have to worry."
"how do i know you're not lying?"
he didn't answer right away. instead, he leaned back against the armrest of the sofa, legs spreading slightly as he pulled you closer between them.
"because... you fucked me so good, i destroyed every single thing i have that could ruin you."
you swallowed hard, chest rising and falling hard as you look into his eyes then you looked down, and... oh.
his cock twitched beneath the thin fabric of his robe, already straining against it, making his arousal painfully obvious.
the air grew heavier as you both watched him get harder, completely shameless.
your lips parted slightly, heat creeping up your neck, but then you shot him a glare. "can you put some damn clothes on?"
ni-ki smirked, playing with the belt of his robe. "but you came all the way here…" he said. looking at you with his needy eyes.
he didn't finish his words, you just reached forward, curling your fingers around the soft fabric, and dragged it off his shoulders, inch by inch.
your eyes followed every reveal, his sharp collarbones, the defined lines of his shoulders, the smooth, lean muscle of his chest.
his eyes were locked onto your lips, red, and swollen from the night before. that's his doing and it looked so good.
his fingers traced along your jaw, his other hand gripping your waist as he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss. his body was already hot beneath your touch, tense, waiting for you to take control and do him however you wanted.
you knelt between his spread legs, dragging your hand over his thighs, watching the way his muscles flexed under your touch.
you wrapped your fingers around his cock first, stroking him slow, letting your palm glide smoothly over him. his cock twitched in response with a shaky breath slipping past his lips.
you leaned in and pressed a slow, wet kiss to his tip. ni-ki's grip in your hair tightened but not pulling, just holding, like he needed something to ground him.
and when your lips wrapped around him, he lost all of his sense of control. you took him deeply that your cheeks were hollowing while letting your tongue glide over every inch of his dick.
you pushed even lower, forcing him down your throat, stretching yourself around him until your throat clenched, gagging as you choked when he hit the back of your mouth,
"more, more... more..." ni-ki bit his lip.
and you let yourself struggle, deep throathing his cock that spit started pooling at the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, and all over your hands.
you heard him swore in Japanese under his breath so you can't help but chuckle, vibration sent another set of pleasure through him before you pulled away, letting his cock slip from your lips with a pop, thin strand of spit still connecting your mouth to his tip.
ni-ki's hips bucked, desperate for your mouth again but you just smirked, dragging your tongue along the side of his cock, slow and teasing, before wrapping your lips around him again... only to pull away the second he's about to cum.
"y/n- stop... that." he warned but you ignored it. instead, you just wrapped your hands around him, stroking him slow and lazy.
"you were close, right?"
"you think you're funny?" he panted.
you started sucking his dick passionately again, enough to make him think you were finally giving in but only to pull away again at the last second, lips barely brushing his tip, making him fucking ache.
his voice cracked, "you're so fucking evil-"
"you sound so desperate right now." you teased, dragging a single finger along his length, feeling how hot and hard he was in your grasp.
"you're not gonna make me cum?" ni-ki asked before pining your hands above your head, he had you completely spread out beneath him,
he's too far gone to even remember why he hated you in the first place.
and he went on you so hard that night, you couldn't even move the next day. you would fall the second you tried to stand, and the soreness between your thighs made you collapse back with a frustrated whimper.
a deep chuckle rumbled beside you, raspy from hours of groaning, moaning, and going crazy.
you glared at him weakly, when you tried again and failed, ni-ki carried you in his arms. you yelped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you towards the bathroom.
he really did a number on you.
"think we can handle another round here?"
now he had your check pressed up against the cool, fogged-up glass of the shower. ni-ki's hands were everywhere, His large palms gripped the soft flesh of your tits, squeezing, pulling, and rolling your nipples between his finger, making your body arch back into him.
you just hoped that it wouldn't leave bruising prints on your skin.
you breathed hard, fogging up the mirror more, while your fingers kept slipping against the wet tile. ni-ki groaned against your shoulder, your fingers slipping against the tile for balance, wet slap echoing through the steam-filled bathroom.
"i could fuck you for days..." he declared, his teeth grazing your shoulder before he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His fingers dug into your hips, pressing you harder against the glass.
the water kept shifting from icy cold to blistering hot, and it's so hard to breath, like you were both drowning.
next morning, your body ached in ways you didn't think were possible, ni-ki groaned into the pillow beside you, his arm draped over your waist, refusing to move.
your phone buzzed on the nightstand, probably an alarm or a message about work. you glanced at the time, then at ni-ki, who peeked at you with a smile.
"we're not going in, are we?" he asked, still sleepy.
you sighed, already knowing the answer. "nope, i can't."
he grinned and rolled over, grabbing his phone to call in sick.
"i gotta go home."
he hummed, nuzzling against your neck. "mm. or you could just stay here with me."
his hand slid over your thigh.
"i'm so sleepy," you mumbled, voice muffled against the pillow.
ni-ki's fingers were already trailing down your side so you hissed.
"what?" he murmured against your shoulder, pressing a warm kiss there. "i'm just holding you."
"you're not."
sighed, eyes fluttering shut. "i need sleep."
...but he can fuck you back to sleep.
ni-ki hummed, pretending to think. he rolled on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight.
"just five minutes." he agreed, lips brushing your ear. "if not, i'm waking you up my way."
later, just as you were drifting into actual sleep, something heavy landed on the bed, startling you both awake.
your eyes snapped open, only to be met with a pair of little eyes glaring at you.
a dog.
a small, fluffy thing that was currently growling at you like you had personally offended it.
"what the?" he muttered, scrambling back. "oh, bisco..."
"your dog?"
"that's my child."
you blinked at him. "i didn't know you we-"
"yes," he replied, reaching to ruffle the dog's fur. "i'm a single father."
you squinted at him, then at the dog, who was still very much growling at you.
"oh, come on," you huffed, sitting up. "what's your problem?"
the dog barked in response, stepping protectively over ni-ki's chest. "bisco thought you were hurting me last night."
"excuse me?"
the dog growled again, and you shot ni-ki a glare. "are you gonna stop it?"
ni-ki reached out and pulled you against him, ignoring the dog's outrage.
"bisco," he called out, "you'll get used to her."
bisco did not look convinced. "i think it can sense your evil attitude," he teased, rubbing the dog's ears.
ni-ki looked completely at ease... messy hair, lips still a little swollen from earlier, and worst of all, smiling.
like actually smiling.
you swallowed hard, your face heating up.
was this really the same guy who had spent months making your life a living hell? the same guy who stole your reports, sabotaged your presentations, and threw every possible insult your way?
the same guy you swore you'd never tolerate, let alone you expect to wake up next to?
it really doesn't feel real.
you sat there feeling like your whole world just tilted sideways and yet, here he was, laughing softly as bisco licked his face, as if he wasn't the biggest opp you have.
ni-ki looked at you, "what?"
you scoffed, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over your head. "nothing..."
ni-ki only chuckled, moving closer, "tsk, don't tell me..."
and you kicked him under the blanket, smiling like an idiot.
a/n: i need to write smut better omfg, thank you @greenparties for this request. and if you're a MOA and BEOMGYU is your bias here's another coworker/enemies to lovers fic of mine: coworker || c. beomgyu x reader
His neglect wasn’t an accident—it was a choice, one you kept excusing as “busy” while swallowing your hurt and waiting for him to care enough to show up. The harsh truth? He simply didn't care enough to make the effort. Remember this, ladies: if he truly wanted to, he would. "Busy" is just another word for “asshole.” And “asshole” is another word for the man you’re married to.
word count: 22k
pairing: ceo!jake x housewife!fem!reader
featuring: enhypen, wonyoung from ive
genre: marriage of convenience, slow burn romance, enemies to lovers (kinda), second chance romance, angst
warnings: this story contains dynamics of a toxic relationship, angst and miscommunication at its peak, sensitive power dynamics, mild depictions of violence, themes of loneliness and low self-worth, implications of infidelity (no actual cheating), rich people drama, jake is kind of an asshole, sunghoon and wonyoung are married in this fic for plot purpose.
disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.
notes from nat: inspired by when the phone rings cause i love the colour red /hj. highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!
They say if he’s not calling, it’s because you’re not on his mind. The first time you heard it, you shrugged it off. Of course, it wasn’t true. He was busy, wasn’t he? Busy with work, with meetings, with people who needed his attention more than you did in that moment. You told yourself it wasn't personal when the texts became shorter, when the phone calls grew less frequent, when the hours between hearing from him stretched into days.
But over time, the silence becomes heavier. The excuses, sharper. If he promised to be home by eight and didn’t show until eleven, it was work. If he forgot to call when he said he would, it was exhaustion.
You let these small disappointments settle into the cracks of your relationship, a habit you didn’t even notice forming until you could barely remember what it felt like to be a priority.
You tell yourself he’s under pressure, that he’s got a lot on his plate. But deep down, there’s a gnawing thought that won’t leave you alone: If he wanted to, he would. If he cared, he’d show up. Not just in the big moments, but in the small, forgettable ones—the ones that don’t require much but say everything. A text to check in, a call to ask how your day went. Something to remind you that you matter, that you still have a place in the life he leads without you.
But the truth settles in like a bitter cold creeping under your skin: he doesn’t think about you the way you think about him.
When he’s late, when he misses promises, when he leaves you waiting—it’s not a fluke. It’s a choice. And the more you excuse it, the more he learns that it’s okay to disappoint you, that your needs can always wait. He’s fine with it because he doesn’t have to feel the weight of your frustration, your sadness, your growing resentment.
"Busy" has become his favourite shield, his go-to excuse for everything. But “busy” is just another way of saying, "I don’t care enough." “Busy” is what he hides behind when he doesn’t want to confront the fact that he’s letting you down, over and over again.
And each time, you forgive him. Each time, you swallow your hurt, tell yourself it’s not a big deal, and convince yourself to wait a little longer for him to make the effort you’re aching for.
But deep down, you know. "Busy" is another word for “asshole.” And “asshole” is another word for the man you’re married to.
♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡
A marriage of convenience—that’s what you call this arrangement with Sim Jaeyun. It’s the only thing you can call it. Nothing about it feels real. No feelings. No chemistry. No intimacy. Just labels and the sweet, sweet promise of partnership, sweetened further by the monetary incentive that comes with it.
A deal dressed up as love.
At least, that’s how Jaeyun sees it. For you, it wasn’t always so simple.
You entered this marriage with no great love for him, true enough. Just a sense of duty and loyalty to your parents, to the company, to everything you’ve been raised to uphold as the eldest daughter of your family.
Jaeyun’s aloofness during your first meeting confirmed your suspicions that he felt the same. He was another child born with a silver spoon, another soul sacrificed to family ambition. Like you, he couldn’t complain about marrying someone he didn’t love because his parents had done it before him.
Putting aside the whole nature of your marriage, Jaeyun wasn’t a bad man.
In fact, he was decent. Polished. Accomplished. Sim Jaeyun had graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League and, at twenty-eight, was already a legend in business circles.
They called him The Prodigy—a nickname that reverberated in the boardrooms of the elite. Women flocked to him, drawn by his sharp intellect, his undeniable charm, and, of course, his devastating good looks.
You’d rather bite your tongue than admit it, but he’s the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Sim Jaeyun could make anyone’s heart race with just a glance. If you had to be forced into this sham of a marriage, at least you could say you were tied to someone who didn’t make you cringe every time you looked at him.
In the beginning, you played your roles so well that even you almost believed it.
To the press, to the public, you were the Dreamlike Couple. The perfect pair. You—poised and graceful, the epitome of elegance. Him—driven and magnetic, a man at the pinnacle of success. Together, you seemed untouchable, the kind of pairing that only existed in fairy tales.
It was a dream. For a time.
Marrying into the Sim family meant becoming the perfect housewife, a shadow to Jaeyun’s brilliance. Your days revolved around him—ensuring his comfort, supporting his exhausting nine-to-five (more like nine-to-midnight) grind.
And in return, Jaeyun played his part too. He brought you flowers, sat across from you at candlelit dinners, and whisked you away for picture-perfect dates on the rare weekends he wasn’t buried in work.
It wasn’t love, but it was enough. And slowly, against all your better instincts, you fell for him.
You fell for him—not all at once, but slowly, like the steady drip of a leaking faucet, each drop carving its way into your heart.
It was in the small, unexpected moments: the way his eyes softened when he asked if you were settling in well, the rare, fleeting smile that lit up his otherwise composed face, the quiet patience with which he listened when you nervously rambled about your day.
He was kind in ways that felt almost invisible, offering you a coat when you forgot yours, leaving your favourite coffee on the counter without a word, defending you in meetings with his parents when they criticised your choices. It wasn’t the grand gestures that pulled you in, but the subtleties—the way he seemed to remember the little things about you, like the books you loved or the songs that made you hum along absentmindedly.
You started to believe, naively perhaps, that behind the formalities and the distance, there was something real. Something that could grow.
And in those moments, you let your guard down, foolishly allowing hope to slip through the cracks of your carefully constructed defences.
But what started as a dream turned into a slow-brewing nightmare.
It took a year.
Just one year for the cracks in Jaeyun’s performance to show. Maybe he got tired of pretending. Maybe the strain of coming home to a wife he didn’t love became too much. Whatever it was, the distance between you started to grow.
The flowers stopped coming. The dinners grew silent, then ceased altogether. Dates became a thing of the past. The man who once made you feel like you were part of his world now barely acknowledged your existence.
You tried to rationalise it at first. He was busy, wasn’t he? Work was demanding. Meetings ran late. Deadlines piled up. Days would pass without a word from him.
But the excuses only held for so long. Because deep down, you knew. If Jaeyun wanted to, he would. If he cared, he’d find the time. He wouldn’t leave you sitting alone at the dinner table or waiting for a call that never came. He wouldn’t let the silence stretch until it swallowed what little connection you had left.
And yet, you forgave him. Over and over again. Each missed promise. Each broken gesture. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that you could bear it. But with every disappointment you let slide, Jaeyun learned he could let you down without consequence.
Now, as you lie awake in the vast emptiness of your bed—yes, your bed, in your room, the one he rarely steps foot in anymore—you can’t help but wonder: Was it ever real? Did he ever try, even for a moment? Or had he always been this indifferent, just more skilled at masking it in the beginning?
Sim Jaeyun—the prodigy, the golden boy, the man you once dared to believe you could build a life with—has become little more than a stranger. A stranger who wears a ring that matches yours, yet feels worlds apart. And here you are, left holding the shattered pieces of a marriage that, in truth, was never whole to begin with.
You should’ve known, from the moment he slipped that ring onto your finger—a ring just a fraction too tight—that you were always going to feel suffocated. It was a perfect metaphor, really.
Now, every time you return home—whether it’s from mingling with the polished wives of his business partners, or from a solitary stroll in the park—you make a ritual of sliding the ring off, desperate to feel untethered, if only for a little while.
But no matter how many times you remove it, you can never truly escape him. Because the ring, with the way it pressed into your skin, leaves its imprint—a faint indentation that lingers long after it’s gone, marking you not as a partner but as a possession of the Sim family.
It feels like a cruel irony, that even without the ring, Sim Jaeyun’s grasp remains, his mark on you inerasable, etched into your skin and your soul like a tattoo.
The clock on the wall ticks steadily, mocking you with its rhythmic precision as the evening stretches into night. The once-flickering hope you’d clung to—that Jaeyun might remember this day—has long since withered, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache.
The dining table is set, the soft glow of candles casting shadows across the untouched plates. You’d debated with yourself earlier, wondering if it was worth the effort. But some stubborn part of you refused to let the day pass unnoticed.
After all, it’s your wedding anniversary. Even if Jaeyun doesn’t care, you do.
By the time the clock strikes eleven, the candles have burned low, the food long gone cold. You sit in the dim light, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, willing yourself not to cry.
When the front door finally opens, the faint sound of Jaeyun’s footsteps echoes through the house. He steps into the living room, his tie loosened and his hair slightly disheveled.
He looks tired—no, careless. He doesn’t even notice the table or the candles.
"You’re still awake?" he asks, his tone neutral, almost surprised.
You rise slowly, your voice calm despite the storm raging inside you. "It’s our anniversary, Jaeyun."
He freezes, his brows knitting together as if trying to recall something important. The blank look on his face confirms what you already knew. He forgot.
"Shit," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’m sorry. Work was crazy today. I didn’t—"
"Don’t," you cut him off, your voice trembling. "Don’t tell me it was work. Don’t make another excuse."
He looks at you, clearly unprepared for the edge in your tone. "It’s not an excuse. I was genuinely busy."
"Busy," you repeat, the word dripping with bitterness. "You’re always busy, Jaeyun. Too busy to call, too busy to show up, too busy to even remember the day we got married. Do you even care at all?"
His expression hardens, and he steps closer, his tone defensive. "Of course I care. But I have responsibilities, and I can’t just drop everything—"
"Responsibilities?" you snap, your voice rising. "What about your responsibility to me? To this marriage? Or does that come last, after work and meetings and everything else that apparently matters more than I do?"
"You act like I don’t try," he snaps, his tone sharper now. "I work my ass off to give us a good life, to make sure you have everything you need."
"I don’t need your money, Jaeyun!" you shout, your anger finally spilling over. "I need you! I need a husband who shows up, who cares, who remembers things that matter. But instead, I get this—this stranger who walks through the door whenever he feels like it and expects me to be okay with it."
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You’re overreacting."
The words hit you like a slap. "Overreacting?" you echo, incredulous. "You think I’m overreacting because I’m upset that you forgot our anniversary? Because I’m tired of being the only one who gives a damn about this marriage?"
His eyes darken, and his frustration boils over. "That’s because it isn’t real!" he snaps, his words slicing through the air like a blade.
You freeze, the weight of his admission sinking into your chest.
"This marriage," he continues, his tone sharp and unrelenting, "was never about love. It was a deal. You knew that going in. So don’t stand there acting like I owe you something I never promised."
His words hit you like a sledgehammer to the face, leaving you momentarily breathless.
"I knew what it was," you say, your voice shaking but steadying as the anger flares in your chest. "But I didn’t sign up to be treated like I’m invisible. I didn’t agree to be an afterthought, Jaeyun. I’ve been trying—trying—to make this work. And what have you done? You’ve shut me out. You’ve made it clear, over and over, that I don’t matter."
Jaeyun exhales harshly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn’t mean it like that," he mutters.
"Yes, you did," you say, your voice soft but cold. "And that’s the worst part. You meant every word."
The silence between you is deafening. Jaeyun doesn’t apologise, doesn’t take back what he said. He just stands there, his expression unreadable, as if waiting for the conversation to end.
Finally, Jaeyun exhales, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I don’t know what you want me to say," he mutters.
"I don’t want you to say anything," you reply, your voice quieter now but no less firm. "I want you to do something. But I don’t think you’re capable of that, are you?"
He doesn’t answer, and the silence feels like confirmation.
You swallow the lump in your throat, tears threatening to spill but held back by sheer force of will. "I don’t know why I keep hoping for more from you," you whisper. "You’ve made it clear that I’ll never get it."
Without waiting for his response, you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the living room. The weight in your chest grows heavier with each step, but you don’t look back. Once inside your room, you close the door softly behind you, the sound somehow softer than the silence that follows.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you let out a shaky breath and yank the ring off your finger as if it’s searing your skin. It’s almost instinctual, the need to rid yourself of the weight of it—the reminder of promises that were never real. You clutch the ring tightly in your palm for a moment before tossing it onto the nightstand with a dull clink.
You stare down at your hand, at the faint imprint left behind, the tattoo burned into your ring finger. No matter how many times you take the ring off, the mark remains, mocking you with its permanence.
A bitter laugh escapes your lips as tears prick your eyes, the ache in your chest impossible to ignore. You press your hands to your face, trying to smother the sob threatening to break free.
Back in the living room, the faint crackle of dying candles echoes in the stillness. Jaeyun doesn’t follow. He doesn’t knock on the door, doesn’t call your name. He stays where you left him, as he always does, letting the silence speak for him.
The last candle sputters out, plunging the house into darkness. You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, your chest hollow but your mind racing.
The ring is now firmly back on your finger, snug against the faint tattoo that refuses to fade.
You sit outside the café you frequent so often that the barista doesn’t even ask for your order anymore, simply bringing your tea the way you like it. The faint clink of ceramic against the table pulls you from your thoughts, and you wrap your hands around the warm cup, as if it can somehow melt the cold ache inside you.
You stir your tea aimlessly, watching the steam spiral into the cool autumn air. Across from you, Wonyoung sits with her usual effortless grace, her beige trench coat draped neatly over her chair, her gold earrings catching the soft light.
"Alright," Wonyoung begins, placing her cup down with a decisive clink. "Spill. You’ve had that look on your face all morning. What’s going on?"
You sigh, leaning back in your chair as the weight of her gaze settles on you. Wonyoung isn’t just your best friend—she’s family now, married to your brother, Sunghoon. That makes her one of the few people who can truly see through you, no matter how much you try to hide.
"It’s nothing," you mutter, though your voice betrays you.
"That’s a terrible lie, and you know it," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Is it Jaeyun again?"
The mention of his name sends a pang through your chest, and you glance away, focusing on the street outside. "It’s always Jaeyun," you admit quietly. "I feel like… I’m stuck. He doesn’t care, Wonyoung. About me, about us, about anything that isn’t his work or his image. Yesterday was the three year anniversary of our marriage. He forgot, and I don’t even know why I’m still trying."
Her jaw tightens, her usually soft expression hardening in a way you rarely see. "That bastard," she mutters under her breath, leaning forward. "You know, I’ve been keeping my mouth shut for months because I didn’t want to overstep, but I’m this close to calling him out. He doesn’t deserve you. Not even a little."
You try to smile, but it’s weak, and the ache in your chest doesn’t ease. "It’s not that simple," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "I signed up for this. I knew what it was. And he’s not awful, you know? He’s just… distant. Cold."
Wonyoung reaches across the table, her hand warm as it wraps around yours. Her grip is firm, grounding. "Listen to me," she says, her voice steady and fierce. "You deserve more than 'not awful.' You deserve someone who looks at you the way Sunghoon looks at me when I burn toast. Like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them, no matter how messy or imperfect things get."
Her words bring a faint smile to your lips. You’ve always envied the dynamic between Wonyoung and Sunghoon—how they somehow balance each other perfectly. "You and Sunghoon," you say softly, "you make it look so easy."
Wonyoung chuckles, leaning back in her chair. "It wasn’t always like that. Do you remember how we met?"
You nod vaguely, but she doesn’t wait for an answer.
"It was at one of those insufferable charity galas," she says, rolling her eyes. "I was cornered by some overzealous CEO trying to pitch his latest venture, and Sunghoon swooped in out of nowhere, pretending we were old friends to rescue me."
A small laugh escapes you as you picture it. "Classic Sunghoon."
"Right?" Wonyoung grins. "I thought he was just being polite, but then he started showing up at every event I attended. At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but your brother isn’t exactly subtle."
"He’s not," you agree with a smile.
"One day, he asked me to dinner—no pretense, no excuse. Just, ‘Wonyoung, let’s go out.’ And… I don’t know. He wasn’t like the other guys. He didn’t treat me like some prize to win or a business deal to close. He just wanted me."
The warmth in her voice tugs at something in your chest, a bittersweet ache. "And the rest is history," you say softly.
"Not quite." Wonyoung smirks. "Do you know he proposed to me on the ice rink? He can barely skate, but he insisted on doing it there because I mentioned once how much I loved skating as a kid. He spent more time falling than kneeling."
The image of your brother—stoic, composed Sunghoon—fumbling on the ice (LOL) makes you laugh, the sound spilling out unexpectedly.
"That’s Sunghoon for you," you say, shaking your head. "Always dramatic."
"But always sincere," Wonyoung says, her expression softening. "And that’s my point. Love isn’t about grand gestures or perfection. It’s about showing up, every day, even when it’s hard. Jaeyun doesn’t do that for you, and it breaks my heart to see you settling for so little when you deserve so much more.
Her analogy draws a laugh from you, even if it’s faint. "It’s not like I can just leave," you say softly. "You know how our families are. It would be a scandal. And, honestly, what would I even do? This marriage is all I have right now."
"No," Wonyoung says sharply, her voice cutting through your doubt. "You are so much more than this marriage. And if Jaeyun or your family can’t see that, then screw them."
Her conviction startles you, and you blink at her, taken aback. Wonyoung is always poised, diplomatic, rarely letting her emotions boil over. But now her eyes burn with a protectiveness that makes your throat tighten.
"You know what you need?" she says, her tone softening slightly. "A break. Come stay with Sunghoon and me for a while. I’ll make him cook for us—he owes me after shrinking my favourite sweater last week."
You chuckle despite yourself, the image of Sunghoon fumbling in the kitchen almost absurd. "Sunghoon? Cooking? Are you trying to punish me?"
Wonyoung grins, mischief flickering in her eyes. "Okay, fine, I’ll cook. But seriously, think about it. You don’t have to keep carrying this weight on your own. I’m here. Always."
Her words settle over you like a blanket, warm and reassuring. Wonyoung has always been your safe haven, her loyalty a reminder that not everyone in your life sees you as a means to an end.
"Thanks, Wony," you say softly, giving her hand a small squeeze.
"Anytime," she replies, her smile warm and genuine. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she leans back in her chair. "Now, let’s talk about something that doesn’t make me want to hunt Jaeyun down and throttle him. Did you see the dress Jennie wore to that gala last week? Gorgeous, but the heels—ugh, pure torture."
You laugh, grateful for the change in topic. For the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest feels lighter. Wonyoung chats animatedly, her presence a rare moment of warmth in the cold, suffocating reality of your life.
The house is quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. You sit curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, though the words blur together as your thoughts wander. The faint scent of candles lingers in the air, remnants of a night spent trying to make this house feel like a home.
When the front door opens, you don’t look up immediately. Jaeyun steps inside, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor. You can hear him shrug off his coat and place his bag on the console table, his movements measured. He doesn’t call out for you, and you wonder if he assumes you’re already asleep.
It isn’t until he steps into the living room that you glance up. His tie is loosened, and his shirt is slightly wrinkled—a rare imperfection in the man who always seems so put-together.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice hesitant.
You close your book, setting it aside as you nod. "Hi."
Jaeyun stands there for a moment, his hands in his pockets, as if unsure how to proceed. The silence stretches, the weight of your last argument hanging between you like an unwelcome guest.
"Can we talk?" he finally asks, his tone tentative.
You sit up straighter, your heart tightening. "What about?"
He exhales, running a hand through his hair as he sits down on the armchair across from you. "About us," he says, his gaze flickering to yours. "About everything."
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, hope flutters in your chest. Maybe he’s ready to finally have the conversation you’ve been waiting for.
"Okay," you say quietly, folding your hands in your lap.
"I know I’ve been… distant," Jaeyun begins, his voice low. "And I know it’s been hard for you. For us. But I’m trying, I really am."
You nod, though the words feel empty, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. "What does ‘trying’ mean to you, Jaeyun?"
He hesitates, his brow furrowing. "It means I’m doing everything I can to balance everything. Work, this marriage—"
"Work," you cut in, your tone sharper than you intended. "It always comes back to work, doesn’t it?"
Jaeyun frowns, leaning forward slightly. "It’s not just about work. You know how demanding my job is. It’s not like I can just drop everything."
"I’m not asking you to drop everything," you say, your voice trembling with frustration. "I’m asking you to show up. To put me first, just once. To prove that this marriage means something to you beyond a contract."
"I do care," he insists, his voice rising slightly. "Why do you think I work so hard? I’m doing this for us—for you."
"No, Jaeyun," you reply, shaking your head. "You’re doing this for you. For your image, for your career. Don’t pretend this is about us when you can’t even remember the last time you asked me how I’m doing."
He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it, his jaw tightening. "I’m trying," he says again, but it sounds more like a defense than a promise.
You lean back against the couch, the faint hope you felt earlier slipping through your fingers. "Trying isn’t enough," you say softly.
The words hang in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Jaeyun looks at you, his expression conflicted, as if he’s searching for something to say that will fix this. But instead, he leans back in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests.
"I have a big meeting tomorrow," he says finally, his tone almost apologetic. "But we can talk more after. Okay?"
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as you look away. "Of course," you murmur. "After work."
Jaeyun flinches at the sarcasm in your voice but doesn’t argue. Instead, he stands, running a hand through his hair as he glances toward the hallway. "I’ll see you in the morning," he says quietly before walking away.
You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the flickering candle on the coffee table. The room feels emptier than it did before he arrived, the silence colder, more suffocating.
The sound of his footsteps fades as he retreats to his office, leaving you alone with the oppressive quiet of the house. The weight of his absence feels heavier than the space he occupied just moments ago, pressing down on your chest.
You’re angry. Furious, even. The kind of anger that comes not from one isolated hurt but from countless small disappointments piling up into something unbearable. You feel wronged, neglected, like a ghost haunting a house that was never really yours to begin with.
To make matters worse, his words from yesterday night echo in your mind, sharp and cutting: "This marriage isn’t real."
And you’re reminded—again—of what you shouldn’t need reminding of. Jaeyun wasn’t wrong. This marriage, with its polished façade and perfect pretenses, was built on nothing but a deal. A contract. A partnership that never promised love, only convenience.
You shouldn’t be holding him to the vows he read off a script prepared by his secretary, each word meticulously chosen for the press release that followed your wedding. You shouldn’t be expecting more from him when you went into this deal without any expectations.
He’s right, as always. He always is.
You just hate to admit it.
You hate that you’ve let yourself forget the terms. Hate that you’ve let hope slip through the cracks and take root where it was never meant to grow. You hate that his indifference, while expected, still feels like rejection. And you hate that despite everything—despite the truth you’ve known from the beginning—you still feel like you’ve been betrayed.
Jaeyun didn’t lie to you. He didn’t promise anything he hasn’t delivered. You’re the one who strayed from the script, letting feelings creep in where they had no business being.
But even knowing that, the ache doesn’t fade. It settles deeper, rooting itself in your chest like a splinter you can’t quite remove.
It’s fake, you tell yourself again. But no matter how many times you repeat it, it doesn’t feel any less real to you.
The house feels colder now, the weight of Jaeyun’s indifference wrapping around you like a heavy fog. In the distance, you can faintly hear Jaeyun moving around in his office, his presence more distant than the sound of wind outside your window.
You sit on the couch, staring at nothing in particular, your thoughts circling back to the offer Wonyoung extended to you at the café.
It hits you like a revelation, though it shouldn’t. Some time away from Jaeyun, from this house, from the constant ache of trying and failing, might be exactly what you need. You exhale sharply, almost laughing at yourself. Geez, what took you so long to figure that out?
Before you can second-guess the idea, you pick up your phone and dial Wonyoung’s number. She answers on the first ring.
"Hey," she says brightly, as if she’s been waiting for your call.
"Is your offer still open?" you ask hesitantly, gripping the phone tighter.
"Of course it is," she replies without missing a beat. "When do you want me to pick you up?"
"Now?" you say, wincing slightly at how desperate you sound.
"Perfect," she chirps. "Give me ten minutes."
And she delivers, just as she always does. Not even ten minutes later, you hear the low purr of a car engine outside your gate. You peek out the window to see Wonyoung and her bright pink Porsche, the car gleaming under the streetlights. She’s leaning against the driver’s side door, sunglasses perched softly atop her nose, her effortless glamour making her look like she’s stepped out of a magazine shoot.
She waves when she spots you. "Come on!" she calls, her voice light but filled with purpose. "Grab your things and get in."
You hesitate for a moment, glancing back at the house. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, oppressive. You don’t even know if Jaeyun has noticed you’re still sitting out here, much less that you’re about to leave.
Shaking off the thought, you grab an overnight bag you’d hastily packed and head out. As you reach the car, Wonyoung slides her sunglasses down slightly to look at you, her expression softening.
"You don’t have to explain anything right now," she says, opening the passenger door for you. "Just get in."
You slip into the car, the plush leather seats a stark contrast to the cold, hard reality you’ve been living. As soon as you’re buckled in, Wonyoung cranks up the music—a pop song you vaguely recognise—and pulls away from the gate with a flourish.
"You did the right thing," she says after a moment, glancing over at you. "Sometimes, you just need space to see things clearly."
You nod, though the knot in your chest hasn’t quite loosened. Still, as the familiar streets blur past and Wonyoung’s confident energy fills the car, you feel the faintest flicker of relief.
The soft hum of the kettle fills Wonyoung and Sunghoon’s kitchen, blending with the faint sound of rain tapping against the window. Wonyoung hums as she busies herself making tea, while you sit at the counter, wrapped in a blanket she insisted you take the moment you arrived. It’s warm here—not just from the heater, but from the unmistakable feeling of being cared for, a sensation you’ve been starved of for far too long.
"I swear, this house is the only place where I don’t feel like I’m suffocating," you admit softly, watching the steam curl up from your cup.
"You’re always welcome here," Wonyoung says, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Even if Sunghoon pretends to be annoyed, you know he loves having you around."
The sound of footsteps descending the stairs interrupts her, and Sunghoon appears in the doorway, his hair damp from a shower. His sharp features are set in an expression of irritation that immediately reminds you of how he looked when you were both kids and he’d caught someone picking on you.
"You’re staying the weekend, right?" Sunghoon asks, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe.
You hesitate, fiddling with the edge of your blanket. "If it’s okay. I don’t want to impose—"
"Impose?" Sunghoon cuts you off, his voice firm. "You think you’re imposing by needing space from that asshole? Please. Stay as long as you want."
You wince slightly at his tone. Sunghoon rarely speaks about Jaeyun directly, but you know he’s never approved of how distant your marriage has become. And now, with you physically seeking refuge in his home, it seems his patience has run out.
"Sunghoon," Wonyoung warns gently, though she’s clearly on your side.
"No, babe, she needs to hear this," Sunghoon says, stepping closer. His dark eyes meet yours, softening just slightly. "You deserve so much better than how he treats you. I’ve kept quiet because I thought maybe he’d figure it out, but he hasn’t. And I don’t know what it’ll take for you to realise that you’re too good for him."
"Sunghoon," you mumble, feeling a lump rise in your throat.
"You’ve given him everything," he continues, his voice tight with anger, "and what has he done? He keeps you at arm’s length, barely puts in the effort, and makes you question your own worth. If he can’t see how incredible you are, then screw him."
"Sunghoon, that’s enough," Wonyoung says firmly, though her eyes flick to you with concern.
Sunghoon exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I’m sorry," he mutters, his tone softening. "I just… I hate seeing you like this. You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you."
You blink rapidly, fighting back tears. "I know," you whisper. "And I appreciate it. But it’s complicated."
"It doesn’t have to be," he replies, his voice low.
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes on the counter. The screen lights up with a notification, and your stomach twists when you see the name: Jaeyun.
Wonyoung leans over, glancing at the screen. "Let me guess," she says dryly. "He’s just now noticing you’re not home."
You bite your lip, hesitating before picking up the phone. The message is short, as always.
Jaeyun: Where are you?
It’s not the words that make your chest tighten, but the tone you imagine as you read them—detached, almost transactional. There’s no concern, no affection. Just a question, as if you’re a misplaced item he needs to locate.
Sunghoon notices your reaction immediately. "What did he say?" he asks, his voice sharp again.
You hold up the phone, showing him the message. His expression darkens, and Wonyoung sighs, placing a hand on his arm.
"Don’t," she says softly.
"I’m not going to text him," Sunghoon snaps. "But if he thinks he can just demand to know where she is after everything—"
"Sunghoon, please," you interject, your voice shaky. "It’s fine. I’ll… I’ll handle it."
"No, it’s not fine," he says firmly. "But I get it. Just don’t let him guilt you into going back before you’re ready, okay?"
You nod, though your fingers tremble as you type out a response.
You: I’m staying at Sunghoon’s for the weekend.
It feels like a small act of defiance, but even hitting send makes your heart race. You place the phone face down on the counter, half-expecting an immediate reply.
"Good," Wonyoung says, her voice gentle. "Let him sit with that. He needs to know you’re not going to drop everything for him anymore."
"She’s right," Sunghoon adds. "And if he tries anything, you know I’ll handle it."
"If our parents finds out you’re always trying to start shit with Jaeyun, they’d be furious," you half-joke, swirling the tea in your cup. There’s a thin thread of humour in your voice, but it’s tied to a hard truth you both know too well. Your parents owe their entire business to the Sim family.
At the edge of bankruptcy, your marriage to Sim Jaeyun had been the final card they could play, a lifeline they clung to when everything else was crumbling. It worked, of course. The Sims, with their wealth and power, lifted your family’s business from ruin.
And in this, as in so many other things, you lose to Sim Jaeyun.
Be it in this sham of a marriage, in the tenuous stability of your family’s finances, you know the Sims don’t need you. Not really. Not as much as you need them.
Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his expression darkening. "You know I never agreed to marrying you off to that family, despite the consequences," he says, his voice low but resolute.
