your husband, YUNHO, pouted as you placed your son in his lap, because for some reason the little bundle of joy always cries when he is in his father’s arms, while you are somewhere else for not even five minutes… mama can’t even go to the bathroom if the baby is not attached to her hip.
“honey, no,” you smile, sitting next to him and putting your head on his shoulder while you gently tickle your son’s tummy, “he loves you, okay? he’s just… attached to me right now.” the baby immediately curls into your side, gripping your sleeve, wanting to pull you closer or for you to cuddle him instead of this grown unknown man that looks like a giant tree from one of the cartoons that plays on the tv.
“attached is an understatement.”
“he’ll grow out of it.” you kiss yuhno’s cheek, nuzzling more into his warmth when the pure possessive rage hits your son when you kiss his dad, seeing how you give your attention to someone else and squawks, like a warning shot. the baby language is all about doing faces and just mouthing things, little pop-pop sounds that come out of him, as yunho understands one thing that is: stay away from mama.
yunho groans, bouncing him lightly. “that’s actually insane… where does he get that possessiveness from?”
you stare at yunho, raising your eyebrow, and he looks at you, blinking, then his ears turn bright red from embarrassment, because hmm, you wonder from where and from who your son got so much personality even if he hasn’t learned to talk yet?
“okay fine, maybe from me.”
but at one point, you just wanted to go to the kitchen for a bit and got up when both boys’ puppy eyes shot at you the second you took one step toward leaving. because what do you mean you are leaving them to attend the human needs to hydrate your body, and maybe grab something to eat... how can you leave them alone? this is not good parenting behaviour, you shouldn't leave your children unattended since your husband is a man-child.
“where are you going?”
“to get water?”
“okay, but… are you coming back?”
“yunho, the kitchen is five meters away.”
“yeah, but still...”
in the meantime, your son giggles, arms wrapping around his dad’s neck, squealing every time yunho spins him in the air. the dad’s face is just as bright, cheeks hurting from grinning, whispering baby gibberish, and when you come back, he lights up like a dog whose owner just returned from a two-month trip.
“there she is,” he murmurs proudly, cooing softly at his son, holding him high like he’s a giggling basketball. “my beautiful wife and your mother, the love of my life… ow, little man, don’t grip my finger that tight—”
your son literally beams at you, same puppy eyes, arms out, tiny hands clutching air like yeah, give me to mama. the sunshine is only ten months old, but grows more attached every day, and more clingy to the woman he considers the centre of his tiny universe. and when he looks at his dad, his mouth is a tiny pout, looking so done with yunho.
the baby melts against you, tiny yawns sneaking in as he drifts toward sleep in your arms, and your husband just… watches. heart practically exploding, because even if the little sunshine clearly has you wrapped around his chubby finger, he knows that deep down, he loves him too, it's just… he loves you more, and honestly, yunho can’t even be mad about it, as he leans down to kiss the top of his son's head, "sweet dreams, baby."
how Valentine's like for ENHYPEN with their kids and Y/N is sick
requested by anonymous
HEESEUNG - Love, in Every Temperature
The house was supposed to smell like strawberries and coffee that night.
Heeseung had planned it down to the minute, heart-shaped pancakes in the morning, a movie night with the kids, maybe even sneaking a quiet toast with you after bedtime. Valentine’s Day wasn’t about grand gestures anymore. It was about this about you. About the tiny socks left in the hallway and the way your laughter filled the kitchen.
But by evening, the air felt wrong.
You were burning up beneath the blankets, skin too warm, breaths coming shallow and uneven. Heeseung pressed the thermometer to your forehead with hands that were suddenly too clumsy, his smile forced as the kids hovered nearby.
“It’s okay,” he told them softly. “Mama just needs rest.”
You smiled at him, weak, apologetic, and whispered, “I’m sorry… ruining Valentine’s.”
That was when something cracked.
After the kids were tucked in and the hallway lights dimmed, Heeseung stepped away from your bedroom and leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His hands covered his face as the guilt hit him all at once, heavy and suffocating.
How did I miss this?
You told me you were tired. You told me your head hurt.
His shoulders shook as he cried silently, biting down on his knuckles so the sound wouldn’t carry. He blamed himself for every laugh he hadn’t questioned, every I’m fine he’d believed. Valentine’s night, and all he could think was how terrifying it felt to imagine a world where he didn’t notice in time.
He wiped his face, took a shaky breath, and stood.
Nothing mattered more than you.
He cancelled everything without a second thought, messages sent, plans erased. Then he guided the kids into your bedroom and let them crawl carefully onto the bed. They nestled around you, small hands clutching yours, foreheads pressed to your arms.
Heeseung sat beside you, fingers lacing gently through yours, his thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. Your breathing was still uneven, your fever stubborn, but you relaxed when he started to sing.
Soft. Familiar. The song he used to hum when the kids were babies and wouldn’t sleep.
The room felt warmer, not from the fever, but from the love packed into every quiet moment. He didn’t stop singing until your breathing finally evened out, until the tension left your face and the kids drifted into half-sleep around you.
“Happy Valentine’s,” he whispered, kissing your knuckles.
By morning, the worst had passed.
The kids insisted on helping with breakfast, which meant flour everywhere, batter on the counter, and one heart-shaped pancake that looked more like a blob. Heeseung laughed so hard his eyes crinkled as syrup somehow ended up on his sleeve, his cheek, and—mysteriously—his hair.
You watched from bed, wrapped in blankets, laughter weak but real.
They brought the pancakes to you on a tray, climbed back into bed, and the five of you ate together, sticky fingers and all. Syrup smeared on noses, giggles echoing through the room, Heeseung pretending to be offended every time someone pointed out the mess on him.
It wasn’t perfect.
But as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, warm and steady now, Heeseung realized this was the Valentine’s he’d remember most;
the one where love showed up quietly, stayed all night, and laughed in the morning.
Valentine’s Day was supposed to smell like chocolate and roses.
Instead, it smelled like fever medicine and the faint steam from the humidifier Jay had set up beside the bed.
Y/N lay curled under the covers, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat. Jay sat at the edge of the mattress, one hand resting on their forehead, the other holding a half-finished Valentine’s card their youngest had abandoned in favour of crayons on the floor. He kept his face calm—steady—because that’s what dads did. That’s what husbands did. You held it together so everyone else could breathe.
The kids had been unusually quiet all day, whispering instead of running, sneaking glances at their mom as if she might disappear if they looked too hard.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N murmured suddenly, voice thin and hoarse.
Jay leaned closer. “Hey. Don’t talk if it hurts.”
“I ruined Valentine’s,” they said anyway, eyes glossy. “You and the kids were excited, and now everything’s just… this.”
That’s when it broke.
Jay didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. But the hurt in his eyes hit harder than anger ever could.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.”
Y/N blinked, startled.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he continued, voice tight. “Do you really think chocolate and cards matter more to me than you being okay? Thank you for being here?”
He stood abruptly, turning away for a second, pressing his palm to his eyes as he could physically hold himself together. When he turned back, his expression was raw, honest in a way he usually guarded carefully.
“It hurts,” he admitted softly, “that you’d think your health is less important than a holiday.”
Y/N’s lips trembled. “I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”
Jay sighed and sat back down, all the tension draining from his shoulders as he reached for them again.
“You could never disappoint me by being human,” he said. “By needing rest. By being sick.”
He didn’t give them time to argue. He pulled extra blankets from the foot of the bed, layering them carefully around Y/N like armour. Tucked the edges in. Adjusted the pillows. Reached for the water bottle without being asked.
“I’ve got the kids,” he said firmly. “I’ve got dinner. I’ve got everything. Your only job today is to rest.”
Y/N watched him quietly as he moved with purpose, checking medicine times, peeking into the kids’ room, lowering his voice instinctively when he came back. Every action was steady, deliberate, love in motion.
“You’re not a burden,” he added gently, brushing hair away from their face. “You’re my wife.”
Later that evening, after Y/N drifted in and out of sleep, the bedroom door creaked open.
Jay reappeared, followed by the kids, all dressed far too seriously for the occasion.
The oldest cleared their throat. “Mom. Please wake up. It’s time.”
Jay knelt dramatically. “We would like to begin the Valentine’s ceremony formally.”
Y/N blinked awake, confused, and then smiled weakly.
The kids marched forward, each presenting a crumpled, glitter-covered card. One of them bowed so hard they nearly fell over. Another saluted. Jay followed suit, bowing with exaggerated flair.
“On this Valentine’s Day,” he announced solemnly, “we honour the most important person in this family.”
Y/N’s eyes filled instantly.
“For being strong,” one kid added.
“For being nice even when sick,” another said.
“For giving the best hugs,” the youngest declared proudly.
Jay leaned down and kissed Y/N’s forehead, soft and lingering. “And for still being our Valentine, no matter what.”
Laughter bubbled out of Y/N, quiet but real, as the kids climbed carefully onto the bed, nestling around them under Jay’s watchful eye.
The room didn’t have roses or candlelight.
But it had warmth. And love. And the steady certainty that this—this—was exactly how Valentine’s Day was supposed to be.
You wake up later to the sound of breathing.
Not the shallow, panicked kind that’s followed you all day, but steady ones. Small ones. The kids have fallen asleep around you without realizing it, limbs tangled carefully as if instinctively afraid to jostle you. One arm is draped over your waist. Another cheek is pressed into your shoulder.
Jay is still awake.
You can feel it in the way his hand rests on your back, firm, protective, like he’s anchoring you to the bed in case you try to disappear again. The room is dim, lit only by the hallway light spilling through the cracked door. Everything feels fragile. Like if you speak, it’ll shatter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whisper.
Jay stiffens.
You hate that you felt it. Hate that even sick, even exhausted, you’re still capable of causing that reaction in him.
“I just…” Your throat tightens. “I hate being the reason things stop. The reason plans change. I saw their faces this morning. I saw yours.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s counting to keep himself calm.
“You didn’t stop anything,” he says. “You’re not a pause button.”
“But it feels like it,” you admit. “Like everything has to rearrange itself around me being weak.”
Jay finally looks at you then. Really looks. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. He looks like someone who’s been carrying too much without setting it down.
“Weak?” he repeats quietly.
He shifts so the kids don’t wake, then cups your face, gentler than you expect, like he’s afraid you’ll bruise.
“You think lying here, burning up, still worrying about everyone else is weak?”
Your eyes sting.
“I needed today to be perfect,” you whisper. “I wanted to give them something happy.”
Jay swallows hard.
“You already did,” he says, voice rough. “You just being here—breathing—was enough. And when you apologized earlier…”
His jaw tightens again, that same crack you heard before.
“It scared me,” he admits. “Because it sounded like you were putting yourself second. Like you were trying to earn your place in your own family.”
Tears slip down before you can stop them.
“I didn’t want to be a disappointment.”
Jay presses his forehead to yours, careful not to transfer heat.
“You could never disappoint me by being sick,” he says firmly. “But you would break my heart if you kept believing you have to suffer quietly to deserve love.”
His thumb wipes your tears away. Once. Twice.
“I need you to let me be strong when you can’t,” he says. “Not because you owe me. But because we’re married. Because that’s what we promised.”
Your chest aches, not from the fever, but from the truth of it.
You nod weakly, fingers curling into his sleeve like you’re afraid he might leave if you loosen your grip.
“I’m still here,” he murmurs immediately, as if reading your fear. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He pulls the blankets higher, tucks them in again, even though they don’t need it. Adjusts the kids without waking them. Leaves a kiss on each of their heads before settling back beside you.
You fall asleep like that, surrounded, held, allowed to rest without apology.
And for the first time all day, you believe him when he says you didn’t ruin anything.
The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting warm patterns on the floor, but Jake didn’t notice. His hands were full with two little sets of tiny hands tugging at his sleeves, demanding pancakes shaped like hearts. “Daddy, make it big! Big heart!”