"I know," you reply softly, your gaze falling to your cup. "You got into a huge fight with Father over it. But you also know I’d do it anyway, even if you tried to stop me."
"Unfortunately, you’re as stubborn as a mule," he mutters, though his tone is fond. He exhales sharply, his brow furrowing. "But I hope you know you’re not tied down to this marriage anymore. Our family’s doing significantly better than it was three years ago, with or without the Sim backing us up. You can divorce him, if you want to."
The words hit you harder than you expect. Divorce. You’ve thought about it in the quiet corners of your mind, but hearing Sunghoon say it aloud feels different. It feels real.
"I’ll… sit on it," you say after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper.
Sunghoon studies you carefully, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. He knows you too well, knows that even though Jaeyun pretends you don’t exist most of the time, you’re still hanging onto that faint, stubborn hope that things might go back to how they were in the beginning. Even if you can’t admit it to yourself.
He doesn’t push. He simply nods, leaning forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. "Just remember, you’re not alone in this," he says firmly. "Whatever you decide, I’ve got your back."
You manage a small smile, the lump in your throat easing slightly. For the first time in a long while, you feel supported—truly supported.
As the rain continues to patter against the windows, Wonyoung pulls you into a conversation about dinner plans, her voice light and teasing as she asks Sunghoon to attempt making something edible for once. The tension in the room softens, and for a brief moment, you let yourself breathe.
Your phone buzzes faintly on the table, and your heart skips when you see Jaeyun’s name. The message isn’t anything special—nothing more than a curt reply to the one you sent earlier. It’s impersonal, distant, but you tell yourself it’s enough.
At least, that’s what you try to tell yourself.
The house is eerily quiet when you step inside, the echo of your keys hitting the console table filling the space. You kick off your shoes and glance around, expecting the usual stillness of a house that’s more empty than lived-in. Jaeyun should already be at work. It’s Monday morning, and his schedule is usually airtight at the start of the week.
You place your weekend bag by the stairs, your chest feeling lighter than it has in months. The time with Wonyoung and Sunghoon had been a breath of fresh air, a reprieve from the weight of this house and everything it represents.
But as you make your way toward the kitchen, something feels… off.
The air is heavy, and there’s no sign of the usual orderliness Jaeyun insists on. A mug sits abandoned on the counter, and his shoes are still by the door—things that wouldn’t be there if he’d left for the office.
Curious, you make your way upstairs, the faintest sense of unease prickling at your skin. The door to Jaeyun’s room is slightly ajar, and when you push it open, your breath catches.
He’s there, lying in bed, his usually impeccable appearance replaced by disheveled hair and a pale complexion. The blanket is pulled up to his chin, and the faint flush on his cheeks tells you everything you need to know.
He’s sick.
"Jaeyun?" you say softly, stepping into the room.
He stirs at the sound of your voice, his eyelids fluttering open. His usual sharp gaze is dulled, clouded by fever. "You’re back," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
"I thought you’d be at work," you say, approaching the bed cautiously.
He lets out a weak chuckle that quickly dissolves into a cough. "I tried," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Made it as far as the shower before I gave up."
For a moment, you’re not sure what to do. This is new territory for both of you. But then something shifts inside you, something instinctive. You sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to press the back of your hand to his forehead.
"You’re burning up," you say, frowning. "Why didn’t you call someone?"
"I didn’t think it was that bad," he mutters, closing his eyes again.
You sigh, standing up and glancing around the room. "Stay here. I’ll be back."
His lips twitch, almost as if he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches you leave, his usually stoic expression softening ever so slightly.
You return a few minutes later with a damp cloth, a glass of water, and the medicine you keep stocked in the kitchen. Jaeyun doesn’t protest as you sit beside him again, carefully pressing the cloth to his forehead.
"You don’t have to do this," he says, though his voice lacks conviction.
"I know," you reply simply.
He watches you for a moment, his gaze softer than you’re used to. "Thank you," he murmurs.
You nod, focusing on your task. There’s a quiet intimacy in the moment, the kind you haven’t felt in a long time.
As you help him sit up to take the medicine, his hand brushes against yours, and for a second, neither of you moves. It’s such a small, fleeting thing, but it feels monumental in the stillness of the room.
"You’ve done this before," he says suddenly, his voice tinged with curiosity.
You raise an eyebrow. "Taken care of someone who’s sick? Of course."
"No," he says, shaking his head slightly. "You. You’re… good at this. Gentle."
The comment catches you off guard, and you glance away, busying yourself with adjusting the blanket. "It’s nothing," you say quietly.
But Jaeyun doesn’t let it drop. "It’s not nothing," he says, his voice softer now. "I don’t think I’ve ever noticed that about you before."
The words hang between you, and for the first time in years, you see something in his expression that isn’t indifference or frustration. It’s gratitude.
"Rest," you say, deflecting the moment as you stand. "I’ll check on you later."
"Wait," he says, his voice stopping you in your tracks.
You turn, surprised. "What?"
"Will you… keep me company?" he asks, his tone hesitant. "Just for a little while."
Your heart clenches, and despite everything, you nod. "Okay."
You sit back down, leaning against the headboard as Jaeyun closes his eyes, his breathing evening out. For a while, you watch him, the tension in his face melting away as sleep takes over.
And in that quiet moment, with the soft hum of the rain outside and the warmth of his presence beside you, something shifts.
You open your eyes to find yourself tucked into the comforter of a bed you never thought you’d ever lie in again. The unfamiliar weight of the blankets is warm against your skin, but it takes a moment for you to orient yourself. The room is dim now, the last traces of sunlight gone, replaced by the faint glow of the bedside lamp.
The house is silent, and most notably, Jaeyun is no longer where you left him.
A faint pang of concern rises in your chest as you sit up, running a hand through your hair. He was feverish just hours ago, barely coherent. The fact that he’s no longer in bed is enough to pull you out of the comfort of his room.
You step into the hallway, glancing around. The living room is just as still and empty as it was when you first returned this morning, the silence almost oppressive.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot it: the familiar glow spilling out from under the door to Jaeyun’s office.
You narrow your eyes. Don’t tell me…
You walk toward the door, heart sinking with every step. Pushing it open slightly, you find him perched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen. His fingers move swiftly across the keyboard, his focus unbroken. He didn’t even bother changing out of the clothes he slept in, the faint flush on his cheeks a reminder that he’s still sick.
"Jaeyun," you say, your voice sharper than you intended.
He startles slightly, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. For a moment, he looks almost guilty, but the expression is fleeting. His face hardens, and he’s back to his usual self—detached, dismissive.
"What are you doing?" you demand, stepping into the room. "You should be resting."
"I’m fine," he replies curtly, his attention already shifting back to the screen.
"You’re not fine," you retort, your frustration bubbling over. "You had a fever this morning. You could barely sit up. And now you’re here, working as if nothing happened?"
He doesn’t answer, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
"Why do you do this to yourself?" you ask, your tone softening despite your anger. "Why can’t you just take a break for once?"
"Because I don’t have the luxury of taking a break," he snaps, his voice sharp. He glances at you briefly, his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place. "Not everyone can afford to stop when things get difficult."
You flinch at his words, but you refuse to back down. "You’re not invincible, Jaeyun. You’re sick. Pushing yourself like this is only going to make it worse."
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a heavy sigh, he closes his laptop and leans back in his chair. His face is pale, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced in the harsh light of the office.
"Why do you care?" he asks quietly, his voice devoid of its usual edge.
The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. Why do you care? After everything, after the distance and the arguments, why do you still feel this pull toward him?
"Because someone has to," you say finally, your voice steady. "And whether you like it or not, that someone is me."
He blinks, clearly not expecting your answer. His expression softens, the usual mask of indifference slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man he used to be—or maybe the man he still is, buried under all the walls he’s built.
"Come on," you say gently, nodding toward the door. "You need to lie down."
To your surprise, he doesn’t argue. He stands slowly, wincing slightly as he stretches. As he follows you out of the office, the silence between you feels less heavy, less hostile.
Back in his room, you watch as he climbs into bed, his movements sluggish. You adjust the blankets around him, your hand brushing against his briefly.
"You’re stubborn," you say softly, a faint attempt at teasing.
He lets out a weak chuckle, closing his eyes. "Takes one to know one."
You smile despite yourself, stepping back toward the door to give him space. But before you can leave, his voice stops you.
"Stay," he says quietly.
You freeze, your hand still on the doorframe. “So I can find you missing again when I wake up?” You joke, but you know it got lost on him when you spot the hint of guilt that colour his face.
"Just… stay," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes open, and for a fleeting moment, you see something vulnerable in his gaze.
You hesitate, your mind racing. Despite the years of being his wife, despite all the public pretenses and shared spaces, Jaeyun has never asked you to stay—not like this.
"Okay," you say finally, your voice soft. You move back toward the bed, sitting gingerly on the edge, unsure of what to expect.
Jaeyun shifts slightly, making space for you. "Lie down," he murmurs, his tone almost… tender.
You blink at him, stunned, but something in his expression—tired, open—compels you to obey. Slowly, you lie down beside him, careful to keep a polite distance. The room is quiet, the sound of your breaths the only thing breaking the stillness.
But then you feel it.
His arm snakes around your waist, tentative at first but firm as it settles. You inhale sharply, your body stiffening under his touch. Despite being his lawfully wedded wife, whose only purpose, it seems, is to sit there and look pretty, Jaeyun has never once touched you—not like this. Not in an intimate setting. Not at all.
"Jaeyun," you whisper, your voice catching.
"Don’t," he interrupts softly, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "Just… let me. Just for a moment."
You don’t move, your heart racing as the weight of his arm presses against you, grounding you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. His warmth seeps into you, a stark contrast to the cold distance you’ve grown so accustomed to.
For a long while, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it feels like something fragile and unspoken is passing between you, an unsteady bridge forming where there had only been a chasm before.
"Thank you," he murmurs finally, his breath warm against your neck.
"For what?" you ask, your voice barely audible.
"For being here," he replies simply.
You close your eyes, your hand hovering uncertainly before resting lightly on top of his. "Get some rest, Jaeyun," you say softly.
His hold on you tightens ever so slightly, and for the first time, you let yourself lean into his touch. As Jaeyun’s breathing evens out and the warmth of his presence lulls you into stillness, you feel something unexpected stir in your chest.
Not hope, not yet.
You tell yourself not to expect too much. This could just be a one-off thing, and it’ll go away just as quickly as it came, disappearing like so many other fragile glimpses of something more in your marriage.
Still, you stay still, letting the warmth of his touch seep into you, even as your mind tries to brace itself for the inevitable return to indifference. You tell yourself this means nothing—it’s just circumstance. He’s disoriented, caught off guard by his own vulnerability.
But then your gaze drifts downward, and you find yourself puzzled. His left hand covers your own, his touch firm yet gentle, and you’re struck by the sight of his wedding ring etched tightly around his finger. The gold band catches the faint glow of the moonlight outside, its presence so sure, so constant, as if it’s always belonged there.
Your eyes drop to your own hand. The ring you once wore is absent, likely discarded at some point when you returned home earlier, leaving only the faint tattoo etched into your skin.
His fingers shift slightly, and you feel the rough edge of his thumb trace over the spot where your ring used to sit. The action is subtle, almost unconscious, but it makes your heart race.
Does he realise what he’s doing? Is it just a fever-driven habit, a thoughtless gesture? Or is there something more to the way his touch lingers there, his warmth seeping into the empty space where a symbol of your bond once rested?
You glance at his face, but his eyes are closed, his breathing soft and steady. He looks peaceful, almost childlike, so far removed from the sharp, composed man you know him to be.
You let out a slow breath, your heart conflicted. This moment feels too fragile, too fleeting, to hold onto. And yet, the weight of his hand over yours, the brush of his thumb against your tattooed ring finger, lingers in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
Don’t expect too much, you remind yourself, closing your eyes and letting your head rest against the pillow. But even as sleep pulls you under, the thought remains, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind.
The soft glow of morning light filters through the curtains, and you stir, slowly coming back to consciousness. Your first thought is that the bed feels strangely warm, a comforting weight anchoring you to the mattress.
Your second thought is that Jaeyun is surely gone by now.
But when you blink your eyes open, you’re surprised to find him still there, lying beside you. His head is propped up on one hand, his eyes watching you with an unusual softness. He’s awake, fully present, and for a moment, you think you might still be dreaming.
"You’re still here?" you mumble, your voice thick with sleep.
He smirks faintly, though there’s a gentleness in his expression that you can’t quite place. "Good morning to you too," he says, his tone light.
You push yourself up slightly, propping yourself on your elbows. "I thought you’d be gone by now. Off to work or something."
He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. "I figured you’d think that," he says, his gaze steady on yours.
"Am I wrong?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, his lips twitch into the faintest smile, and he says, "I wanted to prove you wrong."
You blink, caught off guard by his words. "Prove me wrong about what?"
"That I’d be gone when you woke up," he says simply. "I know that’s what you expected. I wanted to stay… just this once."
His honesty takes the air from your lungs, and you find yourself staring at him, searching his face for some kind of ulterior motive. But all you see is sincerity, an openness that feels so unlike him it almost makes you uncomfortable.
"Why?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He shrugs, his expression faltering slightly. "No reason.”
The words hang between you, fragile but significant. You don’t know how to respond, your heart warring with a mix of emotions—hope, skepticism, confusion.
"Jaeyun," you begin, your voice uncertain, "are you—"
"Don’t read too much into it," he interrupts gently, his gaze shifting away for a moment. "I just… wanted to be here. It’s the least I can do in return for taking care of me last night. That’s all."
You nod slowly, unsure of what to say. It feels like there’s more he isn’t saying, but for now, you let it be.
"Well," you say, clearing your throat to break the tension, "you succeeded. I didn’t think you’d still be here, but you are."
He smiles faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to make your chest tighten. "Good," he says, his tone soft.
The two of you lapse into silence, the morning light growing brighter as it fills the room. Strangely, the quiet between you isn’t heavy or suffocating—it’s almost comfortable.
And that scares you.
The late morning sun filters through the curtains, casting soft streaks of light across the living room. You’re perched on the couch, a mug of tea warming your hands, and for once, the house doesn’t feel so empty. It’s quiet, but not the cold, distant kind of quiet you’ve grown used to. This quiet feels… peaceful.
Jaeyun is in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers in search of something. The sound of clinking silverware drifts into the living room, and you can’t help but smile faintly at his muffled muttering.
"You’ve been in there for ten minutes," you call out. "What are you looking for?"
"Nothing," he replies, his tone nonchalant, though it’s clear he’s lying.
A moment later, he emerges with a slightly triumphant expression, holding up a mismatched pair of chopsticks. "Found them."
You raise an eyebrow. "Were we missing chopsticks?"
He shrugs, sitting down beside you on the couch. "Apparently. But not anymore."
It’s such a mundane moment, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and yet it feels monumental. Jaeyun—your distant, often aloof husband—sitting beside you, chopsticks in hand as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
"So," you say, tilting your head to look at him, "you’re really not going to work today?"
He leans back against the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Called in sick," he says simply.
Your eyes widen slightly. "You did what?"
He glances at you, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You heard me. Just one day. I figured the world wouldn’t end if I wasn’t at my desk for twenty-four hours."
The admission surprises you more than you’d like to admit. "You? Calling in sick? Are you sure you’re not actually still feverish?"
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I just… thought it might be nice to stay home. Spend the day here."
The words are casual, but they hit you with unexpected weight. He doesn’t say it outright, but you can tell he means with you.
The day unfolds in a series of small, quiet moments.
You make lunch together—or rather, you try to make lunch while Jaeyun critiques your cooking with a faint smirk that earns him a flick of flour to the face. He retaliates by stealing a bite of your eggs before it even makes it to your plate.
Later, you find yourselves sitting on the floor, a forgotten deck of cards between you. The game dissolves into laughter when Jaeyun’s competitive streak makes him accuse you of cheating, though you both know he’s just annoyed that you’re winning.
At some point, he drags you to the couch, insisting you watch an old movie he loves. The two of you sit side by side, shoulders brushing, as the black-and-white film flickers across the screen.
The golden hues of sunset stream through the kitchen windows as you both sit at the table, sipping tea after finishing the leftovers from lunch. The warmth of the day still lingers in the air, wrapping around the two of you like a cocoon.
As you lean back in your chair, savoring the moment, Jaeyun suddenly tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your hand.
"Where’s your ring?" he asks, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.
Your heart skips a beat. The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you freeze.
"My ring?" you repeat, stalling for time as your mind races.
"Yeah," he says, his gaze still fixed on your bare finger. "You’re always wearing it. Did you take it off for something?"
"I… I must’ve left it in the bathroom," you blurt out, forcing a smile you hope looks convincing. "Probably when I was washing my hands earlier."
He raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "In the bathroom?"
"Yeah," you say quickly, nodding as you avoid his gaze. "I’ll grab it later."
Jaeyun doesn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes lingering on you longer than you’d like. The air feels heavier, and you’re painfully aware of how obvious your lie probably sounds.
Finally, he leans back in his chair, shrugging slightly. "Don’t forget it," he says, his tone light but his words carrying an undertone you can’t quite place.
You nod, forcing yourself to relax. "Of course."
But as the conversation shifts and the moment passes, the weight of his question lingers. You glance down at your hand, at the faint tattoo where your ring should be, and a wave of guilt prickles at the edges of your thoughts.
It’s not like you haven’t taken it off before. In fact, you do it almost every day when you’re at home. It’s become something of a ritual—the first thing you do after stepping through the door. You slip the ring off your finger and leave it somewhere out of sight, free from its weight, if only for a little while.
The cool metal feels foreign against your skin most days, its presence a constant reminder of what your life is—or isn’t. You never think twice about leaving it behind when you’re within these walls. Here, there’s no one to see, no one to judge, no cameras waiting to catch a fleeting moment that could spiral into something scandalous.
When you’re not out and about, it feels pointless to keep it on. The ring, for all its shine, doesn’t mean much in the confines of this house. It’s more for show, a symbol of an agreement carefully constructed to protect your family’s image and his.
Not a promise. Never that.
At least, that’s what you’ve told yourself. The habit of slipping it off has become so second nature, so tied to the quiet rebellion you allow yourself in these small, insignificant moments.
And yet, when Jaeyun notices its absence today, it feels like the weight of it hasn’t truly left you. As if even without wearing it, the ring leaves its mark in more ways than one.
He’s never noticed before—or if he has, he’s never said anything. So why now? Why today, of all days, when things between you feel… different?
Unlike you, he never seems to take it off. It’s always there, snug around his finger, as if it belongs. The sight of it used to annoy you—how he could wear it so easily, without it seeming to weigh him down.
Now, you’re not sure how it makes you feel.
You run your thumb over the faint tattoo on your ring finger, and force yourself to look away. It’s just one day, you remind yourself again.
Just one day where things feel lighter, less complicated.
But you can’t help wondering if Jaeyun’s question meant more than he let on. And you can’t shake the feeling that this small, seemingly insignificant detail might mean more than either of you are ready to admit.
And like every other time you think things might start changing for the better between you and Jaeyun, you’re reminded once again why you don’t hope.
Jaeyun goes back to his old ways, the distance between you returning like a shadow that never truly left. It feels like déjà vu.
You can’t help but wonder how one person can do such a thing—be kind and leave you helplessly yearning for one day, only to completely pretend you don’t exist the next. It’s as if he’s perfected the art of making you feel like you matter, just enough to keep you tethered, before yanking it all away again.
He’s gone before you wake up, and by the time he comes home, it’s well past dinner, the faint smell of his cologne mingling with the crisp air he brings in from the outside world. There’s no more lingering conversations, no more stolen glances or hesitant touches. It’s as though the day you spent together was a dream you woke from too soon.
You try to tell yourself it doesn’t hurt, but it does. Every time he brushes past you without a word, every time his focus remains glued to his phone or laptop instead of on the life you’re supposed to be sharing, it stings.
One evening, as he’s seated at the dining table with his laptop, his face illuminated by the cold, blue glow of the screen, you bring it up.
"There’s a charity gala being held by the Park family this weekend," you say, your tone light, careful. "We’re expected to attend together."
He doesn’t look up, his fingers tapping steadily at the keyboard. "Hmm," he mutters absently, his tone distant.
You suppress a sigh, leaning against the counter. "It’s important, Jaeyun. The Parks have always been close to your family, and you know how much these events matter to them—and to us."
"I’ll see if I can make it," he replies, his eyes never leaving the screen.
"See if you can make it?" you repeat, a note of irritation slipping into your voice. "It’s not a suggestion, Jaeyun. We’re supposed to go together."
He pauses for a fraction of a second before resuming his typing. "I’ll try," he says, his tone flat.
You swallow the lump in your throat, nodding even though he isn’t looking. "Alright," you murmur, retreating to the safety of your room.
But deep down, you already know how it will play out. He won’t come. You’ll stand alone at the gala, wearing a practiced smile while the whispers swirl around you. And when you return home, he’ll have some excuse waiting, polished and hollow, leaving you wondering why you even bother to hope.
And yet, against your better judgment, you do. You hope.
You’d spent hours convincing yourself that he would come, that this time would be different. But as the car pulled up to the venue without him, the weight of the truth settled back onto your shoulders. Of course, he hadn’t come. You knew it was too good to be true.
The Park family’s charity gala is as dazzling as you expected. The grand ballroom is a sea of glittering gowns, tailored suits, and sparkling champagne glasses. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across the room, illuminating faces that belong to the city’s most influential.
As you make your way through the crowd, trying not to let your disappointment show, you almost immediately feel the weight of eyes on you.
People glance at the space beside you—empty, conspicuously so. The absence of Jaeyun is louder than any announcement, a glaring reminder of how alone you are in this marriage.
"She’s here alone again," someone whispers as you pass.
“Where’s Jaeyun?" one woman asks lightly, her tone laced with curiosity.
You hold your head high, your practiced smile in place, though the sting of their words burns beneath your skin. You knew this would happen. You prepared yourself for it. And still, it doesn’t make it any easier.
An hour passes, and you’ve made your way through polite conversations and obligatory greetings. You exchange small talk with acquaintances and pose for photographs, every move calculated to maintain the image of perfection.
And before you know it, you find yourself at the bar, nursing a glass of champagne as the evening drags on. The music is lively, couples twirling across the dance floor, and yet you can’t shake the gnawing feeling of being out of place.
"Mrs. Sim," a warm voice calls out. It’s smooth, familiar, and you turn to see Justin Park standing beside you. The eldest son of the Park family is the picture of charm, his tailored suit impeccable, his smile easy.
"Justin," you greet him with a smile, grateful for the familiarity. "It’s been a while."
"It has," he agrees, taking your hand briefly in his. "I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us."
You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Never. The Parks throw the best events, after all."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," he teases, his grin widening.
The conversation flows effortlessly, his presence offering a welcome reprieve from the otherwise stifling evening. Justin has always had a way of making people feel at ease, and for the first time tonight, you feel a small sense of relief.
But you’re not oblivious to the glances. You can feel the eyes of the room on you, hear the faint murmurs growing louder as the two of you continue talking. Justin doesn’t seem to notice—or if he does, he doesn’t care.
He takes the seat beside you, signaling for a drink. "No Jaeyun tonight?"
You let out a soft laugh, though there’s no real humour in it. "Work," you say, the excuse slipping off your tongue before you can stop it.
Justin raises an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. "Work seems to take up a lot of his time."
You glance at him, unsure how to respond. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, but he doesn’t press further. Instead, he shifts the conversation to lighter topics, asking about your family, your thoughts on the gala, your latest endeavours.
But as the conversation continues, you become more and more aware of the glances being cast your way. The whispers. The pointed stares.
It doesn’t take long to piece together what’s happening.
The perfect wife of Sim Jaeyun, left alone at a gala, seen laughing and chatting with Justin Park—eldest son of the host family, no less. The headline practically writes itself.
You excuse yourself politely, leaving Justin with a gracious smile as you slip away to the powder room. Your heart pounds as you grip the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror. The whispers have always followed you, but this feels different.
When you return to the ballroom, the tension is palpable. More eyes follow you now, the buzz of speculation almost tangible. You press on, keeping your head high, your composure intact.
But inside, something breaks.
You’d held onto hope, despite everything, that Jaeyun might show up, that he might stand beside you for once, silencing the whispers with his presence. Instead, his absence speaks louder than words ever could.
The night drags on, and by the time you leave, the damage is done.
When you arrive home, the house is dark, just as you expected. Jaeyun’s car is in the driveway, but the silence inside confirms what you already know—he’s here, but he’s not really here.
You find him in his office, his laptop open, his face bathed in the cold glow of the screen.
"You didn’t come," you say, your voice flat as you stand in the doorway.
He glances up briefly, his expression unreadable. "I told you I was busy."
"Busy," you repeat, bitterness creeping into your tone. "You couldn’t even spare one evening? You didn’t even try, did you?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.
"Do you have any idea what tonight was like for me?" you ask, your voice rising. "Standing there alone while people whispered and stared? While they speculated about my marriage—and about Justin Park?"
At the mention of Justin’s name, Jaeyun’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face.
"Justin?" he asks, his tone clipped.
"Yes, Justin," you snap. "He was kind enough to talk to me while my husband couldn’t even bother to show up."
Jaeyun’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think he might actually say something. But then he leans back in his chair, his expression closing off once more. "I’m sure people will find something else to talk about tomorrow."
The dismissal in his tone is the final blow. You shake your head, the weight of the evening crashing down on you.
"Of course," you say softly, your voice trembling. "Why would you care?"
You turn and walk away, the sound of his keyboard clicking resuming as the door closes behind you. In the quiet of your room, you slip off your gown, your hands trembling as you let it pool around your feet.
You knew it was too good to be true. Jaeyun’s warmth, his attention—it was fleeting, a momentary lapse in the distance that defines your marriage. And now, you’re left with the echoes of what might have been, wondering if it was ever real to begin with.
The days following the gala, marked by a heavy, stifling silence that seems to wrap itself around the house. You try to carry on as if nothing has changed, though it’s impossible to ignore the fact that Jaeyun is now home every day.
It’s disorienting. He’s always been someone who thrives on his demanding schedule, constantly in and out, using work as an excuse to avoid the cracks in your marriage.
But now, he’s here—present in a way that feels more like a shadow than a comfort.
You desperately try to avoid him, sticking to your routines with an almost obsessive precision. You spend longer in the kitchen, longer in the guest room you’ve claimed as your own, and shorter stretches of time in shared spaces like the living room. Yet, no matter how hard you try, it’s like his presence lingers everywhere.
In the mornings, you find him in the kitchen, sipping coffee at the island as if he’s always been there. The air is thick with unspoken words as you pour yourself tea, your movements stiff and deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond a glance, but the weight of his silence is deafening.
At night, it’s worse. You hear him moving about the house, the faint sound of his footsteps stopping and starting as though he’s unsure where to go. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to confront him, to say something—anything—but you don’t. You can’t.
One evening, as you retreat to your room, you notice the door to his office is wide open, the lights dim. You hesitate for a moment, glancing inside, only to find him sitting at his desk, staring blankly at his laptop.
He doesn’t look up, but his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. "You’re avoiding me."
You freeze, your fingers tightening on the edge of the doorframe. "I’m not avoiding you," you lie, your voice steadier than you feel.
He lets out a dry laugh, though there’s no humour in it. "You’re not very good at lying."
You don’t respond, your pulse quickening as the weight of his gaze finally lifts from the screen and settles on you. His eyes are darker than usual, a storm brewing behind them, but you refuse to let it intimidate you.
"Why are you here all the time now?" you ask abruptly, the question tumbling out before you can stop it. "Are you not needed at the office?"
He leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Maybe I realised I’ve been away too much, I’ve decided to work from home for the time being."
You scoff, shaking your head. "You’ve always been away too much. Why does it matter now?"
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on you, searching, as if trying to decide how much to say. "Because you were right," he says finally, his voice quieter but firm. "About a lot of things."
The confession catches you off guard, your carefully constructed walls trembling under the weight of his words.
"And what am I supposed to do with that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know. But I’m trying."
You laugh bitterly, stepping back into the hallway. "Trying doesn’t undo what’s already been done, Jaeyun."
"I know," he says softly, almost to himself.
You leave before he can say anything more, retreating to your room and shutting the door behind you. The house falls silent again, but it feels more suffocating than ever.
The knock at the door is sharp, insistent, cutting through the quiet of the night like a blade. You hesitate, your book slipping from your hands onto the couch.
It’s late—too late for anyone to show up unannounced. The second knock is harder, more aggressive, and the urgency in it sends a chill down your spine.
Jaeyun’s office light is still on, but the house is otherwise silent. You glance down the hallway, half-expecting him to emerge and handle it, but when he doesn’t, you steel yourself and head for the door.
Justin Park stands on your doorstep, his usually composed face marred by a split lip and a bruise darkening his cheek. His suit jacket is gone, his shirt wrinkled and bloodied, and his eyes burn with a fury you’ve never seen before.
You swing the door open, your voice trembling. "Justin? What happened to you?"
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, his movements stiff and pained. "Where’s your husband?" he snaps, his voice low and dangerous.
"What—what are you talking about?" you stammer, closing the door behind him as he staggers into the living room.
"Get Jaeyun on a leash," he growls, turning to face you. His eyes are blazing, his anger palpable. "Because if this is how he handles things, you’re going to have bigger problems than rumors about us."
You stare at him, your mind struggling to catch up. "Jaeyun? What does he have to do with this?"
Justin lets out a harsh laugh, though there’s no humor in it. He presses a hand to his side, wincing as he moves. "You really don’t know, do you?"
"Your husband sent his men after me," he growls, his voice dripping with anger. "Three of them cornered me at the bar tonight. Told me I needed to stay away from you. When I didn’t back down, they made sure I 'got the message.'"
The blood drains from your face as you take in his bruised cheek, the torn fabric of his shirt. "Jaeyun… he wouldn’t—"
"Wouldn’t he?" Justin snaps, his eyes blazing. "You think he didn’t know exactly what he was doing? He made it very clear who was behind it."
The words hit you like a punch to the gut. This couldn’t be true, could it? Jaeyun, who has spent years pretending you don’t exist, who didn’t even bother to show up at the gala, suddenly cared enough to orchestrate this?
You swallow hard, your hands trembling as you step closer. "Justin, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—"
"Don’t apologise for him," Justin interrupts sharply, his gaze softening slightly as he looks at you. "This isn’t your fault. But you need to talk to him. Make him understand that this isn’t how you fix things."
You nod slowly, your mind spinning. "Let me get you some ice," you say, moving toward the kitchen.
"Don’t bother," Justin says, shaking his head. "I just came to let you know what happened. Whatever you do with this information is up to you."
"Justin—"
"Take care of yourself," he says, cutting you off as he heads toward the door. He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and glances back at you. "You deserve better than this."
The sound of the door shutting behind Justin reverberates through the house like a final gavel in a court sentencing. You stand frozen, trying to collect yourself, when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of Jaeyun’s footsteps behind you.
"Who was that?" Jaeyun’s voice is calm, almost indifferent, but there’s a sharpness beneath it that makes your skin crawl.
You turn slowly to face him, your anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You already know who it was."
His gaze darkens, his expression unreadable. "And why was he here?"
You scoff, crossing your arms. "Why do you think? He came to show me the bruises your men left on him. Did you send them, Jaeyun?"
Jaeyun doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "He needed to understand his place," he says flatly.
"His place?" you echo, your voice rising. "You sent your men to beat him up over a conversation? What’s wrong with you?"
Jaeyun straightens, his eyes flashing. "He was disrespecting our marriage."
You stare at him, stunned for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh. "Disrespecting our marriage? What marriage, Jaeyun? The one you’ve ignored for years? The one you couldn’t even show up to defend at the gala?"
He steps closer, his voice sharp. "Don’t twist this. You were out there talking to him, laughing with him, while people whispered about you. About us."
"Why does it matter to you anyway?" you snap, your anger spilling over. "You don’t see this arrangement as anything more than a convenience. Why do you care if I was talking to Justin or not?"
"Because it reflects on me," he fires back, his voice hard. "On my family. On my name."
You flinch at the bluntness of his words, your chest tightening. "So that’s all this is to you? Image? Reputation?"
He clenches his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "You don’t understand."
"No," you shoot back, your voice breaking slightly. "I don’t understand. Because you don’t let me. You don’t let me in, Jaeyun. And then you act like you have the right to control me when I’m just trying to survive this sham of a marriage."
His expression falters for a moment, something flickering in his eyes—guilt, regret, anger—but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
"You don’t know Justin Park," he says, his tone cold. "Not like I do. It’s best you stay away from him."
"And you think I know you?" you ask, your voice trembling with fury. "Maybe it’s you I should be staying away from."
The words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, he’s silent. The tension between you is suffocating, the weight of everything left unsaid crushing down on both of you.
Finally, he exhales, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "This isn’t about me."
"It’s always about you, Jaeyun," you reply, shaking your head. "Your name. Your image. Your pride. But what about me? What about what I want? Or do I not even factor into this equation anymore?"
His silence is answer enough.
You turn on your heel, your chest tight as you storm down the hallway, leaving him standing there in the suffocating silence. Your footsteps echo through the house, but his don’t follow.
In your room, you sit on the edge of the bed, your hands trembling as you press them against your temples. Justin’s words replay in your mind: You deserve better than this.
And for a moment, you wonder if he’s right.
The thought comes to you slowly, quietly, like the first ripples of a tide that eventually swallows the shore. Divorce. You roll the word around in your mind, tasting its finality, its promise of freedom, and the bitter pang of everything it would mean.
For so long, it felt like an impossible idea, a step too drastic to even consider. You told yourself it wasn’t an option—not with the intertwined fates of your family and Jaeyun’s. Not with the whispers that would follow you for years, the headlines that would smear your name.
But now, as you sit alone in the dim light of your room, the faint murmur of Jaeyun’s movements down the hall a constant reminder of how broken things are, it doesn’t feel impossible anymore.
It feels inevitable.
Your mind drifts back to the last few months, to the endless cycle of hope and disappointment. For every fleeting moment of warmth from Jaeyun, there’s a cold wall waiting to slam back down, leaving you questioning your worth, your sanity.
You deserve better than this.
Do you?
The idea both frightens and exhilarates you. To walk away, to sever the ties that have bound you for so long, feels like a leap into the unknown. What would your life look like without Jaeyun? Without the expectations and pretenses that have consumed you?
Your thoughts turn to your family. You know the sacrifices they made, the desperation that led to this marriage in the first place. For so long, you told yourself you couldn’t leave because they needed you to stay. But now, with their business stable and the weight of the Sim family’s influence less critical than it once was, you wonder if you’ve been clinging to that excuse simply because it’s easier than facing the truth.
The truth is, you’ve been afraid. Afraid of the fallout, of the shame, of the unknown. Afraid that walking away would mean admitting failure—not just to your family or society, but to yourself.
But as you sit there, the faint hum of the world outside filtering through the window, you realise something else: staying is its own kind of failure.
You press your hands to your face, breathing deeply as you let the thought settle over you. Divorce. It feels heavy, like a word too big for your chest to hold, but also strangely freeing.
You don’t make the decision tonight. But for the first time, you allow yourself to think about it, to imagine a life where the weight of this marriage is lifted, where you can breathe freely again.
But while the thought of it doesn’t feel impossible, it doesn’t feel like hope either.
Not the kind of hope you would feel when the coldness between you and Jaeyun would melt for a day or two, his rare gestures of warmth thawing the ice between you before it inevitably froze over again. Not the kind of hope you would feel when you allowed yourself to dream of a happy marriage with him, only to wake up to the nightmare of its absence.
This doesn’t feel like hope.
It feels like resignation. A quiet acceptance of the reality you’ve been avoiding for years. But even as the word divorce lingers in your mind, whispering promises of freedom and relief, there’s something else that you can’t seem to ignore.
Even after everything—after the indifference, the distance, the way he treats you like an afterthought—you can’t deny the feeling that has rooted itself so stubbornly in your chest.
You love him.
It feels absurd, almost laughable, to admit it even to yourself. How could you love someone who has hurt you so thoroughly, someone who has made you feel invisible in a marriage that he vowed to protect? And yet, the truth is undeniable.
You love him.
You love him in the quiet moments when his mask slips, and he shows glimpses of the man you thought he could be. You love him in the memories of the rare times he made you feel seen, however fleeting they were. You even love him in the ache of longing, in the endless hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll come back to you in the way you’ve always wanted him to.
It’s maddening. It’s painful. And it’s real.
The thought makes your chest tighten, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. How can you even think of divorce when your heart refuses to let go? When a part of you still clings to the idea that something salvageable remains between you?
You press your fingers to your temple, willing the thoughts to quiet, but they don’t. Instead, they linger, heavy and unrelenting, as the faint sounds of Jaeyun moving about the house reach your ears.