Jake smiled, his chest tightening as he glanced toward the bedroom. Y/N lay under a mountain of blankets, her face pale and flushed. Her small coughs echoed faintly, and for a moment, his smile faltered, but he pushed it down. The kids needed him to be happy, and Valentine’s Day wasn’t about fear.
He spent the morning laughing through spilled syrup and flour-covered counters, helping the kids smear chocolate hearts across plates. “Careful! That’s a heart, not a pancake monster!” he joked, and the kids erupted into giggles. Y/N’s weak smile from the doorway gave him a pang he refused to acknowledge.
By evening, the house was quiet. The kids had fallen asleep after a half-hearted attempt at bedtime, and Jake finally let himself sit on the edge of the bed. Y/N’s head rested on the pillow, eyes half-lidded and cheeks warm with fever.
Jake’s heart squeezed painfully. “I—I was scared today,” he whispered, voice low, almost afraid the words would break the quiet. “Watching you struggle just to sit up… I didn’t know what to do. I… I didn’t want anything to happen to you.”
Y/N stirred, weakly reaching for his hand. “Jake…” Her voice was raspy, but full of warmth. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I know. But I had to smile for the kids. I had to make today happy, even if I was dying inside.”
A small cough from Y/N made him sigh, pulling the blankets closer. “Come here,” he murmured, tugging her and the kids’ stuffed animals into a soft cuddle pile. The kids, still half-awake, wriggled in, piling on top of him as Y/N rested her head on his chest.
“I bet you can’t make me laugh, Daddy,” Y/N whispered.
Jake grinned, though his heart still ached. “Oh, really? Two little monsters and I versus you, huh? Challenge accepted.”
He started whispering silly jokes, making ridiculous animal noises, and telling absurd bedtime stories. The kids squealed and laughed, and after a moment, a genuine chuckle slipped from Y/N’s lips. Jake exhaled slowly, relief washing over him.
The next morning, the kids were insistent on a game they called Valentine’s Doctor. Y/N was supposed to be the patient, and Jake was her assistant; but the kids were determined that Jake was the worst patient ever.
“Daddy! You’re wheezing too loudly!” one of the kids scolded.
“I can’t help it! The doctor told me my Valentine’s heart is too heavy!” Jake dramatically gasped, clutching his chest and collapsing onto the couch. Y/N laughed, a soft, bright sound that made his chest ache with love.
The kids joined in, examining him with toy stethoscopes, scribbling prescriptions on scraps of paper, while Y/N smiled from her blanket. Jake winked at her. “See? I’m getting better… all thanks to your excellent doctor skills.”
“Maybe next year you should just stay sick,” Y/N teased weakly, still smiling.
Jake pulled her close, his heart full despite the exhaustion. “Never. I’d rather spend Valentine’s Day worrying and laughing with you than anywhere else.”
The kids clambered back into the cuddle pile, and Jake wrapped his arms around all of them, letting the warmth and love of his little family melt away every leftover fear from last night.
The soft hum of the heater filled the small living room as Sunghoon balanced a cup of lukewarm water in one hand and the tiny spoon of medicine in the other. Y/N’s face was pale, flushed from fever, and their lips trembled as they tried to sit up.
“Here… just a little sip,” he said, his voice calm and steady. On the outside, he looked composed—as nothing could shake him—but inside, his hands were shaking, betraying his panic. Don’t drop it. Don’t mess this up.
The kids were perched on the couch, quiet but watching. They sensed something was off. Sunghoon swallowed hard, forcing his hands to stay still as Y/N took the medicine with a weak nod. “Th-thank you…” Y/N whispered, voice hoarse.
Sunghoon’s chest tightened. I can’t lose them. Not now. Not ever.
By late afternoon, the house had transformed. The kids had scattered pieces of construction paper, markers, and crayons across the dining table, determined to make Valentine cards. Sunghoon dimmed the lights, lit a few candles, and poured a warm bowl of soup for Y/N.
“Here, this will make you feel better,” he said softly, settling next to the bed where Y/N leaned against pillows. The kids hovered, holding up wobbly drawings: hearts, stick figures, and glitter galore.
Y/N smiled faintly, their hand brushing Sunghoon’s. “You… really planned all this?”
He shrugged, trying to hide the anxiety that still buzzed under his skin. “Of course. You rest. I’ve got everything else covered.”
The kids insisted on putting the finishing touches on the decorations. They ran back and forth, proudly placing their paper hearts on the walls and even on Sunghoon.
“Daddy, you have to wear this,” one of them said, brandishing a crooked crown made from construction paper and stickers.
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow but smiled, letting the kids place the crown on his head. “A Valentine king, huh?”
“Yes!” the kids cheered. “Kings have to look silly!”
Despite the fever, Y/N laughed softly, the sound light and warm. Sunghoon leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from their forehead, the crown wobbling comically on his head. In that moment, the glow of candlelight, the chaos of the kids, the quiet intimacy, he felt a tiny relief in his chest.
He could still be terrified. He could still worry about every breath Y/N took. But as long as they were here, as long as the kids were laughing, he could hold it together. Even if only for today.
“Happy Valentine’s,” he whispered.
Y/N’s hand found his, squeezing it weakly but firmly. “Happy Valentine’s, my silly king.”
The kids cheered again, and Sunghoon let himself laugh, shaking the crown on his head as they all collapsed into a warm, messy, perfect little cuddle pile.
The living room was a flurry of pink and red construction paper, glue sticks, and glitter dust that the kids were convinced was essential for Valentine’s magic. Sunoo knelt on the floor, tying a tiny ribbon around the newest paper heart while glancing at the clock.
“Mommy’s still in bed,” one of the kids whispered, voice small. “Should we… check on her?”
Sunoo smiled, cheerful and calm on the surface, though his heart was doing a quiet panic dance in his chest. “Not yet. Let’s finish decorating first. Mommy will love this surprise.”
He hid the worry behind his grin. Y/N had been sick all week, and even now, with a small fever burning through her, she had tried to smile at the kids’ handmade cards. But the moment she had tried to tell a story, her voice faltered, eyes fluttering shut. Sunoo had caught a tear threatening to spill, and he had quickly brushed it away with a joke about the Valentine’s Fairy being tired too.
Now, kneeling among the kids, he whispered, “Almost done. Just a few more hearts.”
He could hear Y/N’s soft breathing from the bedroom. Every so often, she coughed lightly, and he flinched, pretending to straighten a heart on the wall. Behind the smile, his chest ached. He hated seeing her like this, exhausted, burning up, trying to be strong for everyone else. And when she had drifted off mid-sentence earlier, he had barely held back tears, swallowing them so the kids wouldn’t see.
“Done!” one of the kids cheered. They clapped, and Sunoo stood, stretching dramatically.
“Now,” he said with a theatrical bow, “we present… the Valentine Recovery Zone!”
The bedroom door opened slowly. Y/N leaned weakly against the frame, bundled in blankets, hair messy but eyes twinkling at the sight before her. The walls were dotted with pink hearts, glitter trailing across the bedspread, and Sunoo and the kids standing proudly with more hearts in their hands.
“Guys… this is… incredible,” she whispered, voice hoarse but full of warmth. She tried to step forward but faltered, and Sunoo was instantly at her side, guiding her gently to sit on the bed.
“You need to rest,” he said softly, brushing a stray hair from her face. “We’ve got everything covered. Warm pajamas, soft music, hugs on demand… You stay right here.”
Y/N managed a small laugh, leaning into him. “You… make everything sound so magical.”
“That’s because it is,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You’re loved… so, so much. And the kids? They made sure to include every single glittery heart imaginable to prove it.”
One of the kids tugged on Sunoo’s sleeve. “Daddy, can we put the last heart on Mommy’s forehead?”
“Of course,” Sunoo chuckled, carefully letting the kids place the final pink heart on Y/N’s forehead. “Perfect. You’re officially the queen of the Valentine Recovery Zone.”
Y/N smiled, eyes misting slightly. “I… love you all.”
Sunoo pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “We love you too. Every bit.”
For a moment, the room was quiet except for the soft music and the occasional giggle from the kids. Sunoo let himself exhale, letting the tension he had carried all day melt into warmth. They were here, together, and Y/N was safe for now. The tears he had tried to hide earlier threatened again, but this time, they were tears of relief, of love, of quiet happiness.
And for this Valentine’s Day, in the little bedroom glittering with pink paper hearts, everything felt just a little bit brighter.
The soft hum of the heater was the only sound in the living room. Y/N lay on the couch, a pale blanket tucked around them, cheeks flushed with fever. The kids, half-dressed in mismatched pyjamas, were quietly colouring heart-shaped cards on the floor, glancing up occasionally to see if their mom was okay.
Jungwon moved like a man balancing on a tightrope. He’d just given Y/N another sip of water, checked the thermometer, and yet, he still felt like it wasn’t enough.
“I… I should be doing more,” he whispered to himself as he straightened the blanket. Y/N’s tired eyes fluttered open, and they gave him a small, weak smile. “You’re doing perfectly, love,” they murmured, voice soft and ragged.
But Jungwon felt the weight of everything, the kids’ needs, the house, the groceries he still needed to get, even the little Valentine’s plans he had tried to make special. His heart tightened watching Y/N struggle to lift their hand to touch his.
“Just rest,” he said, brushing a strand of hair off their forehead, trying to swallow the ache in his chest. “I’ve got this.”
By mid-morning, Jungwon had fully taken over the day. He moved with quiet efficiency, setting alarms for medicine, organizing snacks, and gently coaxing the kids into getting dressed without making Y/N feel guilty for resting. Every small task felt monumental. Every glance at Y/N reminded him why he couldn’t falter.
He pulled the kids close and whispered instructions for the Valentine’s surprise while Y/N dozed. The house smelled faintly of soup, hot chocolate, and crayons. It wasn’t the romantic dinner they’d planned, but it was love in its purest, most practical form.
When Y/N stirred, Jungwon was there, holding a warm mug of tea. The kids scampered over, proudly holding up their hand-drawn cards.
“Look! We made these for Mommy!” the youngest squealed.
“And for Daddy, too!” the older one added, presenting a lopsided heart with Best Valentine Helper Ever scrawled in crayon.
Jungwon froze, blinking at the words. His face heated as a soft laugh escaped his lips. “W-what did you say?” he stammered, looking between the kids and Y/N, who was smiling faintly from the couch.
“You’re the Best Valentine Helper Ever, Daddy!” the kids chorused.
His chest tightened, not from pressure this time, but from warmth. He crouched to their level, ruffling hair and pressing a kiss to each forehead. “I… I’m flustered now. But… thank you.”
Y/N reached out and squeezed his hand, eyes full of love. “See? You’re amazing,” they whispered.
And for the first time that day, Jungwon let himself breathe. He could handle the chaos, the sickness, the kids, because love, messy, loud, and tired as it was, was right here in front of him. And somehow, that made everything feel manageable.
“Mommy’s asleep again,” whispered the older one, tiptoeing across the living room with a crayon in hand.
“Shhh! Don’t wake her!” the younger hissed, holding up their hand like a serious soldier.
From the couch, Y/N stirred slightly, and the older one sighed. “She’s really sick, huh…”
“We have to make it special anyway!” the younger one said, bouncing up and down. “Daddy said so!”
They peeked at Jungwon, who was bustling around like a superhero with no cape. He had blankets folded neatly, a tray of warm soup on the coffee table, and a gentle smile on his face that made even the youngest stop bouncing for a second.
“Okay, team,” Jungwon said, crouching to their level, “here’s the plan. We make cards. We make hearts. And then…” He leaned in, whispering, “We surprise Mommy!”
“Yes!” they yelled in unison, already scattering to collect paper and crayons.
Chaos ensued immediately. Crayons rolled under the couch, paper flew in every direction, and the youngest somehow ended up wearing a paper heart as a hat. Jungwon’s eyes widened. “Okay… maybe we’ll call that a… festive accessory.” He chuckled, ruffling their hair.
The older one proudly held up a crayon-scrawled card. “Done! Look, Daddy!”
Jungwon took it, squinting. “Best… Valentine… Helper… Ever?” he read aloud, stammering and blushing. “You made this for me?”
“Yes!” the kids cheered.
“You’re… you’re amazing,” he said, his voice cracking just slightly, trying to hide how much his heart was melting. He pressed a kiss to each of their heads before glancing at Y/N, who was smiling softly from the couch, weak but happy.
Then it was showtime. The kids marched over to the couch, holding their cards like trophies. “Happy Valentine’s, Mommy! And Daddy, you’re the Best Valentine Helper Ever!”
Y/N laughed softly, and the youngest snuggled into Jungwon’s side. He hugged both kids tight, heart pounding. “I… I don’t deserve this,” he muttered, flustered.
“Yes, you do!” the older one said seriously, poking his chest. “You did everything today!”
Jungwon couldn’t stop the grin from spreading. Maybe Valentine’s wasn’t about fancy dinners or chocolates. Maybe it was this, the little chaos, the laughter, the love all bundled together. And for today, with Y/N resting and the kids happy, it was perfect.
Even if he had a crayon stuck to his cheek.
The house had finally settled into a peaceful quiet. The kids, exhausted from a day of crayon chaos, heart decorations, and impromptu Valentine performances, were tucked into bed. Jungwon had double-checked their blankets, kissed their foreheads, and whispered, “Sleep well, my little Valentines.”
Y/N was curled up on the couch, finally able to rest fully, their breathing slow and even. Jungwon sat beside them, a soft blanket draped over both, and held their hand gently. The faint smell of warm soup and crayons still lingered in the air, a cozy reminder of the day’s love-filled chaos.
“You… you did everything today,” Y/N murmured, voice still weak, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.
“I just… tried to make sure you could rest,” Jungwon replied, brushing a strand of hair from their face. “The kids… they’re amazing, but I wanted to be here for you too.”
Y/N gave him a small, grateful smile. “You already are… the best Valentine ever.”
Jungwon’s chest warmed, and he leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to their temple. “We’re all a team,” he whispered, glancing toward the hallway where the kids’ faint snores echoed. “And today… Today was perfect.”
He let the quiet wrap around them. The soft weight of Y/N’s hand in his, the gentle rise and fall of their chest, the distant, steady breaths of the kids, it was all so ordinary, yet it filled him with a love so profound it made his chest ache pleasantly.
Jungwon stayed there for a long moment, holding them both in his heart and in his arms, silently vowing that no matter what chaos or sickness came, he would always try to be the dependable, flustered, loving Best Valentine Helper they all thought he already was.
Eventually, even his eyelids grew heavy. He leaned back, still holding Y/N’s hand, listening to the house breathe. The day had been hectic, messy, and exhausting, but full of love, laughter, and quiet victories. And for once, Jungwon allowed himself to feel it all, smiling softly as he drifted into the same peaceful sleep he’d worked so hard to gift everyone.
The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, but the warmth didn’t reach Y/N. They were curled up under the blankets, pale and trembling slightly, the soft hum of their cough filling the room. Ni-ki had been up since dawn, moving quietly between the kitchen and the bedroom, pretending to himself that he was fine, that he had everything under control.
But when Y/N tried to sit up for breakfast, and their strength failed them, Ni-ki froze. His heart thumped violently in his chest.
“Y/N… no, no, it’s okay, stay there,” he whispered, practically dropping to the floor beside the bed. His hand clutched theirs like a lifeline, his knuckles white. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, he was no longer the strong, steady one. He was a scared kid, terrified that the person he loved most could disappear from him.
“I—I’ve got you,” Ni-ki stammered, voice cracking. “You just rest. I won’t let anything happen.”
Y/N’s weak smile reached him, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tight coil of panic in his chest.
By mid-morning, he knew he couldn’t stay glued to the bed forever. The kids were bouncing around, oblivious to the tension, and he had to keep the house from feeling like a hospital.
“Alright, team!” Ni-ki clapped his hands, forcing a grin. “Mission Valentine is a go! Operation: Cheer Up Mommy!”
The kids erupted into squeals of excitement, grabbing markers, construction paper, and anything they could decorate with. Ni-ki danced around the living room, making exaggerated moves, tripping over a cushion, but laughing anyway.
“Watch out! The floor is lava!” he shouted, narrowly catching the youngest when they lunged forward. They all tumbled into a pile of giggles, the sound light and contagious.
From the bed, Y/N watched quietly, still weak but smiling through a cough. Ni-ki caught their gaze, winked, and made a silly bow, even though his legs were trembling from exhaustion.
By the afternoon, Ni-ki had orchestrated a full-blown Valentine’s performance. The kids were clumsily singing, waving handmade heart-shaped props, and pretending to march like little soldiers of love. Ni-ki danced and twirled in the middle, tripping over tiny feet and bumping into chairs, but it didn’t matter, his laughter was genuine, and Y/N’s laughter followed, soft and uneven, but enough to fill the room with warmth.
He knelt by the bed afterward, catching Y/N’s hand again, but this time with calmer breaths.
“You see?” he said gently, brushing hair from their forehead. “We didn’t let Valentine’s be ruined. You just needed to rest, and we—” he gestured at the giggling kids—“we made it fun. I promise, you’re loved. More than you can imagine.”
Y/N’s hand squeezed his weakly, eyes misty. “I—I feel it… Thank you.”
Ni-ki’s chest tightened, a mixture of relief and lingering fear. But seeing Y/N smile, even slightly, he let himself exhale, resting his forehead against theirs. The kids piled onto the bed, wrapping them all in a chaotic, messy, and perfect Valentine’s hug.
In that moment, Ni-ki realized something important: he didn’t always have to be tough. Being scared, being worried, it was human. But love, laughter, and a little chaos? That could carry them through anything.
And today, Valentine’s Day, had been exactly that.
The morning sunlight crept through the curtains, soft and golden, but it couldn’t reach Y/N. They were curled up in bed, pale and trembling, the faint rattle of a cough punctuating the quiet. Ni-ki had been up for hours, flitting between kitchen and bedroom, trying to act calm, trying to be strong.
But when Y/N weakly tried to sit up for breakfast and failed, everything inside him shattered.
“Y/N… stay—please, stay here,” he whispered, dropping to the floor beside the bed. His fingers clutched theirs like he could tether them to life itself. Panic clawed at his chest.
He tried to breathe, tried to act composed, but the sight of them so small and fragile, their lips dry, their skin warm from fever, made him feel like a child himself, helpless and afraid.
“I—I’ve got you,” he choked out, voice cracking. “I won’t let anything happen. I swear.”
Y/N weakly reached for him, a tired, quivering smile. “I… I’m okay… just… tired.”
But Ni-ki couldn’t be reassured. The fear lingered, squeezing his chest, making his hands tremble as he pressed theirs to his face, as if he could draw strength from them alone.
By late morning, he realized he couldn’t stay glued to the bed. The kids were bouncing around, oblivious to the tension, full of sugar and energy, and if he didn’t act fast, the house would feel like a storm instead of home.
“Alright, team!” Ni-ki clapped his hands, forcing a grin he didn’t feel. “Mission Valentine is go! Operation Cheer Up Mommy!”
The kids shrieked with excitement, grabbing markers, construction paper, and glitter like tiny tornadoes of chaos. Ni-ki danced, flailed, and tripped over a stray toy, but he laughed anyway. He swung the youngest into the air like a parachute, spinning in a ridiculous circle until the room was dizzy with giggles.
From the bed, Y/N watched quietly, eyes half-closed, but the corners of their lips tugged upward. Ni-ki caught their gaze, grinned wildly, and made a dramatic bow, even as sweat slicked his hair and his legs threatened to buckle from exhaustion.
“Look at us!” he shouted, voice bouncing with fake bravado. “Nothing—nothing—can ruin this Valentine’s Day!”
By afternoon, the house had become a stage. Ni-ki orchestrated a full Valentine’s performance: the kids sang off-key but enthusiastically, waving handmade heart-shaped props; Ni-ki twirled, stumbled, and bumped into chairs with all the grace of a flailing puppet, but his laughter was genuine.
Y/N’s laughter, soft but present, drifted from the bed. It was uneven, still fragile from the sickness, but it made his chest ache in relief.
He knelt beside the bed, catching Y/N’s hand again, brushing sweaty strands of hair from their forehead. “See?” he said softly. “We didn’t let Valentine’s be ruined. You just needed to rest, and we—” he gestured at the chaotic, giggling kids—“we made it fun. I promise, you’re loved. More than you can imagine.”
Y/N squeezed his hand weakly, eyes glistening. “I… feel it… thank you…”
Ni-ki let himself exhale fully for the first time all morning, resting his forehead against theirs. The kids piled onto the bed, wrapping them all in a messy, warm, chaotic hug. Glitter stuck to cheeks, blankets tangled, and Ni-ki laughed so hard he almost cried.
In that moment, he realized: he didn’t always have to be the strong one. It was okay to be scared, to panic, to tremble. But love, laughter, and a little chaos? That could carry them through anything.
And today, Valentine’s Day, had been exactly that, a perfect storm of fear, comfort, and messy, heart-shaped joy.
(𝓐UTREMENT) — jay can't function when you're around.
天使ℳade :: f.reader ⋆˚✿ est. (348) ✶ reader is cold easily skinship ⓘ reblogs : kisses
Everyone used to say that the love two people shared for each other starts to slowly diminish after they got married.
But there must've been something wrong with Jay because all his marriage to you did was make him fall harder with you.
Every little thing about you made his heart flutter a little faster. It was like he forgot how to do anything except for love you and admire you in all your glory.
So when you settled yourself on the couch right next to him and started playing a game on your nintendo switch, Jay wasn't surprised when he started involuntarily holding his breath like he would disturb your peace if he didn't.
His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, heart pounding against his chest as if to crawl its way to you—to where it belonged.
He tried to avert his attention back to the reel he was watching right now on his phone, but seeing you be so comfortable around him set swarms of butterflies inside him.
It wasn't helpful now that you were leaning towards him, cuddling up against his arm because you were feeling a little chilly. And Jay noticed like always.
"Cold?" he asks, his voice quiet, distracted by his presence next to you.
"Yeah," you mumble, continuing to play Animal Crossing.
He straightens slowly, making sure to give you enough time to pull away from against his arm before tugging his hoodie over his head.
"Darling," he calls endearingly, almost forgetting what he was doing when your gaze met his. "Um, put—put this on," he stutters, helping you wrangle the piece of clothing on to your small body.
Jay turns towards you before wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you towards him so that your back was pressed up against his chest.
If Jay was going to malfunction because of having a heavenly being like you around, he might as well have it happen because of you being pressed up close enough for you to be able to sense his pulsing heart beating against your back.
ᥫ᭡⊹ ࣪ ˖ (1) notification! smol drabble for this req from my gfie @ikeu05. i hope i served like u do w/ ur fics. lil birdie in my head says it sucks tho ueueue.
Seven years ago, a parasite fell from the sky and rewrote the boundaries of biology, blurring the line between host and invader. Park Jongseong, now exists in the in-between, neither fully human nor entirely parasite, a hybrid organism shaped by adaptation and survival. Hunted by those who fear what they cannot categorize, he searches for meaning in the world—and finds it in you.
content tags/warnings: sci-fi— bio thriller, parasite hybrid pjs, parasite hybrid reader, they fight when they first met. body horror, graphic violence, injury and blood, death/near-death experiences, militarization, post-traumatic themes, mild animal endangerment. explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, fingering, cunilingus, multiple sex position (their refractory period is broken, they keep going and going), double penetration, tentacles (?), monster fucking. READER DISCRETION IS ADVICED. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!! WC: 23.1K
note: the idea of monster and parasites in the story is inspired by the kdrama and anime: parasyte. but the biology, and how they merged was slightly different and some of it was my own writing.