You love him. Despite everything. And maybe that’s the worst part of all.
You decide that you’ll never be able to come to a conclusion as long as you’re stuck in this house, surrounded by everything that reminds you of him. The walls feel like they’re closing in, every corner holding fragments of a life you’re not sure you can continue living. His cologne lingering in the hallways, the faint indent of his weight on the sofa, the silent hum of his presence—all of it suffocates you.
So, you do the only thing you can think of. You pack your bags.
You don’t give yourself time to overthink it. A small overnight bag is enough; you don’t even care if you’ve forgotten something. The urgency to leave, to breathe, to escape the weight of him, pushes you forward.
You don’t bother texting or calling Wonyoung or Sunghoon first. She’s your best friend and he’s your brother. You trust that they’ll understand. Frankly, you don’t care if you’re interrupting something. You just want out of this house.
When you step out into the cool evening air, the weight on your chest lifts ever so slightly. You pull your coat tighter around you and get into the car, gripping the steering wheel as if it’s the only thing anchoring you.
The drive to Wonyoung’s is a blur, the city lights flashing past your windows like fleeting memories. You don’t know what you’re going to say when you arrive, but you trust that she’ll take one look at you and know. She always does.
Your grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles white as you try to focus on the road and not the storm brewing inside your mind. But as you take a glance at your rear-view mirror, a flicker of unease slithers into your chest.
The car behind you has been following you for far too long.
At first, you brush it off as coincidence. It’s a city, after all, and traffic can be unpredictable. But the longer you drive, the more you notice the pattern. Every turn you make, every lane change—it mirrors your moves with eerie precision.
Your chest tightens, and your breath comes a little faster. You test the waters, making an abrupt turn onto a side street. The car behind you follows.
Panic starts to creep in, and your mind races with possibilities. Who would follow you? And why?
Your foot presses harder on the accelerator, your heart pounding as the car behind you matches your speed. You weave through the streets, your mind screaming for clarity, for an explanation. But none comes. The only thing that matters is the need to escape.
As you merge onto a less busy road, the car behind you inches closer, its headlights glaring in your rear-view mirror like eyes boring into your soul. You push the accelerator to the floor, the speedometer climbing as your car barrels down the road.
The high-speed chase feels endless, your pulse a deafening roar in your ears. You barely register the turns you’re making, the streets blurring together as you fight to stay ahead. But in your desperation, you take a corner too sharply.
The car swerves, tires screeching against the asphalt. The world tilts as your vehicle careens off the road, smashing into a lamppost with a bone-jarring impact.
Everything goes quiet.
Your head throbs, the airbag deflating in front of you. Smoke wafts from the crumpled hood, and your vision swims as you try to make sense of what’s happening. Before you can gather your thoughts, the sound of approaching footsteps snaps you to attention.
You fumble with your seatbelt, panic surging as the car door wrenches open. A figure looms over you, silhouetted against the harsh glow of the headlights.
"Let’s go," a voice growls, low and urgent.
Before you can react, strong hands grip your arm, dragging you from the wreckage. You kick and thrash, your protests muffled by the haze of adrenaline and the ache radiating through your body.
"Stop fighting," the voice snaps, and you freeze, recognition dawning.
"Justin?" you rasp, your voice hoarse and disbelieving.
He doesn’t answer, his grip on your arm tightening as he pulls you toward a waiting car parked just behind yours.
"What are you doing?" you demand, trying to resist despite the pounding in your head.
"Saving you," he bites out, his tone cold and unrelenting. "From yourself and from him."
The words send a chill down your spine, confusion and fear swirling in your chest. "What are you talking about? Let me go!"
But Justin doesn’t falter. He opens the car door and all but shoves you inside before sliding into the driver’s seat and locking the doors.
"You don’t get it, do you?" he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. "You’re a pawn in his game, and he’s not going to let you go. Not unless someone forces his hand."
The engine roars to life, and the car speeds off, leaving the wreckage—and your sense of safety—far behind.
"Justin, what are you doing?" you whisper, your voice trembling as the weight of the situation presses down on you.
He glances at you briefly, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Making sure you don’t go back to him."
Panic bubbles up in your chest, and you realise this night is far from over.
The warehouse is cold, damp, and utterly silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Your wrists ache from where Justin had bound them to the chair, though he’d been careful not to make it too tight—almost as if he wanted to justify this madness to himself.
He paces in front of you, his movements restless, his face a storm of emotions. His disheveled appearance is a far cry from the polished, composed man you’d spoken to at the gala. Now, he looks unhinged, his sharp gaze flickering between intensity and something softer that makes your stomach churn.
"Why are you doing this, Justin?" you demand, your voice trembling but resolute. "What do you want from me?"
He stops abruptly, turning to face you. His lips twitch into a faint, humourless smile. "This isn’t about what I want," he says quietly. "This is about what’s right."
You scoff, your anger surging despite the fear gnawing at you. "Right? You call kidnapping me right? You’re delusional."
He doesn’t flinch at your words, instead crouching down to your level, his eyes boring into yours. "You don’t understand, do you?" he says softly, almost pityingly. "You’re a pawn in a much bigger game. Jaeyun’s game."
"And what does that make me in your game, Justin?" you snap, your voice sharp.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. "I’m not playing games," he insists. "I’m trying to show you the truth. Jaeyun doesn’t care about you—he never has. To him, you’re just another piece on the board, someone to control and manipulate to his advantage."
You glare at him, your hands gripping the edge of the chair. "And you think you’re any better? You think dragging me here, tying me up, and ranting about Jaeyun makes you some kind of saviour?"
His face darkens, and for a moment, you see a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or guilt. "I’m trying to free you from him," he says, his voice low.
"Free me?" you laugh bitterly, shaking your head. "Stop treating me as your moral compass. You know damn well this has nothing to do with saving me. You just want to use me to get back at Jaeyun."
Justin’s expression falters, his composure cracking. He stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair as he begins pacing again.
"It’s not like that," he mutters, more to himself than to you.
"Then what is it, Justin?" you press, your voice trembling with both anger and exhaustion. "Because this isn’t about me. This is about you and Jaeyun. And your obsession with him."
He stops pacing, his back to you. For a long moment, he says nothing, the silence stretching between you like a taut wire. Then, he speaks, his voice quieter, almost reflective.
"Jaeyun and I… we’ve been at this for years," he admits, his tone tinged with something bitter. "University. Work. Every step of the way, we’ve competed. Top marks, top internships, top investments. And every time I get close, he finds a way to edge me out."
You stare at him, your mind racing to process his words.
"Do you know how frustrating it is to always be second to someone who doesn’t even care?" he continues, his voice rising. "He doesn’t care about the people he steps on, the lives he ruins. He just takes. He took everything from me—and now he’s taken you too."
"Taken me?" you echo, incredulous. "This isn’t some prize to win, Justin. I’m a person, not a trophy for your petty rivalry."
He turns to face you again, his expression hard. "You don’t understand. He doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t even see what he has."
"And you think you do?" you snap. "You’re not trying to save me, Justin. You’re trying to hurt him."
Justin’s pacing grows more erratic, his voice rising as he spits out his frustrations. "He never cared about you," he snaps, his tone dripping with venom. "Sending men to beat me up because he can’t even do it himself! Everything he does is about rubbing it in my face."
You flinch at the bitterness in his words, your breath catching as the room seems to grow colder.
"He couldn’t even be bothered to show up at the gala," Justin continues, his voice cracking with anger. "But the moment he thinks I’ve crossed some invisible line, he sends his dogs after me. And you think that’s about you? No. It’s about me. About proving he’s one step ahead, always in control."
"You’re wrong," you say, your voice trembling.
"Am I?" he counters, his eyes narrowing as he stares at you. "Think about it, Y/N. Think about the way he treats you. The way he treats everyone. You’re just a piece on his board, another way for him to win."
You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes. "You don’t know that."
"I know him better than you ever could," Justin growls, stepping closer. "I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. Every move he makes, every decision—it’s all calculated. And this? Sending men after me? That wasn’t about protecting you. That was about humiliating me."
You bite your lip, refusing to let his words burrow deeper. "And what about you, Justin? Are you any better? You’ve tied me to this chair, dragged me into this mess, and you’re standing here acting like you’re doing me some kind of favour."
"I’m trying to show you the truth," he snaps, his tone raw.
"No," you say firmly, your voice shaking with a mix of fear and fury. "You’re trying to one-up Jaeyun. This isn’t about me, and it never was. You’re just as obsessed with beating him as you claim he is with controlling you."
His expression falters for a moment, a flicker of guilt passing through his eyes. But then he clenches his jaw, his resolve hardening. "I’m not like him," he insists, though his voice lacks its earlier conviction.
"Then prove it," you say, meeting his gaze head-on. "Let me go."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might actually listen. But then he shakes his head, turning away from you.
"Not yet," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Not until I’ve made my point."
You swallow hard, your chest tightening as the reality of the situation sinks in. Justin isn’t going to let you go—not until he’s done whatever it is he’s convinced himself he needs to do.
His fingers move swiftly over your phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face. "I’ll show you exactly how little you mean to him. When he comes, he won’t even bat an eye at you. It’ll all be about him—his pride, his control, his need to be the one in charge."
Your stomach twists, and you tug at the restraints on your wrists, panic building in your chest. "Justin, stop this."
He ignores your protests, holding the phone up so you can see the screen. He snaps a picture of you—bound to the chair, your face pale with fear—and then types out a message.
You: You want her back? Come and get her.
You watch helplessly as he hits send, the message shooting off to Jaeyun.
"You’re insane," you hiss, struggling against the bindings. "This won’t prove anything."
"It’ll prove everything," Justin says, his smirk widening. "You’ll see. When he shows up, it won’t be about you. It’ll be about him. About showing me up. About proving he’s the better man."
"You don’t know that," you snap, though your voice wavers.
"I know him better than you think," Justin says, his tone calm and measured. "He won’t even look at you properly. He won’t ask if you’re okay. He’ll only care about putting me in my place."
Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to believe. The man in front of you is unhinged, but his words strike a chord of doubt you can’t entirely ignore.
Justin steps back, his confidence radiating as he pockets his phone. "You’ll see soon enough," he says simply. "And when he comes, when he proves me right, you’ll finally understand who Jaeyun really is."
You glare at him, your heart pounding as you pull against the bindings. "You’re delusional," you spit.
"Am I?" he asks, his smirk unwavering.
The room falls into a tense silence, the weight of his words hanging over you like a dark cloud. You can only pray that he’s wrong, that Jaeyun will come—not because of pride or rivalry, but because somewhere, buried deep within his frozen heart, there’s a small warmth that still holds you in it.
But as the minutes tick by, the doubt Justin planted in your mind begins to grow.
The memories swirl in your mind, colliding with Justin’s words like pieces of a puzzle you wish didn’t fit. You’ve always told yourself that Jaeyun’s indifference was a defence mechanism, a way to protect himself from something deeper. But what if it wasn’t? What if Justin is right, and everything you’ve clung to was just wishful thinking?
"You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?" Justin’s voice cuts through your thoughts, smug and sharp. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a knowing look. "Wondering if I’m right. Wondering if he’ll even come."
"Shut up," you snap, though your voice lacks its usual strength.
"I don’t blame you," he says, shrugging. "He’s made you doubt yourself. Doubt him. That’s what he does, Y/N. He keeps you just close enough to keep you hoping, but not close enough to let you in. And when he does come, it’s never for you. It’s for himself."
You shake your head, refusing to let him poison your mind any further. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Don’t I?" he counters, raising an eyebrow. "Then why are you here, Y/N? Why aren’t you at home with a husband who loves and protects you? Why are you the one who always has to wonder if you even matter to him?"
Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let him see you break. "You’re only saying this because of your hatred for him. You don’t care about me. You’re just as bad as him."
Justin’s smirk fades, his jaw tightening. "Maybe I am," he admits. "But at least I’m honest about it. Can you say the same for him?"
The sound of your phone buzzing on the table snaps both of you to attention. Justin picks it up, glancing at the screen with a satisfied grin.
"Looks like he got my message," he says, holding up the phone so you can see Jaeyun’s reply:
Jaeyun: Where is she?
Jaeyun: Fucking bastard, I swear if you so lay a single finger on her I’m going to kill you.
Justin tosses the phone back onto the table and crosses the room to face you. "This is it," he says, his voice dripping with confidence. "When he gets here, you’ll see exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you."
You swallow hard, your heart pounding as the weight of the situation sinks in. The doubt, the fear, the flicker of hope you can’t quite extinguish—it all swirls together as you wait for the man you’ve spent years trying to understand to finally show his hand.
The silence in the warehouse is shattered by the sharp screech of tyres outside, the deafening sound of a car coming to an abrupt halt. Justin’s smirk falters slightly, though he quickly masks it, his eyes darting to the door.
Moments later, it bursts open with a crash, and Jaeyun strides in, his suit dishevelled, his tie loosened as if he’d rushed to get here. His eyes immediately scan the room, landing on you—bound, frightened, but alive. His expression hardens, the sharpness in his gaze like a blade cutting through the tension.
“Let her go,” Jaeyun growls, his voice low and dangerous.
Justin steps forward, placing himself between you and Jaeyun, his smirk widening again as if to taunt him. “So predictable,” Justin sneers. “You just couldn’t resist, could you? I knew you’d come running.”
“I’m warning you, Justin,” Jaeyun snaps, his fists clenched at his sides. “Let her go.”
Justin chuckles, shaking his head. “You think this is about her? It’s always been about us. About showing you that you’re not invincible, that you’re not always in control.”
“Is that what this is?” Jaeyun spits, his voice rising. “A desperate attempt to prove something to yourself? You’re pathetic.”
Justin’s expression darkens, and he steps closer to Jaeyun, his movements quick and aggressive. “Pathetic? You’re the one who couldn’t even be bothered to care about her until now! Don’t act like you’re some hero. You don’t even love her.”
“You have no idea what I feel for her.” Jaeyun bites back, his voice trembling with restrained fury.
The words hang in the air, and for a moment, Justin seems taken aback. But then he scoffs, his confidence returning. “Words, Sim. Just words. But actions always speak louder.”
Before you can process what’s happening, Justin lunges, his fist aimed directly at Jaeyun. The sound of the impact is sickening, Jaeyun stumbling back as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. But he doesn’t back down.
“You think this will prove anything?” Jaeyun snaps, his voice filled with fire as he ducks under Justin’s next swing. “You’re nothing but a coward hiding behind your jealousy!”
Justin lets out a roar of frustration, his movements becoming more erratic as Jaeyun deflects blow after blow. It’s brutal. You scream, your voice echoing as you plead for them to stop, but neither man listens.
The room is a whirlwind of chaos, with fists flying and grunts of effort and pain filling the air. Justin’s confidence is beginning to waver as Jaeyun fights back with an intensity that you’ve never seen before. But the tide turns when Justin grabs a metal pipe from the corner of the warehouse, his face twisted with rage.
“Stay back!” Jaeyun growls, shielding you as Justin brandishes the weapon.
Justin’s laugh is bitter, almost maniacal. “Stay back? You think you can protect her, Jaeyun? You can’t even protect yourself.”
Before you can register what’s happening, Justin’s attention shifts to you. His gaze sharpens, his grip on the pipe tightening as he steps forward.
“Maybe she’s the problem,” Justin sneers, his voice low and menacing. “Maybe I need to remind you what’s really at stake.”
Your heart stops as Justin raises the pipe, his body coiling to strike. Panic floods your veins, your voice breaking as you scream, “Justin, no!”
But the blow never lands.
In an instant, Jaeyun moves, throwing himself in front of you just as Justin swings the pipe downward. The sickening sound of metal meeting flesh reverberates through the warehouse, and Jaeyun staggers, a sharp cry escaping his lips.
“Jaeyun!” you scream, your voice raw with terror as he crumples to one knee, his arm instinctively clutching his side where the pipe struck. You struggle against the bindings, the rough material sinking deeper into your skin the more you tug on it.
You’re helpless, watching the man you love cradle in pain at your feet.
Justin stumbles back, momentarily stunned by what just happened. The pipe slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor with a metallic clang. “Why would you—?” Justin begins, his voice faltering.
Jaeyun doesn’t waste another second. Summoning the last of his strength, he lunges forward, delivering a final, powerful punch that sends Justin sprawling to the floor.
The room falls silent except for the sound of Jaeyun’s laboured breathing. He stumbles towards you, his movements unsteady but determined. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice hoarse as he kneels to untie the ropes, his eyes scanning you for any sign of injury.
Tears blur your vision as you nod, your heart pounding in your chest. “You’re hurt,” you whisper, your hands trembling as you reach for him.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, though the wince that follows says otherwise.
Justin groans from the floor, trying to push himself up. “This doesn’t change anything,” he sneers weakly. “You don’t care about her. This was about beating me, as always.”
Jaeyun doesn’t even glance his way. Instead, he cups your face gently, his eyes searching yours. “Are you hurt?” he asks softly, his voice trembling with something you can’t quite place.
“N-No,” you stammer, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze.
“Good,” he breathes a sigh of relief, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
Justin’s laugh is bitter and broken. “Still pretending to be the noble husband, I see. How long can you keep up the act, Jaeyun?”
Jaeyun turns to him, his expression cold and unyielding. “This isn’t about you, Justin. It never was. You wanted to prove I don’t care about her, but you’re wrong. She’s the only thing I care about.”
The words hit you like a tidal wave, your breath catching as the weight of them sinks in.
Justin stares at Jaeyun, his confidence finally cracking as the realisation dawns. He’s lost—not just the fight, but the twisted narrative he tried to build.
Jaeyun helps you to your feet, his arm wrapping around your waist as he steadies you. “We’re leaving,” he says firmly, leading you towards the door without sparing Justin another glance.
As the warehouse disappears behind you, the cold night air hits your face, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you can breathe again.
“Jaeyun…” you begin, your voice trembling as he helps you into the car.
“I’ll explain everything,” he says, his tone soft but resolute. “But first, let’s get you home.”
And as the car pulls away, you realise that for once, you believe him.
The drive home is silent, except for the hum of the engine and the shallow breaths Jaeyun tries to control. You steal glances at him from the passenger seat, your heart twisting at the sight of him wincing with every turn of the wheel. His shirt is stained with blood, his knuckles bruised and swollen, but his grip on the wheel is steady, determined.
“Jaeyun,” you whisper, your voice cutting through the tension.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but his jaw tightens slightly. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” you argue softly, your hands wringing in your lap. “You need to see a doctor. Your ribs—”
“We’ll deal with it later,” he interrupts, his tone firm but not unkind. “Right now, I just need to get you somewhere safe.”
The word safe settles heavily in your chest, and you’re not sure if it means the house you share or simply being by his side.
As you pull into the driveway, the reality of the night crashes over you. The headlights flick off, leaving you both sitting in the dark, the faint sound of crickets filling the air. You hesitate, unsure of what to say or how to move forward.
Jaeyun breaks the silence first. “Let’s get inside,” he says, his voice softer now, almost gentle.
You follow him to the door, his movements slower and more careful than usual. Once inside, he collapses onto the couch with a heavy sigh, leaning back and closing his eyes as if the weight of the world has finally caught up with him.
“Let me clean you up,” you say, your voice trembling as you move towards the kitchen to grab the first aid kit.
“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, but the exhaustion in his voice tells you he won’t fight it.
When you return, kneeling beside him, he opens his eyes and watches you silently. You avoid his gaze as you press a damp cloth to the cut above his eyebrow, your hands trembling slightly.
The room is quiet now, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft rustling of your movements as you clean Jaeyun’s wounds. His eyes remain fixed on you, studying every flicker of emotion across your face. He winces slightly as you dab a cut on his temple, but he doesn’t pull away.
You break the silence first, your voice trembling but resolute. “Why did you really come tonight, Jaeyun?”
He exhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders visible as he leans back against the couch. “You know why,” he says softly.
“No, I don’t,” you reply, setting the cloth down. “I don’t know why, I never know why. So, please, talk to me.” Your voice falters, the weight of the night catching up with you.
“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Jaeyun replies simply, his eyes fixed on you. “It wasn’t even a question.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten. You pause, your hand hovering over the cloth as you finally meet his gaze. “Why?” you whisper. “Why now? After everything? You’ve spent so much time pushing me away, avoiding me like I’m some kind of plague. And then tonight…”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away, his expression unreadable. “I’ve been avoiding you because it’s the only way I could keep you safe.”
Your brow furrows, confusion mixing with frustration. “Safe? Safe from what?”
“From me,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “From my life. From the kind of man I am.”
You freeze, the confession hanging heavy in the air. “What are you talking about?”
Jaeyun leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “I’m not a good person, Y/N. I never have been. In business, in life, I do what needs to be done. I act with consequences in mind, and I don’t regret it. But that means I’ve made enemies—people like Justin, who would do anything to see me fail.”
You stare at him, your chest tightening as the pieces begin to fall into place.
“Justin isn’t the first person who’s tried to get to me through someone I care about,” he continues, his voice steady but filled with a quiet anguish. “He won’t be the last. And the thought of you being dragged into that—being hurt because of me—is something I couldn’t, and still can’t handle. So I distanced myself. I thought it would protect you.”
You shake your head, your voice rising with disbelief. “So you thought ignoring me, shutting me out, was the answer? Do you have any idea how that made me feel? How lonely it’s been, living in this house with someone who acts like I don’t even exist?”
His eyes snap to yours, and you see a crack in his armour. “I know,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I know I hurt you. And I hated myself for it every single day. But I didn’t know what else to do. Loving you—it feels like giving you a loaded gun and hoping you don’t get hurt because of it.”
The words hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless. “Loving me?” you echo, your voice trembling.
Jaeyun nods, his gaze unwavering. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Loving you, Y/N. Keeping my distance was the only way I know that I’m capable of loving you. Because I know you deserve better than me—better than the life your parents and I have dragged you into.”
His words hit you like a blow to the chest, the rawness of his confession cutting through every wall you’ve built. You stare at him, your breath catching as the weight of his emotions settles over you.
The cold distance, the avoidance, the rare moments of tenderness—it all makes sense now, in the most heartbreaking way.
“You think loving me means pushing me away?” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “Don’t you think I should get to decide what I deserve?”
He looks at you, his expression filled with regret and longing. “I didn’t want to be selfish,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to keep you in a life where you’d always be a target, always be second to the chaos I bring. But tonight—” His voice breaks, and he takes a shaky breath. “seeing you like that, knowing Justin had you—I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you. Not like that. Not ever.”
Jaeyun looks down, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. He’s crying now—fully, uncontrollably crying. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “But I didn’t know how to keep you safe without hurting you either…”
You stay quiet, mostly because you don’t even know what to say. Part of you understands Jaeyun did what he thought was right, that he truly believed he was protecting you. But another part of you is just so angry—angry at the thought that he didn’t trust you enough to make decisions for yourself, angry that he acted as though he alone could determine what was best for you.
But as you look at him now, shoulders hunched, tears streaming down his face, and barely able to catch his breath as he speaks, you falter. You see the pain etched into every line of his face, the raw anguish in his voice, and you know it hurt him as much as—maybe even more than—it hurt you.
When you don’t respond for a long moment, Jaeyun exhales deeply, his breath shaky and uneven. “I wanted you to leave me on your own,” he admits, his voice breaking, “because I knew I could never leave you. But you were so stubborn. You stayed. Even after everything, you stayed.”
His words hit you like a blow to the chest, striking a nerve you didn’t even know was exposed. The trembling vulnerability in his voice, the quiet admission of his fears, cuts through your anger and replaces it with something else—something raw, aching, and painfully bittersweet.
“You stayed,” he repeats, his voice barely a whisper, as though he still can’t quite believe it. “Even when I gave you every reason to walk away. Even when I hurt you. And I couldn’t understand why.”
“Do you want to know why I stayed?” you ask, your own voice trembling now as you search his face for the answers he’s yet to give.
He nods, his tear-filled eyes meeting yours, wide and filled with uncertainty.
“Honestly, I’ve been running away from this feeling, from this truth that I was never ready to face,” you begin, your voice wavering but steady enough to push through. “And that is, despite everything—despite every bone, every nerve in my body telling me to stop doing this to myself—I hoped. I hoped that you’d prove me wrong one day. I hoped that if I stayed long enough, maybe you’d stop pushing me away and let me in.”
Jaeyun flinches, his expression crumpling under the weight of your words. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice cracking as fresh tears spill over.
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with tension, the air between you charged with everything unsaid. His hands twitch at his sides, as though he wants to reach for you but can’t quite bring himself to do it. The hesitation in his movements is almost palpable.
“I thought if you hated me,” he says finally, his voice low and pained, “it would be easier for you to walk away. But you didn’t hate me. You never gave up. And that scared me more than anything.”
Your voice trembles as you stare at him, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on your chest. “I do hate you,” you admit, the words falling like stones between you. “So much.”
Jaeyun flinches as though you’ve struck him, his breath hitching, and for a moment, he looks like he’s bracing himself for more. But you’re not finished.
“But loving you…” Your voice cracks, and you take a shaky breath, blinking away the tears that blur your vision. “Loving you hurts more than hating you.”
His head snaps up, his wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto yours. The vulnerability in his gaze mirrors your own, and the silence that follows is deafening.
“I’ve tried,” you continue, your voice breaking under the weight of your emotions. “I’ve tried to hate you, to tell myself that it’s easier, that it’s what I should feel after everything. But it isn’t. Because no matter how much you’ve hurt me, no matter how much I’ve wanted to walk away, I can’t stop loving you. And that… that’s what hurts the most.”
Jaeyun’s breath shudders, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. You can see the hesitation in his movements, the way his hands twitch at his sides as if he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his voice trembling. “For all of it. For every time I hurt you, every time I pushed you away when all you ever did was stay.”
Your heart clenches at the rawness in his tone, the vulnerability he’s finally letting you see. You take a small step forward, the distance between you shrinking, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his carefully constructed walls crumble entirely.
“You don’t have to apologise anymore,” you say softly, your voice trembling with emotion. “Just… don’t make me regret staying.”
Then, as if something inside him snaps, he steps closer, his trembling hands reaching out to cup your face. “I won’t,,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I swear to you, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure I never give you a reason to hate me again.”
Before you can say anything else, Jaeyun closes the remaining distance between you. His arms wrap around you, tentative at first, as though he’s afraid you’ll push him away. But when you don’t, when you melt into his embrace, his hold tightens. Even with the searing pain in his ribs, he presses his body against yours as though he’s terrified of letting you go.
The warmth of his touch is overwhelming, and you bury your face in his chest, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat is erratic against your cheek, mirroring the rapid pounding of your own.
You tilt your head up to look at him, your breath catching as you see the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are filled with something you’ve longed to see—love, raw and unguarded. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had escaped.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion.
“Maybe not,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “But I’m still here.”
He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. You meet him halfway, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that is as tentative as it is electrifying.
The world seems to fall away as his lips move against yours, soft and searching, as though he’s pouring every unspoken word, every buried emotion, into this one moment. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens, a mixture of desperation and relief in the way he holds you.
When you finally pull away, breathless and overwhelmed, his forehead rests against yours. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the emotion trembling beneath it.
The words hang in the air, soft but weighty, like a promise long overdue.
You nod, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you smile softly. Hearing those three words from him is something you never thought would happen, something you’d almost given up hoping for.
They settle in your chest, filling the void that had been carved out by years of distance and pain. And yet, they don’t feel fleeting or uncertain. They feel real.
“I love you too,” you whisper back, the confession spilling from your lips without hesitation.
His arms tighten around you, as though anchoring himself to you, and in that moment, the weight of the past begins to fall away. It doesn’t erase the hurt, the scars, or the battles you’ve fought, but it lays the foundation for something new.
Something worth hoping for, worth holding onto.
The morning sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. The faint chirping of birds filters through the open window, blending with the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. You stir beneath the covers, blinking against the golden light, and instinctively reach out.
Your hand brushes against Jaeyun’s, and his fingers wrap around yours reflexively. A soft smile spreads across your face as you realise he’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, carrying a hint of amusement as if he’s caught you in a rare, unguarded moment.
You smile, the simple greeting filling the room with a kind of light you hadn’t felt in years. “Good morning,” you reply, your fingers brushing against the wedding ring that now sits firmly on your finger—a symbol that, finally, feels like it truly means something.
Jaeyun leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You looked peaceful,” he says, his fingers brushing your cheek. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
You laugh softly, resting your hand on his chest. “You can’t just watch me sleep, Jaeyun. That’s… mildly creepy.”
His laugh rumbles in his chest, a sound you’ve come to treasure. “Fair point,” he admits, his eyes sparkling.
“Do you have any plans today?” he asks, shifting closer, his arm slipping around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You shake your head, laughing softly. “Not unless you count breakfast.”
He grins, the boyish charm you rarely saw before now shining through. “I was hoping we could spend the day doing nothing. Just… being here. Together.”
You nod, the simplicity of the suggestion warming you. “I’d like that.”
The morning unfolds with quiet moments that feel extraordinary in their ordinariness—Jaeyun making coffee, you teasing him about burning the toast, laughter filling the kitchen as you both try to perfect pancakes. It’s these moments, you realise, that make a life worth living. Not grand gestures or elaborate plans, but the small, quiet ways you choose each other every day.
As the day stretches on, you find yourselves curled up on the sofa, your head resting on his shoulder while his fingers absentmindedly trace patterns along your arm. The television hums in the background, forgotten as you both bask in the peace you fought so hard to find.
The man beside you now isn’t the distant, closed-off Jaeyun you once knew. He’s present, attentive, and more open than you ever thought possible. It wasn’t an overnight change, that’s for sure. But somewhere along the way, you both chose to stop running—from yourselves, from each other, and from the future you could build together.
What you have now feels special, priceless. You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. You’ve learned, through pain and healing, that happiness doesn’t come from wealth or success. True happiness comes from love.
The kind of love that makes you giddy inside.
The kind of love you once believed only existed in fairy tales.
The kind of love that everyone seeks but few find.
The kind of love you’ve found with him.
They say if he’s not calling, it’s because you’re not on his mind. Once, you believed that. You let it eat away at you, let it shape your every thought, every quiet moment when his absence felt louder than words. You told yourself his silence was a choice, that his excuses were just another way to say you didn’t matter enough.
But now, sitting beside him as the evening light filters through the curtains, his hand resting over yours, you realise how wrong you were—not about the hurt, not about the cracks that formed between you, but about what lay beneath them. He wasn’t running because you didn’t matter. He was running because you mattered too much. And it took breaking everything apart for you both to understand how to rebuild it.
Your gaze falls to the tattoo on your ring finger, a faint mark that once felt like a brand tethering you to emptiness. It’s still there, as permanent as the scars this marriage once bore. But now, it’s different. It’s not a reminder of disappointment or neglect, not a mark of the silence that stretched between you. It’s a symbol of endurance, of a love that’s messy and flawed but undeniably real.
But you’ve learned that love isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, about facing the hard truths and still choosing to stay.
“Busy” may have once been his excuse. But now, “always” is his answer.
AN E2L UNDERCOVER COPS FAKE MARRIAGE AU | FULL FIC
"If this is fake, then why are you begging?"
summary: you’ve never liked lee heeseung. he’s cold, unreadable, and way too good at his job—so of course, the captain decides to partner you with him for an undercover op that requires you to be married.
the rules are simple: go undercover. pretend to be in love. don’t actually fall for him.
except now he’s pinning you against a wall, calling you ‘sweetheart’ in that low, amused drawl, and touching you like he means it.
…so, yeah. this might be a problem.
genre: slow burn | enemies to lovers | undercover cops | fake marriage | SUGGESTIVE CONTENT word count: ~around 20K release date: TBA ⚠️ warnings 18+ MDNI: guns, violence, smut, tension, heeseung being annoyingly attractive while pretending not to care, reader being an absolute menace back, dangerous men doing dangerous thingshate sex but it turns into something desperate & messy, heeseung has a gun AND a filthy mouth (both are dangerous), "you need to stay quiet" but he makes it impossible, heeseung likes pushing you against walls (sometimes to protect you, sometimes not), explicit descriptions of tension: prolonged eye contact, teasing touches, and not-so-fake kisses that turn heated way too fast, sex as a distraction? sex as an argument? sex as a mistake? sex as an act? all of the above., one bed trope but make it fully unhinged (heeseung smirking when you wake up wrapped around him), heeseung is smug, teasing, and cocky in the streets but a menace in the sheets, "you said this was just for the mission. so why do you keep touching me when no one’s looking?", breathplay, lets keep it rough, ppl like it that way
The precinct is chaos, like always. Phones ringing, boots scuffing against tile, someone muttering curses over a jammed printer, another officer shoving a box of evidence onto their desk like it personally offended them. The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air—a tragic crime in itself. Nothing about today should feel different. And yet, something does.Maybe it's the way your phone buzzed with a single-line message from Captain Jung. Maybe it's the fact that he never calls you in without details. "Briefing. My office. Now." You know better than to expect good news.
The elevator doors slide open, and you step inside, pressing the button for the fifth floor—Captain Jung's office. As the doors start to close, a voice cuts through the noise—smooth, measured, annoyingly familiar.
"Hold it."
You debate letting the doors shut. But before you can make a decision that would undoubtedly lead to more paperwork, a hand slides between them, forcing them back open. Lee Heeseung steps in.
He barely looks at you as he presses the same button you just did—as if it wasn't already lit up. "Oh, fantastic," you mutter, shifting your weight against the railing. "Just the person I wanted to suffer with."
Heeseung doesn't react immediately, but you see it—the slightest twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flex before settling against his side. "I'd say the same," he finally says, adjusting the strap of his shoulder holster, voice flat. "But I don't waste my energy lying."
"Right," you say, crossing your arms. "Because you save all your energy for being insufferable instead."
His lips twitch slightly, but he suppresses it so fast you almost miss it. "And yet, you're still here," he says, shrugging. "Tragic, isn't it?"
The elevator shudders slightly as it begins moving. You glance at the numbers ticking up above the doors, feeling the weight of the silence settle in. Heeseung is annoyingly calm, as always. Hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders squared, face unreadable. He's built his reputation on being calculated, sharp, impossible to crack. But you know him too well. You catch it—the slight clench of his fingers, the way his jaw sets just a little tighter than usual.
"You got the same message?" you ask, watching him from the corner of your eye. "Captain's office. No details."
"Sounds like your fault," you say automatically. He actually exhales a short breath through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. "You always assume the worst of me," he muses. "And I'm never wrong," you point out. He doesn't bother denying it.
For a moment, the only sound is the low hum of the elevator. You feel it then—that unspoken shift, the tension settling in a little heavier than before. Not the usual kind, not the sharp-edged annoyance that defined your partnership, but something else. Something uncertain. Neither of you say it, but you're both thinking the same thing. This feels different.
"Whatever this is," Heeseung mutters, glancing at the doors as they begin to slide open, "let's just get it over with."
"No promises," you reply.
The hallway stretches out in front of you, the frosted glass of Captain Jung's office glowing dimly under the overhead lights. You step out first, heels clicking against the tile. Heeseung follows. And just like that—everything changes.
The precinct's Briefing Room B is dimly lit, the glow from the projector casting grainy surveillance footage across the whiteboard. Lakeshore Estates looks picturesque—wide streets, manicured lawns, quiet affluence. Too perfect. A neighborhood like this shouldn't have $32 million unaccounted for in wire transfers. But it does. And that's why you're here.
Captain Jung flips the case file open, his voice sharp, clipped. "Two informants inside Lakeshore have already turned up dead in the last six months. One of our undercover agents—Detective Choi—has been missing since January." A photograph slides across the table, face-down. You don't pick it up immediately, but the silence that follows is heavy. You don't have to see it to know what it means.
"This isn't just money laundering anymore," Jung continues. "It's organized, it's layered, and it's operating under complete anonymity. We're out of assets, and we're out of time. The only option left is deep cover."
You inhale slowly, tapping your pen against your notepad. Beside you, Heeseung doesn't move. His posture is too still, his fingers interlaced, his jaw locked. You know that look. He already hates where this is going.
Jung continues, flipping to the next page. "You two will be moving into 345 Willow Crest Lane. Newlywed couple. Standard deep cover ops—new financial records, new employment history, full fabricated background. You're both taking on the last name Park."
You blink. "You're sending us in together?"
"Yes."
Heeseung lets out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. "Sir, with all due respect, we can't be the only two detectives available for this assignment." Jung doesn't even look up. "You're not. You're just the best."
You feel a headache creeping in already. The best is one way to put it. Another way to put it would be "the most dysfunctional pairing in the history of law enforcement."
"You're both experienced in financial forensics, undercover ops, and organized crime infiltration," Jung continues. "That makes you the only option for this."
Heeseung exhales sharply through his nose. "This is a mistake." "I agree," you mutter, arms crossed.