Human psychology is deeply rooted in a survival mechanism that instinctively reacts with fear toward the unknown.
This fear, often manifesting as hostility, arises when individuals encounter phenomena that defy their understanding. When faced with the unfamiliar—particularly that which cannot be categorized within existing frameworks—the response is often defensive aggression. The unfamiliar is perceived as a threat, and in the absence of comprehension, elimination becomes the perceived solution.
Approximately seven years ago, Earth began experiencing a biological incursion in the form of a parasitic organism of unknown origin. This entity operates by infecting human hosts, initiating a fatal transformation process. The host is systematically destroyed at a cellular and cognitive level, as the parasite integrates with and ultimately overrides the nervous system and bodily structure.
Upon successful assimilation, the parasite reconstitutes the human form into a highly adaptive biomechanical entity capable of extreme morphogenesis. These entities exhibit advanced shapeshifting capabilities, able to reconfigure their structure into a variety of forms and tools, limited only by mass and matter conservation principles.
Neurologically, the parasite erases the host's personality and emotional spectrum, replacing it with a singular directive: to propagate through predation and infiltration. These organisms display a rudimentary form of consciousness, retaining fragments of the host's memories for navigational or social camouflage but are devoid of empathy or emotional regulation. Their cognitive processes are entirely geared toward strategic murder and survival.
Park Jongseong is different.
He adjusted his glasses, eyes fixed on the monitor displaying his own cellular data. Streams of biological activity lit up the screen—cells dividing, mutating, adapting. He was lucky to have access to advanced medical equipment. After all, he was a doctor.
Humans are naturally afraid of what they don't understand. It's part of how the brain reacts to threats—if something doesn't fit into what's familiar, the instinct is fear, often followed by violence. That's how humanity responds to the unknown: eliminate it.
Jongseong had become the unknown.
He didn't know what he was anymore. His thoughts still felt like his own. He still felt emotion, empathy, fear, curiosity. Yet something deep inside had changed. His body was no longer entirely human. Something else lived in his blood.
But with Jongseong, something went wrong—or maybe something went right.
The parasite had merged with him, not replaced him. His cells had changed, yes—they were stronger, more adaptive. He could feel the shift in his physiology: faster reflexes, enhanced senses, the strange ability to alter parts of his body at will. Yet his mind remained intact. His identity remained intact.
He was both parasite and human. A hybrid. An anomaly.
From a biological standpoint, it shouldn't be possible. The parasite is known to override the host completely—shutting down the brain, rewriting the nervous system, restructuring tissue on a molecular level. But in Park Jongseong's case, the process didn't go as expected. His consciousness remained. His emotions remained. He wasn't fully human anymore, but he wasn't fully parasite either.
And that made him dangerous—to both sides.
Creatures like him were being hunted by the government. Classified as biohazards. The official statement warned the public daily:
"Be careful around your friends, relatives, family—anyone could be infected. Parasites look just like us, until they kill."
Murder cases connected to parasitic activity filled the news. Victims were often found mutilated beyond recognition, their internal organs rearranged, their skin marked with unfamiliar growths. Fear spread faster than the infection itself. Jongseong watched the reports from his house, barely breathing. Every passing day made it harder to stay hidden.
If the government found him, they wouldn't ask questions. They'd dissect him alive—tear his mutated body apart in the name of research and national security.
"How do you identify a parasite?"
That was the question echoed by media and scientists. For humans, the method was crude but effective: parasites can't fully mimic human hair. A simple hair sample under a microscope reveals the truth—parasitic tissue lacks keratin structure, instead made of a flexible protein-carbon lattice designed to replicate appearance.
But parasites had their own way of detecting each other. A subtle biological signal—an acoustic resonance picked up only through the inner ear. Like a hidden frequency, only recognizable to those with the altered cochlear structure. Jongseong had experienced it more than once. He would walk past someone, hear that strange, low echo in his skull—and feel a sudden, icy stillness in his blood.
He wasn't alone. Parasites were organizing. At first, they were random killers. Now, they were moving in packs—coordinated, methodical. Adapting. Evolving. And so is he.
"That'll be 700 won," the cashier muttered, not bothering to meet his eyes.
Jongseong kept his head down, slipping the coins onto the counter. No conversation. No eye contact. He took the plastic bag with a silent nod, his fingers tightening around the thin handles before he turned and stepped back into the cold night.
Even with the parasite inside him, he still felt hunger—raw, physical. His body demanded energy like any other, though now his metabolism ran hotter, faster. He still craved food.
He still felt the ache of sadness, the longing to return to something normal. Something human.
But that life was gone.
The night air of Seoul stung against his skin, the cold seeping through his coat. He moved with the crowd, head low, blending in with the blur of footsteps, voices, and passing cars. Every sound echoed. The parasite had enhanced his senses, and sometimes the world was simply too loud.
Then he felt it, a low, familiar vibration in his inner ear—a biological resonance only detectable by parasite-modified auditory systems. His breath caught, and a pulse of instinctual fear ran through him. He looked around carefully, eyes scanning faces, shadows, movement. One of them was nearby.
His pace faltered. That's when he saw you.
You stood out—not because of your appearance, but because of what you did. In the middle of the crosswalk, your hand casually brushed your ear. A subtle motion, barely noticeable to anyone else, but to him it screamed recognition.
You were a parasite.
His brows drew together. Something was off. Parasites usually acted in groups—hunting together, assimilating their targets with military precision. If you were one of them, you should've engaged him.
But you didn't. You kept walking, fast and purposeful. Almost like... you were running away.
Jongseong stayed still for a moment, the bag of food hanging from his hand, forgotten. His heartbeat was heavy in his ears, half fear, and half curiosity. Why would a parasite avoid confrontation?
Jongseong moved. Not fast, not slow—just enough to stay behind you without drawing attention. He weaved through the crowd with quiet precision, his eyes fixed on the back of your coat. The city noise drowned under the low pulse still humming in his inner ear. It wasn't strong. Just enough to confirm you were still nearby. Still parasite.
The further you walked, the thinner the crowd became. The bright shops faded behind them, replaced by rusted gates, shuttered storefronts, and flickering neon signs. This was the forgotten edge of the city. The place people passed through quickly. The place no one paid attention to.
You turned down a narrow alley.
Jongseong hesitated at the entrance. The cold bit harder here, funneled between brick and concrete. His fingers curled, feeling the familiar tension in his muscles—his body silently preparing to shift if needed. Bone could become blade in less than a second now. But he held it back.
He stepped in. The alley stretched narrow, damp, littered with the scent of oil, metal, and old rain. Pipes hissed from the walls. Ahead, your footsteps had stopped. You were waiting.
When he turned the final corner, he found you standing in front of a rusted service door leading into a forgotten subway access station.
You didn't move. Neither did he.
"If you're looking for another kin," you snarled without turning, "then get the fuck out and leave me alone. I'm not one of them."
Your voice was sharp making Jongseong's body tensed instantly. The shift in your tone, the unnatural dilation of your pupils, set off every instinct in him. His hand inched slightly to the side, fingers twitching, ready to reconfigure.
Then it happened. Too fast to follow with human eyes.
Your right shoulder warped violently—tissue splitting and reshaping into something jagged, organic, and grotesque. It extended outward, not as a limb but as a weapon—wing-like in structure, but edged with hooked thorns.
You lunged, Jongseong barely reacted in time, his arm snapping up, skin splitting as a skin liked carapace laced with tendon grew along his forearm—absorbing the blow with a sickening crack of thorn against hardened flesh.
He staggered back, eyes narrowed, breathing sharp.
"You kept your mind," he growled, muscles tensed, his cells humming beneath his skin, ready to shift again. "But you're still dangerous."
Your shoulder pulsed with unnatural motion, the wing-like appendage twitching as it began to fold back. "I don't want to be part of your kin," you hissed, your voice jagged with fury. "Leave me the fuck alone. I am not a monster like you!"
Jongseong's eyes widened. He barely had time to respond before you surged forward. The air tore around you as your body shifted mid-motion—bone spiking from your forearm like a serrated blade. You slashed.
He ducked, sparks flying as your weapon scraped against the metal wall. He twisted, arm reforming into hardened muscle and armor-like plating, launching a counterstrike aimed at your ribs.
You blocked with an organic shield that burst from your side—scaled and ridged like insect chitin. The impact sent both of you skidding back across the damp concrete.
Your eyes met again. Rage. Confusion. Pain.
Jongseong lunged first this time, his limbs reshaping with practiced speed—flesh snapping, tendons stretching. A blade grew from his wrist like a fang of obsidian, and he swung it toward your shoulder.
You caught it, barehanded.
Your arm, now half-shifted and armored, trembled with force as it held his blade in place. But what caught him wasn't your strength—it was your face. You weren't snarling anymore. You were breathing hard. Your eyes... they were terrified.
Your reaction wasn't instinctual. It wasn't predatory. You had hesitated. Controlled your form. Redirected the attack instead of going for the kill. Just like him.
Jongseong pulled back, staggering a step. His breathing slowed. "You're... like me."
You stood still, chest rising and falling. The bone blade on your forearm quivered, then receded slowly, melting back beneath your skin.
"Don't say that," you whispered, voice cracking. "Don't compare me to you."
But the truth was there—in the way your limbs didn't shift fully, in the way your face still held emotion, conscience, even after a violent clash. You hadn't killed him when you had the chance. You chose not to.
"I'm a hybrid," Jongseong whispered, "I'm not a monster. I'm not human either. I assume you are too."
You didn't answer right away. Your eyes flicked toward the tunnel, where the distant clicking echoed like something crawling just beyond the light. Then, slowly, you turned back to him. Your jaw clenched, the muscles in your cheek twitching like you were holding something in.
"I'm a human." It sounded more like a plea than a statement. "I was—" you paused, blinking hard, "—I was a person. I had a name. A home. I worked a job. I went to cafés and hated Mondays. I had a cat."
Jongseong didn't move.
"I wasn't this," you went on, your voice rising. "I didn't ask for it. I woke up one day and everything was... different. My skin felt wrong. I couldn't stop hearing things. Smelling things. My body... it started moving on its own. Changing. Splitting open."
Your breathing quickened. "And now I can feel it, all the time. In my bones. In my mind. Whispering. Pulling that doesn't belong to me."
Your eyes met his—wide, wet, terrified. "I don't want to be what you are."
Jongseong lowered his gaze for a moment. He understood that look. He'd seen it in the mirror more than once.
"I didn't want this either," he said quietly. He took a slow, cautious step forward, then crouched to your level, his voice soft—human.
"I was a doctor," he said, almost with a tired smile. "Worked long shifts. Rarely slept. I used to stress-eat... corn, of all things. Still do. I don't know why. Guess the parasite didn't kill that part of me."
You blinked, confused by the strange confession. But it grounded you, if only for a moment.
"I think about who I used to be all the time," he continued. "That guy who thought medicine could fix anything. Who didn't believe in monsters—just diseases, mutations, pathology." He paused, watching your face. "Then I became the thing we used to study. And I realized something... I'm still here. Somewhere beneath all of this."
His fingers lightly tapped his chest.
Your gaze dropped, lashes trembling as you stared at the space between your knees, the damp concrete still stained from your earlier strike. You didn't say anything right away. Your breathing was shallow—measured, like you were trying not to fall apart.
"I used to love the rain," you said quietly, almost to yourself. "Now it just smells like metal and rust and... blood."
Jongseong didn't interrupt. He stayed crouched, steady, watching you.
"I haven't slept in two weeks. Not really. I keep waking up in the middle of the night with my hands turned into something else. Blades. Claws. Once, it was... wings." You gave a bitter laugh, dry and hollow. "I think they were wings. They tore the ceiling fan clean off."
"I keep thinking if I ignore it, if I just pretend hard enough, it'll go away. But it's always there. Under my skin. In my head."
Jongseong's voice came calm, anchored. "You're not imagining it. It's real. And it's not going away."
Your hands clenched into fists. "Then what's the point of fighting it?"
He didn't answer immediately. He sat down fully, folding his arms over his knees, not trying to lecture you but to just exist beside you.
"I fight it because I still remember what it felt like to make people better," he said. "Because I don't want to lose that part of me. Even if it's buried under everything else." He glanced at you. "Because maybe... if I keep holding onto it, I can be something in between. Not human, not parasite. Something new."
You shook your head. "That sounds like a lie people tell themselves to feel less afraid."
"Maybe it is," he admitted. "But it keeps me sane."
Another silence settled in. Then, a small voice escaped you—quiet, brittle. "I used to sing. Just... badly. In the car. In the shower. Everywhere. And now when I try, nothing comes out. Like my voice doesn't belong to me anymore."
Jongseong looked at you. "That part's still there. Buried, but not gone."
You blinked rapidly, jaw tightening. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you carried a strange weight—grief, recognition, something neither of you could name but both felt. The bond of shared monstrosity. Of shared humanity refusing to die.
Then, softly, Jongseong added, "We don't have to be monsters, even if that's what we've become. We get to choose."
You were quiet for a moment, staring down at the cracks in the pavement. Your voice came small, almost like you were afraid the answer would make it more real.
"How long have you been... like this?"
Jongseong's gaze drifted for a second, remembering. "Two and a half years," he said quietly.
You looked up at him, your voice trembling. "Two months. That's how long it's been for me."
He nodded, listening.
"I ran away from home when I realized what was happening to me," you continued. "I couldn't stay. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I couldn't even trust myself." You exhaled shakily, brushing your palm across your face as if trying to wipe the memory away.
"I ran into a parasite once," you said. "Fully changed. No humanity left. Said he'd been like that for two years."
"What did he do?" Jongseong asked, already suspecting the answer.
"When he felt that I wasn't like him... he didn't speak. He just attacked. Like I was an error. A mutation. Something that needed to be erased."
Jongseong's jaw tightened. "You barely survived."
You nodded. "He tore my side open. I didn't even realize I could heal until after." The memory made you shudder.
"I thought maybe I could hide. Blend in. Pretend I was still normal. But that encounter changed everything. I knew then... there was no going back."
Jongseong looked at you, really looked, and said gently, "You've made it this far on your own. That counts for something."
You laughed bitterly. "Does it?"
"It does," he said. "Because most wouldn't have."
"The parasite in us... it doesn't understand mercy. Or hesitation. The fact that you've held on this long, that you chose not to give in—that means you're still you."
Your eyes flicked to him, unsure. "And if I stop choosing?"
"Then I'll stop you," he said, not as a threat, but as a promise. You blinked, searching his face for cruelty and finding only empathy.
It was strange, in a quiet way—comforting—to be near someone like you. Someone who understood. That's how you would describe it. A sense of relief wrapped in unease. You were still hiding, but not really. Not anymore.
You learned his name is Park Jongseong. He told you in passing, but you held onto it. Jongseong, meaning "collecting stars." It made you smile softly, secretly. How fitting, you thought, for someone piecing himself back together from fragments of something once human.
He gestured toward a small kit laid out between you. "Try to relax. I'm going to insert a needle—just a quick sample," he said, already prepping the syringe.
You stared at him, arching a brow, half laughing. "You know I merged my body with blades, right? A needle isn't exactly nightmare fuel, Dr. Park Jongseong."
He let out a quiet breath of amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting into a subtle, reluctant smile. It was the first expression that looked genuinely human since you'd met him. Still, he moved with the calm, clinical precision of someone who'd done this thousands of times. His hands didn't shake, and his voice stayed even.
You extended your arm, the skin unusually smooth where it had once morphed—no visible scars.
He carefully inserted the needle into your arm. The sensation was oddly muted—your pain receptors dulled, altered by the parasite. Your blood didn't flow quite like before; it was slightly denser and darker.
"This should be enough," Jongseong murmured, capping the vial. "I'll isolate the DNA structure, run it against my own. I want to see how your immune system adapted. If your T-cells underwent the same mutations."
You looked at him curiously. "You think we mutated differently?"
"I think we merged differently," he said, eyes flicking to his portable scanner. "The parasite doesn't always follow the same pattern. In most hosts, it hijacks the immune system completely—overrides all genetic repair functions, takes full control. But in us..."
"It coexists," you said softly, finishing his thought.
He nodded. "Exactly. It integrates rather than eliminates. Your T-cells should be producing chimeric proteins—part human, part parasite. Like mine."
You tilted your head, intrigued despite yourself. "You ever seen that happen before?"
He shook his head. "No. Just us."
You both sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of his scanner whirring softly as it began processing. Data streamed across the small screen, lines of genetic code scrolling faster than most could read.
"It's weird," you said. "I hated this thing inside me. Still do. But sitting here... I feel like I'm finally studying it. Like it's not just happening to me anymore. I'm taking it back."
Jongseong looked up from the scanner. "Exactly. That's what I've been doing for two years. Trying to understand it."
You watched him work. There was a quiet intensity to the way he moved, so focused, almost surgical. His fingers danced over the scanner's interface, eyes tracking streams of data with an ease. But your gaze wasn't on the screen.
You studied him. His nose was too pointed, almost sculpted. His jaw, sharp like it had been carved with purpose. The light caught on the angles of his face, shadows tracing across his skin like ink. His raven-black hair fell slightly over his brow, just messy enough to look deliberate, and yet... it suited him perfectly.
And his eyes, sharp, eagle-like. At first glance, they looked cold. Angry, even. The kind of gaze that could cut. But as you kept watching, you saw through it. There was no rage behind them. Only exhaustion and softness.
"I can feel you staring," he said suddenly, not looking up from the scanner.
You blinked, caught off guard. "You have a strangely symmetrical face."
He smirked faintly, still focused on the readout. "Years of stress must have evened me out."
"I think you're too pretty to be a walking biohazard," you added dryly.
That made him glance at you, a flicker of amusement breaking through the wall of control. "That's not usually the first thing people say when they see me split my arm open."
You tilted your head. "It's the second thing."
He huffed a quiet laugh. Just for a moment, you saw it—the man beneath the monster. The one who used to save lives, who still wanted to, even if he didn't say it aloud.
"I used to keep my reflection covered," you admitted, your voice softening. "Couldn't look at my own eyes. I was afraid one day they'd stop looking like mine."
He didn't respond right away. Just stared down at the glowing genetic map on the screen, jaw tight. Then he said, "Your eyes still look human to me."
Your cheeks flushed, the blood rising unbidden. A strange irony, considering how much your blood had changed, but it felt too human.
After the blood draw, he insisted on running a full assessment—"purely diagnostic," he said, slipping back into the old habits of a physician. His voice turned more analytical. But his touch remained cautious, and gentle.
You sat on the metal examination table, legs swinging slightly, eyes drifting over the cluttered shelves and half-finished notes pinned across the wall. He moved in the background, scanning a new set of neural data. But your attention wasn't on the screen.
"Do you feel lonely in here?" you asked softly, not looking at him.
He didn't answer immediately. Just continued working for a few seconds, then said, "I don't notice anymore."
You didn't believe him. You don't think he did either.
After another minute passed, your voice returned, gentler. "What happened? When you first realized you were like this? Did you just... stop being a doctor?"
Jongseong paused, then turned slightly, leaning back against the counter. The light from the scanner flickered behind him, "I was attacked by a gang," he said flatly. "Back alley. They thought I had money. I lost count after the twentieth cut."
You stared at him, stunned.
"I had thirty-five knife wounds across my torso, chest, and abdomen," he continued, "deep lacerations. Organ damage. Multiple perforations. I was dying. I think... I was dead."
You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on him.
"I assume the parasite entered my body when I hit the threshold," he said. "Critical condition. Immune system collapsed. Internal bleeding. It's my theory that the parasite thrives more when the host is on the edge—when the system is weak enough to take, but not too far gone to recover."
His gaze lowered to your arm where the sample had been drawn. "My theory is... I wasn't strong enough to resist it. That's why I didn't die like the others. The parasite didn't need to fight me. It just filled in what was already broken."
"So, you think it chose you because you were weak?"
He met your eyes again. "I think it needed someone weak. It needed space to grow."
A pause. His voice softened. "But maybe... maybe that's also why we didn't become them. Because we didn't fight it like a war. We... merged."
You shifted slightly, the sterile metal of the table cold under your fingertips. "You think that's why I'm still here, too?"
Jongseong nodded. "Your neural scans still show strong activity in the amygdala, the hippocampus. Emotional processing, memory retention. That's rare in infected hosts. Most show degeneration within a week of full takeover."
"And mine?"
He turned the screen slightly to show you. "Yours are still human. Intact. Maybe even more responsive than average."
You blinked. "So I'm... emotionally stronger?"
He gave a faint, crooked smile. "Or just more stubborn."
You laughed under your breath, soft eyes lingering on him, the curve of your smile not wide, but real. For a moment, Jongseong couldn't look away.
There was something in your expression that unsettled him more than any mutation, more than any parasite or hybrid anomaly. It was the trace of comfort. The ghost of peace in a body that shouldn't have had room for it.
On another day, beneath the soft whir of outdated HVAC vents and the mechanical rhythm of genetic sequencing equipment, your voice stirred.
"What happens to the parasite inside us?" you asked. "Where does it go?"
He didn't answer at first. Jongseong stood across the room, bare-chested, his skin partially illuminated by the sterile blue glow of the diagnostic interface. He was facing a mirror bolted to the wall—cracked slightly near the corner, the silver peeling at the edges. He hadn't looked into it for a long time. Not really.
But today, he was watching himself. And in the reflection, he saw you, standing behind him, the question still hovering in the air. He held your gaze for a second through the mirror, then turned back to his own reflection.
"I don't know," he said eventually. His voice was calm, but not detached. He was thinking—hard. "At least, in my case, I don't feel anything inside anymore. Not like those early days, when it felt like something was pushing... crawling beneath my skin. That pressure's gone."
He paused, lifting his hand, flexing his fingers slowly—watching the tendons shift under his skin.
"It's like... I consumed it," he said quietly. "Or maybe my body did. My cells stopped resisting. Stopped treating it as foreign. They absorbed it."
"You think your immune system... adapted?"
"Yes," he said, nodding faintly. "I've run thousands of blood scans. The parasite's original RNA is still there, but it's no longer dominant. It's dormant. Integrated. Like mitochondria."
You raised your brow. "You're saying it's symbiotic."
"More than that," he replied. "It's part of my physiology. My T-cells don't fight it. They use it. They've evolved—specialized to incorporate its functions. Shape-shifting, cellular regeneration, neural acceleration. My body didn't reject the parasite."
The parasite didn't dominate him. It became part of him.
You exhaled slowly, your voice soft, almost like you were speaking to yourself. "You're still human, after all..."
He didn't respond, his gaze lingered on you.
You looked down at your hands, turning one over, flexing your fingers. "You and the parasite... you didn't fight each other. You merged." You hesitated, the word strange on your tongue. "I don't even know if merge is the right term. That makes it sound clean. Voluntary."
Jongseong turned to face you fully now, taking a slow step closer. "It wasn't clean," he said. "And it sure as hell wasn't voluntary."
You looked up at him again.
"It was pain. Constant. Days of fevers, hallucinations, muscles tearing themselves apart. My nervous system was rewriting itself in real-time. I could feel my own memories slipping... then coming back sharper. Warped, like they'd been filtered through something else."
He tapped his temple once. "I didn't think I was going to survive it. I shouldn't have. But something inside me didn't break. It adapted. And when the parasite realized it couldn't overwrite me, it... integrated. Not by choice. By necessity."
Your brows furrowed slightly. "You're saying it didn't want you like that?"