Jung ignores both of you, flipping through another file before pushing it across the table. "The target is Chairman Kang," he continues, flipping the case file open. "You already know his reputation—drug trafficking, illegal arms deals, organized crime. What we didn't know until recently was that he operates out of a secure location hidden in plain sight—his family estate, nestled inside an exclusive gated neighborhood where law enforcement hasn't been able to get close.."
Heeseung is scanning the documents as fast as you are. You know he's already building a profile in his head, breaking down entry points, psychological patterns, risk levels. It's what he's good at.
Jung continues. "You'll be expected to integrate into the social structure, establish trust, and secure financial access through internal sources. Your marriage needs to be believable. That means attending community events, country club meetings, PTA fundraisers, and neighborhood get-togethers. You'll play the role, you'll blend in, and you'll do it convincingly."
The moment he says it, Heeseung lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You want us to be convincing?" Heeseung shakes his head, leaning back. "We can't even stand each other for five minutes."
"Then figure it out," Jung says, already done with the argument. "Because for the next few months, you will hold hands, you will smile, and you will act like you love each other."
Your stomach twists violently. Of all the assignments you've been given—undercover drug operations, arms deals, high-risk surveillance—this might actually be the most painful.
Heeseung exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "And what happens if we get exposed?" "Then you're dead."
Silence.
Jung closes the folder, leaning forward. "Make no mistake—this is dangerous. You're stepping into something where people have already been killed. If you get caught, we won't be able to pull you out in time. This operation is blacklisted outside of this room. Your only protection is your cover. That's it."
The weight of it settles like cement. For the first time since the meeting started, Heeseung looks at you. It's brief—half a second, barely noticeable—but it's enough. You both understand the stakes now. The banter, the irritation, the competitive tension that has fueled your partnership for years—none of it matters when the risk is death.
Captain Jung exhales, sliding the final document across the table. "Your flight leaves at 0600. Your new house is already secured, and your covers are set."
You inhale deeply, pushing down the nausea creeping into your throat. You've worked with Heeseung for years. You've survived operations together. You can do this. Maybe.
"Fine," you say finally, shoving the file into your bag. "But if you call me 'baby' even once, I'm shooting you."
Heeseung smirks, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Looking forward to it, sweetheart."
The house at 345 Willow Crest Lane looks exactly how it did in the surveillance photos—pristine, oversized, and painfully curated. It's the kind of place where the neighborhood watch patrols more aggressively than actual law enforcement and where the biggest crime on record is probably a hedge growing two inches past regulation. It's also your new home.
A deep, uneasy feeling settles in your stomach as you step out of the car, staring up at the two-story house with its perfectly symmetrical windows and fresh coat of off-white paint. It's unsettling, the way everything is already set up, lived-in but not actually lived-in, waiting for you to assume your roles.
From the corner of your eye, you notice Heeseung eyeing the property with the same reluctant scrutiny. His jaw is tight, his hands shoved into his pockets, the subtle weight of reality finally setting in for both of you. "So this is home now," he mutters, his tone flat. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your duffel bag as you exhale slowly, not bothering to look at him. "Unfortunately."
Neither of you move for a moment, standing side by side in silence. The weight of the assignment hangs heavy between you. This isn't like other cases—it's not just an operation, not just surveillance, not just information retrieval. This is long-term infiltration, the kind that requires complete immersion. The kind that demands disappearing into a role so deeply that the lines blur.
You don't let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you push forward, stepping up to the door and unlocking it with the key provided in your briefing file. The lock clicks smoothly, and as you push the door open, the overwhelmingly staged nature of the house hits you all at once.
The living room is immaculate, decorated in neutral colors, accented with expensive but unassuming furniture. The air smells like fresh paint and manufactured warmth, like it's been lived in just enough to seem real, but not enough to actually feel it. But none of that is what makes you stop short. It's the photos. They're everywhere.
Framed pictures are perched along the fireplace mantle, the entryway table, the staircase wall leading to the second floor. You blink, stomach twisting at the sight of you and Heeseung staring back from glossy prints—your arms around each other, smiles bright, a wedding that never happened perfectly captured in high-definition detail.
You step closer, your breath catching as you scan them. One is of you in a white wedding gown, a delicate veil framing your face, standing beside Heeseung in a sharp black tux. He's looking down at you with an expression so soft and intimate that it feels wrong. Another shows his arm around your waist, hand resting a little too low on your back, his head tilted toward yours like he's whispering something.
But the worst one—the crown jewel of this horror show—is mounted directly above the fireplace. A massive canvas print. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. Two people deeply, irrevocably in love. The kind of picture that doesn't just capture a moment—it tells a story.
The back of your neck prickles. A slow, deep exhale sounds behind you. "Jesus Christ," Heeseung mutters, stepping in behind you. His voice carries the same reluctant horror you feel twisting in your stomach. "That's nauseating."
You swallow down your discomfort and force your expression to remain neutral. "You think I like this any more than you do?" His gaze flickers to the wedding photo again before he exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly. "Could've fooled me. That dress looks expensive. You must've had a great time."
Your fingers flex at your sides as you slowly turn to face him. "I will throw you through that window." A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You'd have to catch me first, sweetheart."
You exhale through your nose, dragging a hand over your face before looking away, gaze sweeping over the carefully constructed life someone had built for you. The furniture, the decorations, the photos—all of it carefully crafted to make this cover airtight. There is no room for error.
From across the room, Heeseung exhales heavily, shifting his stance slightly. "Bedroom's upstairs, right?" You hesitate for half a second before nodding. "Yeah. About that—there's one bed." He stills. The air between you sharpens. His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. His voice is flat, resigned. "That's a joke." You wish it was. "Check for yourself."
You watch as he stares at you for a beat longer before turning on his heel and heading upstairs. You brace yourself. Exactly three seconds later, a sharp, disbelieving laugh echoes down the hall. "Fucking fantastic."
You sigh, rubbing your temples before following him upstairs. When you reach the bedroom, Heeseung is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze is fixed on the king-sized mattress, the pristine white sheets tucked in so perfectly it looks like a hotel ad.
"There's a couch downstairs," you offer, your voice deliberately neutral. He doesn't look away from the bed. "There's a front lawn, too. Should I sleep there instead?" "If you want me to sleep better, I won't stop you."
Heeseung finally turns to face you, his expression blank but the subtle clench of his jaw betraying his irritation. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm not sleeping on the couch for months." "Then I hope you're good at sleeping with one eye open," you say, already moving past him to grab your bag. "You snore, don't you?" His voice is slow, assessing, like he's already regretting his entire existence.
"Only when I'm comfortable," you reply smoothly. "So that won't be a problem with you around." Heeseung huffs out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly as he drags a hand through his hair. "This is going to be a disaster."
You don't disagree. But there's nothing either of you can do about it now. "Just stay on your side of the bed," you say as you toss your bag onto the mattress, "and I won't kick you off it." "No promises," he mutters, already walking toward the closet.
You inhale slowly, releasing the breath through your nose as you turn away. This is your life now. Sharing a house. Sleeping in the same room. Pretending to be in love. You can handle criminals, undercover operations, high-stakes investigations. But pretending to be married to Lee Heeseung? That might actually be the thing that kills you.
The neighborhood BBQ is exactly what you expected—too loud, too friendly, and entirely too interested in you and Heeseung. It's hosted at the home of Kim Taesung—the HOA President and primary suspect in the money laundering operation. His house is the biggest on the block, the kind that screams old money but tries to be humble about it.
The cul-de-sac is packed with families, couples, and retirees. The tables are covered in checkered tablecloths, an overwhelming spread of food from every possible cuisine, and an alarming number of matching casserole dishes.The entire neighborhood is here.
You and Heeseung walk up the driveway together, forced into immediate proximity by the number of eyes on you. His arm slides around your waist—a practiced, effortless motion—but you catch the slight hesitation in it. The briefest pause before his palm settles against your hip. To anyone else, it looks completely natural. To you, it feels like a challenge.
"This is my nightmare," Heeseung mutters under his breath. "Welcome to marriage," you reply, keeping your voice light as you plaster on your best 'newlywed glow' smile.
The first neighbor to approach is Mrs. Patel, an older Indian woman in a vibrant floral dress and a no-nonsense expression. She's one of the HOA's longest-standing members, which means she's also one of the most influential. "You must be the newlyweds!" she exclaims, adjusting the gold bangles on her wrist. "We've all been wondering when we'd finally meet you two!"
You grip Heeseung's forearm just a little tighter, just enough to make sure he doesn't say anything stupid. "It's wonderful to finally be here," you say smoothly. Mrs. Patel gives you a long, assessing look before nodding approvingly. "And such a beautiful couple, too! How long have you been married?"
Before you can answer, Heeseung beats you to it. "Two years," he says without hesitation. You blink. Mrs. Patel beams. "Two years! How lovely!"
You don't react immediately, still trying to process the absolute lie that just left Heeseung's mouth. Heeseung catches your delayed response and smirks, clearly entertained by your hesitation. "Yes," you say, smoothing over the moment. "Two wonderful, peaceful, not at all stressful years." You pinch his side discreetly. Heeseung doesn't even flinch.
Mrs. Patel sighs, clasping her hands together. "Young love is such a beautiful thing. How did you two meet?"
You feel Heeseung tense for half a second. You take advantage of it. "Oh, it was love at first sight," you say with a sweetness that is absolutely dripping in venom. "He looked at me like I was the only person in the world."
Heeseung recovers quickly, but you know you caught him off guard. "How could I not?" he murmurs, voice light but dangerously smooth. You hate how easy that sounded.
Mrs. Patel looks utterly delighted. "Oh, I love a good love story! And now look at you—happily settled in! Do you two have children?"
Heeseung freezes. You barely suppress the urge to laugh. From somewhere behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of Sunoo, your intel handler, choking on his drink. You place a gentle, affectionate hand on Heeseung's chest—only to dig your nails in slightly. "We're just enjoying each other for now," you answer smoothly.
Mrs. Patel nods approvingly. "That's very wise. But don't wait too long, dear. Time moves fast, and children are a blessing!" You smile politely, feeling your soul physically exit your body.
Before she can ask any more intrusive questions, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a well-pressed polo shirt approaches with a broad grin. "You must be the Parks!" he says, clapping Heeseung on the shoulder in a way that is just slightly too firm.
You recognize him from the briefing. David Hernandez, a retired FBI agent and Taesung's closest friend. "You're both even better-looking than the photos," he jokes. You keep your smile in place as your mind races. The photos. What photos?
"Thank you," you say, glancing at Heeseung briefly. "We were surprised by how much effort went into preparing everything." David chuckles, sipping his beer. "You'd be amazed how much we know about you two already. You're practically celebrities!"
You don't let the unease show on your face. There's a hint of something beneath his words, something that makes you want to dig deeper, to ask more questions, to find out exactly how much they know about this version of you.Instead, you laugh lightly, leaning into Heeseung just slightly. "Well, I hope we live up to expectations."
David nods approvingly, but his gaze lingers on Heeseung for just a second too long. "We'll be watching," he says, voice too casual. You nod politely, pretending not to read into it. But when he walks away, you feel Heeseung's grip on your waist tighten slightly. "That was interesting," he murmurs.
You don't react immediately, just keep smiling and greeting more neighbors, acting like nothing is wrong. Because if David Hernandez was already watching you this closely, then this mission is going to be even harder than you thought.
The argument starts the moment you step into the house. The second the front door swings shut behind you, you drop the polite neighborhood act, spin on your heel, and glare at Heeseung.
"Two years?" Your voice is low but sharp, edged with disbelief. "Are you insane?"
Heeseung lets out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair as he shrugs off his jacket. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you have a better number?"
"Literally any number other than the one that makes us look suspiciously established!"
Heeseung scoffs, tossing his jacket over the arm of the couch before leaning against it, arms crossed. "What, you wanted me to say six months? Give them a reason to think we're still in the honeymoon phase?"
You grit your teeth, stepping closer as you jab a finger against his chest. "You could've at least consulted me first."
His brows lift slightly, like he's amused by your irritation, which only pisses you off more. "Didn't know I needed permission," he muses, voice slow, calculated.
"You always do," you snap back.
The air between you thickens—not with tension, not with attraction, but with pure, exasperated irritation. Your pulse hammers as you step closer, your glare locking onto his with the force of every argument you've ever had.
Heeseung's jaw tightens, his fingers flexing at his sides. "You know what? Maybe next time, you should lead. Since you clearly have so much faith in your own bullshit."
"Oh, so you admit you're bad at lying?"
"No, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dripping in sarcasm. "I'm just saying you're so much worse."
Your eyes narrow. "Don't call me sweetheart."
"Then stop acting like my wife," he fires back.
"You first," you hiss.
The air crackles. And then—Three sharp knocks on the front door. Your head snaps toward it. So does his. Silence. Then, in perfect unison, you both lunge for each other.
You reach for his shirt, yanking him toward you as he grips your waist, spinning you both until your back is pressed against the door. You barely have time to register the full-body impact, the warmth of him, the way his hand flattens against your lower back before—The door swings open.
And standing there, wide-eyed and utterly delighted, is Mrs. Patel, Mrs. Lee, and Bianca Santiago—the neighborhood's most dedicated suburban gossip queens.
For a split second, the entire world stops. Then—"Oh!" Mrs. Lee gasps, covering her mouth with both hands. Bianca tilts her head, biting back a knowing smirk. "Bad timing?"
You are going to die. Your brain barely has time to process the sheer level of mortification that is about to follow.Because from the outside, this looks bad. Really bad. Heeseung is practically pressed against you, his grip on your waist still firm. Your hand is clutching his shirt like you were in the middle of something completely different.
And of course—of course—this would happen the second you actually get into an argument.
Mrs. Patel bursts into laughter, fanning herself with one hand. "Oh, newlyweds," she sighs dramatically. "Still in the phase where you can't keep your hands off each other!"
"Very healthy," Mrs. Lee nods approvingly. "Very passionate!" "Very inappropriate for the front door," Bianca adds, smirking.
Heeseung recovers before you do. Instead of stepping away like a normal person, he has the audacity to smirk, tilting his head slightly as he looks down at you. "Sweetheart," he murmurs, playing it up, "should we invite them in, or do you want to finish what we started?"
You barely resist the urge to murder him on the spot. Instead, you smile brightly—the kind of fake, saccharine sweet expression that makes his smirk widen. "Darling," you say, voice equally saccharine, "if we're done, then you clearly weren't trying hard enough."
Mrs. Patel laughs again, delighted. Bianca snorts, shaking her head. "Christ, you two are fun." You finally push Heeseung off you, straightening your shirt as you school your expression into something neutral. "What can we do for you, ladies?"
"We just wanted to drop off some welcome gifts!" Mrs. Lee beams, holding up a wicker basket wrapped in cellophane. "Just a few things to make you feel more at home."
You nod politely, glancing at Heeseung, who finally manages to wipe the amusement off his face. "That's very thoughtful," he says smoothly. "Thank you."
Mrs. Patel waves a hand. "Oh, don't thank us yet! We also came to invite you both to the Lakeshore Annual Couple's Dinner!"
You blink. "The what?"
"It's a tradition!" Bianca chimes in. "All the couples in the neighborhood get together for a formal dinner—drinks, conversation, and a few fun activities. You're expected to attend."
Expected. You barely suppress a groan. But before you can politely decline, Heeseung throws an arm around your shoulders and smiles. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."
You stiffen immediately, turning to glare at him. Bianca catches it. She smirks. "Oh, this will be good."
Mrs. Patel claps her hands. "Wonderful! We'll see you both next Saturday!"
And just like that, the three women take their leave, stepping off the porch and disappearing down the street—leaving you and Heeseung standing in the doorway, still reeling.
The second they're out of sight, you spin to face him. "What," you demand, "was that?"
Heeseung shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Fake marriage, sweetheart. Thought you wanted me to play the role."
You exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of your nose. "You are insufferable." "And you married me," he deadpans.
The worst part? You don't actually have a comeback for that.
The second the front door clicks shut, silence falls between you and Heeseung. Not the comfortable kind. Not even the tense, slow-burning kind you've grown accustomed to with him. No, this is the heavy, mortifying kind. The kind that sits in the air, stretching out unbearably long, as you both stand frozen in place, the weight of what just happened crashing down on you in full force.
You barely survived the neighborhood BBQ. And now, not even an hour later, the entire neighborhood thinks you and Heeseung were caught mid-makeout session against your own damn front door.
You can already hear the whispers. The amused speculation, the fake modesty, the 'oh, young love, how exciting!' nonsense that is going to follow you for weeks. Your stomach twists uncomfortably. There's no way to fix this. No way to explain to a group of nosy suburbanites that no, you were actually in the middle of an argument, not about to rip each other's clothes off. No way to undo the delighted expressions on the faces of Mrs. Patel, Mrs. Lee, and Bianca Santiago as they practically gushed over the passionate display of 'newlywed' affection.
A slow exhale sounds behind you. And then—Heeseung laughs. Not just a quiet chuckle. Not just an amused exhale. A full-bodied, unrestrained, genuine laugh.
Your eyes snap toward him, burning with disbelief. "Are you seriously laughing right now?"
Heeseung doesn't even try to hide his amusement. He drags a hand down his face, shaking his head as he leans against the door like his knees are barely holding him up. "You—" he wheezes, catching his breath. "You should have seen your face."
"My face?" you repeat, incredulous. "Do you realize what just happened?"
He grins, bright and shameless. "Yeah. Our nosy-ass neighbors think we're so in love we can't keep our hands off each other. It's hilarious."
"No, Heeseung, it's a disaster," you snap, stepping forward, your pulse still hammering from the sheer embarrassment of it all. You shouldn't have let him pull you toward him. Shouldn't have played into the moment, instinctively pressing closer to make it look real. But you did. And now, the damage is done.
"They're going to talk about this for weeks," you continue, frustration bubbling over. "And you just made it worse by encouraging them!"
His grin doesn't falter. "I didn't encourage them."
"Oh, really?" you scoff, throwing your arms up. "Then what the hell was 'should we invite them in or do you want to finish what we started?'"
Heeseung snickers. "That was me committing to the bit."
You let out a long, suffering breath, pressing your fingers against your temples as you try to compose yourself. Heeseung, meanwhile, looks like he’s enjoying this entire thing way too much.
"Relax," he says, shaking his head. "What’s the worst that can happen? They think we’re passionate newlyweds. That’s kind of the point of all this, isn’t it?"
"Not like that!" you snap, pacing the living room. "We were supposed to ease into this whole picture-perfect marriage thing, not throw ourselves into the deep end of ‘we can’t keep our hands off each other.’"
Heeseung exhales, stepping toward you. "It’s not like we had a choice. You saw their faces. There was no talking our way out of that."
You stop pacing, turning to face him, fully ready to argue more—
But then, you actually look at him.
The way he’s standing—too relaxed, too entertained, too damn smug.
He’s enjoying this.
He thrives off your irritation, drinks it like it’s his personal fuel.
And the realization makes something snap.
"You know what?" you say suddenly, tilting your head as your expression shifts. "You’re right."
Heeseung blinks, surprised. "I am?"
"Yup," you say, walking up to him slowly. "We should lean into this. If they think we’re all over each other, then let’s make sure they really believe it."
You see it happen—the moment the amusement fades just slightly from his face, the moment he realizes he’s about to be on the receiving end of whatever you’re planning.
Heeseung narrows his eyes slightly. "What are you doing?"
You hum innocently. "Oh, nothing."
Then, before he can react, you step onto your toes, grip his collar lightly, and press a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek.
Heeseung freezes.
Completely.
His entire body goes still, his breathing halts for a fraction of a second, and when you pull back, his eyes are locked onto yours with something sharp and unreadable.
You smile sweetly. "Just practicing, babe."
Heeseung exhales slowly, his jaw ticking slightly.
Then—he smirks.
A warning.
A challenge.
You barely have time to react before his hands find your waist, his grip firm but not forceful, and he leans in—just close enough that you feel the heat of him, just close enough that your breath catches in your throat.
"You sure you wanna play this game, baby?" he murmurs, voice low.
Your stomach flips.
But you refuse to back down.
"You started it, husband," you say, tilting your chin up slightly. "I’m just making sure you keep up."
Heeseung chuckles under his breath, his thumb brushing lightly against your side before he finally—finally—lets go and steps back.
"Don’t worry," he murmurs, smirking as he turns toward the stairs. "I always keep up."
You watch as he disappears upstairs, leaving you standing in the middle of the living room, still trying to process whatever the hell just happened.
Your fingers twitch at your sides.
Your pulse is too loud in your ears.
And the worst part?
For the first time since this mission started—
You’re not sure if you won or lost.
-
The Lakeshore Annual Couple's Dinner is practically a neighborhood-wide spectacle —an event where couples gather to passively flex their marriages , drink expensive wine, and pretend they're happier than they actually are. For you and Heeseung? It's an improvisation nightmare.
From the moment you enter the candlelit banquet hall, you can feel the weight of the neighborhood's attention pressing down on you. Soft lighting. Elegant tables. The hum of polite conversation. And every time you glance around, there's always someone watching.
Heeseung, of course, is eating it up. His hand lingers on the small of your back as he guides you toward your table— a perfectly executed display of possessiveness that makes your stomach tighten against your will.
"Relax, babe," he murmurs near your ear, voice laced with amusement.
You grit your teeth. "Husband, I swear to—"
"Shh," he interrupts smoothly, squeezing your hip as you sit down. "Wouldn't want to ruin our reputation, would we?"
His smirk is too smug, too self-satisfied. You want to wipe it off his face. Preferably with your mouth. …Wait. What? You shake off the thought immediately.
It starts innocently enough. A few casual questions, meant to make the dinner feel more… intimate. How did you meet?
"Work," Heeseung answers smoothly. "We were partnered on a case five years ago."
You nod, forcing a small, pleasant smile. "And I've regretted it every day since." The table laughs. Someone sighs about 'enemies to lovers' stories. You ignore the way Heeseung's fingers tap idly against your thigh under the table.
"She's lying," he adds, voice low but measured. "She was obsessed with me."
Your head snaps toward him, jaw clenching. "I—"
"Couldn't stay away," he finishes smoothly. Your nails dig into the napkin on your lap.
And then— the questions get worse. What was your first date like? You open your mouth. Heeseung beats you to it.
"Our first date?" he repeats, tilting his head like he's reliving something fond. "She got sick halfway through." The table awws. You want to scream.
"Food poisoning," he explains, shaking his head. "Worst seafood of our lives." You stare at him, stunned. Where the hell is he going with this?
"I had to carry her to the car," he continues, eyes dark with subtle amusement. "And she told me—direct quote—'if you ever bring me back here, I will burn this restaurant to the ground.'" Another round of laughter. But Heeseung isn't done. He exhales, shaking his head. "That was the night I knew."
Your stomach flutters— No. Twists. It twists.
"The night you knew what?" you ask dryly, refusing to let him win this.
Heeseung turns his head toward you slowly , lips curling slightly at the edges. "The night I knew I wanted you."
A breath catches in your throat. The conversation moves forward , the moment swallowed by more laughter, more small talk—but you can't move past it. The way he said it. Like it wasn't a lie. Like it wasn't just for show. The air in the room shifts. Something tighter. Heavier.
David Hernandez—retired FBI agent and Kang's closest friend—steps forward with a microphone, smiling. "Alright, everyone," he announces, "time for the annual Couples' Game." Groans and laughter ripple through the room. But you don't react. Because from the far side of the hall, you see him. A man in a dark suit , too polished for this kind of gathering. And he's watching you.
You shift, fingers pressing against your napkin. Heeseung notices. His hand—casual, easy, practiced—rests on your thigh. A gesture for the audience. A warning for you. Stay still. Stay focused.
And then the first question. "What's your spouse's biggest fear?" Laughter. Playful groans. The couples around you answer easily. But when it's your turn, silence. And then, Heeseung says, "Losing control."
The air in your lungs vanishes. Your head turns. Your eyes meet his. Heeseung doesn't smirk. Doesn't tease. He just watches. And for the first time all night— you feel exposed. Like he's seeing something you didn't mean to show. Your pulse hammers.
And then—David Hernandez claps his hands together, moving on to the next question. The moment snaps. But your body doesn't relax. Because across the room—the man in the dark suit still hasn't looked away.
The dinner was supposed to be over. The interrogation, the intrusive questions, the suffocating weight of being watched— you survived all of it. But now, just as you're about to slip under the radar, David Hernandez picks up the microphone again.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, "a final toast to our wonderful couples. And what's a toast without a little romance?" You freeze. The guests laugh, already anticipating whatever's coming next.
"Let's see a real kiss," he continues smoothly. "Show us what young love looks like." Your stomach drops. No. Absolutely not.
A slow ripple of excitement spreads through the room. People lean in, whispering, waiting. And then— every eye turns to you and Heeseung. Because of course they do. Because after tonight— after every stolen glance, every accidental touch, every slow, lingering moment that made it look like you were the most in-love couple in the room—this is the next step.
You feel the weight of their expectations pressing in. You feel the tension in the air shift, tighten. And worst of all— you feel Heeseung looking at you. Your pulse skips. You don't move. Don't breathe.
And then—a warm, steady hand cups your jaw. Your body goes completely still. Your breath catches. Heeseung is already leaning in, already committing to the role before you can even think of a way out. And suddenly, you're out of options.
If you hesitate— if you pull back now—it'll look suspicious. So you don't. You tilt your chin up. You let him close the space. And then—his lips meet yours.
The first thing you notice is that he's warm. Soft. Steady. Too much of both. It's slow at first. Careful. A kiss meant to sell a story, to satisfy an audience. But then—then it changes.
Because the second your fingers tighten in the fabric of his jacket , the second your lips part just slightly beneath his—it's over. The shift is instant. The kiss deepens, sharpens, spirals into something dangerous.
Heeseung's grip on your jaw tightens. His other hand curves around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him. Your stomach twists. Your pulse pounds. You're supposed to be acting. But you can't remember how.
Because his fingers slip just slightly into your hair. Because he exhales sharply— low, wrecked—against your lips before tilting your head back and kissing you deeper. Because when you break apart just enough for air , he doesn't move away. His forehead rests against yours. His breath fans across your skin.
And the worst part? For just a second—for just one, fleeting second—you forget that it's not real. You forget that you hate him. You forget that the only reason this is happening is because you're being watched.
And then—the room erupts in applause. Reality slams back into you like a train. You jerk back so fast it makes your head spin. Heeseung lets you go instantly. Your lips still burn. Your skin still tingles. And the look in his eyes— dark, unreadable, something you can't name— is enough to make your stomach drop.
Across the room, the man in the dark suit finally smirks. Like he just got the confirmation he needed. Like he knows something you don't. And suddenly— you're not sure who the real target of this mission is anymore.
-
The second the front door clicks shut, you round on him. "You—" You don't even have the words. Your whole body is buzzing, your breath too shallow, your lips still tingling from that goddamn kiss. "What the fuck was that?"
Heeseung barely reacts. He shrugs off his jacket, loosening the first few buttons of his shirt like he isn't the problem, like he's not the reason your head is spinning and your pulse is in your throat.
"A kiss," he says smoothly, like it's obvious. "Wasn't that what they wanted?"
Your stomach twists. His voice is calm. Too calm. Like that kiss meant nothing to him. Like you're the only one who's still feeling it.
You grit your teeth. "That wasn't a kiss."
His brows lift. "Oh? Then what was it?"
"You—" You step closer, voice sharp, accusing. "You were all over me."
Heeseung tilts his head, lazily, infuriatingly amused. "You're the one who pulled me closer, sweetheart."
Your jaw clenches. "Because I had to sell it."
He smirks. And something inside you snaps. "You enjoyed it," you accuse, stepping even closer. "You fucking enjoyed it."
His smirk doesn't fade. "Don't flatter yourself, babe," he murmurs.
Your fingers twitch. Heeseung sees it, sees the way you're barely holding yourself together, the way your chest is rising and falling a little too fast. And he leans in. Not touching you, not quite, just close enough to make your breath catch. "Why?" he murmurs. "Did you?"
Your throat goes dry. You don't answer. Which is a mistake. Because Heeseung takes that exact moment to reach up, his fingers ghosting over your jaw, his touch just barely there. Your pulse stutters.
"You got quiet," he muses, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, like he's still thinking about the kiss.
You hate it. You hate him. And worst of all? You hate yourself for not pulling away. So you do the next best thing. You grab his wrist. Tight. And then you shove him back against the wall.
The sound echoes. His smirk flickers, just barely. But then, instead of being annoyed, instead of pushing you off, he laughs. Low. Amused. So fucking infuriating.
"That all you got, baby?"
Your whole body burns. And suddenly, you don't know if you want to slap him or kiss him again. Because he's watching you. Like he knows exactly what you're thinking. Like he's waiting for you to cross that line first. Your fingers tighten in his shirt.
"You push me one more time," you warn, voice trembling with something you can't even name, "and I swear to god—"
"What?" Heeseung leans in, voice dropping, his breath hot against your lips. "You gonna hate-fuck me, sweetheart?"
Your lungs stop working. Heat pools in your stomach. And worst of all, he sees it. He fucking sees it. His smirk returns, sharper than ever.
"You can, if you want," he murmurs. "We are married, after all."
Your grip on his shirt tightens. And for a moment, just a moment, you almost do it. You almost give in. Almost. But then you shove him back one last time and step away.
"You're not worth it," you grit out, voice barely steady.
Heeseung laughs again, low and slow, dragging a hand through his hair. "No?" he hums. "Then why do you look like you want to prove me wrong?"
You storm past him. Because if you don't, you might.
-
It was supposed to be temporary. A necessity. Because of appearances, because of the case, because if anyone in the neighborhood suspected that you and Heeseung weren't actually the perfect couple you were pretending to be, it would all fall apart.
So you agreed. Fine. One bed. One room. Just for show.
But now, in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains, the reality of it hits you all at once.Heeseung is too close. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that you can hear his breathing, slow, steady, maddening. Close enough that you should roll over, create distance, shut this down before it turns into something else.
But you don't. You can't. Because your body betrays you. You stay.
And then Heeseung moves.
You should be asleep. Should be facing the other direction, should be pretending none of this is happening. But Heeseung shifts beside you, his body brushing against yours, his warmth sinking into your skin, and suddenly, you can't breathe.
His breath is slow, heavy. You don't know if he's asleep or just waiting. And then he moves again. Rolls over. Turns toward you. And when his hand lands on your hip, you don't stop him.
You should. You don't. Instead, you let him pull you closer. Slow. Measured. Testing.
Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten in the sheets. And then, Heeseung whispers against your skin, "You're awake."
A statement. Not a question.
You swallow. His fingers curl around your waist. "Say it."
Your stomach tightens. "I'm awake," you murmur.
His grip tightens. And then he kisses you.
This time, there's no audience. No reason. No excuse. Just you, pressed against him. His hands gripping your waist. His lips parting against yours. Just your body arching into his, your fingers tangling in his hair, your thighs pressing together because you need more. Because this isn't enough. Because you don't hate him as much as you should.
Heeseung groans softly, deep and low, like he's been waiting for this. Like he's been holding back. His fingers slip under your shirt. His palm presses against your stomach, warm, steady, deliberate. Your hips shift instinctively.
Heeseung notices. His lips curve against yours. "You're desperate," he murmurs.
Your nails dig into his shoulders. "So are you, husband."
His breathing stutters. His next kiss is rougher. Hungrier. His tongue slides against yours, deep and slow, like he wants you to feel every second of it. You whimper—actually whimper—and Heeseung curses under his breath. His hands move, sliding over your bare skin, gripping your thighs, pressing you against him like he can't get enough.
And then you hear it.
A shift of movement outside. A footstep. Someone is standing there. Listening. Watching.
You feel Heeseung tense beside you. His fingers twitch against the sheets, his muscles flexing like he's ready to strike.But then, he turns his head, his lips brushing your ear.
"Don't stop."
Your pulse spikes. "They're listening," you whisper, barely parting your lips.
His fingers tighten on your hip. "I know," he murmurs, his voice so dark and smooth it makes your stomach tighten.He pauses for half a second. Then he shifts, rolling over, pressing his body against yours. His chest is warm, firm, solid against yours, his thigh sliding between yours beneath the sheets.
And then, he speaks. Loud enough for whoever is outside to hear.
"Kiss me, baby. Please."
Your stomach flips. Your breath catches. His fingers press into your hip, just enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. "Kiss me," he breathes again, even louder. His tone dripping with something dangerous.Something that isn't fake at all. The words roll off his tongue like he's begging. Like he wants it. Like he needs it.
You barely have time to react before his lips crash onto yours.
It's not careful. Not slow. Not fake. His hand grips your jaw, his thumb tilting your face up, forcing you to take it. His lips move hungrily, deeply, thoroughly, like he's been starving for this. Like he's craving you.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Your legs shift beneath him, parting slightly, allowing him to slot between them. The kiss is messy. Hot. Desperate.
And outside, there's silence. Then a muttered voice.
"They really are together."
Another pause. "Shit. That's… intense."
The gravel crunches. The presence outside shifts. But Heeseung doesn't stop.
His lips move down your jaw, his breath hot, heavy, controlled. His tongue flicks against your pulse, teasing, testing."You like this," he murmurs, so quiet it's almost just for you.
Your thighs tighten around his waist. His smirk presses against your throat. "Admit it, baby," he whispers. "You love letting them hear how good I make you feel."
Your nails dig into his shoulders. "You're disgusting," you hiss, but it comes out shaky.
His teeth graze your skin. "You're wet," he whispers against your throat. "And I haven't even touched you properly."
You almost bite your lip to stop the sound that threatens to escape. Almost. Because then his hips roll against yours, slow, deep, teasing.
And you moan.
Loud enough for the whole damn street to hear.
The figure outside finally moves. The voices fade. The footsteps retreat. They're gone.
But Heeseung doesn't move. Neither do you.
His lips hover just over yours, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. His hands are still on you. His body is still pinning you down.
And now, there's no excuse. No reason. No one left to perform for. Nothing stopping you from pushing him away. Nothing stopping him from letting you go. But neither of you do.
Instead, his fingers brush the corner of your mouth. His lips part like he's about to say something, but he doesn't.
Because now, you both know. This wasn't just for them. It wasn't just for the mission. Not really. Not when your body still aches for him. Not when his hands are still lingering. Not when he doesn't pull away first. And definitely not when you don't want him to.
The kitchen is too quiet.
The coffee smells rich and strong, filling the room, but it does nothing to cut through the thick tension that lingers from last night. From the moment you woke up tangled in the sheets with Heeseung's hand still gripping your waist. From the way he refused to be the first one to let go.
Now, as you stir your coffee, pretending everything is normal, pretending your thighs aren't still aching from how tightly they had clenched around his waist last night, pretending you aren't hyper-aware of him standing across from you, it's a losing game.
Heeseung leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching you. You refuse to look at him. The silence stretches.
And then he speaks. "You gonna talk about what happened last night, baby?"
You still. Your fingers tighten around the mug. But you don't answer.
Heeseung tilts his head, studying you. Waiting. And when you still don't say anything, he exhales sharply. "Fine. I'll start."
Your stomach tightens as he sets his cup down and pushes off the counter. "Who the hell were those people watching us?" he says, his voice losing the teasing edge from earlier. "Because that wasn't some nosy old lady peeking through the fence. Those were professionals."
You exhale slowly, finally lifting your gaze. "I don't know yet."
His brows lift. "Yet?"
You roll your shoulders back, forcing yourself into work mode. You need to focus. "Could be rival traffickers," you say evenly, setting your mug down. "Could be clients who don't trust our cover yet."
Heeseung nods slowly, his smirk from earlier finally gone. You almost miss it. Almost.
"So we're being watched," he states.
"Yes."
His jaw tightens. "And we just played right into their hands last night."
You look away. It's not a question. But you still feel obligated to answer. "Yes."
Heeseung sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Fuck."
You exhale sharply, straightening. "It's not a bad thing," you say. "If they think we're real, they won't question us as much. It gives us credibility."
His eyes flicker over you. "You sure that's what you were thinking last night?" he murmurs.
You freeze. Your pulse spikes.
And the worst part? You don't know the answer.
You clear your throat, ignoring the way his gaze darkens just slightly at your hesitation. "You're deflecting," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "We need to figure out how much they know."
Heeseung sighs, rolling his shoulders. "They had too much access to our house. That means one of two things—"
You nod, already following his train of thought. "Either they're locals who have the ability to move around unnoticed—"
"—or they've paid off someone in our network to let them get close," he finishes grimly.
Your stomach twists. Because both options are bad.
Heeseung pushes a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing slightly under his t-shirt. It's distracting. You grit your teeth. Focus.
"So what's the move, baby?" he says, casual, easy, like he didn't just call you that on purpose.
Your eye twitches. "We run surveillance on the street," you say tightly. "We watch who's watching us."
Heeseung hums, nodding. "Okay."