"The parasite wants dominance," Jongseong said. "Control. But when it senses it can't win, it changes strategy. Tries to preserve itself through compromise. It's not a thinking organism, not in the way we are—but it learns."
You nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the cracked mirror behind him. "Then maybe it's not about merging or fighting. Maybe it's about outlasting it."
He studied you carefully, the muscles in his jaw flexing just slightly before he spoke.
"Exactly. If you can hold on long enough, if you can stay yourself through the pain... you don't lose. You evolve."
You looked down again, thinking of all the moments you thought you were slipping. All the nights your body changed without your permission. All the times you'd woken up shaking, afraid of your own skin.
And yet... you were still here.
You looked down at your hands, flexing your fingers slowly. The skin looked normal now. "My hand hurts sometimes," you admitted, voice quiet. "It's like... a pressure building under the bone. I can control my shifting, but sometimes it feels like something else is doing it for me."
Your eyes lingered on your arm as if it might betray you in the next breath.
"I feel like I'm not me."
"That's normal," he said. "You're still only two months in. Your body's not fully stabilized yet. It takes time. The neural pathways between your conscious mind and the parasite's reactive systems are still syncing."
You glanced up at him. "That sounds way too clinical for my hand turns into a blade without asking."
He smirked faintly. "Point is—you'll get used to it. Eventually, the signals align. You won't have to fight for control. You'll just be in control."
You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. "But what if I don't?"
His smile faded, but his expression didn't turn cold. "Remember what I said when we first met?" he asked.
You nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as the memory stirred. Jongseong gave a soft tired smile. "I'll stop you."
You stared at him, reading the weight behind the words. "And you'd really do it?" you asked.
"If it came to that," he said, without hesitation. "If you lost yourself completely—if there was no coming back—then yeah. I would."
"But not because I see you as a threat," he added. "Because I'd want someone to do the same for me."
"I don't want to become something I'd have to be stopped from," you whispered.
"Then don't," he said simply.
Another day blurred into a week, and somehow, it became routine.
You and Jongseong were always near each other now. You simply showed up, and he never asked you to leave.
Every morning, without fail, you arrived at his doorstep. Sometimes barefoot, sometimes holding a plastic bag of random things you'd picked up—food, spare clothes, old electronics scavenged from forgotten corners of the city. Always with that same wide smile and a casual wave, like the world hadn't tried to erase you.
His home sat far from the crowded parts of Seoul, nestled in the quiet sprawl of the outer districts—secluded enough that no one asked questions, yet comfortable in a way that surprised you. It wasn't sterile or abandoned. It was... lived in. Warm wood tones, clean tile, books stacked in corners, a faint smell of roasted coffee in the mornings.
You didn't expect someone like him to have soft blankets and expensive sheets. But then again, he had been a doctor. Years of relentless work had filled his bank account even as it slowly emptied him. He rarely touched the money now, except to keep the house running and the lab functional. The rest stayed untouched, gathering dust, like a forgotten version of himself.
Still, his kitchen was well-stocked. His bed was always made. And now, somehow, you had become part of that space.
One quiet afternoon, sunlight filtered through the wide windows, casting long golden shadows across the hardwood floor. You stood barefoot in his living room, playfully holding your arm out as it began to shift.
Jongseong watched from the couch, sipping lukewarm tea, his eyes narrowed in equal parts curiosity and caution.
"It's my first time encountering someone who can shape their hand into wings," he said.
You smirked and raised your hand, flesh trembling, tendons coiling and restructuring. The skin along your forearm peeled open in seamless, silent motion, splitting into more organic. A full wing unfurled—sleek and wide, nearly as tall as you. Its edges were curved like a crescent, the shape aerodynamic but jagged, ringed with short, blade-like protrusions.
It was the color of your skin, yet it glinted faintly in the light.
"Most parasites use their heads," Jongseong murmured, leaning forward slightly. "They split open like flower petals—exposing core structures for attack or communication."
He stood and stepped closer, gaze fixed on your transformed arm. "But this... this is different. It's not just offensive. It's built for movement. Flight, maybe. Or at least gliding. Your body's adapting beyond the base strain."
You watched his fascination with a faint grin. He spoke like a scientist.
"Does your head still hurt?" he asked, finally meeting your eyes.
You hesitated for a moment, then shook your head. "Not anymore," you said softly. "I started doing what you told me. Focusing on breathing. Slowing everything down when it starts building up."
He nodded, approving. "The headaches come from pressure. When the nervous system tries to regulate a function it doesn't fully understand. But when you center your breathing, you give the brain a stable pattern—something to anchor the mutation against."
You laughed a little. "You sound like a meditation app."
"Doctor first," he replied, raising a brow. "Monster second."
You folded the wing back into your arm slowly, watching as the skin sealed over again, leaving no sign it had ever been anything else. Jongseong handed you a towel to wipe the sweat off your hands—it wasn't painful anymore, but it still took effort.
"Do you ever get tired of analyzing me?" you teased, dabbing your brow.
"Not yet," he said. "You're the only other hybrid I've ever met. Every reaction you have, every adaptation—it all tells me more about how this thing works."
You leaned back against the kitchen counter, looking at him with warmth. "So I'm your favorite test subject?"
He smiled faintly. "You're the only one who smiles back."
You started living around him—and it wasn't planned. It just... happened.
There was no formal moment when it became your place too. You simply never left. You came in, stayed for a while, and then stayed a little longer. Your bag ended up in the corner of his hallway. A change of clothes appeared on the back of his chair. Your toothbrush found its way into a cup next to his. No one said anything.
His laboratory is tucked beneath the basement. Stainless steel counters were cluttered with vials, blood samples, biofeedback equipment, and an old centrifuge that rattled every time it spun. Some walls were covered with whiteboards, sketched with frantic genetic maps, neural networks, protein structures, and lines of code that only made partial sense to you.
You stood in the doorway for a long time watching him. Despite not wearing a coat or a stethoscope anymore, he was still a doctor. He spent hours down there, alone, dissecting the mystery of what you both had become. Studying the hybrid genome, comparing tissue reactions, tracking metabolic rates, rebuilding broken sequences.
He never said it, but you knew he wasn't doing it for science.
He was doing it to keep himself sane.
So, you stayed. And while he worked, you started moving through the rest of the house. Dust had gathered in the corners of rooms he didn't use. Shelves were layered with months of settled particles, and forgotten books lay unopened beneath it. So you cleaned. One room at a time.
You cooked, mostly for yourself at first. But eventually, you started making enough for two. He always ate. Silently, usually. But he ate. Sometimes with a quiet compliment, sometimes with a small smile.
Later, you found the backyard—overgrown, wild, and tired. The flower beds were choked by weeds, the soil cracked from neglect. You didn't ask permission. You just started clearing it out. Pulling weeds. Watering the roots that still had life left in them. Then you bought seeds, colorful ones: snapdragons, asters, cosmos. Something bright. Something that still dared to bloom.
He noticed, of course. But he didn't stop you.
Sometimes, at night, when the house was still and the garden smelled faintly of wet soil, you found yourself staring at the ceiling of the guest room—Jongseong's oversized hoodie draped around your shoulders, warm with his scent—and wondered:
Is this what being human still feels like?
You asked yourself the question over and over, unsure of the answer. You still laughed. You still dreamed. You still loved food, flowers, music. You still worried.
Your mind drifted to things you hadn't let yourself think about in weeks. Your mother. Your cat. Your home.
The lie you told when you disappeared—telling your family you'd run off with someone. You'd sent one message. Just one. And never replied again.
Do they hate me for it? you wondered. Do they think I'm alive? Do they sit at the dinner table and leave your place empty, hoping?
The thought made you smile—but it was the kind of smile that didn't reach your eyes.
You snorted under your breath, turning onto your side.
Because now, in some twisted, literal sense, you were living with a guy. A guy who wasn't exactly human anymore. A guy who slept only four hours a night and spent the rest of his time trying to outsmart biology. A guy whose hands could become blades. Whose eyes still softened when he thought you weren't watching.
A guy who hadn't kicked you out. Who never would.
"You can shift your hands without blades?"
Your eyes widened as you stared at Jongseong, the question tumbling from your lips. The very idea felt foreign—impossible, even. Your own shifting had always come with sharp edges, bone-splitting pain, and the quiet terror that you might lose control if you shaped too far.
Jongseong glanced down at his hands, calm and controlled. Then, with a quiet exhale, he lifted one hand and extended it toward you, palm up. "Watch," he said simply.
His dark eyes shifted—pupils dilating slightly, the irises deepening in color until they almost looked black, consuming the natural brown. You knew what that meant. It was a physiological marker—hybrid activation. Your eyes did the same when you shifted. His were sharp, but not hostile, focused, but unthreatening.
The structure of his hand started to ripple not violently, not like yours usually did. No sharp angles, no sudden protrusions of bone or blade. The skin thinned and stretched, flowing in a fluid-like motion that reminded you of melting wax. It wasn't grotesque—it was graceful.
His fingers elongated and curved slightly. From the base of his palm, tendrils began to unfurl—slender, flexible, organic. Not quite like vines, not quite like tentacles, but something in-between. Soft ridges lined their surfaces. They pulsed faintly with life, reacting to the air, to temperature, to you.
They didn't glint like blades. They didn't threaten. They moved with purpose.
Your breath caught as you watched, caught between horror and awe.
"How...?" you whispered.
Jongseong didn't smile, but there was a quiet light in his eyes. "The parasite doesn't only build weapons. It builds tools—if you teach it to."
You stepped closer, cautiously, drawn to the strange, mesmerizing movement of his altered hand. "I thought it only knew how to kill."
"So did I," he said. "At first. But then I started thinking like it. Observing. Not just resisting. It reacts to survival instinct, yes—but it also responds to intention. Will."
He slowly closed his hand, the tendrils retracting fluidly, vanishing back into his skin as the flesh reformed and returned to normal.
You blinked, letting out a slow breath. "Wow. That's impressive but... completely useless," you said, your voice laced with sarcasm.
Jongseong's eyes returned to their usual deep brown, pupils shrinking, the hybrid dilation fading. He looked up at you, a beat of silence passing then he laughed.
It was soft, unguarded. A sound you hadn't heard often from him, but when it came, it felt genuine, surprisingly warm. "Well, thanks," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Glad to know my non-lethal biological innovation gets such rave reviews."
You shrugged, trying not to smile. "Sorry, Dr. Frankenstein. I just can't think of a practical use for creepy space noodles."
"Tactile sensory extensions," he corrected with mock offense. "They can be used to detect surface tension, pressure shifts, chemical traces—"
"So basically... weird science-fingers."
Jongseong gave you a long, theatrical sigh, one hand dragging down his face in mock despair, though the amused curve of his mouth betrayed him.
"You know what? Fuck it," he muttered, turning back to his workstation, but not before you caught the upward twitch of his lips.
Another month drifted by.
You woke, cooked, trained, experimented, and sometimes just existed with Jongseong in quiet companionship. The world outside still cracked and groaned with danger, but within the walls of his house, it was a different season.
And outside, life was starting to bloom.
The garden you once cleared had transformed. Where dry soil had stretched beneath tired weeds, color now flourished. The seeds you planted with no real hope had taken root. Soft petals in pinks, purples, and golds opened under the late spring sun, nodding gently with every breeze. You had come to love the quiet act of watering them in the morning, a grounding ritual. Something beautifully, stubbornly normal.
This morning, as dew still clung to the flowerbed leaves and your fingers dripped with the cool mist from the watering can, a small sound broke the usual silence.
A tiny cry. High-pitched. Fragile. You turned, instinctively alert. But it wasn't danger waiting for you in the corner of the fence.
It was a kitten. A small, orange-furred ball curled beneath the bushes—wide green eyes blinking up at you, damp fur clinging to its sides. It looked no older than a few weeks, its tiny ribs shifting with every shaky breath.