"And in the meantime," you continue, voice calm, measured, totally not affected by him at all, "we keep playing the perfect couple."
Heeseung pauses. Then, his lips twitch. "Perfect?"
You regret your word choice immediately. His smirk slowly returns. "You think we're perfect, sweetheart?"
Your teeth clench. "That's not—"
"You said it, baby," he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice warm, teasing.
Your pulse spikes. "You just said," he continues, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter, "that you and I—"
"Heeseung."
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "—are perfect together."
-
The air-conditioning in the store is a stark contrast to the heat outside, but it does nothing to cool down the tension simmering between you and Heeseung. It's been lingering ever since the conversation this morning. Ever since he pinned you with that smug smirk, acting like he had the upper hand, like you were the one struggling more.
You are not struggling. You refuse to struggle.
So when Heeseung grabs a cart and effortlessly rests one hand on the handle while the other slides into his pocket, looking far too comfortable in this fake domesticity, you ignore him. Instead, you focus on the list in your hands, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, ignoring the way your pulse still isn't normal.
This is just an errand. Nothing more.
It starts small. A casual "Babe, what do we need?" that earns him a sharp glare. A lazy arm draped over your shoulders as you stand in the produce aisle, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair. A low "Want me to pick the best ones for you, baby?" as he grabs apples, grinning when you glare at him like you want to shove him into the fruit display.
You try to stay neutral. You fail.
By the time you reach the dairy section, Heeseung has pushed the cart so close to you that your hip brushes against it every time you move. And when you reach for a bottle of milk, he leans in—completely unnecessary, completely on purpose—his chest pressing against your back as his arm reaches over yours.
His breath is warm against your ear. "Need help, sweetheart?"
Your entire body locks up.
Heeseung hums, voice lower. "Or do you just like having me this close?"
Your fingers tighten around the milk bottle. You inhale sharply. Then, before you can stop yourself, you turn around too fast. The cart shifts. Your hip bumps into it. And somehow—somehow—you end up pinned between the handle and Heeseung, trapped in a space that is entirely too small for your liking.
His lips curve into a slow, satisfied smirk. "Close quarters," he murmurs, eyes dark and amused. "Feels familiar, doesn't it?"
Your stomach flips. You refuse to react. "Stop playing games," you bite out, your voice lower than intended.
Heeseung tilts his head, pretending to think. "But we're having so much fun."
You narrow your eyes. "You're having fun."
His smirk deepens. "And you're pretending you're not."
Your teeth clench. You're about to shove him away—about to remind him that this is a public place—when someone clears their throat behind you.
You go still. Heeseung's smirk vanishes instantly. Your stomach drops. Because when you turn around, you see him. A man in a dark polo, watching the two of you carefully.
You don't know him. But you know exactly what he is. One of them. And now, he's waiting. Watching. Testing.
Your heart pounds. And then Heeseung moves. So smoothly, so effortlessly, that if you weren't already hyper-aware of his every move, you might not have noticed the subtle shift. He steps closer. Not tense. Not nervous. Just…easy. Like this is normal. Like this is real.
It's different from last night. Worse. Because last night, there had been shadows and secrets and something unspoken.But here? Now? In broad daylight, in front of someone watching, in the middle of a damn grocery store, there's no hiding. There's nothing to mistake this for.
His lips move against yours slowly. Deliberately. Like he's savoring it. Like he's telling this man—telling you—that he's not afraid of being seen like this. His hand slides to your waist, his grip gentle, unhurried. Your fingers fist into his shirt, barely thinking.
Because the worst part? You melt into it. Not because of the act. Not because of the mission. Not because of the audience. But because he feels good. Because he knows exactly how to kiss you.
And when he pulls back, when he lingers for a second too long, when his breath is still warm against your lips, your stomach sinks. Because he's looking at you like he already knows. Like he can see straight through you. Like he knows you want more. And maybe maybe you do.
But then, from behind, the man clears his throat again. And Heeseung? He doesn't even glance back. He just smirks against your mouth. His thumb strokes over your cheek. And then, loud enough for the other man to hear, he murmurs—
"See, baby? I don't mind putting on a show."
Your entire body burns. Your stomach twists. Because for a second, just a second, you forget who this is for. You forget this is fake. You forget everything. And the worst part? You think Heeseung does too.
The car ride is silent. Too silent. The air between you and Heeseung is thick, charged, suffocating. You can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours. You can still hear his voice—low, teasing, smug as hell—whispering against your mouth in that damn grocery store. "See, baby? I don't mind putting on a show."
Your entire body still burns. You should be furious. You should be telling him to keep his damn hands to himself next time. But instead, you're gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. Instead, you can't stop thinking about the way his thumb brushed your cheek, the way he kissed you like he had nothing to prove, like he was just… enjoying it.Like he was just kissing you because he wanted to. Not because someone was watching. Not because the mission required it. Not because he had to. And that, that's the part that's making you lose your mind.
It happens fast. One second, you're keeping your eyes locked on the road, willing yourself not to glance at him. The next, Heeseung exhales sharply and shifts in his seat, tilting his head toward you. And then he speaks.
"So," he starts, too casual, too dangerous. "Are we gonna talk about it?"
Your jaw tightens. You know exactly what he's referring to. But you pretend not to. "Talk about what?" you ask, voice calm, steady. Too steady.
Heeseung sees through it immediately. He shifts again, his smirk audible even before you look at him. "The fact that you liked it," he murmurs.
Your grip on the steering wheel tightens. You refuse to react. "You kissed me," you say simply. "Not the other way around."
Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Yeah," he muses. "And you kissed me back."
Your stomach twists. "You were playing your part," you say, forcing nonchalance into your voice.
Heeseung laughs. Low. Dark. Amused. "And you weren't?"
Your breath hitches. You don't answer. Because you don't have an answer. Because he's right. Because you were too into it. Because it felt too good. And now you don't know what to do with that.
The silence stretches again. But this time, it's different. This time, it's thick with something neither of you want to name. And then, Heeseung speaks again. Voice low. Casual. Like he's not about to completely ruin your life.
"So, what if we just lean into it?"
You blink. "What?"
He shrugs, shifting in his seat, like he's not suggesting something completely insane. "Think about it, sweetheart," he says, his voice silk-smooth, dangerous. "We have to keep playing this part, right?"
You don't answer. Because he's right. Because you do. Because whoever was watching you last night, whoever was following you today, they still need to believe it.
Heeseung tilts his head, watching you closely. "We keep up the act. But we make it more… convincing."
Your stomach drops. "And by that, you mean—"
Heeseung smirks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. "Sex, baby."
Your entire body tenses. Your hands clench around the steering wheel. Your heart pounds so violently you swear he can hear it. "You're insane," you say flatly.
He laughs. "Am I?" he muses. "Or am I just thinking ahead?"
You grit your teeth. "This isn't necessary."
Heeseung shrugs. "Maybe not. But it'll help."
"Help?" you echo.
He nods, completely unbothered. "You really think whoever's watching us won't be looking for signs of intimacy?" he says. "We have to sell it."
Your stomach flips. You hate that he has a point. And worse? He knows he does.
"You don't trust yourself," he says suddenly.
Your head snaps toward him. "Excuse me?"
Heeseung just smirks. "You don't trust yourself," he repeats, voice low, knowing. "You think if we start fucking, you'll catch feelings."
Your breath catches. Because that's not it. Is it?
Heeseung leans closer, voice dangerously soft. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I won't fall in love with you."
Your chest tightens. Your throat feels too dry. You should tell him no. You should shut this down.
But instead, your fingers loosen around the steering wheel. And when you speak, your voice is quiet. "You're so confident," you murmur. "But what if you're the one who falls first?"
The smirk on his lips flickers. Just barely. But you catch it. And that's all it takes. Because now? Now you know. This is going to be a disaster. And you're about to let it happen anyway.
The tension doesn't ease when you get home. It only gets worse. Because now, there's no one watching. No mission excuse. No reason to keep pretending—except for the one you both just created.
The deal was simple. Use each other. Keep the cover. Nothing more. But the moment you step inside, the moment the front door clicks shut, locking you in with him, you realize something. You're not thinking about the mission anymore. And neither is he.
You don't know who moves first. One second, you're standing there, the next, Heeseung is on you. The kiss is a collision.Hard, hot, devastating. His hands grab at your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips crash into yours, all tongue and heat and pure fucking need. There's nothing slow about it. No hesitation. No pretending.
His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer, forcing your body to mold against his. You feel every inch of him—hard muscle, sharp edges, the unmistakable heat of him pressing against your stomach. Your fingers tangle into his hair, pulling hard, dragging him deeper.
He groans and suddenly, you're moving. He's walking you backward. Fast. Desperate. You barely register the path through the house, until your back hits the nearest surface. The dining table.
Heeseung's hands are on your thighs instantly, lifting, gripping. "Up," he mutters against your mouth.
You don't hesitate. You hop up onto the table, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him into you. Heeseung groans, his hands gripping your ass, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. "You're already making this too easy," he rasps, his teeth grazing your jaw.
You should shove him away for that. Instead, you tilt your head back, baring your throat. His lips are on your neck in an instant. Biting. Sucking. Marking. Your breath shudders.
"Heeseung—"
"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin, his smirk audible.
You should say something. Tell him to slow down. To stop making this feel like more than it is. But then his fingers slip beneath your shirt. And suddenly, you don't care anymore.
Heeseung rips your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His lips trail down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. You shiver, arching into him as his hands slide up your back, unclasping your bra in one smooth motion.
Your stomach clenches. "You've done this before," you mutter.
Heeseung laughs, low and dangerous. "You sound jealous."
Before you can retort, his mouth is on you. You gasp, your head tilting back as his lips close around your nipple, his tongue flicking, sucking, teasing. Your fingers tangle into his hair, holding him there, your back arching as heat pulses through you.
"Fuck," you breathe.
Heeseung hums against your skin. "That's it, baby," he murmurs, his teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm."Knew you'd sound so pretty for me."
Your stomach tightens. You should hate him. But you don't. Not when he finally moves lower, kissing down your stomach, his fingers sliding beneath your waistband.
He glances up at you, his eyes dark, heated. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs.
Your breath catches. You don't. Heeseung smirks. "That's what I thought."
The fabric of your shorts is gone in seconds. Your thighs part instinctively, inviting, desperate. Heeseung groans as he presses forward, grinding against you through his jeans. "Feel that?" he murmurs, voice wrecked. "That's all you, baby."
Your stomach flutters violently. He moves fast—too fast, like he's losing control, like he can't hold back, like he doesn't want to. Your nails dig into his back as he pushes his jeans down just enough, his cock sliding against your soaked entrance.
Your breath shudders. "Heeseung—"
"Shh, sweetheart," he murmurs, his tip teasing your clit. He grins when your hips buck instinctively. "Needy," he muses, pressing a kiss to your throat. "You want it that bad?"
Your fingers tighten around his arms. "Shut up," you mutter.
Heeseung just laughs—before finally pushing in.
Your breath breaks. Your fingers clench, nails raking down his back as he fills you, stretching you, giving you no time to adjust. "Fuck," Heeseung groans, his forehead dropping against yours. "You're so fucking tight."
You pant, shivering. Heeseung's lips brush yours, teasing. "Think you can take it?" he whispers.
You clench around him in response. His smirk drops. "Shit," he breathes.
Then he moves. And it's not slow. It's not soft. It's desperate. Relentless. Rough. His hips snap into yours, deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath catch, your body tighten, your fingers claw at his back.
"Fuck, baby," he mutters, his breath hot against your neck. "You feel so fucking good—so wet for me."
You can't think. You can't do anything except take it. Your back hits the table, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. Heeseung groans, gripping your hips, holding you there.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice wrecked. "Letting me use you like this."
Your stomach clenches violently. "Shut up," you whisper, barely able to breathe.
Heeseung laughs, deep and dark. "Yeah?" he murmurs, tilting his head. "Make me." His thrusts deepen, slowing, grinding, dragging pleasure through you like fire.
Your breath catches. You're so close. Heeseung notices immediately. He smirks, his hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. Your body shakes.
"There we go," he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction. "That's my girl."
You snap. The pleasure hits too fast, too hard. Your body tightens around him, your nails raking down his back as you fall apart, trembling, panting, gasping. Heeseung groans, burying himself deep, grinding through your high until he follows. His breath shudders. His hands tighten. And then, he spills into you, shaking, wrecked, completely gone.
The room is quiet. The only sound is both of you breathing. Heeseung doesn't move right away. Neither do you. But eventually, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. And then, he smirks.
"See, baby?" he murmurs, his voice low, teasing. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Your stomach sinks. Because you already know. This was the worst idea of your life. And you want to do it again.
The morning comes too soon. Your body aches in places you don't want to acknowledge, your skin still buzzing from last night, from Heeseung, from the way he had completely ruined you on that table.
It was supposed to be for the mission. It was supposed to be nothing. But then he had kissed you like he meant it.Then he had whispered filthy things against your skin, dragging pleasure through you like it was his only goal in life. And worst of all? Then you had let him.
And now? You're in trouble. Because instead of getting up, getting dressed, and pretending it never happened, you're still in bed with him. Still naked. Still pressed against his warm, solid body, his arm thrown lazily over your waist.
And worse? He's awake. You feel it in the way his fingers start to move slowly, absently, tracing circles against your bare hip. You freeze. Because you already know. You already know exactly where this is going. And you're going to let it happen anyway.
Heeseung doesn't speak at first. He just moves. His hand slides lower, slipping between your thighs, his fingers brushing against where you're already slick and warm. You suck in a sharp breath.
"You still wet from last night, baby?" he murmurs against your ear, his voice husky, slow, teasing. Your thighs clench around his wrist. Heeseung chuckles. "Yeah," he muses, his fingers pressing deeper, finding your clit, stroking slow circles that make your breath catch. "That's what I thought."
Your hips shift instinctively, chasing his touch. His breath shudders against your neck. "So needy for me already," he hums. "I should've known you wouldn't be satisfied with just one round."
You should shove him away. You should stop this before it spirals even more. But then he presses his cock against your ass, already hard, already throbbing, already so fucking desperate for you. And suddenly, you don't care anymore.
You don't know how much time passes. All you know is Heeseung is inside you again. All you know is his hands are gripping your thighs, pulling you apart, his cock dragging deep, hitting all the right spots, making you tremble. All you know is you're gasping his name, your nails raking down his back, your body arching into him, needing more, more, more.
"Fuck, baby," Heeseung groans against your throat. "You feel so fucking good—"
Then the doorbell rings.
You both freeze. Your body locks up. Heeseung stiffens. For a second, silence. Then it rings again. You gasp softly, your breath shaky, still reeling from the pleasure he had been dragging you toward.
Heeseung grits his teeth, lifting his head, glaring at the door like he's debating whether to murder whoever is standing outside. Then a voice.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lee?"
Your blood runs cold. Because you know that voice. Heeseung knows it too. You both whip your heads toward each other. Because standing outside your house, waiting for you to answer, is one of the targets. And you're still naked, sweating, tangled in each other, caught in the middle of something that is definitely not mission-related.
You panic first. Heeseung groans, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. "Fucking hell," he mutters. Then another knock.
The knock at the door is too sharp. Too deliberate. Heeseung barely has time to pull on his shirt properly before you're both stumbling toward the front door—faces flushed, breaths still uneven, bodies still humming with the remnants of what just happened in the bedroom.
The last thing you expect when you open it is Park Jae Hoon. Your primary target’s right hand man.
Chairman Kang’s Assistant.
A man whose connections run deep, whose operations are too well-hidden, whose wealth has made him untouchable for years.
Right now? He's standing at your doorstep, looking straight at you with a pleasant smile. And then he says it.
"Mr. and Mrs. Lee?"
Your stomach drops. Your breath catches for half a second—just long enough for it to be a mistake. Behind you, Heeseung doesn't move. You feel his entire body tense, his presence turning sharp, rigid—so fast it makes your skin prickle. But he covers it in an instant.
Heeseung tilts his head, a fraction of a second too slow, like he's calculating. "Park," he says smoothly, his voice dangerously calm.
Jaehoon smiles wider, his gaze flickering between the two of you, watching, assessing. "I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time," he continues, the casual tone doing little to mask the underlying weight of his words.
He knows. Maybe not everything. But something. Your mind races through possibilities. Was it a slip? A baited trap? A misdirect? Was he testing your reaction? Did he say Lee just to see how you'd respond? Your fingers twitch at your side.
Heeseung speaks before you can, so smoothly it makes your head spin. "That's funny," he muses, his lips curling into a smirk.
Jaehoon raises an eyebrow. "What is?"
Heeseung's hand settles on your waist, casual, possessive, like he's done it a million times before. "That's the second time this week someone's called us Lee," he hums, shaking his head with an amused scoff. "Wonder where that's coming from."
Jaehoon laughs lightly, like he's not the one who just said it. "Must be a mix-up," he says smoothly. "I'm terrible with names, my apologies."
Liar. You know it. He knows it. And Heeseung? He knows it, too. His grip on your waist tightens slightly.
"It happens," you interject, finally finding your voice. "We'll have to remind people."
Jaehoon watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then, he changes the subject. "My wife and I would love to invite you to dinner tonight," he says. "A small gathering. Just some neighbors getting to know each other."
Your stomach twists. You force a polite smile. This is a trap. It has to be. It's too soon. You've been in town for less than two weeks. And yet, he's standing at your door, already pulling you closer, already testing you.
And the worst part? You have to say yes. Because if you don't? You're as good as caught.
You and Heeseung arrive at the Park estate precisely at 7:00 PM. The house is massive—all glass windows and dark wood, sleek and modern but old money through and through. The kind of wealth that doesn't flaunt itself but never lets you forget it's there.
The door swings open before you can even knock. Park Jaehoon is already waiting. His smile is pleasant, but his eyes—sharp, assessing, watching every little detail.
Beside him, his wife Minji greets you both warmly, her voice smooth and charming, her demeanor soft where Jaehoon's is all edges. But you're not fooled. She's just as dangerous. She just hides it better.
Dinner is set up outside, under dim garden lights, the table covered in expensive wine and fine-cut dishes. Other couples from the neighborhood are there—people with money, status, power. People who either don't know what Jaehoon does or are too complicit to care.
And throughout the entire meal? You're being watched. Jaehoon is subtle about it. Testing you in small, careful ways. Watching how you and Heeseung interact. The way he pours you a glass of wine before his own. The way your hands brush when you pass him the plate. The way he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. All of it measured, calculated.
A lesser agent wouldn't have noticed. But you do. And so does Heeseung. Which is why you don't react. You just smile. Lean into his touch, laugh at his jokes, touch his thigh beneath the table when no one is looking. You give them what they want to see.
And Heeseung? He plays along like he was made for this. His voice is smooth, his touches natural, his attention never leaving you for long enough to seem disinterested. To anyone else, you're just another married couple—young, rich, successful, maybe a little too in love. But to Jaehoon? This is a test. And you're praying you don't fail it.
It happens when you least expect it. When you're finally settling into the act. When Heeseung has his arm draped lazily over the back of your chair, fingers tracing light circles on your bare shoulder. When Jaehoon smirks suddenly, takes a slow sip of his wine, and speaks.
"You two have been together for how long now?"
Heeseung answers smoothly. "Five years."
Jaehoon hums. "And how did you meet?" A standard question. One you prepared for. One you practiced. You open your mouth to respond—
But Heeseung beats you to it. "She wouldn't leave me alone."
The entire table goes silent. Your breath catches. Jaehoon raises an eyebrow. And Heeseung—the bastard—just smirks, leaning into you. "She practically stalked me, begged me for a date."
A laugh ripples through the table. Jaehoon chuckles, shaking his head. "Is that true?"
Your pulse spikes. You know what he's doing. He's testing your reactions. If you get flustered, if you hesitate, you'll look suspicious. So you adapt. You scoff, turning to Heeseung with a smirk. "I literally saved your ass in law school."
More laughter. The tension eases. You slide a hand to Heeseung's thigh under the table, squeezing hard. A warning. But Heeseung? He just smirks. He's enjoying this too much.
Jaehoon nods approvingly. "You two remind me of my wife and me," he muses. "Good chemistry. I can always tell when a marriage is real."
Your stomach twists violently. Because that? That was the real test. And you still don't know if you passed it.
The ride home is silent. Tense. Charged. You're still reeling from the dinner, from the questions, from the way Jaehoon watched your every move like he was cataloging them, looking for the slightest hint of a lie. But more than that, you're still reeling from Heeseung. From the way he smirked through every question like he was having the time of his life. From the way he ran his fingers over your bare skin at the table, teasing, touching, like he wanted to push you to the edge. From the way he played his part so fucking well that you almost believed him.
And now? You're alone. Back in the house. Back inside the lie that's feeling a little too real.
You step inside first, your heels clicking against the floor, your body buzzing with pent-up frustration. The second the door shuts behind you, you round on him. "What the fuck was that?" you snap, voice sharp, controlled.
Heeseung just smirks. "Which part?"
Your teeth clench. "You know which part."
He shrugs, undoing the top button of his shirt like he's completely unfazed. "Relax, baby," he drawls, voice smooth, teasing. "We didn't get caught."
You step forward. He doesn't move. "You enjoyed that way too much," you say, your voice low, accusing.
Heeseung tilts his head. "And you didn't?"
Your breath catches. Because he's too close now. Because he's looking at you like he already knows the answer.Because he's right. You did enjoy it. Not just the act. Not just the mission. Him. His hands, his voice, the way he touched you. The way he kisses you like he means it. The way he watches you like he wants to ruin you.
You exhale sharply. "This isn't real," you bite out, like you're trying to convince yourself.
Heeseung smiles—slow, devastating. "Yeah?" He steps forward. You step back. Until your back hits the wall. Until he's right in front of you, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to smell the cologne still lingering on his skin.
His fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, his touch barely there. "You're shaking," he murmurs.
Your throat tightens. "You—"
"You want me to stop?" he asks, low, husky.
Your body betrays you. Your legs part slightly, just enough for him to notice. Heeseung hums, pleased. "That's what I thought."
Before you can process it, he's sinking. Kneeling in front of you. His hands slide up your thighs, parting them effortlessly, his breath hot against your skin. You feel his smirk against your inner thigh. "You look so fucking good like this, baby," he murmurs.
Your head tilts back against the wall. Your heels dig into the floor, your fingers clutching at the surface behind you."Fuck," you whisper.
Heeseung chuckles. He lifts your leg, sliding it over his shoulder, keeping you open for him. "You've been tense all night," he muses. "Let me take care of you."
His fingers hook into your underwear, dragging them down slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring every second. And then his mouth is on you.
You gasp, fingers tangling into his hair, gripping, pulling. Heeseung groans against you, his hands tightening on your thighs, his tongue working slow, deep strokes against your clit. Your hips buck. He grips you harder, pinning you in place.
"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me do my job, sweetheart."
Your stomach tightens. Because this isn't pretend. Because this isn't just for the mission. Because he's devouring you like he fucking means it.
Your heels dig into his back, your body trembling as he laps at you, sucking, teasing, fucking you with his tongue until you're panting, until you're so close you can't think. And then he pulls back.
You whimper at the loss. Heeseung looks up at you, his lips slick, his eyes dark, hooded, ravenous. "You taste so fucking sweet," he murmurs.
You can't breathe. "Please," you whisper.
Heeseung smirks. "Please what, baby?"
You grit your teeth. "H-Heeseung—"
"Say it."
Your face burns. "Make me come," you whisper.
His smirk vanishes. His fingers dig into your thighs. Then he dives back in.
And this time? He doesn't stop.
Not until you're shaking, gasping, falling apart against him, your back arching off the wall, your body pulsing with pleasure so intense it feels like drowning. Not until you moan his name so loud that if anyone was outside, they'd know exactly what he's doing to you. Not until he's pulling back, pressing kisses along your thighs, grinning up at you like he just won something.
Like he owns you. And maybe maybe he does.
Because you're ruined now. Because you'll never be able to look at him the same way again. Because this—whatever this is— it's not just for the mission anymore.
And you're in too deep to pretend otherwise.
-
The morning after should have been awkward. Should have been tense, unbearable, suffocating. But instead? It's calm.Too calm. Like neither of you are willing to acknowledge what just happened.
Like if you don't talk about it, if you don't look at each other for too long, if you don't think about the way Heeseung had dropped to his knees and ruined you against the wall, then maybe just maybe you can pretend you're still in control.
So you do what you do best. You compartmentalize. You shove everything into a box, lock it away, and focus. Because you're not here for him. You're not here for whatever this is. You're here to take these people down. And it's time you started acting like it.
You spend the entire morning pouring over files, surveillance reports, and connection maps, trying to untangle the knots of this case. Heeseung sits across from you at the kitchen table, back to his usual self—calm, sharp, focused. For the first time since arriving here, it feels like the job is actually taking priority again.
You take a slow sip of coffee, flipping through one of the files. "We need to start pulling deeper on Kang's network."
Heeseung nods, scrolling through his laptop. "We know he's the link between the local trade and the international markets is Jaehoon, but we still don't have enough to prove it."
Your fingers tap against the page. "Which means we need to figure out where the shipments are coming in."
Heeseung exhales sharply. "That's the problem. These guys don't use the usual channels. No ports, no major transport hubs. Whatever they're moving, it's coming in completely off-grid."
You narrow your eyes at the report in your hands. "Then we need to look at what they do control. Warehouses, private properties, storage facilities—anything that could be used to funnel products in and out without setting off alerts."
Heeseung hums in agreement, his fingers moving quickly over his keyboard. "There's a location that keeps popping up on our surveillance feeds. A warehouse on the west side, owned under a shell company that leads back to Kang."
Your pulse picks up. You lean over the table, studying the map on his screen. "How well-guarded is it?"
"Moderate security. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to make it clear something valuable is there," Heeseung mutters. "Cameras, patrols, rotating staff."
"Which means we can't just walk in."
"Not without drawing attention."
Silence stretches as you both consider the options. Then an idea.
You glance at him. "How many of the staff do we have IDs on?"
Heeseung clicks a few files open. "Not all, but a decent amount. Why?"
You smirk. "Because if we can't walk in as ourselves, we walk in as them."
Heeseung leans back in his chair, eyeing you. "You want to go inside the warehouse as employees?"
You shrug. "It's the best option. Less risk than breaking in, more access than staking out from the outside."
Heeseung rubs his jaw, considering. "We'd have to steal IDs. Learn their routines. Get in without tipping anyone off."
"Exactly," you murmur, your mind already calculating. "We need disguises. Uniforms. A way to get in and out without raising suspicion."
Heeseung sighs, but there's a glint in his eyes. "You're getting too excited about this, sweetheart."
You smirk. "It's the job."
He shakes his head. "No, you just like the thrill."
You don't deny it. Instead, you straighten. "We need to pick a target—someone whose absence won't be noticed immediately. Someone low enough in rank that we can take their spot, but high enough that they have clearance."
Heeseung clicks through the personnel files, narrowing the options. "This guy. Jung Minseok. Mid-level logistics coordinator. His access logs show he's in and out frequently but doesn't stay long. No high-clearance tasks, but enough movement to slip under the radar."
Your eyes narrow. "Perfect."
Heeseung exhales. "You're sure about this?"
You flash him a wicked grin. "Trust me, babe," you murmur. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
The warehouse is colder than expected. Dim lighting, the faint hum of industrial fans, the scent of metal and damp concrete—it's a perfect front. From the outside, it looks like any other storage facility. But on the inside? You know there's something bigger hiding beneath the surface.
You and Heeseung slip in effortlessly. Disguised in stolen uniforms, fake IDs clipped neatly onto your collars, posture sharp but unassuming—just another pair of employees in the sea of warehouse staff. No one looks at you twice. No one asks why you're here. It's almost too easy.
Heeseung adjusts the clipboard in his hand, murmuring under his breath as he falls into step beside you. "We've got maybe thirty minutes before someone notices an extra set of names on the shift list."
You nod subtly, your eyes scanning the stacks of wooden crates, metal containers, and labeled shipments. "Then we work fast," you mutter back.
Heeseung smirks. "My favorite kind of job."
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Instead, you split up. Heeseung heads toward the office records, blending seamlessly into the workers checking logs. You go for the storage section. Where the real secrets are buried.
The deeper you go, the quieter it gets. Most of the workers are occupied with the main shipment areas—leaving this section mostly empty. Your steps soften. Your breath slows. You count every turn, every exit, every security camera in sight.
And then you see it. A door. Unmarked. Unassuming. Tucked away at the back of the facility—but with a security lock that's far too advanced for a basic storage room.
Your pulse kicks up. This isn't just a warehouse.
You pull out a small device, hooking it onto the electronic lock, watching as it overrides the security input in under fifteen seconds. With a soft click, the door unlocks. You push it open.
And then your breath catches.
Inside, the room is small, dark, sterile. But the thing that makes your blood run cold? The medical equipment. IV bags. Monitors. A locked steel cabinet filled with vials of something you can't identify.
This isn't just a warehouse. This is a holding facility.
And before you can process what that means, you hear footsteps approaching. Fast. Coming right for you.
Your heart pounds. Footsteps—close, coming fast, heading straight for the room you're in. You have seconds. Not minutes. Not enough time to take photos, not enough time to process what you just saw, not enough time to do anything except get out.
Your body moves before your mind catches up. You press the door shut just before the footsteps round the corner, locking it again with a silent flick of your wrist. The electronic lock clicks back into place. You step away just in timefor two men to stop directly in front of the door.
Holding your breath, you keep walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just normal. Like you were never there. Like you don't have the weight of a game-changing discovery sitting in your chest. Like your stomach isn't twisting at the thought of what kind of people need an unmarked medical room in a warehouse.
You don't look back. The guards don't look at you. But the moment you round the corner and spot Heeseung standing at the other end of the hall, his sharp gaze immediately locks onto yours. And in that second—he knows.
You reach him just as he's tucking his fake employee badge into his pocket. Heeseung doesn't say anything at first.Just tilts his head slightly, waiting. Waiting for you to confirm what he already suspects.
You keep walking. "We need to go. Now."
That's all he needs to hear. Heeseung nods once, slipping into step beside you, keeping his posture loose and unbothered. Like you aren't both walking the fine edge of disaster. Like you aren't milliseconds away from being caught. Like your heart isn't still racing.
You weave through the warehouse, your breathing calm, your fingers twitching at your side. The exit is in sight. Almost there.
And then—"Hey!"
Your stomach drops. You don't freeze. Don't react. But Heeseung? He turns first. Smooth, easy, like he was expecting this.
A man—one of the security supervisors, judging by the badge clipped to his shirt—is watching the two of you. His eyes narrow slightly. "New guys, huh?"
Heeseung laughs easily. "Yeah," he says. "Boss told us to check the perimeter before heading out. All clear."
The man studies him. For a second too long. For a second too dangerous. You stay silent.
Then the man nods. "Good," he mutters. "We can't afford mistakes right now."
Mistakes. Your fingers twitch.
Heeseung hums. "You expecting a shipment?"
The man scoffs. "Something like that," he says vaguely. "Just keep your head down and don't ask questions."
Heeseung smirks. "No problem."
And just like that the man walks off. You exhale slowly. Not too relieved. Not too fast. Just enough to finally step outside. Just enough to not look suspicious. Just enough to know that this was too close.
The second you're in the car, the moment the warehouse is behind you, the second you're safe—you finally breathe.
Heeseung shifts beside you, watching you. "So," he says, too casual. "What did you find?"
You grip the steering wheel. "Not here."
Heeseung tilts his head, smirking. "That bad?"
You don't answer. You don't have to. Because whatever's happening in that warehouse? It's bigger than you thought.And now? Now you need to figure out exactly what the hell you just walked into.
The drive back is silent. Not the kind of silence that comes from comfort. The kind that feels like something is about to snap.
You can still hear your own heartbeat. Still feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins, making everything feel sharper, heavier, too much. The discovery at the warehouse—the medical room, the vials, the unspoken implications— it's still racing through your head, looping over and over, suffocating you.
You don't know what it means yet. You just know it's bad. And now? Now, you're sitting in the passenger seat, your leg bouncing, your fingers clenched into fists, your breath just a little too shallow. You need to calm down. You need to focus. But right now? Right now, you feel like you're about to lose it.
The moment you step into the house, you head straight for the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter, exhaling sharply. Heeseung follows. You don't have to look at him to know he's watching you. He always does. Especially now.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable. "You're shaking."
You exhale. "It's nothing."
Heeseung hums. "Liar."
Your fingers tighten around the counter. "You need to let this go for tonight," he murmurs, stepping closer.
You shake your head. "I can't."
"You have to."
Your breath shudders. Because you know he's right. Because your body is still vibrating from everything that just happened. Because your mind is still running in circles. Because you don't know how to make it stop.
But Heeseung does. And before you can argue he's behind you. Warm. Solid. Too close. His hands trail down your arms, slow, steady. Grounding.
"Look at me."
You don't. Heeseung leans in, his lips grazing your ear, his voice softer now. "Let me help you."
Your body clenches. Your fingers loosen against the counter. Your breath catches. Because you know exactly what he's offering. And worse? You want it.
You turn around. Slow. Deliberate. Your back hits the counter, and Heeseung steps in between your legs, his hands bracketing your hips. He's too close now. He's waiting. You could stop this.
But instead you fist your hands into his shirt and pull him in.
The kiss is messy. Desperate. Hot. His hands slip beneath your shirt, dragging up your spine, gripping, holding. You don't even realize you're moving until your ass hits the counter, until Heeseung's hands are spreading your thighs, stepping in closer, deeper.
His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you to the edge, pressing himself against you, grinding slow, teasing. "You needed this, didn't you?" he murmurs against your lips.
You don't answer. You just kiss him harder.
Your shirt is on the floor before you can blink. Heeseung's hands slide under your thighs, gripping, holding. "You gonna let me take care of you, sweetheart?"
Your breath hitches. You nod. And that's all he needs.
Because then he's undoing your pants, dragging them down, his fingers already teasing at your heat, smirking when he feels how wet you are. "Already soaked for me," he murmurs. "You needed this more than you let on."
You whimper when his fingers stroke up your slit, circling your clit, pressing slow, deep. "Let me make you feel good," he whispers against your jaw.
You don't stop him. Because for once you don't want to think. You just want to feel.
Afterwards, you're still on the counter, your legs tangled around his waist, your breathing uneven. Heeseung presses a kiss to your jaw. Soft. Lingering. Like he doesn't want to move. Like he wants to stay here. And for a moment—just a moment—so do you.
But then reality crashes back in. Because whatever's happening in that warehouse? It's not over. And now? Now you have to figure out how much worse it's going to get.
-
The house is too quiet after what just happened. The kitchen still smells like sex, like heat, like the remnants of something neither of you want to name. But now? Now, you're back to business. Because no matter what's happening between you and Heeseung, no matter how tangled this is getting, no matter how good he feels—the mission comes first.
You're seated at the kitchen table, the blueprint of the warehouse laid out between you, files stacked on the side, notes scribbled across every margin. Heeseung leans back in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw, watching you as you go through the details again.
"Let's go over this one more time," you murmur, eyes scanning the blueprint. "What do we know for sure?"
Heeseung exhales, tapping his finger against the table. "Chairman Kang's operation is bigger than we thought," he starts. "We knew he was trafficking, but whatever's in that warehouse—"
"—it's not just product," you finish, voice tight.
Your stomach twists. Because the medical equipment, the IV bags, the locked storage cabinets filled with vials— they weren't transporting drugs. They were doing something else. And whatever it was? It involved people.
You pull out the file on the warehouse employees, flipping through it until you reach Jung Minseok—the logistics coordinator whose ID you stole to get in. You slide the file toward Heeseung. "His logs don't match the shipment records."
Heeseung frowns, scanning the notes. "What do you mean?"
You point at the log timestamps. "Look. According to our intel, this warehouse is supposed to be moving goods in and out weekly. But Minseok? He's logged in and out of that medical room every other night."
Heeseung's jaw tightens. "Which means," you continue, voice steady, "this isn't just a storage facility. They're keeping something in there."
Heeseung looks at you, eyes darkening. "Or someone."
Your breath catches. Because he's right. Because this isn't about trafficking goods anymore. Because people are involved.
You sit back in your chair, heart pounding, the weight of the realization settling deep in your bones. "Fuck," you whisper.
Heeseung's fingers tap against the table, his mind already moving ten steps ahead. "If they're keeping people there, we need to figure out why," he mutters. "What's in those vials? What are they doing to them?"
You exhale sharply. "It's not drugs," you say. "At least, not the kind we were expecting. This is something else."
Heeseung studies you, then tilts his head. "You have a theory."
Your fingers grip the edge of the file. "Organized trafficking rings don't keep people in one place unless there's a reason. Either they're waiting for transport, or—" You pause. Your stomach tightens. Heeseung's gaze sharpens. "Or what?"
Your throat feels too dry. You meet his eyes. "Or they're being experimented on."