"Awww," you murmured, your voice softening as you crouched slowly to its level.
The kitten tilted its head but didn't run. You extended a hand carefully, fingers open, palm low.
"Hey, sweetheart... Where's your mommy?" you whispered.
It answered with a soft meow, barely more than a squeak, and nudged its head forward until it touched your fingers. Warmth bloomed in your chest, before you realized what you were doing, you scooped it gently into your arms, pressing it to your chest.
You didn't hesitate. You brought it inside.
When Jongseong stepped out of the lab hours later, adjusting the settings on his neural scanner, he stopped in the middle of the hallway.
You were sitting cross-legged on the couch with a towel-wrapped bundle in your lap. The orange kitten, freshly cleaned and fed, purred softly as it nuzzled your hand.
"You brought home a cat," he said flatly, blinking.
You looked up at him, eyes wide with innocent pride. "I named him Jongjong."
His expression flickered. "Jong... jong?"
You nodded with complete seriousness. "Because he's small. And soft. And a little grumpy."
Jongseong blinked again, then exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half disbelief. "I can't decide if I'm offended or flattered."
"Oh, definitely flattered," you said with a grin. "He's the cutest thing I've seen since I moved in."
The kitten let out a mew, as if to confirm the sentiment. Jongseong stepped closer, crouching beside the couch to get a better look. The kitten stared back at him, unblinking, then gave a dramatic yawn and immediately fell asleep on your lap.
"He trusts you," Jongseong said, softer now.
You looked down at the little creature and ran your thumb gently between its ears. "He doesn't know what I am."
Jongseong was quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's the point."
You glanced at him.
"Maybe he just sees what's real," he added. "And not what we're afraid we've become."
You didn't answer right away. You just watched Jongjong breathe, tiny chest rising and falling against your arm, and felt the quiet weight of peace settle in the room like sunlight through the window.
Jongseong had spent years alone his house, surrounded by machines and memories. He thought solitude was necessary, that isolation kept him safe. That by keeping others out, he could contain the thing growing inside him, the part of him that wasn't entirely human anymore.
That was why, when you first asked him if he ever felt lonely, he hadn't known how to answer.
Now, he had an answer.
Yes.
Because since you arrived, he'd started to remember what it felt like not to be alone. And that contrast made the emptiness he'd grown used to feel sharper, heavier in retrospect. The silence he once embraced had been suffocating. But he hadn't noticed until it began to lift.
You filled the space with little things—sounds, gestures, life. The clink of ceramic mugs in the morning. The quiet murmur of your voice as you read out diagnostic data. The rustle of your clothes as you passed him in the hallway, always brushing just a little too close, like your gravity had started to pull on his.
He never told you that he started waking up before his alarm—not for research, but to hear you moving through the house. The sound of water boiling. The soft click of the stove. The faint hum of your voice when you thought no one could hear.
He never mentioned how he started leaving notes near your table. Little reminders. Jokes hidden inside formulas. Once, a crude sketch of a protein chain that somehow resembled a flower. You'd found it, looked at him with one raised brow, and said nothing, but your smile had lingered for hours.
Maybe you already knew.
Because some nights, when the house fell silent again—when the tunnel lights above the basement flickered and the lab's hum faded into a deeper hush—you would sit beside him on the couch, not asking questions, not filling the air with unnecessary words. Just being there. Shoulder to shoulder. Warm. Quiet.
And the silence didn't feel empty anymore.
"Peek-a-boo!"
Jongseong spun around and froze.
Your face had split clean down the middle, skin peeled open like flower petals under pressure, revealing the intricate folds of your brain, glistening and wet. Thorned tendrils coiled from within the exposed cavity, twitching slightly as if sensing the air. Despite the grotesque transformation, one half of your mouth was still smiling, playful, unbothered, as if this was just another joke between the two of you.
And somehow, impossibly, Jongseong found himself staring—not with fear, but with a strange, quiet awe.
Even like this warped, twisted, exposed, he still thought you were beautiful.
Terrifying, yes.
But beautiful.
Jongseong let out a sigh and pressed his lips to the rim of his coffee mug, hiding the curve of his smile behind it. He didn't laugh—barely. It wasn't that it wasn't disturbing. It was. You looked like something torn from a biology textbook on alien evolution.
With a twitch of muscle and membrane, your face knit itself back together, seamlessly folding in. The thorns retracted, the skin closed, the tremors stopped. You bounced on the balls of your feet, practically glowing with excitement.
"I learned that yesterday!" you said, beaming. "Can you do that too?!"
You looked at him like a child begging for a party trick, eyes wide, shining with that strange joy that came with discovering just how far the body could stretch before breaking.
Jongseong tilted his head, smile lingering at the edges of his lips. He set his coffee down on the lab table and stood slowly. "It's not exactly the same," he murmured, voice low and calm, "but... sure."
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, nothing happened.
Then his skin split—not down the middle like yours, but in five clean diagonal lines across his face. The motion was quiet, each line peeled open slightly, like vents adjusting to pressure. From the top of his forehead, the bone shifted and stretched, revealing a sliver of cerebral tissue beneath a thin veil of skin—pale, veined, faintly glowing. A single blade unfolded with a smooth, mechanical grace, jutting forward from the frontal bone, not sharp enough to kill, but certainly enough to threaten.
"That's... beautiful," you whispered.
He let the mutation retract slowly, each fracture sealing with precision. No blood. No pain. Just practiced control.
"I thought we were past the point of calling brain blades 'beautiful,'" he teased, reaching for his coffee again.
You shrugged. "I think we're past the point of pretending we're not fascinated with each other."
That silenced him for a second. You stepped in a little closer. Not touching—just close enough to share breath. Close enough to see your reflection in his eyes. "Is that why you looked at me like that?" you asked, voice quieter now. "When I split open?"
Jongseong didn't answer immediately. He studied your face—not the skin, not the features, but the you beneath it. The remnants of humanity still clinging to something that should've been lost. The way your voice still held inflection, still carried joy. The way your smile wasn't entirely biological, it came from memory, not muscle.
"Yes," he said finally. "Because no one's ever shown me something monstrous... and looked so alive doing it."
You didn't move. Neither did he.
You stood there, close enough that you could hear the soft intake of his breath, the quiet thrum of his altered heart beneath his ribs, beating in a rhythm that no longer matched human biology... yet somehow still made your chest ache.
You reached up slowly, not asking permission, not speaking, just brushing your fingertips along the faint lines that remained on his cheek. The skin was smooth, impossibly warm, as if something still lived just beneath the surface, twitching, waiting. He didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned into your touch, just a fraction subtle enough to be instinct, but intentional enough to mean something.
"You're always so careful," you whispered, your voice barely more than breath.
Jongseong's eyes met yours. "If I'm not, I might hurt you."
You smiled faintly. "Maybe I don't mind."
That earned a small, broken sound from him. He reached up, slowly, carefully, and took your hand in his. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist.
"I don't know what this is," you said softly, searching his face. "I don't know if it's real or just chemical—just mutation convincing us we're closer than we are."
His fingers laced between yours.
"Maybe it is chemical," he said. "But if that's true, then so is every heartbeat. Every kiss. Every touch humans have ever shared. Maybe we're just... another version of it now."
You stared at him for a long moment. Not a word passed between you. Then you leaned forward slowly, testing the air between your mouths like it was charged and he met you halfway.
It wasn't a desperate kiss. It wasn't rushed, or hungry, or tangled in panic. It was precise.
His lips were warm—almost too warm. His body still carried that inhuman heat, like the parasite burned deeper than blood. But you kissed him anyway, because in that heat, you felt something real. Something yours.
He drew you in gently, hand sliding behind your neck. You felt your body respond, you tilted your head, lips parting slightly, angling the kiss deeper, fuller. He tasted like cheap coffee and the metallic hint of sterile air, but it didn't matter.
"I used to think I'd die without ever feeling something like this again," he murmured.
You ran your fingers along his jaw, still touched by the faint lines of his previous transformation. "I thought I had already."
He smiled against your skin. "Guess we were both wrong."
Then his mouth was on yours again, this time deeper, more certain. Not rushed, but hungry. His hand slid down your spine, fingers curling at your waist as he drew you in until there was nothing but heat between you.
You gasped softly against his lips, the sound spilling from you before you could stop it. Your hands moved up, wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his hair. He took that moment, his tongue slipped past your lips gliding against yours.
His hands were on your thighs, firm but gentle, and you responded without hesitation. In one motion, you jumped, legs wrapping around his waist, your bodies moving together. He didn't break the kiss—not even for a second—as he carried you with careful steps.
And then you felt it: the shift beneath your back, the familiar give of fabric and old springs. The soft mattress beneath you.
You exhaled as your spine met the bed, his weight settling over you. His lips moved from yours, dragging downward, slower along the edge of your jaw, then to the tender skin just below your ear, and further down to the place where your pulse fluttered.
"Jongseong," you whispered, your voice shaky, half-lost in the sensation, as his mouth lingered at your neck. You felt the sharp heat of his breath, then the sudden sting of teeth—not enough to break skin, just to claim it.
He groaned against your throat, the sound guttural, vibrating against your skin as his hips pressed down, grinding against yours with a rhythm that sent sparks through your nerves.
"Do parasites get this horny?" he murmured. You laughed, high and breathy, your hips tilting up to meet his. The movement drew a sharp moan from both of you as friction met heat, and the space between you disappeared again.
"Maybe it's just us," you said, fingers digging into his back. "Maybe we're the broken ones who feel too much."
His forehead pressed to yours, his lips hovering just above your mouth as he whispered, "Then I never want to be fixed."
He shifted his weight, sitting back just enough to reach for the hem of your shirt. You lifted your arms without hesitation, eager, your skin already humming with anticipation. The fabric peeled away easily, and the moment the cold air kissed your bare skin, a shiver ran through you.
Jongseong's gaze darkened.
"Shit..." he murmured under his breath, almost like he couldn't help it. Then his mouth was on yours again—hotter now, more desperate. His hands braced your hips as you reached between your bodies, finding the waistband of his pants and slipping your fingers underneath. You cupped him through the fabric, palm slow and the sound he made into your mouth was something deep. His hips jolted, twitching into your hand, hungry for more.
Your bra was the next to go, tossed carelessly across the room. The moment it was gone, his hands returned to your body. He paused, looking down at you. His fingers traced the lines of your waist, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs, his breath shaking as though the sight of you unraveled something inside him.
He looked into your eyes—asking, without words.
And you answered. "Please... touch me more," you whispered, his mouth lowered, finding the curve of your breast, lips brushing the delicate skin before closing around your nipple. His tongue moved slow at first, teasing the areola in gentle circles, and then with more pressure—suckling, tasting, devouring.
Your back arched off the mattress, every nerve lit in a low, burning ache that made your breath catch in your throat. A breathy sigh slipped past your lips as you tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him there, needing more.
"God—Jongseong..." you moaned.
He responded with a groan of his own, vibrations rumbling against your skin as his hands slid down again. His mouth moved across your chest, his tongue leaving trails of heat as he worshipped every inch he could reach.
Beneath it all was something that had nothing to do with instinct. You weren't two creatures responding to any programming. You were two broken people learning how to feel again, how to love without shame—even if your bodies weren't built like they used to be.
"Remove it," you whispered, fingers curling in the fabric at his waist.
His mouth left your breast with a soft pop, his breath warm against your skin. He met your gaze and then rose onto his knees, hands moving quickly to strip the last layers away. Shirt, pants, boxers—gone in seconds, discarded to the shadows around the bed.
Your breath caught. Your eyes dropped, landing on his body, honed, powerful, beautiful in a way that bordered on unnatural. And then your gaze found his cock: thick, flushed, already aching for you. The sight sent heat spiraling through your core, a pulse deep between your thighs.
Your mouth watered.