Silence. Heavy. Sharp. Unbearable.
Heeseung's fingers curl into a fist against the table. "They're running tests," he murmurs, voice too low.
You nod, exhaling slowly. "And we don't know on who, or why, or for what purpose."
His jaw clenches. "Then we need to find out."
The weight of it presses into your chest, heavy, suffocating, unshakable. People. Not just drugs, not just weapons, not just another smuggling operation. This is something worse. Something bigger. Something you weren't prepared for.
You and Heeseung are still sitting at the kitchen table, files and blueprints scattered between you, the cold dregs of coffee in your mugs long forgotten. Heeseung leans forward, his elbows resting on the wood, his brows furrowed in deep thought.
"This changes everything," he mutters.
You exhale sharply. "No shit."
Heeseung rubs a hand down his face, his fingers curling into a loose fist as he processes. "We need more information," he says. "We go back—"
Knock. Knock.
Your breath catches. The sound is sharp, deliberate. Not frantic. Not casual. Calculated.
You and Heeseung freeze. For a second—just a second—neither of you move. Then, instinct takes over. You're both silent, barely breathing, reaching for the weapons hidden beneath the table, tucking them discreetly behind your backs.
Another knock. Steady. Even. Waiting. And then a voice.
"Mr. and Mrs. Park."
Your stomach drops. Because you know that voice. Chairman Kang himself. From the dinner party. The one who barely spoke, but watched everything. The one who lingered when no one else did. The one who, even then, felt like a problem.
Now, the most dangerous man in the city is standing at your doorstep. And he knows you're home.
Your pulse spikes. Heeseung's jaw tightens. Your eyes meet—a silent exchange, a thousand questions packed into one glance. Heeseung tilts his head slightly, his expression calm, calculating. You understand immediately. Play it cool.
You inhale, steady, controlled. Then you walk to the door. You flick the lock. Pull it open just enough.
And there he is. Chairman Kang. Dressed in an impeccable dark suit. Expression cold and calculating beneath his pleasant facade. But now now he's smiling. And you hate it. Because it's not polite. It's not friendly. It's knowing.
"Forgive me for the late visit," Kang says smoothly, his voice warm, pleasant. "I hope I'm not intruding."
Heeseung appears at your side, casual, relaxed. But you know him well enough to see the tension beneath it. "Of course not," Heeseung says easily, leaning against the doorframe. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Chairman Kang tilts his head slightly, as if considering. Then he steps forward. Into your space. And murmurs, just for you to hear— "Why don't we talk inside?"
The air thickens the moment you step back and let him in. Chairman Kang doesn't hesitate. He walks inside like he belongs here, like he's done this before, like he already knows more than he should.
Heeseung shuts the door behind him. Locks it. Subtle. But not really. Kang notices. He smiles. "How hospitable."
You return the expression, tight-lipped. "We like our privacy."
His eyes flicker between you and Heeseung. Like he's studying, comparing, searching. You don't fidget. You don't move. But your pulse ticks up. Because this this is dangerous. You don't know why he's here yet. But you know it's not good.
Heeseung gestures to the living room. "Sit. Have a drink."
Chairman Kang hums, glancing around the space before lowering himself onto the couch. "You keep a lovely home," he comments.
You tilt your head. "It's temporary."
Kang nods, lacing his fingers together. "Of course," he murmurs. "How long have you two been married again?"
You smile. Heeseung leans forward, pouring whiskey into a glass, sliding it across the table toward him. "Five years," he says smoothly. "I assume you did your research before you came here."
Chairman Kang lifts his brows. "Naturally." But he doesn't touch the drink. Just lets it sit there. Waiting.
Heeseung exhales sharply, leaning back into the chair, stretching out like he's perfectly at ease. You stay standing. Watching.
Kang turns his attention back to you. "I've been meaning to ask—what was it that brought you here again?"
You tilt your head. "Business."
"Ah." A slow nod. Too slow. Too measured. Then he glances at the scattered files on the kitchen table.
Your stomach tightens. Because even though none of those files are directly related to the mission it's still too much. Too many notes. Too many blueprints. Too much evidence that you aren't just a happy, newlywed couple settling into a quiet life.
Chairman Kang smiles. "And what kind of business is that again?"
Your jaw clenches. Before you can answer, Heeseung beats you to it. "Investment," he says smoothly. "Real estate. Properties, stocks. The kind of things that keep your wealth moving."
Kang hums. "The kind of things that keep your name clean."
Your breath catches. Because that wasn't an innocent remark. That was a test. A trap. And you know it.
Heeseung's smirk doesn't falter. "I wouldn't say that," he muses. "A name is only as clean as the person who holds it."
Chairman Kang chuckles. "And yours is spotless?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
Silence. The tension pulls tighter. Then Kang tilts his head. And finally, he slips.
"I have to say," he murmurs, "you two are very different from the last couple."
The room goes still. Your pulse stumbles. Heeseung's fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against the chair.But he doesn't move. Doesn't react. Just lets the weight of that statement settle. Then he speaks. "Oh?"
Chairman Kang shrugs. "The previous tenants."
You tilt your head. "We weren't told much about them."
He hums. "No, I imagine not."
Your stomach knots. Because this? This is new information. The mission files never mentioned anyone else staying in this house before you. And if there was a couple here before where are they now?
Heeseung exhales slowly, as if bored. "And why does that matter to you?"
Kang smiles. "The same reason I came here tonight," he says lightly. "Curiosity."
You watch him. He watches you back. And then he stands. Straightens his suit. Looks between the two of you one last time. Then he nods.
"Enjoy your evening," he says, turning toward the door. "I was quite pleased to meet you both at dinner. I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon."
The casual threat beneath his words is unmistakable. This wasn't a social visit. Chairman Kang himself came to assess you, to study you, to let you know he was watching.
You don't move. Don't speak. Just watch as he walks away. As he lets himself out. As the lock clicks behind him.
And when you finally turn to Heeseung his expression is unreadable. But his words are deadly serious. "We need to find out what happened to that couple."
Because now? Now you know this mission is bigger than you ever imagined. And if you aren't careful? You might be next.
The house feels different after Chairman Kang leaves. Like it's not just a house anymore. Like it's a crime scene. Like there are shadows in every corner, waiting for you to find them.
You and Heeseung stand in silence, the weight of what just happened pressing between you. The files on the table feel heavier now. Everything feels heavier now. Because now? Now you know this house wasn't meant for you. It was meant for them. And whatever happened to the last couple it wasn't good.
You don't speak as you move. You don't tell Heeseung what you're looking for because you don't know. You just know it's here. Somewhere. The truth is somewhere in this house.
So you start in the obvious places. The bedroom. The office. The storage spaces. You check for anything out of place, anything that doesn't belong, anything that looks like a message someone didn't want found. But there's nothing.
And then you stand in the middle of the living room, frowning. Thinking. And then you look down. At the floorboards.At the slight misalignment of one near the fireplace.
Your breath catches. And then you kneel. Your fingers skim over the edge of the wood, pressing lightly. And then it moves. Not much. Just enough. And that's all you need.
You pull it up. And then you find it. A small metal box, tucked away beneath the floorboards. Hidden. Buried. Waiting.
Your fingers tremble just slightly as you lift it out. It's light. Not heavy enough to hold a weapon. But heavy enough to hold something dangerous.
You place it on the table, Heeseung standing beside you now, watching. You glance at him. Heeseung nods. "Open it."
You take a slow breath. And then you do. The latch clicks. The lid lifts. And inside is a phone. And a small, folded piece of paper.
Your pulse jumps. You pick up the paper first, your breath catching at the words scrawled in desperate, jagged handwriting.
"If you're reading this, you need to run."
Your stomach drops.
"They aren't who they say they are."
Your breath shudders.
"And they know you're here."
Silence. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.
You turn the paper over. There's one last sentence. Scrawled hastily, like whoever wrote it was running out of time.
"They took my wife first."
You and Heeseung stare at the note. Neither of you speak. Neither of you move. And then you pick up the phone. It's old. Dead. The battery long drained. But you know you just know whatever's on it? It's not meant to be seen.
You swallow hard, looking at Heeseung. "We need to power this up."
His jaw tightens. He nods once. "Let's go."
You grab the box, the note, the phone—everything. You turn—
And then the lights go out. The house plunges into darkness.
The moment the lights cut out, you don't hesitate. You react on instinct. Your hand goes to your weapon immediately, muscles tightening, senses flaring. Beside you, Heeseung moves just as fast. His breath is steady. His presence is solid.And yet something feels wrong.
This isn't just a power outage. This isn't just a coincidence. And then a crash. From the front door. Your pulse jumps.Footsteps too heavy, too fast. Coming straight for you.
Your mind races. How did they get here so fast? How did they know? And then Heeseung is moving. Gun raised, body shifting in front of you and you realize. They're coming for him.
"Move!" Heeseung hisses.
But you don't. Because you can't. Because everything is happening too fast. Because this is all wrong. They're not supposed to know who you are. They're not supposed to know where you live. They're not supposed to be coming for him. And yet they are.
You see the shadowed figures moving in the darkness, too many of them, closing in, aiming for him— and your decision is made before you even think it through. You move first. Fast. Too fast. You grab him, shove him toward the back of the house. "Go!"
Heeseung grits his teeth, stumbling slightly, cursing as he reaches for you. "Are you insane?!" he snaps.
"They're after you," you hiss. "I can handle this—"
You don't get to finish. Because in that half-second of hesitation you feel it. The needle. The sharp sting at your neck.And then your body locks up.
You barely register what happens next. You hear your own breath catch, your pulse stumbling, the way your fingers try to reach for your gun— but they don't move. Because your limbs aren't working anymore. Because your vision is tilting, blurring, slipping. Because you were wrong.
They weren't after Heeseung. They were after you. And you just delivered yourself straight into their hands.
Heeseung's voice breaks through the haze, sharp, panicked— "Shit—" He's grabbing you, catching you before you hit the floor, shaking you— but it's too late. Your body is already shutting down. Your muscles go limp, your breathing slows, your eyelids grow too heavy. Heeseung's grip tightens. "No, no, no—stay awake—"
You try. You really try. But then the last thing you hear is the sound of him fighting. The last thing you feel is the way his fingers dig into your arms, holding onto you like he can stop this from happening. The last thing you see is the sheer terror in his eyes. And then everything fades.
The first thing you notice is the smell. Not blood. Not chemicals. Something sterile. Like a hospital. Like a place where people don't leave.
Your head pounds. Your body feels heavy, like it isn't yours, like you're floating just beneath the surface of consciousness. But then a voice. Soft. Weak.
"You shouldn't have come here."
Your breath catches. Because you're not alone.
Your eyelids flutter. Your vision is blurry, foggy, distorted. But you see them. Across the room. A woman. Slumped against the wall, her skin pale, her eyes hollow, her breath slow and uneven. She looks barely alive.
Your pulse kicks up. You try to move but you can't. Your wrists are bound. Your ankles are strapped down. And that's when the panic sets in.
You're in the medical room from the warehouse. You're in Chairman Kang's facility. And now you understand why he personally came to your home—you weren't just targets, you were his next subjects.
Your breathing sharpens. Your head spins. You yank against your restraints—but they don't budge. The woman watches you, her expression unreadable.
"You should stop that," she murmurs. "It won't help."
Your voice comes out hoarse. "Where—" Your throat feels raw. "Where are we?"
The woman tilts her head. And then she smiles. But there's no joy in it. Only pity.
"You're in their hands now," she whispers. "Just like me."
Your stomach twists. "No," you breathe. "That's not—"
"You thought you were safe," she interrupts, her voice still eerily soft. "But they were watching you the whole time."
The first thing Heeseung does when you disappear is destroy something. It's instinct. A chair, a glass, a wall—it doesn't matter. Because none of it matters. Because you're gone. And the only thing that matters now is getting you back.
Sunoo doesn't stop him. Not at first. Not when he slams his fist into the nearest hard surface, not when his breath comes ragged and sharp, not when his hands shake so badly he looks like he might rip the entire house apart with his bare hands.
Because Sunoo knows. Heeseung needs a second. A second to break. A second to fall apart before he becomes something lethal.
But after that second? Sunoo speaks.
And his voice is dead calm. The words land like a sharp slap. Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough. Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to pull Heeseung back from the edge before he steps too far.
"This is why I was always in your ear," Sunoo says, tapping the surveillance equipment spread across the table. "This is why I was watching. I've got her last coordinates. I've got the pattern of their movements. And I can get you to her."
Heeseung exhales. Shaky. Then he straightens. His expression locks down. His hands stop shaking.
Because Sunoo is right. Because this isn't about him. Because every second he wastes being angry is another second you spend in the hands of people who shouldn't have you. And he's not going to let that happen.
Sunoo is already moving. His fingers fly over the keyboard, multiple screens lighting up in front of him. CCTV footage, satellite feeds, last-known locations. He was always the eyes of this operation, the voice in your earpieces, monitoring from a distance, ensuring you both stayed alive. Now he's the only chance Heeseung has of getting you back.
Heeseung doesn't speak. He just watches. Waits. Burns.
Sunoo doesn't bother with small talk. Heeseung doesn't need it. Instead, he mutters, "They took her out of the city."
Heeseung's jaw tightens. "How do you know?"
Sunoo tilts the screen. "There's a twenty-minute gap between the power outage here and the city's surveillance picking up again. I checked every street camera within a five-mile radius. They didn't use the main roads. No cars leaving the area that shouldn't be."
Heeseung processes. "And?"
Sunoo's fingers move faster. "And that means they took a route with no traffic cams, which means back roads, which means—"
Heeseung catches it first. "Warehouses."
Sunoo nods. "Industrial district, abandoned lots, private holdings—we've already seen them use off-grid locations for storage. It makes sense they'd use one for this, too."
Heeseung leans in. "Give me a list."
Sunoo pulls up four locations. "Top two are too high profile," he mutters. "Security teams rotate there frequently. If they're keeping her somewhere discreet, they wouldn't risk a place with eyes on it."
Heeseung taps the third. A warehouse near the docks. Privately owned. Minimal records. Not enough information for something that should be easily explainable.
Heeseung knows that feeling well. It's a front. It has to be. And if it's not—he'll burn through every other location until he finds the right one.
Sunoo exhales, leaning back slightly. "So what's the plan?"
Heeseung's jaw flexes. "I go in."
Sunoo stares at him. "…Alone?"
"Yes."
Sunoo scoffs. "Heeseung, do you have any idea how fucking stupid that is? You've always had me watching your back through the earpiece. You've always had her as your partner. Going in alone is suicide."
Heeseung doesn't answer. Because he does. Because it doesn't matter. Because nothing matters except getting you back.
Sunoo sees it in his face. And suddenly, his voice drops lower. Serious. Unyielding. "She's not dead."
Heeseung's stomach tightens. Sunoo holds his gaze. "She's not dead. But she will be if you rush in there without thinking."
Silence. Tense. Thick. Then Heeseung speaks.
"Find me a back way in. And I want you in my ear the whole time. Like before."
Sunoo exhales sharply. Mutters, "You're fucking impossible." And then—he does it. Because Heeseung isn't waiting.Because Heeseung isn't leaving this house without a plan. Because the moment he walks out that door— he's not coming back until you're with him.
Sunoo grabs the small earpiece, pressing it into Heeseung's palm. "I'll see everything you see. I'll warn you about any movement. Just don't turn this damn thing off like you usually do."
The moment Heeseung steps out of the car, he isn't human anymore. He's a ghost. A shadow moving through the night, silent, unseen, deadly. The kind of thing people fear in stories but never truly believe exists. Until they meet him. Until it's too late.
"Three guards at the perimeter," Sunoo's voice crackles through the earpiece. "Two more by the south entrance. Security systems active but operating on a standard loop. You've got a blind spot on the east side."
The warehouse is exactly what Sunoo predicted. A private facility, tucked away near the docks, barely guarded—because no one expects trouble. Big mistake.
Heeseung moves without hesitation. He weaves through the darkness, hugging blind spots, slipping past security cameras.
"Guard approaching on your left," Sunoo warns in his ear. "He's alone."
He takes out the first guard before the man even sees him coming. One silent cut to the throat. No sound. No warning. Just darkness swallowing the body as it drops.
"Two more coming around the corner in fifteen seconds," Sunoo's voice is clinical, detached. It has to be. "Take the path to your right."
Then the next. Then the next. Each movement is efficient. Ruthless. Because Heeseung doesn't fight to entertain. He fights to eliminate. And tonight? No one gets out alive.
The moment he steps inside, he knows he's in the right place. The smell is wrong. Sterile. Like a hospital—but colder. More manufactured. Like this place was never meant to be seen.
His fists tighten. Because he already knows. You're here. And they're going to wish you weren't.
"I've got heat signatures," Sunoo says through the earpiece. "Fourth floor, east wing. Multiple bodies. One matches her profile."
Guard by the entrance? Taken out with a knife to the ribs—silent, quick, nothing but a gurgle before he's gone.
Two men at the security desk? Their heads slam against the control panel, the sound swallowed by the low hum of the machines.
The one who almost saw him? Heeseung twists his neck until it snaps. Not even a grunt. Not even a second to react. Because Heeseung isn't giving them a chance. Not when they took you. Not when he still doesn't know what they've done to you. Not when you could be dead already.
That thought makes him move faster. More brutal. More dangerous.
"Heeseung, your heart rate is spiking," Sunoo warns. "Don't lose control. Not yet."
And then he finds the back rooms. And then he hears your voice. Weak. Shaky. But still there. And that's when he stops being quiet. That's when he stops giving them mercy.
"Heeseung, I'm picking up significant electronic activity in that room," Sunoo's voice cuts through. "Something's wrong. These readings... they've done something to her."
For the first time since stepping into this warehouse, Heeseung hesitates. For the first time since this mission started, he doesn't know what to do. Because he was prepared to find you hurt. He was prepared to find you bleeding, unconscious, on the brink of something unfixable. But this? This is worse.
Because you're here. Because you're looking right at him. Because you're alive. And you don't even know who he is.
The earpiece crackles. "Heeseung, what's happening? What do you see?" Sunoo's voice is tense, urgent—but Heeseung can't answer. Can't speak. Can barely breathe.
"Baby."
The word comes out soft, desperate, wrecked. Heeseung is already moving before he realizes it, crossing the space between you in seconds, dropping to his knees. His hands find your face, trembling as his fingers brush over your skin, like he needs to make sure you're really here.
You don't pull away. But you don't react either. You just blink at him. Your expression is vague, confused, distant.
"Who are you?"
The question lands like a gunshot. His breath catches. His chest tightens, burns, aches in a way he didn't know was possible. Because he doesn't know how to fix this. Because he doesn't know how to fix you. And Heeseung—Heeseung always has a plan. Except now. Now he just has you. And you don't even remember him.
"Shit," he breathes, his hands gripping the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the ridge of your cheekbones.
In his ear, Sunoo's sharp intake of breath is audible. "Memory manipulation. The readings make sense now. Heeseung, you need to get her out. Now. Before they realize you're there."
Heeseung swallows hard, trying to steady his voice, trying to pull himself together when all he wants to do is lose it completely. "It's me," he murmurs. "It's Heeseung."
Your brows pull together slightly. Like you're trying. Like you want to understand. But then your expression wavers.And when you speak, your voice is small.
"Where's my husband?"
Something in Heeseung's chest cracks. Because it's him. He's your husband. Even if it's not real, even if it's just the cover, even if neither of you have ever said the words like you meant them—it's still him. And you don't even remember.
"Heeseung," Sunoo's voice is gentler now. Understanding. "The chemical compounds they've been using... this isn't permanent. But you have to move. Now."
Heeseung's grip on you tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to scare you. Just enough to keep himself together. Just enough to keep from falling apart completely.
"It's me," he whispers again, his forehead dropping against yours. "I'm your husband, baby. I'm right here."
Your eyes flicker. Your breath shudders. And then you shake your head.
"No," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "No, my husband—he was supposed to find me. He said he'd find me."
Heeseung closes his eyes. Because he did. He did. But you don't know that. You don't know him. Not anymore.
And that's when he knows. That's when he understands. He didn't get here too late to save you. He got here too late to save the part of you that remembered him.
"Guards incoming," Sunoo's urgent voice cuts through. "You have less than thirty seconds. Get her and get out."
Heeseung doesn't waste another second. He slips an arm beneath your legs, the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly. You don't fight him. You don't pull away. You just go completely still. Too still. Like you don't care what happens to you anymore. Like you don't know if you should.
And that? That might be worse than anything else. Because if you don't believe you can be saved, how is he supposed to convince you? How is he supposed to bring you back? How is he supposed to make you remember him again?
Heeseung exhales slowly, pressing his lips to your temple, closing his eyes for just a second. And then he moves. He gets you the hell out of there. Because whatever happened to you here? It's over. And whatever happens next? It's going to be him and you. Even if you don't remember him. Even if you never do.
"Exit route clear," Sunoo's voice steadies him, guides him. "I've got eyes on you both. Bring her home, Heeseung. We'll fix this. I promise."
But even as Sunoo's voice offers reassurance in his ear, Heeseung can't shake the hollow feeling in his chest. The look in your eyes—blank, unrecognizing—might be the thing that finally breaks him. Not the mission. Not the danger. But the fact that the one person who knew him better than anyone now looks at him like he's a stranger.
And as he carries you through the darkness, your body limp in his arms, he makes a silent vow. He'll make them pay. Every single person who took your memories. Every person who put that emptiness in your eyes. They won't just die.
They'll suffer.
-
The underground garage exploded with gunfire, bullets ricocheting off concrete pillars as Chairman Kang's security detail formed a human shield around him. Blood pooled beneath bodies that had fallen seconds earlier, the air thick with cordite and desperation.
Sunoo's voice crackled through the comms, urgent and sharp. "He's heading for the helicopter. Rooftop exit. Two minutes." A pause, then—his voice dropped, suddenly tense. "Heeseung, we've got another player. My systems just detected a security breach. Someone else is in the building."
Through the smoke and chaos, a single figure moved with deadly purpose. Not Heeseung—he was elsewhere, fighting his way to you, his only focus getting you out alive. This was someone else. Someone different. The movements were too precise, too calculated. Too lethal.
"What the hell?" Sunoo's voice was barely audible over the gunfire. "They just bypassed every security protocol like it wasn't even there. Whoever this is—they're good. Too good."
The figure moved like a shadow, dressed entirely in black, face obscured by a sleek tactical mask with glowing blue interface points. On their sleeve—a subtle insignia. A ghostly "S" that seemed to shimmer and fade depending on the light.
Specter.
The elite assassination unit that wasn't supposed to exist. The ghosts that governments denied knowledge of. The solution to problems that couldn't be solved through official channels.
Chairman Kang had made it to the stairwell, flanked by his three remaining guards, their weapons raised as they pushed him toward the roof access. His face was slick with sweat, eyes wild with the realization that his empire was crumbling around him.
"I have a plane waiting," he barked into his phone. "Tell them to be ready. I don't care about the flight restrictions. Money isn't a problem. Just get me—"
The door to the stairwell opened.
The guards fired instantly—a barrage of bullets that would have torn apart any normal attacker.
But the Specter agent wasn't normal.
They moved like water, impossibly fast, bullets seemingly curving around them. One guard dropped, throat sliced before he could even register the movement. The second fell immediately after, the assassin's blade finding the precise point between armor plates. The third emptied his magazine in desperate bursts that hit nothing but concrete.
Kang scrambled backward, fumbling for his own weapon. "Wait—" His voice cracked. "I can pay. Whatever they're offering you, I'll double it."
The Specter agent paused. Tilted their head slightly.
For a moment, the stairwell was silent.
For a moment, Kang believed he had a chance.
Then the assassin spoke, voice distorted through the mask. "Some debts can't be paid with money."
A single shot echoed in the enclosed space. Clean. Precise. Final.
Chairman Kang is dead. Assassinated before he could disappear for good.
It wasn't supposed to happen like that. The mission was supposed to be an infiltration, a takedown, an arrest that would put an end to his entire operation. But Kang was too powerful. Too many people in his pocket. Too many ways to slip through the cracks.
And in the end? The only way to stop him was to eliminate him.
Sunoo's voice had been tense over the comms, relaying information in real time. "Kang's trying to run—fuck, he's got an entire fleet of private security. If he gets out of the country, we lose him forever."
Heeseung had been mid-firefight, barely dodging bullets, his mind still split between the mission and getting back to you. "Can you get me a location?" he had demanded.
Sunoo's voice had been sharp. "The only way this ends is if someone puts a bullet in his head, and guess what, Heeseung? That someone isn't you. You need to get her the fuck out of there."
And Heeseung had hated it. Hated that he wasn't the one to finish it. Hated that while he was carrying you out of that warehouse, too weak to even recognize him, someone else had put an end to Kang's empire.
But in the end? It didn't matter. Because Kang was gone. The operation was over. And now? Now Heeseung had to deal with what was left of you.
The first thing Heeseung notices when they bring you back to the precinct is how silent everything is. Not the usual kind of silence—the kind that lingers after a long mission, the kind that settles when adrenaline fades and exhaustion creeps in.
This is different. This is deafening. This is the kind of quiet that feels like mourning. Because even though you're alive—Even though you're here, wrapped in too-thin hospital sheets, an IV drip in your arm, nurses and doctors hovering over you—you're not really here at all.
And Heeseung? He doesn't know how to bring you back.
Chairman Kang is dead. Heeseung should feel victory. Should feel relief. Should feel something other than this gaping, hollow ache sitting in his chest. But he doesn't.
Because this mission wasn't supposed to cost you. Because Heeseung had gotten to you in time. Because he was supposed to be too late for everything except saving you.
But now, sitting here in this fucking hospital ward, watching you lay there, breathing but gone, awake but empty—he knows the truth. He knows he was too late in every way that mattered.
"You should go home."
Sunoo's voice is quiet, careful, treading that thin line between concern and something else. Something closer to pity.
Heeseung doesn't answer. Doesn't even look at him. He just sits there, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, gaze fixed on you as you stare at the ceiling. Not moving. Not speaking. Not anything.
Sunoo exhales slowly. "You haven't slept in three days."
Safe. The word tastes like ash in his mouth. Because you're not safe. Because you might never be safe again. Because even if no one is coming for you now—Even if Kang is gone, even if the organization is dismantled, even if the case is over—it doesn't matter.
Because you still don't know who he is. Because you're still looking through him like he's a stranger.
And for the first time, Heeseung lets himself say it. Lets himself acknowledge it out loud. "I lost her."
Sunoo goes completely still. For a long moment, neither of them speak. Then a sigh. Slow, measured. "I don't think you did," Sunoo murmurs.
But Heeseung just shakes his head. Because it doesn't feel like that. Because it feels like you're right there in front of him, and he still can't reach you. And that? That feels worse than losing you completely.
It happens too suddenly. One second, you're staring at the ceiling, unfocused, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. The next? Everything crashes back at once. The mission. The warehouse. The drugs. The way your body felt like it wasn't yours. The way Heeseung looked at you when you said you didn't know who he was.
Your breath catches. Your fingers twitch against the sheets. And then the sound of his voice. "I lost her."
Your stomach drops. Your throat tightens. Because you know that voice. Because you know that tone. Because you know him.
And the second you finally understand what those words mean—the second you realize what he thinks, what he's feeling, what he's convinced himself of—you react on instinct. You turn your head. Your lips part. And for the first time since the mission ended, since the rescue, since you woke up in this fucking hospital bed—you say his name.
"Heeseung."
Heeseung stiffens. Like he's not sure if he imagined it. Like he's not sure if he should believe it. But then he looks at you. And your eyes are different. No more emptiness. No more confusion. Just you. Just you, looking at him, remembering him, saying his name like you never forgot it in the first place.
And Heeseung—he just sits there. Frozen. Barely breathing. Because he doesn't know if he's dreaming. Because for the first time in weeks, he lets himself hope. "Say it again," he murmurs.
And you do. "Heeseung." Stronger this time. More certain. More you. And that? That's when he finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.
The moment your voice cuts through the silence, everything stops. Everything that's happened—the mission, the warehouse, the days of emptiness, the unbearable weight of losing you while you were right in front of him— it all hits Heeseung at once. Because you're here. Because you remember. Because you're saying his name again.
And for the first time since this entire nightmare started—he breaks. One second, he's frozen in place, too afraid to move, too afraid to believe this is real. The next? He's on his feet, crossing the space between you in seconds, dropping to his knees beside your bed.
And then his arms are around you. Tight. Unyielding. Desperate. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. Like he's trying to make up for every second he thought he lost you. Like he's never going to let this happen again.
His breath is ragged against your neck, his entire body shaking, his fingers digging into your hospital gown like he's anchoring himself to you. And then—then, you feel it. The warmth against your skin. The way his shoulders tremble. The way his breath shudders. Heeseung is crying. And for the first time, he's not trying to stop himself.
You blink, still groggy, still adjusting to the weight of the memories crashing back into you. You can feel the wetness of his tears against your skin, the way his arms tighten around you, the way his entire body is trembling against yours.
And suddenly, even though your heart is still racing—even though you should probably be overwhelmed—you feel something else instead. Something warm. Something so undeniably real. And for the first time in what feels like forever—you laugh. Soft. Breathless.
And Heeseung goes completely still. Slowly, he pulls back, his eyes red, glassy, disbelief written across his face. His voice is hoarse, wrecked, raw from everything he's been holding in. "Are you seriously laughing right now?"
And that? That makes you laugh again. Because of course Heeseung—the man who just burned through an entire warehouse to save you, the man who went feral the second you were taken, the man who has never looked so undone in his life— of course he would say that.
You smile, tilting your head, reaching up to wipe away one of the tears on his cheek. "Heeseung," you murmur, soft, fond, teasing. "Did you cry for me?"
He scoffs, sniffing, shaking his head. "Shut the fuck up."
And then he kisses you. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades. The hospital. The mission. The fear. Everything that's happened dissolves into nothing. Because this is real. Because this is you. Because this is what he's been waiting for.
The kiss is desperate, deep, a thousand unspoken words packed into every movement. His hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing against your jaw, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you all over again. Like he's trying to pull you back into him completely. And you let him. Because you're back now. Because you know him again.Because he never really lost you at all.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath still uneven, his hands still holding onto you like you might disappear if he lets go— you take a deep breath. And then you smirk. "So," you murmur. "Did we win?"
Heeseung pulls back fully, eyes narrowing, staring at you like he's never been more offended in his life. "Are you—"he exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
You grin. "I mean, I'm assuming the mission is over, but—"
He groans, pressing his fingers against his temples, like you are single-handedly going to be the death of him. "You wake up from a fucking near-death experience, remember who I am for five goddamn minutes, and the first thing you want to know is whether or not we won?"
You shrug, laughing again, your body finally feeling lighter for the first time in weeks. "Well, did we?"
Heeseung stares at you. And then, after a long moment, he exhales. His lips twitch. And finally—finally—he smiles."Yeah," he murmurs, brushing his fingers through your hair, voice softer now. "We won."
Heeseung still hasn't let go. He can't. His forehead is pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face, his breath shaky against your lips. And when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. Raw. Wrecked. "I thought I lost you."
Your fingers curl against the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like an anchor. "You didn't."
He lets out a breathless, bitter laugh. "I did." He swallows hard, his shoulders shaking slightly. "You looked at me," he murmurs, "and you didn't know me. You didn't even flinch when I held you. You didn't trust me."
His hands tighten around you, like he's trying to make up for every second he couldn't touch you like this. "You asked me where your husband was," he whispers. "And I was right fucking there."
Your chest tightens painfully. Because you remember now. Because you remember the look on his face, the sheer devastation in his eyes, the way he still held you like he was protecting something precious, even when you didn't trust him. "I'm sorry," you whisper.
Heeseung shakes his head. "Don't." His thumb traces your cheekbone, gentle, reverent, like he's still afraid you'll disappear. "Just don't."
His throat bobs, his breath coming faster, and then— he laughs. Quiet. Shaky. But there's nothing happy about it. "I can't do this again," he murmurs, his voice breaking completely.
Your fingers tighten around him. "Heeseung—"
"I mean it." His hands move to cup the sides of your neck, his touch warm, solid. "I can't fucking do this again. I can't lose you again. I can't—"
His voice catches. His head drops slightly, pressing against yours, his fingers trembling against your skin. "I love you."
Your heart stumbles. Because it's the first time he's said it. Because it's not part of the mission anymore. Because this is real. And Heeseung? He looks terrified. Like he's never said anything this important before. Like he's afraid of what comes next. Like he means it so much it's killing him.
"I love you," he whispers again, his breath uneven, his lashes wet. "And I don't want to live without you. Not ever again."
Your fingers move up to his face, your thumbs brushing against the curve of his jaw. Heeseung leans into your touch instinctively. And for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he lets himself feel everything. The fear. The relief. The love that's been sitting there, waiting, drowning him completely.
And you? You just pull him closer. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his, your fingers threading through his hair as you whisper, "I love you too."
Heeseung freezes. His breath hitches. Like he didn't expect you to say it back. Like he didn't think he deserved it.And then—he's kissing you. Desperate. Rough. Messy.
Like he's trying to pour everything into you at once, like he's trying to show you all the ways he loves you, all the ways he's never going to let you go again. You kiss him back just as hard. Because this is real. Because this has always been real. Because you were always going to end up here—together. And for the first time, neither of you are running from it.
"If you two are done—"
You jerk away from Heeseung immediately, eyes wide. Heeseung groans loudly, tilting his head back, exhaling sharply. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, beyond unimpressed, is the captain.
Heeseung lets out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
The captain raises a brow. "Glad to see you're both in good spirits."
You clear your throat, still slightly breathless, trying to make yourself look less— less like you were just making out in a hospital bed while Heeseung poured his heart out to you.
The captain sighs. "Well, too bad. Because I'm officially putting an end to whatever the hell this mission was."
Your brows pull together. You're still piecing things together, memories slotting into place like broken fragments reforming into something whole. The mission. The undercover op. Chairman Kang. Everything. "What happened?"you ask.
The captain takes a step closer, looking between you and Heeseung before finally sighing. "The short version?" he mutters. "It's done. Kang is dead. The remnants of his operation have been taken care of, and the international task force has picked up whatever's left. You two did your jobs."
Heeseung tilts his head slightly, unimpressed. "We know all that already," he says. "What's the real version?"
The captain exhales, running a hand down his face. "Chairman Kang's operation was never just about trafficking," he starts.
Your stomach tightens. You already know this. You saw it with your own eyes. "The medical room," you murmur. "The vials. The experiments."
The captain nods. "He wasn't moving product—he was developing it," he explains. "Experimental compounds. Something stronger than any narcotic we've seen, but with enhanced neurological effects. Something that could manipulate memory, suppress emotions, alter cognitive function at will."
Your pulse kicks up. Because you felt that. Because you lived that. Because you were one of his test subjects.
"He was using live trials," Heeseung mutters darkly, his voice deadly quiet.
The captain's jaw tightens. "Yeah. And you two walked straight into it." He pauses, glancing at the door as if checking that no one else is listening. "There's something else. Something that didn't make the official reports."
Heeseung's posture shifts subtly—more alert now.
"Kang wasn't killed by local law enforcement," the captain says, voice lowered. "Or by any of our people. The ballistics don't match any standard issue weapons."
"Then who?" you ask, leaning forward slightly.
The captain's expression darkens. "Specter."
The word lands like a stone in still water. Heeseung tenses beside you.
"Bullshit," he says, but there's uncertainty in his tone. "Specter is a myth. A ghost story intelligence agencies tell each other."
The captain pulls a small tablet from his jacket, slides his finger across the screen, and turns it toward you both. The security footage is grainy but clear enough—a figure in tactical gear with that unmistakable insignia. The ghostly "S" that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
"This was pulled from Kang's security system minutes before his death," the captain says. "We're talking about a black ops unit so classified that most governments deny its existence. They operate beyond jurisdiction, beyond oversight."
"Why would they target Kang?" you ask.
The captain shakes his head. "That's the million-dollar question. What was Kang working on that attracted attention at that level? What makes a ghost decide to step out of the shadows?"
He tucks the tablet away. "Whatever it was, it's above our pay grade. Way above. And that's exactly why you two are being pulled."
You swallow hard. Your body still feels the effects. The blankness. The confusion. The way you looked Heeseung in the eye and didn't recognize him. The way it took days before everything came back. Your fingers curl into the hospital blanket, your chest tightening.
"So what happens now?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
The captain doesn't hesitate. "Now?" he says. "Now, you're both off the case. Permanently."
Your head snaps up. "What?"
The captain crosses his arms, leveling you both with a look. "Your cover was blown the second you got taken," he states. "There's no way to justify keeping you two in the field—not after everything that's happened. And with Specter involved? I'm not risking either of you getting caught in whatever crossfire might be coming."
"No," the captain says flatly. "I'm giving you both a fucking break."
Silence. And then he tosses something onto the hospital bed. Two files. Reassignment orders. One for you. One for Heeseung. "You're both being transferred to different departments. Low-risk assignments. Desk work. Non-negotiable."
You stare at him. "Are you fucking kidding?"
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
You glance at Heeseung. He's silent, his fingers drumming against his thigh, eyes locked on the files but not moving to pick them up. Then—"That's not all, is it?"
The captain exhales heavily. "No," he mutters. "You're both being granted a sabbatical before reassignment. Three months. Paid leave. Get your heads on straight."
You blink. "We don't need—"
"Shut up." The captain raises a brow. "Both of you. You're taking the damn break. End of discussion."
Your lips press into a thin line. Beside you, Heeseung still hasn't moved. Then—"And after?" he asks.
"After," the captain says, "you decide what you want to do. If you want out, I'll sign your papers. If you want back in, I'll find a way to make it work. But right now?" He looks between you both. And for the first time, his expression softens. "You need time."
For the longest time, Heeseung has never known anything but this life. The mission. The objective. The next target, the next fight, the next time he has to put everything on the line. But now? Now, for the first time, he doesn't have to think about any of that. Now, the only thing he has to think about is you. And what comes next.
Heeseung looks at you. And for the first time in weeks—he smiles. "Guess we're going on vacation, baby."
You scoff. "You cried over me, and now you want to joke?"
He groans, covering his face with one hand. "Jesus Christ—" And this time? This time, he laughs too. Because it's over. Because he has you. Because for once—for once, he doesn't have to worry about anything except the two of you. And that? That's something worth living for.
The second the captain leaves, the room is silent. For exactly ten seconds. Then—"So, where are we going?"
You blink at Heeseung. "Going where?"
Heeseung grins. "Vacation, baby."
You groan. "You just confessed your undying love to me, and now you're calling me 'baby' like a jackass?"
His grin doesn't falter. "I call it affectionate growth."
You roll your eyes. "Okay, fine. Where do you want to go?"
Heeseung leans back, hands behind his head. "Somewhere quiet. A private villa, maybe. A beach. Minimal clothing. Just me, you, and the ocean."
You snort. "So you want to lay around half-naked all day and pretend you're a billionaire playboy?"
Heeseung smirks. "I don't need to pretend, sweetheart."
You stare at him. Then—"We're not going to the beach."
Heeseung frowns. "Excuse me?"
"You hate the heat," you deadpan. *"You get cranky after two minutes of direct sunlight. You'll be miserable the whole time and take it out on me."
Heeseung looks personally offended. "That is not true."
"You literally threatened to stab a vending machine last summer because it was too hot to function."
"Okay, first of all, that machine stole my money."
"It was broken, Heeseung."
"I was suffering."
You scoff. "Right. So no beach."
Heeseung tilts his head. "Then where do you want to go?"
You hum, thinking. "Somewhere colder. Mountains, maybe. A cabin. Snow. Hot chocolate. A fireplace."
Heeseung pulls a face. "I love you, but I refuse to spend my vacation freezing my ass off."
"You just said minimal clothing."
"Yes. Because of the heat. Not because I want to be an icicle."
"You can wear a sweater."
"You want me to look like a fucking lumberjack?"
"You already do."
"Take that back."
You smirk. "Make me."
Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face. "This is our first vacation together, and we can't even agree on a destination."
"Sounds like a problem for you, babe."
"You're literally impossible."
"And yet, you love me."
Heeseung looks at you, tilts his head, then— "Debatable."
You shove him. He laughs. And even though the argument continues—even though neither of you agree on anything, even though you'll probably be bickering all the way to the airport— for the first time in what feels like forever—everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. Just you and him. Right where you belong.
– i don't want to be your roommate, i want to kiss your neck || (m)
heeseung x reader | smut, fluff, angst, PWP lol | roommate + best friend's brother!heeseung
➤ summary : at first, you cursed lee hana for ditching your roomies-forever contract, but now you want to thank her for having such a great idea for her hot brother to move in as her replacement... just as long as she doesn't find out you think he's hot.
➤ includes : warning!cuddling!!!, also masturbating, unprotected sex, fingering, praise, breeding kink ;)
lee hana was the best friend you could ever ask for.
when you met during freshman year of college you knew that you would be best friends forever. she was the missing piece that you were missing in a lot of ways. so, when she asked if you wanted to find a place to rent together you couldn’t possibly turn her down.
you decorated the apartment you found so that it could be deemed as ‘your shared home’. parts of you both were mangled around the apartment, wherever you looked there were pieces of each other somewhere. hana’s favourite photography works she’s taken, your ugly wool throw blankets that you insisted on having and both of your dirty dishes piling up in the sink because you both hated doing dishes.
though, you both lived wonderfully together. you managed to cook almost everyday regular meals that were somewhat healthy and made sure the other one was getting to class on time. you figured that you would continue to live with her for the rest of your early-mid twenties.
until she got a boyfriend.
don’t get it wrong, you loved jay; but you despised him for taking away your perfect roommate.
you were worried at first when hana sat you down and told you she’d be moving out by the end of the month. her and jay had decided to take their relationship further and she agreed to move into his apartment with him. you knew that your lease wouldn’t end until the rest of the year, meaning that you would have to pay the rent for two people even though it’d be only you living here. which, you did not have the money for as a broke college student.
“but don’t worry!” hana smiled at you from her spot on the couch when she broke the news, “i’ve found you another roommate who is just like me! so there won’t be any problems.”
you sigh, because there are usually always problems if hana isn’t involved. meaning, you will most definitely hate your new roommate, hana’s replacement.
“don’t sigh like that y/n!” hana smacks your shoulder, “he’s seriously a perfect mix of you and i, you’ll like him.”
“him?!” you exclaim, shaking your head no to the fact that you will have to live with a boy.
“y/n, just give him a chance! you haven’t even met him yet!”
you glare at your best friend and soon-to-be-ex-roommate with displeasure at the new information she was laying on you. “but he’s a boy, hana! he’s gonna ruin our woman sanctuary here!”
“y/n, i don’t think this has been a woman sanctuary since we’ve moved in,”
“but it could be, if you stay living here,”
“y/n, i already told him he could have my room, I care about him a lot.” hana juts out her lips into a pout, her pretty features contorting into begging ones as she desires your approval.
“fine, but i want him to at least try to contain his man testosterone to one room,” you sigh, giving in to your best friend. her squeals reach your ears quickly as she leans over to pull you into a hug.
“you’re gonna love him! you won’t even want me back as a roommate,”
“who even is he?”
“his name’s heeseung,”
“heeseung?”
“yeah,” hana shrugs casually, “my brother.”
“what?!” you exclaim at her again. you had never met her family before, both of you growing up in different states made it hard to meet each others. hana was usually private about her family, not talking much about them either way. you were aware that she had an older brother, but you would have never thought that you would come to live with him. “hana, what.”
hana lets out her familiar roistering laugh at your shocked expression, “i told you he was just like me- and if he’s just like me then he’s just like you!”
you pout, “we’ll see about that.”
you didn’t meet lee heeseung until lee hana had officially moved out. he came unexpected, a knock on your door that you couldn’t guess would be him.
it was the day after you sat on the kitchen stool, a pout on your face as you watched hana and jay take her boxes to the moving truck.
“can’t i just move in with you guys?” you whine out to them.
“aw, y/n,” hana comes over to you, cupping your cheeks harshly together. “no.” you let out a hmph at her response, making her let out her obnoxious laugh. “i’m still going to see you!”
“yeah, i know, but it won’t be the same,” you shake your head at her.
though you were happy for hana, it was still hard to believe that you would never be roommates again with her. jay and her made the perfect match, so part of you knew this day would come. the day that you would no longer be able to refer to lee hana as your roommate. so the final goodbye as roommates was bittersweet when hana and her cinnamon scent left the apartment that she no longer called her home. the apartment had an echo to it that night, when you were cooking dinner by yourself- for yourself.
hana had texted you that she had forgotten a few boxes in her closet, therefore when there was knocking on the door at 8am the next day you figured it was her. you swung open the door, dressed in your loose sweatpants and tank top, ready to tease her for coming back so soon.
you were not expecting to open the door to see an ethereal man.
his warm brown, deer-like eyes were relaxed as they met your surprised ones. his said eyes wandered down your body, stopping to stare at your exposed lower stomach from your sweatpants sitting low on your hips. you felt your neck gush with heat as you attempted to pull down your tanktop when you realized where his eyes had been stranded.
“hi, you must be y/n,” he spoke first, his voice as warm as his eyes.
“uh, yes?” you respond curiously, your mind still flowing with sleep from waking up seconds before.
the boy raised a singular key on a chain in front of your face, “i’m heeseung- hana gave me the key but i figured i would knock first anyways.”
“hee- heeseung, right, um,”
“so, can i come in?” heeseung smiled at your shocked demeanor.
“yes! um, of course, sorry- i just woke up.” you mentally cursed yourself for being so bewildered.
your new roommate stepped in and stopped in the middle of the living room. looking over the place from top to bottom. his eyes were going over every nook and cranny that he could possibly see. when he figured he had seen enough, he turned back to you at the open door and said, “it’s nice in here- really nice.”
“thanks,” you stated, curious about where he was taking this.
“i’ll try to keep my man testosterone to my room so it doesn’t ruin what you’ve got going on here.” your jaw dropped at his words, not believing that hana could’ve told him that you said that.
“look, i didn’t-” you started, trying to explain yourself so your new roommate doesn’t hate you completely.
his laugh that is a lot quieter than hana’s, considering that they’re related, rings out in the apartment. you paused for a second to think that maybe you could get used to hearing his laugh instead. “it’s alright, don’t worry about it.”
“no, really, sometimes i just-,”
“it’s alright, hana gave me some pre-move in roommate tips, i got you.”
your demeanor changes as you cross your arms over your chest at the news, “oh did she?” heeseung gives a faint noise of confirmation as he scans the old couch you and hana picked up on the side of the street two years ago, “and what was one of those tips.”
“hm, that you must have green tea every morning before you can do anything else.” he smiles cheesily at you, “which i think we should get on doing so you’re down to help bring in all my shit.”
sure enough, you got your cup of green tea, showing heeseung around the kitchen as you did so. he sat at the kitchen stool where you sat yesterday, watching the other lee sibling move all her belongings out. you tried to tell yourself to calm down as he sat behind you, out of your view. you were not used to having a good looking boy in your apartment. you were glad that you slipped into your room to get a hoodie on before reaching the kitchen for that cup of tea.
“sorry it’s a mess in here, i didn’t know you were moving in today,” you spoke with your back still to him.
“really? hana told me that she told you i was coming,”
you scoff, “of course she did. she always forgets to do as she says.”
a knowing smile crawls onto heeseung’s pretty face, a smile that seems to be the only thing that gives away he’s related to hana, “i know; i shouldn’t have trusted her this morning.”
“she also didn’t tell me that it was her older brother moving in,” you joke, turning around now with a hot cup of tea in your hand. when he lets out a shocked expression you continue, “i knew she had an older brother, but she never told me your name.”
heeseung shrugs, “yeah, we’re private like that- i don’t think many of my friends have met hana either.”
“why not?”
“i don’t know, we’re just like that.”
you set down your now empty cup, feeling refreshed as the hot tea settles in your stomach. “right, let’s go get your man testosterone shit.”
heeseung follows you out of your now shared apartment, smiling to himself as you complain about becoming his personal mover.
with lee heeseung’s belongings finally all brought into your now shared apartment, you couldn’t help but compare his scent to his sisters. it was similar in a way, the cinnamon wisp of hana’s you became familiar with circled around heeseung, but there was a mix of something sweet along with it.
the boy didn’t have too many things. a big computer set, a few boxes of clothes and a ton of cd’s. hana’s old bookshelf seemed to suit heeseung’s cd collection easily as there was just enough room for them all to be lined up by genre. you could tell that the remnants of hana will no longer be in your apartment by the end of the day.
“i think i forgot another box of cd’s in my car,” heeseung said as you watched him unpack from the bedroom’s door frame you were leaning on. “i’ll be right back.” he walks past you, a noise of acknowledgement coming from your throat.
with the front door closing and heeseung’s brown hair leaving sight behind it, your head turns to hana’s now old room. heeseung’s clothes boxes are stacked up on his new bed. you wonder for a moment what other clothes he wears besides the gray sweats and black hoodie he has on today. then, drooping out of the farthest box on the bed, a white and black flannel catches your eye. before you know it your legs and feet have moved so you’re able to pick up the flannel. the fabric is soft and you instantly smell that sweet scent of heeseung surrounding you.
“i can put away my clothes myself, it’s okay.” heeseung’s voice speaks from behind you, making you jump and instantly drop the flannel from your hands, back into the box.
you turn to see him putting the last box of his cd’s onto his desk, his hoodie sleeves rolled up so you can see his smooth forearms now. “right, i know. sorry.”
heeseung chuckles under his breath as he flips his bangs up out of his face and runs a hand through his hair, “no it’s okay, i just figured you wouldn’t want to touch more of my man testosterone than you already have.”
your lips purse at him, “yeah you’re right. i can already feel it growing on me.” you make so that your hands are trying to brush something off of you in disgust.
“well how about you go wash it off in the shower while I make breakfast?” heeseung suggests with a playful smile on his pink lips.
“breakfast?” you exclaim, your eyes wide.
“well i would say it is around breakfast time, no?”
“hana never made breakfast.”
“what can i say? i’m the better roommate.”
you crossed your arms over your chest, “don’t push it, heeseung.” you glare at him as you push past him to go to the bathroom. “and I like my eggs over-easy.”
you hear heeseung’s soft laugh as you close the bathroom door.
not only did lee heeseung offer to cook breakfast, he is actually good at cooking. as soon as you walked out of the bathroom in clean clothes and the man testosterone on your skin properly washed off, you started drooling at the smell of food.
heeseung was standing over the stove, finishing up the last of the scrambled eggs he was making. the small kitchen table you and hana bought years ago was set up with plates and cutlery, some fruit, bacon and toast.
“heeseung, oh my god,.” you say in shock. you would have never imagined that your new roommate would have done something like this. .
heeseung turns with a pretty smile on his face, “sit down, the eggs are done now.”
in your shocked state you managed to sit down in the chair heeseung motioned to as he filled up your plate with eggs. “why did you make all this?”
heeseung shrugs as he set the empty frying pan in the sink and sits down across from you, “i mean you let me move in here without ever properly meeting me and then you helped me move in all my stuff, so i figured this was the least i could.” you stare at him in shock and heeseung lets out a quick, dry laugh, “well are you gonna eat it or what?”
“right! sorry!” you pick up your fork and start to dig in, “it’s just, i haven’t had a breakfast like this in years.”
“what do you usually have for breakfast then? besides green tea.”
now you shrug, eyes practically closing from how good his food tastes, “nothing, pretty much.”
heeseung rolls his eyes, “well that’s not good, we’ll have to change that.”
“if you make breakfast like this often then you and your man testosterone can stay here for as long as you like.” you point your fork at him with a knowing smile.
“or until the lease is up in december.”
“right, or until then.”
the mention that heeseung nor you wouldn’t be living here together for more than four months suddenly leaves a pit in your stomach that his eggs couldn’t manage to fill as you continue eating. heeseung has already been in your apartment for no more than four hours and you already could not imagine living with someone else.
besides their smiles, heeseung and hana seem to only have one other thing in common. which is their ability to get comfortable anywhere.
you had made sure to tell heeseung to make himself feel at home, since it is home now. at least it is for four months. you didn’t want to be those awkward roommates that feel like they have to sneak around the apartment to not piss off the other roommate.
but, for a moment, you forgot who he was related to.
so, heeseung made himself comfortable really quickly. by the third week of living together he was already settled in and acting like he had owned the place for years.
you learnt quickly that heeseung really likes music. his cd collection taking over his room was the first sign of his passion. when he mentioned he is a dance major at your university, it was not that big of a shock to you. you also quickly caught on to him seemingly always having his earphones in, the white cord trailing from his ear to his phone he always carries with him.
you didn’t mind heeseung’s obsession with music, in fact you found it interesting he could listen to music for so long without a stop. you didn’t think it would ever be a bother to you.
except for now.
you are in your room trying to finish writing your qualification letter to the university’s library so you could become a student librarian this year, which you procrastinated so much that you only have two days before the school year starts to hand it. it is like you are having a severe writer's block and could not think of why you should be the one with the librarian position. you love going to the library to study and to read, you spent your entire first year in the library so much that hana said you should just move in there. having this student librarian position would be good for your career as you wanted to become a teacher abroad.
you were getting frustrated at your lack of writing for this letter when you started to hear music coming from heeseung’s bedroom across the hall. it was loud and it was some aggressive heavy metal music. you take a breath and decide that it’s a sign that you need to take a break from this letter. you push your laptop to the side and lay down, covering your eyes with your arm draped over your face.
even with your eyes closed you can still see words going across your eyes, not being able to stop thinking about what you could possibly write in your letter. you lay there trying to think of something, anything, but everytime you think you get somewhere it seems to be stupid and then heeseung’s music fades into your ears again.
when you’ve finally had enough of laying there, getting nowhere with your letter and heeseung’s music having no sign of stopping, you toss your sapphire sheet off of your legs and stand up, beelining it right to heeseung’s door. without a hesitation you knock on his door, and a second later the music stops and it opens.
heeseung stands in the doorway now, his brown bangs practically stuck to his forehead with sweat and his bambi eyes immediately looking down at your figure. his cheeks are flushed a red hue that almost matches the colour of his lips that are parted as he breathes. but you can’t properly match the colour of his cheeks to his lips because you realize he is shirtless standing in front of you.
sweat droplets are trailing down his tanned skin like they’re racing each other. his broad shoulders that you couldn’t have stopped yourself from noticing weeks ago are now plain in sight for your eyes to drink in. his abdomen is full of muscles that move with his chest as he practically pants, trying to catch his breath in front of you.
“what’s up?” his voice successfully breaks you out of the trance you were somehow put in.
“uh,” you shake your head trying to grab onto all of the thoughts that were filling your head, “i’m trying to write my student librarian application letter and i can’t focus because your music is too loud.” you try to sound as angry and frustrated as you were one minute ago, but your words only come out mediocre when you speak.
“oh shit, i’m sorry,” heeseung’s hand brushes his damp bangs out of his eyes, his face forming into a sorry expression as he looks down at you. “i was working out because the university gym isn’t open yet– i’ll put my headphones in.”
“right, okay.” you speak, trying to not focus on the way his muscles flexed in his arm when he pushed his bangs back.
“good luck on your letter,” heeseung smiles at you and it triggers reality for you as you quickly back up and enter your own room.
“thanks.” you say to him, closing your bedroom door so you’re out of view of each other.
you hold onto the doorknob until you hear heeseung’s door click shut and you let out a breath of relief as your body laxes. you climb back into your sapphire sheets, thankful for the coolness of them that will bring down your flushed hot state.
when you realize your panties are damp against your skin, you make a pact to yourself– and to hana– that there is no possible way you will find your best friend’s brother hot.
you thought that when school started you would see less of heeseung than you did in the final days of summer, but it seemed that you only saw more of him. you would see him walk past you on campus, never failing to wave at you or call your name. you also learnt that heeseung has a bad habit of skipping classes. so he was home more than you were. the only classes he never skipped were his dance ones, that would go on for hours and leave him to be tired and sweaty when he comes home.
like tonight, you were sitting on the couch in the living room, your laptop warm on your lap as you typed away at your essay, telling yourself to write just a few more sentences. since you ended up getting the job as the student librarian, you’ve had less time to do school work since you’ve had to run around helping other students in the library. when the front door opens, a very tired looking heeseung walked in, his clothes practically falling off him from exhaustion.
“long practice?” you ask him absentmindedly, still focusing on your essay.
“very, long practice.” you hear him respond as the fridge door opens. you hear him shuffle around in the fridge before it closes and he tells you he’s gonna get in the shower.
the faint sound of the shower running starts and you forget that heeseung is even home as you continue to write your essay. when the bathroom door opens minutes later, you glance up at the time on your computer, seeing it approaching 9pm.
“wanna watch a movie?” heeseung asks from behind you.
you sigh, “i really wanna finish my essay, though.”
heesung comes around the couch and sits on the other side, putting his feet up on the coffee table in front of it, “that’s okay, right? you can do both. plus knowing you, you’ve probably been working on it all day right?”
“maybe.”
“well then you need a break.”
“but i’m almost done, just a few more paragraphs.” you jut out your bottom lip as you look at him for the first time. his hair is wet and it’s falling into his eyes. the sight instantly makes you remember the working-out incident from a few weeks ago and you tighten your thighs together at the mere thought of it.
“c’mon, watch a movie with me, y/n.” he begs you, “please.” before you can say no he’s reaching over and taking your laptop out of your hands.
“heeseung!” you whine out, “i’m almost done!”
the position he was in to grab the laptop meant that he was a lot closer to you than before, his face only centimeters away from yours as he leaned on his elbow on the couch cushion. “please, watch a movie with me.” he mimics your earlier expression of your jutted out lip.
you sigh, giving into the boy, “fine.” he lets out a hissed ‘yes’ as he sets the laptop on the coffee table and passes you the remote.
you still for a moment when he drops his head into your lap. you’re unsure what to do or say so you try to focus on finding a movie in front of you on the tv.
“it’s okay if i put my head in your lap right? i’m just so tired.” heeseung asks, probably noticing how stiff your body went.
“uh, yeah sure.” you say, watching where you place your hands and arms now. you hear him let out a quiet ‘yay’ before he’s telling you to put on a studio ghibli movie.
It was hard to concentrate on Spirited Away at first, with heeseung’s head weight in your lap. you could feel his warm breath on your thigh everytime he exhaled. one of his hands was hooked onto your thigh in front of his face and you could feel him mindlessly tapping his fingers against your leg, probably to some song that is stuck in his head today. you told yourself to focus on the movie and it worked until you stopped feeling his fingers tapping on your thigh. you glance down at your roommate and see that he’s fallen fast asleep on your lap. his damp hair now dry and falling into his closed eyes. his lips are parted slightly as he exhales deep, slow breaths. you allow yourself to take him in for a moment, never seeing him so calm before.
through his bangs you see that his eyebrows are not scrunched up in their usual frown since school started. you almost instinctively brush his bangs off of his forehead, but stop when you're a mere inch away. roommates should not be affectionate with each other, especially when said roommate is your best friend’s brother.
haku distracts you again.
when heeseung moves once more, it’s an hour later when Spirited Away has finally ended, the ending music causing him to stir.
“damn, i basically missed the entire thing.” he mumbles, sleep laced in his voice.
“you did miss the entire thing.” you respond, quirking an eyebrow up at him as he lifts himself from your lap.
“sorry,” he shrugs, “but that was the best sleep i’ve had in a while.”
“really?”
“yeah, i’ve been stressed about the dance concert that’s coming up- they put me in charge of a major part of the choreography so, my minds just been on that.”
“heeseung, what? that’s amazing!”
heeseung smiles at you, brushing his bangs back like you almost did an hour ago. “thanks- and thanks for letting me sleep.”
“it’s no problem, it gave me more time to think about how to end my essay.”
“yeah? think you can end it perfectly after taking a break?” heeseung asks with a sly tone.
“just perfectly.”
since the night heeseung had slept in your lap, neither of you had shied away from little touches of each other. like hands casually sliding over each other’s when he passes you the milk for your cereal, laughing into each other’s bodies, and more naps with heeseung’s head in your lap.
you told yourself that it’s no different than hanging out with your other friends. that you guys are just friendly with each other. there was no romantic feelings between you and your best friend’s older brother.
you knew you and heeseung were getting more comfortable with each other, but when he barges into the bathroom while your mid-shower, you had to re-think just how close you two were.
“sorry!” heeseung immediately calls out as soon as he enters the bathroom, “but i gotta pee so bad and i need to leave!”
your mouth drops open as your eyes widen. you instinctively cover your body even though the shower curtain is covering you completely. “it- it’s fine.” you hear him shuffling around through the sound of the shower’s water hitting the tub. tyring to ignore that there is only a thin layer of fabric covering your naked body from heeseung’s gaze you ask him “where are you going?”.
“uh, jaehyuck’s having a party tonight and jeongin’s been outside waiting for me for almost ten minutes now and he’s pissed.”
“oh, ok. have fun.”
“i will, thanks!” are heeseung’s last words in the bathroom before he’s shutting the door and leaving.
once you’re alone in the shower again, you wonder what you should do tonight since heeseung’s gone and it’s friday night. you wonder if hana would want to hang out at the old cafe you two used to frequent before she moved out. but the odd’s are low since she’d probably rather go to a bar and “start her weekend off right”. you laugh to yourself as you perfectly hear hana’s words in your head. but still, you figure you would try.
your efforts immediately fail as an hour later you open the door to hana dressed in her ‘ready for the bar’ outfit glaring at your ‘ready for the cafe’ outfit.
“no.” hana states as she glances up and down at you, shaking her head. “it’s friday y/n! let’s go drinking! you can study for the other two days of the weekend!”
“ugh,” you move aside and plop down on your couch, hearing hana close the door behind her wander around her old apartment. “i hate going to bars!”
“yeah well you need to get away from “studying” places every once and a while!” hana’s voice rings from your bedroom. you sit up on the couch, realizing your head was placed right where heeseung’s face was pressed against your thighs a few weeks ago.
“we don’t have to study at the cafe!” you call back to her.
“but you’ll be thinking about studying!”
“i’d probably be thinking about studying at a bar, too!”
“not if you’ll be drinking and,“ hana’s voice gets clearer as she continues, “wearing this.”
you turn to look at her as she emphasizes her last word. in her hands is a tight black dress that you have never worn before. it has thin noodle straps and is made of silk. “no.”
“yes!” hana answers, “and since when did you have such a cute dress?”
“ugh,” you plop down onto the couch again, “i don’t know, a while ago. it was stupid of me.”
“c’mon y/n, it’s gonna look nice on you!” hana pushes your legs so she can sit beside you. “plus, i already ordered a taxi and it’ll be here in five minutes.”
“what?” you sit up with wide eyes.
“you better hurry and get this dress on!” hana grins at you, allowing for you to grab the dress and run off to your bedroom to change.
hana’s grin doesn’t leave her face, even when you’re sitting across from her at the table in some bar she’s chosen to take you to. since it’s friday night and you live in a popular school town- this bar is practically packed. you glance around nervously, always hating big crowds of people.
“so, what’s it like living with my brother so far?” hana asks you, sipping her drink through her straw.
“it’s fine.” you shrug, mimicking her actions with your own drink. maybe getting more alcohol in your system will take away your anxious thoughts.
“oh come on!” hana exclaims, “this is like the one hundredth time i’ve asked you and it’s always the same reply. and i’ve noticed you never even mention him to me either.”
“well what do you want me to say? living with him is fine, it’s normal.” you defend yourself, flashbacks of every not-so-normal roommate encounter you’ve had with her brother the past month and a half.
“well i mean do you talk to him?”
“hana, i kind of have to, because you know, we live together.” you roll your eyes at your best friend.
“well what do you talk about?”
“i- i don’t know! normal things! what’s this all about?”
hana shrugs and sits back into her seat, “nothing- it’s just ever since he moved in i don’t hear anything about him, like does he even still live there?”
“yes, he lives there.” you shove her legs with your foot playfully under the table, “and it’s just there’s nothing to say. we’re roommates- that’s it.”
“so you guys aren’t like, friends?” you think about it for a moment, are you and heeseung? friends? you suppose you see each other at some of your worsts, like right after waking up, or all sweaty from dancing. you share things about your day and food. but those are things that just come with being roommates. so, you shrug. “what do you mean? you’ve lived together for two months and aren’t friends?”
“well i don’t know! i haven’t asked him if we’re friends or anything- nothing like that has come up!”
“do you guys know things about each other? like share things like that?”
“yeah, some things.”
“like do you know who his stupid friends are?”
you think about it for a second. every time you’ve seen heeseung on campus he’s been by himself. and he’s only briefly mentioned jeongin a few times. so you’ve assumed to yourself that jeongin must be his best friend. “only jeongin. but i’ve never met him or anything.”
“ah jeongin!” hana nods, “yeah he’s one of the nice ones.”
you tilt your head, “what do you mean?”
“heeseung hangs around with the Sigma Fidi guys- the ones that are all born in 2001.”
“the ones that completely ruined the library last year?” your mouth drops open in memory of how the beloved library- the only place you could find peace- was entirely flipped upside down last year.
“yep, those guys.”
“oh my god!” you sat back in your chair in despair, “that took weeks to fix!”
“i know, i clearly remember how much you complained about it when it happened.” you ignore hana’s playful smile as you try to take in how someone as nice as heeseung could be friends with people who are capable of tearing apart such a beautiful place. “anyways, there’s the yang jeongin guy you’ve heard of. i guess him and heeseung have been friends for maybe ten years now?” so you’ve correctly assumed that they’re probably best friends. “and jaehyuk, beomgyu and theo. there’s more but those are the ones that heeseung usually hangs around with.”
“and all four of them ruined the library?” you ask hana, still not comprehending it all.
“mm, i think so.” hana nods, “i never really asked heeseung about it so.”
“oh.”
the music in the bar is suddenly louder, playing some song you’ve never heard of and are far too busy mentally to even decide if you like the song or not. you would’ve never thought that heeseung would be the one behind ruining your sanctuary last year. even after speaking to him about the library so many times! you remember how distraught your favourite librarian was when you walked in after opening hours. the books were pushed onto the floor and ripped. the tables, walls and ceiling had spray paint all over it. all the flowers that even you watered sometimes were ripped from their roots and dirt was mucked throughout the entire room. not even one bookshelf was together after being stepped on and smashed. you remember how much you struggled to find a calming place to sit at school for months afterwards.
“what’re you thinking about?” hana asks you, nudging her foot against your leg.
“nothing.”
“then let’s go dance!” before you can refuse, hana is pulling you up, leaving your drinks and table behind to enter the very crowded dance floor, pushing your new revelations of heeseung out of your mind, at least for awhile.
it was hours later, further into the night when you got back to yours and heeseung’s shared apartment. it was quiet and dark, as you expected since it was reaching 3am. your familiarity with the apartment was your only guidance to your bedroom.
within inches from your bedroom, you heard it.
a muted moan through the walls.
your entire body tensed and retracted your hand that was about to touch your bedroom’s door knob. a thump followed by a woman’s giggle from the other side of the hallway made you stand up straight. and then it was clear what was happening in your roommate’s bedroom.
you never expected heeseung to bring home someone. it was never even mentioned between you two. he’s never even brought home a friend before as they always just wait outside for him.
a deep, nauseous feeling overcomes you and you curse yourself for drinking tonight. without thinking much- only the vibrant thought of ‘i can’t be here anymore’ flashing in your mind, you turn back the way you came, catching a glimpse of high heels at the front door. you only stop when you’re in the lobby of your apartment.
the moonlight is filling up the entire room, bringing some comfort to you as tears start to well up in your eyes. you know the reason why you’re crying, but you refuse to accept it and blame it on the alcohol. you sit down on the small couches that the lobby holds for visitors, and accept your fate of sitting here for the rest of the night.
you didn’t know what to do. you couldn’t go to hana’s because then she’d obviously ask why you're upset. and what’re you gonna say? that you’re upset because you’ve developed a crush on your roommate that happens to be her brother and that the thought of him fucking another girl in your apartment makes you feel like you’re rotting from the inside out? that wouldn’t go well.
because you know how hana would feel to have trusted you to live with her brother just for you to ruin it all. she was never close with heeseung in the first place, so to have her best friend have feelings for him? it just seems out of the question. why would she want her best friend to date her basically estranged older brother? even after tonight, when she asked question after question about your relationship with heeseung, she seemed off. she seemed like she wanted to know that you and heeseung are just friends. you wouldn’t even put it past her to be secretly happy that you told her everything is just normal roommates between you two.
if only she knew how not normal it was. roommates don’t sleep with their heads on each other’s laps. they don’t drool over the other when they’re working out. their hearts don’t flip when they see each other in the hallways at school. and they most definitely don’t get upset when the other is fucking someone else.
you sigh frustratedly, swearing to wipe the last tear off of your cheek and rest your head on the arm rest of the small couch. it’s small enough for your legs to curl up on, but it does nothing from the small gushes of air that circulate your dress-clad body. you fight the urge to go to sleep, but soon give in, the last thought being of heeseung and the unknown betrayal he just carried out.
when you woke up, the pale moonlight had turned into a warm yellow glow.
which was being blocked by your apartment’s front desk worker, jongho. you sit right up when your sleepy mind clears and you realize he’s glaring right at you.
“good morning, y/n.” his monotone voice speaks to you.
“uh, hi, jongho.” you try to speak cheerfully to distract him from the fact you probably smell like alcohol and are passed out in the public lobby.
“have a good sleep?”
“uh, yeah! just wanted to see how comfy these couches are, you know?”
“no, i don’t know as i would think my own bed would be far more comfortable.”
you cringe at his words, standing up and avoiding eye contact as he scolds you. “yeah, i should go see just how comfortable my bed is- sorry.” you wave smally at him as you head to the elevator, wanting it to come faster as you could still feel jongho’s eyes on you as he makes his way back to his desk.
“have a good day, y/n.” he calls out to you when the elevator door closes with you inside. you only then let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding when his cold eyes leave your body.
out with that breath and in with the thoughts of what the hell you’re about to walk into as the elevator quickly takes you to your floor. you mumble a curse as you see the mess you look like in the elevator’s mirror. scrambling to fix your hair and wipe the fallen eyeliner as walk to your door.
your quick plan to quietly sneak into your bedroom and act as if you didn’t just freak out that heeseung was having sex with a girl and sleep on a basically public couch all night failed just as quickly as you thought of it.
as soon as you entered your apartment, lee heeseung was standing at the kitchen island, glaring at you with eyes almost as cold as jongho’s. “where the hell have you been?” your eyes catch the floor where you saw the high heels hours ago and take a mental sigh of relief when you see that they’re gone. she probably walked right past you when you were passed out on the couch. “hello?”
your body tenses again when heeseung’s tone matches his eyes. his hands stop mixing whatever’s in the bowl as he takes in your figure.
“i went out, to the bar with hana last night.” you reply, easing off your own high heels at the front door.
“and so you couldn’t answer a text? i was worried.”
it’s then that you realized you left your phone in your purse on the couch last night when you came home. mentally slapping yourself. “i forgot it, so i slept at hana’s.”
“i thought you said you never wanted to sleep in an apartment with jay and hana again?”
you shrug, not finding any humour this morning. “i was drunk.”
“ok, well i’m making eggs if you want some.”
you shake your head no as you whisk up your forgotten purse, “no thanks. i’m just going to go to sleep.”
“oh, ok.” heeseung’s tone drops, “see ya later then.”
you’re too upset to respond as you smell a woman’s perfume come from heeseung’s bedroom when you walk past. your bedroom is like a safeway for you as you close the door, your back sliding against it as your knees give up from under you. the events from last night seem too much for your body to take. first with hana interrogating you about heeseung, finding out heeseung’s friends are assholes and then hearing heeseung, your best friend’s brother that you have a crush on, have sex with someone else in your shared apartment. it felt like the world was against you.
you tiredly crawl around to slip on some sweatpants, throwing heeseung’s black and white flannel that you borrowed to the other side of your room that you stumbled on. when you crawl into your covers, ready for some sleep in your own bed you decide two things :
you need to make some distance between heeseung and you and
you’re never going to a bar again.
the last few weeks of fall in your once sanctuary of a home, turned into an awkward hell. it was easy to distance yourself from heeseung at first from your hours at the library and his hours spent choreographing for the dance concert. the apartment was usually empty until late hours of the night, which were spent solely for sleep until you woke up and left quietly again in the morning.
heeseung tried to speak to you at first, always asking if you wanted to watch a movie on the couch with him, or if you wanted another bowl of cereal. both things that you used to look forward to with heeseung, but had to turn down for the sake of your relationship with hana and heeseung. everytime you denied, you could see a deeper frown on heeseung’s face when he turned away.
his efforts to speak quickly faded just as quickly as he was denied. your only conversation was swift hi’s and byes as you passed each other at the front door. when both of you were home, which was rare, both of you stayed in your rooms.
you distracted yourself in your room with your studying, but hearing his laughter while he played video games with his friends echoing in the walls, only made you distracted with the thoughts of how much you missed his laugh and smile. but those thoughts were quickly fought with the fact that you should not miss your best friend’s brother’s laugh.
after a tiring day of classes and a shift at the library, you didn’t expect to come home to a bunch of boys lounging around your apartment. you hang your coat at the front door as all of their eyes land on you.
“hey, y/n!” heeseung’s cheery voice calls from the kitchen.
“uh, hey.” you respond, a shy smile spreading on your face as you greet everyone.
“these are my friends- jeongin, beomgyu and theo.” you smile as heeseung introduces them, all of them greeting in response politely. you try to pretend like hana didn’t show you pics of the Sigma Fidi members a few days ago so you know who exactly is sitting in your living room.
“heeseung you didn’t tell us your roommate was so pretty!” the one with long black hair who you recognize as yang jeongin speaks, his eyes almost sparkling as he speaks.
“yeah, you really are so pretty!” theo smiles at you. “isn’t she, hee?”
with the dim kitchen light, you can still see a hint of pink hit heeseung’s face as he continues to pour juice in a cup. “um, yeah- of course.” you felt exposed standing in your own living room and you quickly wanted to get to your peaceful bedroom and away from this group forming.
jeongin tsks at his best friend’s response, “c’mon heeseung, make it seem more meaningful than that!”
heeseung stops pouring and looks up at you, taking in your pink cheeks of embarrassment and the cold, fall wind before quickly glancing back to his friends, “she’s really pretty.”
“that’s it!” theo laughs tossing his head back to laugh at how embarrassed his friend looks. “if you’re gonna compliment someone, you gotta mean it.”
the apartment goes silent as you try to decipher what you should do next.
just as you’re about to beeline it to your bedroom after offering a quick goodnight, beomgyu speaks from his side of the couch, “oh and y/n!”
you turn, forcing an awkward smile on your face, “yeah?”
“thanks for letting me sleep over a few weeks ago.” his smile beams up at you.
“you slept over?” you ask him, confusing covering your face at the news.
“uh, yeah… the night jaehyuk had a party i came back here with chaeryeong and passed out.”
“the night of jaehyuk’s party…” you speak out loud, trying to comprehend what you were hearing.
“yeah, the night you went out with hana… i slept in your bed that night, that's why i was worried you didn’t come home.” heeseung speaks up from the kitchen. “i never got a chance to tell you i slept there… sorry.”
“oh…” you place your hand on your head… so it wasn’t heeseung having sex in his bedroom that night- it was beomgyu, “no, it’s fine, yeah.”
“are you okay?” jeongin asks you, a worried expression on his face.
“yeah, i just- yeah i’m good- just a long day so i’m gonna go to bed.”
“alright, it was nice meeting you!” theo waves to you, which is followed by the other three saying goodnight, too.
in your bedroom you had to fight the urge to laugh. the amount of relief you had now that you learnt heeseung hasn’t fucked someone. it was laughable how worried you got for something that could’ve been easily avoided. if you had just gone into your bedroom that night you would’ve found heeseung awake in your bed, waiting for your return. the thought of heeseung laying in your bed makes you wonder what he thought of your room. if he liked the smell of your sheets or perfume. if he even paid attention to those details about you.
the group of boys laughing in the living room makes you move from your bedroom door, suddenly extra ready for bed now that something that has been eating at you for weeks is finally cleared up. you crawl into bed, wondering if heeseung had put his head where yours is, and you wonder if it’s okay to think of your roommate this way.
soon after, you decided that you can’t avoid heeseung forever, and honestly it was getting tiring trying to stay away from him. so, instead of heading to the library to study for hours after your last class of the day– you headed home. you could feel your cozy blanket on your body the more you got closer to your apartment. you imagined eating a bowl of ramen in bed before taking an afternoon nap as soon as you got home.
the thought of heeseung being home not in your plan for the day as you assumed he would be at one of his many dance classes, or teaching his new choreography to the other dancers for the concert that was quickly approaching. you wonder what heeseung will say when he sees you home before him for once. you giggle to yourself when you try to imagine the look on his face.
when you open your apartment door, you quickly realize that the afternoon you had planned was in fact, not happening. the tv was turned off as heeseung sat on the couch. the sunlight from the large window panning onto him as he sat with his back completely against the cushion. his head was tilted back, his brown hair shaggy on his head, desperately needing a haircut that you didn’t want. his brown, bambi eyes were closed and his mouth hung open.
it only took a second for you to notice the rest of him, his body shaking and panting. your eyes glance down to where his hand was wrapped around his cock. the red tip oozing precum as heeseung continued to jerk himself off. your mouth opened, wanting to say something– anything, but you couldn’t. you knew this image of heeseung would forever be ingrained into your brain, but you can’t look away at how beautiful he looks, with each droplet of sweat catching on the sunlight.
your body rests on the right side of your body, moving the door an inch– the perfect inch that makes the door squeak, causing heeseung’s eyes to fly open. when they meet you, they widen, curses flying out of his mouth. “oh y/n! fuck!”
you turn your head, your hand covering your eyes, “sorry! sorry! i didn’t see anything!” you hear heeseung scrambling around, probably pulling his pants up and knocking things over in his surprised state. you felt your heart rate speed up, a feeling of anxiety taking over and you decide that you can’t take this right now and slam the front door after you. you’re practically running down the hallway of your apartment building, taking the stairs down instead of waiting for the slow elevator, needing to get away from this situation fast. because there’s just no way you just watched heeseung masturbate.
this is definitely not normal for roommates.
you head to the library and stay there until closing, trying to study and distract yourself from the image you saw earlier. but it seemed like every ten seconds, the thought of heeseung masturbating would pop into your head.
it was the way that heeseung seemed to be so close to his climax, his low grunts frequent as soon as you stepped in the door. the light sheen of sweat covering his face as he focused on the pleasure he was giving himself. his chest moving erratically as he struggled to catch his breath. he looked gorgeous and overwhelmed at the same time, triggering something inside of you that you’ve never thought of before.
the more you thought about heeseung masturbating, the more you could feel your panties getting wet. when it was closing time you could only sigh, thinking how now you have to walk home uncomfortably and how this wasn’t the first time heeseung had made your panties uncomfortably soaked.
you didn’t know what would await you this time you came in the front door, but you were glad that it was dark and silent. no group of boys, no heeseung attempting to cook and no hana who had forgotten something at the apartment again.
you lied in bed, wanting to go to sleep to forget this long day. but the uncomfortableness in your panties couldn’t go away. there was something swirling in the bottom of your stomach and you knew it was all because of heeseung.
your hand naturally finds its way in your panties, gasping quietly when you feel just how wet you are. your fingers basically slip through and catch all of your juices. within a second your fingers are circulating your clit in small circles, imagining heeseung was in your bed again, but this time with you. you imagine that he’s whispering for you to cum for him, that he wants to see you cum. you try to imagine what he’d look like laying beside you, watching you pleasure yourself to the thought of him.
but then it only takes a second for you to give up. the pleasure you’re seeking can only be satisfied with heeseung yourself. your eyes open and you groan out into your dark bedroom, frustrated with yourself and heeseung. you turn onto your side, eyes closing again, but this time for sleep, just wanting to forget this whole day happened.
you don’t think you were asleep for long when you woke up to a bump. you lay there, trying to listen for another and then you hear your bedroom door open and a whisper of your name. “are you awake?”
your roll over, eyes squinting as you look up to find heeseung standing at your bedroom door, “yeah. you woke me up.”
“oh i’m so sorry,” heeseung pouts at you, you hear the slur in his voice when he speaks louder and you catch the way he’s holding onto the door knob tightly.
“it’s fine– are you alright?” you ask him, sitting up on your elbows now as you take in his composure.
“mm-yeah. i was just- i’m really sorry- about what happened, uh earlier. and i just-.”
“it’s fine heeseung, if it's bothering you then we can talk about it in the morning.” you tell him, putting a smile on your face.
“well, okay, but i, i was wondering if i could sleep with you, in here. i just, yeah.”
“you want to sleep in my bed with me?” you ask him confused.
“yeah, i went out with beomgyu and jeongin and i told them and they laughed at me so i drank a lot and now, now i just want to lay with you.”
you take a deep breath before pulling the corner of your blanket over, “come on.”
“really?” heeseung asks excitedly.
you smile at his reaction, “yes, come on, i’m tired.”
within a second heeseung was lying beside you. there was only an inch of space between your warm bodies. it only took another second for heeseung to roll over and lay his arm over your stomach. he exhales into your neck before he speaks, “i’m so, so sorry for earlier, and for now since im so wasted.”
you laugh silently, causing his body to bounce from your movements “it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”
another beat of silence passes between you and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep until he speaks again, “will you play with my hair this time?”
“this time?”
“yeah, when i was laying on your lap i saw that you were about to, but then you stopped.”
“i thought you were asleep for that.”
you feel heeseung smile against your ribcage, “well i was, but i was awake for that part. why’d you stop?”
you shift under him, not knowing how to feel about his observation, “well, because we’re roommates, and i don’t know if roommates play with each other’s hair when they’re supposed to be sleeping.” you flick his forehead playfully.
“we’re more than just roommates.” heeseung replies, a slight slur onto his words as his lips are meshed against your body.
“are we?”
“yeah.”
you sigh, knowing that you really won’t be able to sleep now, but you need to know, “then what are we?”
your bedroom goes silent again, but you know heeseung isn’t asleep. his fingers are tracing tapping onto your side and you want to ask him what song is stuck in his head this time, you wonder if it's the song he’s choreographing for the dance concert.
“i don’t know, but it’s more than roommates.” he finally answers, gulping loudly after he speaks.
you decide you’ve heard enough for the night then and turn around in his arms so your back is turned to him. he only takes a second for you to get comfortable before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you into his chest. you can feel his heartbeat slowing on your back and you know the alcohol has finally taken over and he’s passed out.
the final thought your mind gives before your own slumber takes over is that you hope heeseung sleeps in your bed again.
when you wake up again, the sun is pouring onto your face and your bed is cold and empty. you sigh and sit up, glancing around your room. when your eyes land on your clock you jolt out of bed, realizing that you’re going to be late to class.
you scurry around your room, picking up heeseung’s flannel that you threw across the room a few weeks ago and throwing it over your tank top. in a flash, you’re out of your shared apartment and running to your class, hoping to not miss something important.
like usual, you’re headed to the library to study after your long class. thankfully, your professor only gave you a stern look when you walked into class late. you managed to not think about heeseung until your phone started vibrating on the table underneath your textbook.
“hello?’ you speak into the phone.
“hey, where are you right now?” heeseung asks you, his voice no longer slurring like the night before.
“at the library.”
“right, i could’ve guessed that.”
“hey!” you whine playfully with a pout that he couldn’t see.
his sweet laughter echoes through the line, “well, i think you should pack up now anyways.”
“what, why?”
suddenly your textbook is being slammed shut and lifted up. you drop your phone to your lap, ready to reprimand the person who’s stealing your textbook. but stop when you see heeseung’s cheesy grin looking down at you, “because we’re going home, c’mon.” heeseung turns with your textbook, leaving you to scramble once again and shove the rest of your things into your bag, catching up to him quickly.
before you leave, you catch the librarian giving heeseung a detached expression as she watches him walk out of the library and you gulp, remembering that he and his friends were the ones to disturb it only a year ago.
when you entered your shared apartment, heeseung finally handed you your textbook back after threatening to throw it if you didn’t hurry up the entire jog home. you’re about to give him a snarky thank you, but stop when you realize the living room is filled with the scent of your favourite food.
“chinese food?” you question, your eyes landing on the food on the coffee table, plates and chopsticks laid out as well. the couch has pillows and blankets, and the candles that were covered in dust are now lit. “what’s all this?” your eyes are filled with amusement as heeseung takes off your coat for you and hangs it up.
heeseung shrugs, “i just thought we could have dinner and a movie together, like we used to.” there’s a shy smile on his face as he avoids your eye contact.
“that actually sounds great.”
heeseung grabs your wrist, “then c’mon, let’s eat.”
heeseung sits in his usual place on the couch, lifting the blanket for you to sit down beside him and you start to dig in. he puts on Howl’s Moving Castle quietly and leans back into the couch cushion. it would feel like a normal night between you and your roommate, one that you used to look forward to after a long day of classes, but now, both of you can tell that there’s a heavy burden in the silence between you.
thankfully, heeseung is the one to break it, “look y/n, i’m going to be honest–,” you finish your last bite food and look over at him, his face curled up with anxiety before he continues, “i did all this as some sort of apology for how things have been these past couple of weeks. and for what happened yesterday.”
you sigh, “don’t worry about yesterday, i know you didn’t think i would be home because well, i haven’t been properly home in weeks, and that’s my fault.” you shift uncomfortably in your usual comfortable place on the couch and decide to let out what has been weighing you down for weeks. “it’s just- can i ask you something, heeseung?”
“of course,” heeseung bites the inside of his cheek out of nervousness, “anything.”
“was it you and your friends that destroyed the library last year?”
“what?” heeseung’s face contorts in confusion.
“well you know, the Sigma Fidi guys, did they really destroy the library?”
heeseung laughs suddenly and it makes you whip your head to look at him. anger washes over you as your roommate laughs at you, and you cover your body with your arms, huffing as you let him laugh. “what’re you talking about, y/n? you really think i, or jeongin or even theo! could destroy a library? why would we even do that?”
“w-well, it was just, hana-.” you stammer out, feeling awful now that you’ve literally accused heeseung and his friends of a crime.
heeseung laughs again at the mention of his sister, “hana told you that it was the Sigma Fidi guys who destroyed it?” he rolls his eyes at your confirmation nod, “hana always gets the frat’s names mixed up! it wasn’t us who destroyed the library, it was the Sigma Drakos who did it! all the guys born in 2000!”
“oh my god!” you slap your hand on your forehead as you sit back on the couch cushion. all these weeks of worrying that the guy you had a crush on destroyed your favourite place– just because your best friend can’t remember the name of a frat! you laugh with heeseung now, both of you now realizing how appalling the accusation was. “i’m so sorry!”
heeseung waves it off, “it’s fine– is that why you’ve been avoiding me? because you thought I destroyed the library? because i really would never do that. especially since i know how precious the library is to you.”
“well, that’s part of it.” the smile falls from your face as you find twirling your fingers together more interesting.
“what’s the other part?”
you gulp at heeseung’s question, not even mentally preparing yourself for your next words before you speak, “i thought- at first– that you had sex with some girl and i heard it, but then it turns out that it was beomgyu! but that set me off because i didn’t think i should be so worried about my best friend’s brother having sex with another girl…”
your apartment goes silent as joe hisaishi plays in the background. both of you stare off at Howl jumps off with Sophie. you wonder if heeseung will say anything, or if it’s his turn to avoid you for months now. with each burning second of silence, your calm facade begins to fade and your true interior of anxiety starts to shine through. your leg starts bouncing quickly, trying to relieve some of the anxious tension filling your body. could you deal with heeseung avoiding you for months? could you still live in this apartment if he moved out tomorrow? could you manage to see his pretty smile on campus?
“is that i’ll ever be to you? your best friend’s brother and your roommate?” heeseung finally asks quietly, interrupting Howl’s current dialogue. your leg stops bouncing as he speaks, wanting to hear every word of his perfectly.
“what do you mean?” you ask warily, not understanding what he wanted to hear. the truth of your real feelings for him? or the safety net of that there’s nothing between you two, just normal roommates?
“i mean,” heeseung sighs and brushes his bangs out of his face, “i mean, i want more than just catching a glimpse of you out the door everyday. i want more than whatever’s been going on recently. i don’t care if you’re friends with hana or not, i just want more of you.”
the silence between you two continues as you process his words. your relationship with his sister means nothing to him. and you wonder if it should mean nothing to you too when you thought of your relationship with heeseung. maybe it would be okay to be more than just normal roommates with him after all.
“alright.” you give finally.
“alright?” heeseung questions you.
“alright we can go back to the way we were, we can see more of each other.”
“really?” heeseung sits up from the couch. with your nod, he’s suddenly jumping from one side of the couch to the other, throwing his arms around you. you laugh as you wrap your own arms around him, allowing yourself to be surrounded with his warmth with no worries for the first time. he only held on tighter when he realized you hugged him back. “i’m so glad! i missed you so much! and– oh,” heeseung retracts his body from your own, his hands gripping your shoulders as he looks at you, “one more thing.”
“what is it?’ you grumble out.
“we’re having a party this friday.”
“what?” you jerk back from him, making his hands go limp in his lap. “why?”
“because exams will be over then! so we should celebrate!” heeseung speaks with an obvious tone.
you cross your hands over your chest, “is this why you got me chinese food? so i’d be more agreeable to having a party this week?”
heeseung’s hand scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, “well, no, but kinda.” you give him an unimpressed look. “so… yeah? we’ll have a party? please?”
you give in when he pouts at you, “fine.” and then you’re pulled into a bone crushing hug as he thanks you for ‘being the best roommate ever’.
“is this my flannel?” heeseung asks in your ear.
“um, yeah?”
heeseung only laughs melodically, not letting you go.
both of you go to bed when Howl’s Moving Castle is over. properly saying goodnight to each other for the first time in months. while you lay down, you wonder how the party will go this weekend. you wonder how hana will react to seeing how close you and heeseung really are. you wonder if she’ll notice that you have feelings for her older brother.
you try to push those thoughts away as you try to fall asleep for the night, and replace them with the memories you made tonight with heeseung.
friday night came fast.
you spent all week studying and then taking your exams, which you think went well. heeseung spent his afternoons practicing for the dance concert, but always made it home early enough to eat dinner and watch a movie with you. it was nice to see him so much again. the bond between you felt closer and tighter than ever before. and the fire in your heart only grew stronger for him.
little touches of each other grew into subtle hand holding during movies under blankets. his head always seemed to fall into your lap after he was done eating. soft compliments of each other were more frequently exchanged than not, always causing a pink dash to spread across your cheeks. it would’ve felt perfect if there wasn’t that nagging feeling in the back of your head that hana wouldn’t like this.
hana was in fact invited to the party that you and heeseung were holding. alongside the rest of the Sigma Fidi boys and their friends, and their friends and their friends. you were worried that your small apartment wouldn’t be able to hold everyone. but, even though winter was finally here, and outside was beginning to look like a sheet of white cloth, people went out on your balcony, chatting like everyone else.
by the time the party was in full swing, you were already feeling drunk. before everyone showed up, you and heeseung took a few shots together. you had to, because when heeseung stepped out of his bedroom, dressed in a nice silk button up, you knew you would be dead meat for the rest of the night. you also couldn’t ignore the way heeseung’s eyes wouldn’t shy away from trailing up your bare legs from the dress you borrowed from hana tonight.
theo, beomgyu and jeongin didn’t shy away from complimenting you tonight either, like they ever do. but they were definitely more sober than you, and having fun watching you drunkenly talk about the library, living with heeseung and how you miss living with hana.
“you talking about me?” hana suddenly asks as she appears and sits beside you, jay following her.
“no, never.” you playfully grin at her, laughing when she gently nudges you. the rest of the boys start greeting jay, who they apparently haven’t seen much of since he’s moved in with hana. “i’m going to get another drink.” you tell hana beside you.
“i’ll come with you,” jeongin says from across the coffee, you smile and give your hand out, letting him hold onto it to follow you into the kitchen. jeongin and you speak about nothing but everything while you pour each other drinks. he’s funny, and he’s good looking, and you’ve never noticed it before. the dim lights you and heeseung put up around the apartment make jeongin’s eye’s sparkle every time he drunkenly laughs. “do you want to go dance?” you don’t say no when he asks.
you’re in the middle of your living room, dancing with people who you assume are friends with either heeseung or hana, and jeongin’s grip is tight on your waist. you’re both laughing as you continue to jump around close to each other. you think his cologne smells a lot like heeseung’s. you felt jeongin’s hands slide from your waist to your ass, pulling you closer to his chest and you both continued to dance.
the music starts to fade out once you realize how close you are to jeongin, and focus on his movement and his laughter that doesn’t seem to stop. you’re both unaware of the envious eyes watching both of you.
suddenly, jeongin is being pulled away from you, and you stumble a bit to catch yourself since you were leaning so much of your weight onto him.
“what the hell?” jeongin turns angrily, but stops when he sees that it’s heeseung, “oh, hey. what’s up?”
heeseung shrugs, “i think y/n’s drank too much tonight.”
“what? no i haven’t!” you speak up with a whine.
“you only ever dance when you’re wasted.” heeseung points out, and it makes you mentally drunk-check yourself. heeseung pats jeongin on the back, “plus it’s almost 3 so i think it’s time everyone heads out.” you don’t hear what jeongin’s reply is as you turn and look for hana. she’s sitting where you left her not too long ago, but on top of jay now.
your eyes squint when the apartment’s lights are flicked on and the music shuts off. everyone groans before heeseung’s voice cuts through, saying that it’s been fun, but they gotta go. you wave bye to the people that you recognize. hugging jeongin when he walks past, laughing when he twirls you around, oblivious to heeseung’s eye roll.
“at least you seemed to have fun.” heeseung’s voice rings out behind you as you shut the door.
you turn and see your roommate leaned up against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest with a displeased look on his face.
“yeah, i did. and so what?” you huff at him, starting to head straight for your bedroom, “sorry you hate seeing me have fun.”
heeseung’s hand reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you from moving forward, “y/n.” your name sounds so desperate coming from him. “sorry, i didn’t mean it like that- i’m, i’m just–.”
“just what, heeseung?” you rip your wrist out of his grip. “why can’t i dance with jeongin? and why’d you have to tell everyone i drank too much, why do you even care how much i drink?”
heeseung’s face drops and it makes you scoff, turning around again to head to your room, “y/n!” heeseung reaches forward, so both of his hands are on each of your shoulder, forcing you to look at him, “please, just let me talk for a second.”
you sigh, but give into his bambi coloured eyes, “fine.”
heeseung lets out a breath, “i- i care, because i like you. i like you a lot.” a small gasp leaves your mouth at his confession, “i like that you’re shy when it comes to physical touch, i like that you’d make yourself blind just to finish an assignment– i like how passionate you are about libraries and books and writings! i like, everything about you.”
your heart started beating at heeseung’s words, a rush of emotions washes over you as you stand before him. his confession has taken you completely by surprise. you had never thought lee heeseung would have actual feelings for you– his little sister’s best friend, and his roommate.
you felt your cheeks turn pink as you looked into his serious, genuine eyes. you force yourself to respond to him, “heeseung, i didn’t know you felt this way. i wasn’t expecting this at all.” you hear heeseung gulp as his hands start to loosen on your arms. “but, i care about you, heeseung. more than i can put into words. i like you, heeseung. more than you’ll ever truly know.”
heeseung’s face instantly lit up with your words, his beautiful smile taking up his entire face. “y/n, you seriously mean so much to me, and i, i want to be more than just your stupid roommate.”
“hee, i want that, too.”
heeseung removes his hands from your arms and carefully place them on your cheeks, cradling your face, bringing your faces closer to each other. you swallow harshly as your lips brush together for the first time. you instantly feel the connection you thought you had just been imaging soar through your veins.
time seemed slow in that exact moment. it was just you and heeseung, kissing each other. kissing the only other person who truly understands you and never judges you. the kiss symbolized just the beginning of your relationship with heeseung.
when you pull away, you watch the adoration fade from heeseung’s eyes, and is replaced by deep lust. the alcohol had finally hit him, and now you could tell he was feeling the same emotions you were. you were needy, desperate and wanted to feel him inside of you so bad.
with no hesitation, heeseung picks you up, making you squeal out his name as he takes you to your bedroom. he plops you down into your sapphire sheets, making your body bounce slightly on the mattress.
“god, you have no idea how bad i’ve wanted- needed this,” heeseung says, ripping his silk shirt over his head and tossing it on the ground.
“oh, i bet i do.” you tell him honestly, knowing that you’ve wanted him since the first day he stepped foot into your apartment.
heeseung chuckles and smashed his lips onto yours, slipping his tongue so easily into your mouth to explore. your tongues mesh together, heeseung’s hips grinding into yours.
“why did you never do anything about it if you needed it so bad?” you ask him curiously, his lips trailing down your neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin. heeseung groans into it, his hands rushing up to cup your cheeks again as he looks into your eyes.
“i didn’t know you wanted it, too. thought you’d always just see me as your roommate or something,” heeseung admits, leaning down to kiss you again. your lips feel swollen from all the kissing, but you could care less, as long as it was because of heeseung.
“i do want it- i have wanted it.”
heeseung shakes his head at in you in disbelief, “i’m gonna fuck you so good, y/n.”
“please, hee, i want it so bad.” you don’t care if you sound desperate, because you are– and so is heeseung. he smashes his lips against yours once more, this time the kiss is just as despeate and needy as you are. his fingers start to pull down the top of your dress, revealing your breasts.
you can’t stop your head from falling back as heeseung sucks your nipple into his mouth. his tongue starts circling and prodding your nipples. you let a small whine fall past your lips as you glance down at the man. you let your hands trace down his bare back, finally able to touch his skin after months of being teased by it.
“hee,” his nickname is so soft coming from your lips. he’s always loved hearing you say his nickname, but hearing it as he pleasures you was something he thought he could have only ever dreamed of.
“such pretty tits,” he mumbles as he presses one last kiss to your nipple before he’s grabbing a handful of your thighs and flipping you over onto your stomach. you squeal out his name at the sudden, forced movement. heeseung pushes up your dress so it bunches at your hips, and pulls your soaked panties to the side. “you sure you want to do this, y/n?”
you gasp out, “yes, heeseung, please.”
with your confirmation, heeseung pushes his finger into your wet folds. you both groan at the feeling. you’re so soft and warm and he can’t believe how fucking wet you are. you helplessly whine into your bedroom, your grip on your sheets tightens as he slowly starts to move his middle finger in and out of you.
“fuck, baby, you’re so tight.” heeseung graosnas his vision is completely taken over by the sight of his finger disappearing into your squishy walls. he wonders when was the last time you’ve been fucked, he’s never seen you with any other guy– or girl. but your pussy is so tight, he conjectured if his cock would fit or not.
heeseung’s fingers are much more long and slender than your own, letting him reach places you’ve never been able to when you think about him late at night. he slips in a second finger alongside his middle finger, and they both start to massage the pad of your gspot. you slowly feel yourself start to reach your peak so you slip your own hand down to your clit.
heeseung groans at your actions, watching both of your hands work to make yourself feel so good. he feels himself get harder as your cries increase in volume. both of your hands are moving in sync, your hips are bucking up for more. heeseung wants to see you cum all over his fingers so bad.
“hee, fuck– so close.”
when heeseung slips in a third finger you know you’re about to cum any second, and so does heeseung. he feels your walls get even tighter some how and start to pulsate around his fingers. he can’t take his eyes off of the scene in front of him. your fingers wet from rubbing such fast, small circles over your clit. and your juices slipping down his hand from his three fingers fucking inside of you.
“c’mon baby, cum for me– i wanna see my good girl cum for me.” heeseung coaxes you to an orgasm. your eyes lock together as you hit your high. your body stills as your pussy starts to uncontrollably flutter around his fingers. your cries are mixed with his name, and soft grunts of praise from heeseung.
heeseung slows his pace to let you breathe from your climax. he carefully slips his fingers out of you, and you wince as your pussy tries to flail against nothing now, so spread open from his fingers.
you watch as heeseung insert his fingers into his mouth, watching to catch all your juices. his eyes close at your taste, his tongue pressing all over his fingers.
“heeseung,” you whine from you position on the bed.
he pops out his fingers as he looks at you, “what, baby?’
“please, fuck me. want your cock inside me.”
heeseung bites his lip as he leans over top of you, “you sure you can handle that when you’re already so fucked out?”
“yes, heeseung, i can, please.”
heeseung laughs at you, his hand coming down to brush his thumb over your swollen lips, “you’re so polite, baby. how could i say no to you?”
you relax back onto the bed as you let heeseung pull down your dress and panties and toss them onto the floor. your bare body makes heeseung shiver at your beauty and he can’t take his eyes off of you as he starts to take off his own pants.
heeseung’s hard, swollen cock springs up and hits his stomach. you can’t help but marvel at it as you take it in. it’s definitely the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen. the small veins that traces up his length to his red tip. drops of precum were already falling down his shaft, and it only made you want him inside of you more.
“uh,” heeseung suddenly sounds nervous as he looks at you, “do you have a condom?” you shake your head no, “shit, beomgyu took my last ones.”
you sit up, “that’s ok, i mean. we’re both clean right?”
“yeah, i am.”
“and you can pull out?” you tease him gently.
heeseung rolls his eyes but smiles, “yes, y/n, i can pull out.”
you try to contain your excitement as heeseung crawls on top of you. you position your legs so they’re encircling his waist. he slowly rolls his hips forward, so the tip of his cock slides in between your pussy lips.
“fuck,” you let out quietly as his cocks slides so easily between your walls, filling you right up. your breathing is already staggered from the intrusion. you’re fighting for your eyes to stay on heeseung’s as the pleasure already feels too much.
you manage to watch as heeseung’s teeth are gritting against themselves and his eyebrows are knitted together. he tries to steady himself to ease you into the stretch his cock is giving you. but its hard when you’re so warm and soft, your walls feel like velvet to him.
when your whines start to pick up, so does heeseung’s pace. your perked nipples are rubbing against his chest with the motion of his hips and the bed.
“you feel so big, hee, i love it so much.” you tell him genuinely. heeseung leans his head down to press his lips into yours. you try to kiss him back as best as you could.
your lips are wet and swollen when he pulls away, “your pussy’s gripping me so tight, baby, never wanna pull out.” his cock is hitting your g spot everytime, and you can only loosely smile at him in response.
heeseung seems to understand you anyways, and starts thrusting into you faster. a loud moan escapes your lips and it mixes with the wet, squelching noises.
“fuck, listen to how wet you are.” heeseung tells you, his own eyes rolling to the back of his head. “f-feels, so good, baby.”
your head is thrown deep into your mattress, feeling no control over the rest of your body as you let heeseung pleasure you. “i-i know.” you tell him honestly and breathlessly.
“wanted this for so long, and now this pussy’s mine, right baby?” his voice comes out in grunts as he matches his thrusts to his words.
you nod loosely, “all yours, hee. just yours.” your voice sounds nothing like it usually does, and it makes heeseung’s cock grow bigger inside of her. the thought that only him and his cock can make you so drunk turns him on so fucking much.
both of you can feel how sticky and wet it is where your bodies meet, and it only makes you lust after each other and your highs more. you’re both sweating and can see it drip down his line of abs that you want to lick so badly. they’re strong and prominent from dancing and you can’t help but reach out and drag your fingers down them lightly– so different from how hard and fast he is pounding into you.
heeseung’s grunts ring in your ear, and you mewl out to him to keep going.
“yeah? you like how i fuck you, baby? like how my cock streches you out?”
you nod eagerly, knowing he understands just how you’re feeling. you moan with every thrust he gives you, whines that only edge heeseung to fuck you faster. he wants to hear every moan you’re able to give.
“s-so big,” is all you can tell him.
“yeah, think you can feel me in your stomach?” heeseung asks you, moving his hand from your thigh to press down on your lower abdomen. “feel me right there, baby?”
you cry out his name at the pressure. your hand moves to grip his wrist, “fuck me harder like that, please. i s- so close. please.” you beg him, tasting the climax on your tongue at this point.
heeseung’s hand lands on her throat, choking her as he starts to use all his force to fuck into you. your body is jolting the bed back and forth as heeseung pounds into you. your whines turn into sobs as you feel your orgasm hit you. your body stills and your lack of oxygen makes your head feel fuzzy as heeseung continues to fuck yu through your orgasm.
“that’s it, cum on my cock like a good girl.” his voice is in your ear, praising you for squeezing your wet walls around him so good.
when your orgasm starts to fade and you enter a fuzzy state with your pupils blown out, all you can think of is how badly you want heeseung’s cum. so, with hooded eyes you wrap your arm around his neck so he can look right into your eyes.
“please cum inside of me, hee. wanna feel your cum so bad.” you whine out to him, lips pouted just begging for him to kiss them. heeseung grunts before he does just that. smashing your lips together as he continues his thrusts of pounding into you.
“a-are you sure you want me to cum inside?” his voice is breathless when he speaks. he’s too focused on how your pussy is even wetter from your orgasm, and how he could just slip out any second.
“yes, hee, please. want you to make me pregant.” you speak before you could even think properly, “want you to fuck a baby inside of me.”
“h-holy shit.” heesung sputters out, surprised by how turned on your words got him. he never knew he had a breeding kink– and well, neither did you until now. “you drive me so fucking crazy, baby.” your whimpers and moans encourage heeseung to continue. he swears he’s never been so turned on in his life. “g-gonna get your tummy so full, and swollen.”
heeseung’s pace doesn’t let up until he reaches his peak. his hips still as he releases his cum inside of you, his body practically laying ontop of you as you make out. you feel his warm cum fill you up. you continue to makeout until you feel heeseung’s cock completely soften.
heeseung’s careful to pull out of you, not wanting to overstimulate you. even though he’s gentle, you still squirm as your pussy readjusts to not having his cock inside of you. both of you watch with eager, hooded eyes as his white, cum drains out of you and onto your thighs, making them more of a mess.
“jesus christ that’s so hot,” heeseung mumbles to himself, choosing to ignore the twitch of his dick at the sight. you giggle at him as you relax back into your sapphire sheets. “i’ll buy you plan b in the morning, i swear.”
you shrug against your mattress, “i mean it wouldn’t be the worse thing to have your baby.” heeseung stops pulling on his boxers as he looks at you with eyes. “sorry,” you cringe, “i think that was the orgasm bliss talking.”
heeseung chuckles and leans back over your body from where he stands, “i wanna have a baby with you y/n, but maybe lets wait until we’ve dated for more than an hour.”
“oh, so we’re dating now?” you tease him, wiggling your eyebrows.
“uh, i mean, if you, if you want to. you can say no, but i uh,”
“heeseung,” you place your hand over his mouth, “shut up. yes i’ll date you.”
heeseung rips your hand off of his mouth and jumps onto you, pressing his lips to yours quickly out of excitement. he starts to press random kisses all over your face and neck, listening to your laughs to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t of course.
“i’m so happy.” he tells your seriously.
“me, too.” you smile, but then wince when you try to move your leg.
“shit, stay here, i’m gonna get something to clean your legs.” heeseung presses a kiss into your temple as he flies out your bedroom door and to your shared bathroom to wet a cloth.
without the boy in your bed, you easily fall asleep on your mattress. no worries on your shoulders for once as your breathing calms down. you drift off before heeseung can even come back. but, you know he will be.
the morning sun filtered through the curtains and onto your sleeping bodies wrapped in your sapphire sheets. you realize that your once naked body was no buttoned up in the black and white flannel you stole from heeseung all those months ago when he first moved in.
heeseung’s arm was wrapped around your core, pulling you into his chest as he continued to sleep. you watch him for a while, not believing that he was finally more than a roommate to you, more than, uh oh, your best friend’s older brother. suddenly, you’re filled with anxiety as you watch the peaceful boy sleep.
as if he could somehow sense your shift in mood, heeseung’s bambi eyes open and look at you. a soft smile on his lips once he realizes that you’re also awake and still wrapped in his arms. but, his smile drops when he catches the worry that is covering your face.
“what did we do last night?” you ask him, your eyes search his for help.
heeseung sighs, his morning voice comes out deep in your ear as he speaks, “nothing wrong, y/n.” his hand comes up and brushes your disshelved hair out of your face, “i like you, and you like me. you don’t regret it do you?”
you shake your head against your pillow, “no, i don’t regret anything about it or you.” you admit to him, trying to hide the shy smile that plays on your lips for a second, “but what are we going to tell hana, she’s going to be so mad at me.”
suddenly, just as the sleep was finally leaving your body, your bedroom door bursts open, and lee hana stood there, her arms crossed over her chest.
“shit,” heeseung grumbled as he looked at his sister.
“well, well, well, look who’s all cozy in y/n’s bed.” hana’s voice is loud like usual as she speaks.
“hana!” you sit up on your elbows, “this isn’t what it looks like, i mean-.”
hana’s laugh cuts you off, “relax y/n. jay and i totally fell asleep in heeseung’s bed last night and i think i heard your little… adventure.” she winks at you, “i knew you two would hit it off eventually.”
“what were you guys doing in my bed?” heeseung asks, but his question goes unanswered.
“hana, i, i can’t believe this.”
hana chuckles and leaned against the doorframe, “well i did warn you that heeseung would be a catch since he’s exactly like me.” she says with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “now, i think you guys are gonna have to resign the lease together before it’s up.”
you and heeseung exchange amused glances, the thought obviously appealing to you. your worries that have been on your mind since the day you met heeseung have now finally, finally faded as hana accepts your relationship. the relationship hana somehow knew would happen before you did. it seemed like your life was taking an unexpected but perfect turn as you laughed and teased hana to go back to her own apartment for once.
you smile at heeseung, happy that he’s no longer just your roommate, or your best friend’s hot older brother, but he’s your boyfriend. you’re soulmate. your connection, grown through late movie nights, chinese takeout and stupid misunderstandings is strong, and wonderful.
and you’re so glad that lee hana moved out.
@ taeghi, 2023. do not repost or reuse in anyway.
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