You sat up, hands reaching for him, fingertips tentative at first, then bolder—wrapping around his length, feeling the weight of him, the twitch beneath your touch. Your movements were a little clumsy, a little hungry.
Your thumb grazed over the slick at the tip, smearing it down the shaft with a slow drag that made his breath hitch.
He was so hard. So warm. You could feel his pulse there, alive in your palm.
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face. And God, how could someone look so divine?
The dim lights above caught on his sweat-damp hair, his chest rising and falling with every uneven breath. His lips were parted, his eyes hooded but fixed on you like he was watching a miracle unfold. Like you were the miracle.
You stare at him back, and it hits you. He wasn't human—not anymore. Because no human was this breathtaking. No man could look so effortlessly beautiful, even when his body was wrapped in scars, mutations, and power.
Ethereal, you thought.
You arched your back slightly as you leaned down, breath skimming along his length, and you kept your eyes locked on his. The second your tongue flicked out to lick the tip—slow, teasing—he let out a low, guttural sound that made your whole body throb with need.
His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, muscles tightening.
You ran your tongue along the underside of his cock, your lips ghosting over the sensitive skin, teasing him. You loved the way he watched you.
"Fuck..." he whispered, voice hoarse.
You smiled against him, mouth opening wider as you took him in again—inch by inch, savoring the feel, the taste, the heat. Your fingers stroked what your lips couldn't reach, working in tandem as your pace gradually deepened, your body moving with quiet, desperate rhythm.
His hands found your face, thumbs gently cradling your cheeks as he looked down at you with that subtle, crooked smile—soft and filled with adoration. His gaze was half-lidded, dark with desire, but calm, too.
You hummed around his cock, the vibration making his stomach tense and his breath falter. You continued your rhythm, your head bobbing as your tongue worked him. Each motion earned a different sound from him, deeper now, breathless and ragged, his self-control rapidly fraying.
"Stop for a while," he breathed, voice tight, hand sliding to your jaw as he gently pulled you back.
You let him go, a thin string of saliva still connecting your lips to his tip, glistening between you. He didn't look away, his thumb brushed the slick trail from your mouth, and with a smirk, he pressed it between your lips.
You closed your mouth around it instinctively, eyes locked with his.
"Fuck," he whispered, as if the sight of you like that physically hurt. "You're so goddamn hot."
His hand slid from your cheek to your side. He guided you back down to the mattress, kissing you softly between each motion, your cheek, your shoulder, the center of your chest—as his fingers hooked the waistband of your pants and pulled them down, taking your underwear with them.
Cool air hit your thighs, and you shivered—but not from the temperature.
His breath hitched audibly as the scent of your arousal flooded the space between you. His cock twitched visibly, a strangled groan catching in his throat as his eyes dropped to the heat between your legs. And when he saw you—really saw you—his hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he gently, but insistently, pushed them apart.
There you were. Glistening. Dripping. Your pussy visibly clenching, aching around nothing. Open to him.
"Haah..." he moaned. "You're perfect."
"Jongseong," you whined, hips tilting upward, searching for friction, for touch, for him. "Please... touch me already."
He leaned down, his mouth met your clit in one hot, wet stroke. You cried out at the contact, your back arching, fingers flying to his hair, gripping tight. He groaned against you, vibrating straight through your core.
His tongue moved with hunger, circling your clit, then flattening against it, then flicking with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His hands held your thighs open, possessive and steady, his mouth working you like he was starved for you.
Then he dipped lower.
His tongue slid down through your folds, gathering your slick, then pressing against your entrance—probing, pushing, entering.
You moaned, loud and breathless, as his tongue fucked into you, warm and firm and impossibly deep. It was intimate and wild, like he wasn't just tasting you—he was making out with your cunt. Every slurp echoed in your ears, every flick sent sparks crawling up your spine.
You could feel his tongue twisting inside you, exploring every inch, curling upward, coaxing you open in ways no one ever had. His mouth moved between your clit and your core, switching seamlessly, building pressure until you were panting, writhing beneath him.
"Are you gonna cum, my love?" Jongseong murmured, lifting his head just slightly to look at you.
My love.
The words hit deeper than his fingers ever could. Your chest fluttered, warmth blooming beneath your ribs. You couldn't answer with words—only a frantic nod, your fingers tightening in his hair, mussing it, holding him
His mouth returned to your cunt, tongue working your clit with firm, relentless pressure. He licked harder, faster, each stroke pushing you higher, your body already teetering on the edge.
You were twitching, panting, the heat spiraling out from your core in waves. You'd forgotten what it was like to feel so alive, so overwhelmed in the best possible way—like every nerve had come back to life.
You shattered with a cry, orgasm tearing through you like fire.
But Jongseong didn't stop.
Even as your thighs trembled, even as your body jolted with sensitivity, he kept his tongue swirling over your clit. And then, as if he knew just how to break you open all over again, he pushed two fingers into you, his middle and ring finger, long and strong and perfectly angled.
He curled them inside you, then began to thrust, steady and deep, knuckles brushing your entrance on every stroke.
"Ahhh! Jongseong!" You gasped, sitting up involuntarily, hips bucking against his face. Your body screamed with overstimulation, but it was too good to stop. Too much and not enough, all at once.
Back when you were still "normal," an orgasm like that would've left you limp and done. But now? Now you felt supercharged, every cell vibrating, your skin buzzing with more instead of fatigue.
You needed more and so did he.
The same fire burned beneath Jongseong's skin—evident in the way his hands gripped you tighter, in the flush blooming across his cheeks, in the heat radiating from his body like a furnace stoked too long.
He pulled himself up, chest heaving, and kissed you hard. Your tongues tangled instantly, messy and desperate, your panting breaths shared between kisses.
His fingers never stopped, still inside you, still thrusting, now with an animalistic rhythm that had you whining into his mouth. Each stroke sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core, your thighs twitching around his hips.
He swallowed every sound, every moan, and you could feel the satisfaction in the way he kissed you.
"More," you breathed against his lips.
His gaze darkened, his fingers thrusting deeper. "Then I'll give you everything."
He kissed you again, slower this time. You could feel his cock, hot and heavy, pressed against your thigh, throbbing with the need to be inside you.
He slowly slipped his fingers from you, your body twitching at the sudden emptiness, and shifted forward, positioning himself between your legs. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself once, then guiding the tip down between your folds. He didn't rush—he dragged the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in the warmth of your arousal.
You whimpered, legs spreading wider, instinctively offering yourself to him, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
"Put it in," you whispered, desperate, lifting your hips to meet him. "Please..."
But he held you still, fingers tight on your hips. "Not yet," he murmured, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. "I want to feel you beg for it."
You moaned softly, hips twitching, the heat between your thighs unbearable now.
He finally pressed forward, just the tip breaching you and both of you cried out in unison. It wasn't just the physical sensation. It was the shock of connection.
"God—your pussy's sucking me in," Jongseong groaned, his head tilting back slightly, neck tense, jaw clenched. "Oh, fuck..."
When he pushed deeper, you choked on a moan, head dropping back into the pillow, hands gripping the sheets. Inch by inch, he filled you completely, the stretch perfect, overwhelming. You could feel every vein, every pulse, your body clenching desperately around him as he reached places you forgot were there—almost brushing your cervix, almost too deep, but just right.
Jongseong leaned into you, pressing his body against yours, skin to skin, chest to chest. His arms wrapped around you. He hugged you—his full weight over you. His face buried in your neck, breath warm against your pulse as he finally began to move.
Slow thrusts, measured and deep. Every time he pushed inside you, it felt like a wave crashing over your soul—bringing back color, sound, breath. You clung to him, your arms around his back, legs locking around his waist.
"I feel so alive," Jongseong whispered against your ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin as he kissed it.
The room was filled with heat. The sound of breath, of skin meeting skin echoed through the space only the two of you could hear. Outside, the world moved—wind howling through the tunnels, distant animal sounds sharp on the air, senses heightened by your altered bodies.
But none of it mattered.
The only scent in the air was arousal—yours and his. The only sounds were gasps, moans, curses whispered into sweat-slick skin.
"Nghh... Jongseong..." you cried, voice cracking as you pulled him closer, fingers digging into his back like you could drag him deeper inside you.
His rhythm shifted, harder now. More forceful. And then he angled his hips just right—and hit you there.
Your scream tore through the room as his cock slammed into your g-spot, stars bursting behind your eyes. You clenched around him, tight and involuntary, your body no longer yours—only his, only this.
"Fuck," he cursed, head dropping into your shoulder as your walls fluttered around him. "You feel like heaven."
"Harder... please," you begged, your voice a broken whisper. "Want it harder."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath uneven, eyes blazing with raw intensity. "Yeah? This not enough for you?" he rasped.
You could only shake your head, tears brimming at the edges of your lashes from how good it felt. His hand reached up, fingers gently sweeping the damp strands of hair from your face. Then he kissed you again. Pouring every ounce of feeling into it, swallowing your moans as he slammed into you with brutal precision.
Each thrust shook your entire body. He moved faster now—faster than any human could. "Want more?" he growled against your lips. "You want to be filled, baby?"
You nodded desperately, too far gone to speak, your hips rising to meet every thrust, chasing the edge you could feel surging again. He groaned into your mouth, losing himself completely, fucking you.
When your orgasm hit, it tore through you, your whole body tensing, twitching, legs locking around his waist as you came hard, gasping his name.
And he felt the every pulsing wave, every clench of your slick, desperate walls around his cock—and he came with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt as his release surged into you, thick and hot. You could feel him throbbing inside you, filling you deep, but he didn't stop.
Jongseong kept moving. His thrusts slowed but stayed deep, grinding into you. Your eyes rolled back, heat still pulsing violently through every inch of your body.
And for him—it was more than pleasure. He felt something inside himself realigning. Cells reorganizing, adapting again, responding not to survival... but to you. His body recognized yours, welcomed it.
The usual limits of human bodies didn't apply to either of you anymore. You should have been spent. Exhausted. But your broken refractory periods meant nothing now. The hunger didn't fade—it simply deepened.
He shifted without warning, flipping you effortlessly beneath him—then pulling you back, guiding you to straddle him instead. He collapsed onto his back, chest slick with sweat, arms open.
You took it. You climbed over him, breathless, body still buzzing, and sank down onto him in one smooth motion. A choked sound escaped both of you. You were so sensitive, your walls gripping him tight, but your need, your craving was louder.
You started bouncing, fast and messy, hips slapping against his thighs. "Fuck—yes, just like that," Jongseong growled, hands locking around your waist. His hips bucked up into you, matching your rhythm.
You braced your hands on his chest, fingers curling into his skin as your body began to spiral again. Your thighs trembled, knees shaking as your orgasm crept up again. You could barely breathe, barely think, only ride.
Jongseong shifted beneath you, planting his feet firmly into the mattress for leverage—and thrust up into you with such force you cried out, nearly collapsing over him. He fucked you through your orgasm, each thrust dragging the climax out longer, deeper, until your whole body convulsed, your cries echoing off the walls.
"Ahh—want more," you slurred, voice ragged, utterly cock-drunk.
Jongseong didn't speak. His breath came in hot, heavy bursts as he kept thrusting up into you. His hand reached up, slipping two fingers between your lips—quieting you. You moaned around them, muffled, your tongue swirling instinctively.
He watched you, eyes half-lidded, wild with lust. "You can't get enough, huh?"
Your moans vibrated around his fingers, still buried in your mouth, muffling your cries as your body kept bouncing on his cock, fast and needy.
You clenched around him again, and another guttural groan tore from his lips.
Jongseong slid his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your spit. He brought them to his lips and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours. The simple act made your pulse spike, your rhythm falter for a beat before you recovered.
Your hands slid back to brace against his knees, your back arching sharply. The change in angle made him slip deeper inside you, and you both gasped—his cock visibly outlined beneath your skin, filling you to the hilt. You saw the way his chest stuttered with each breath, eyes tracing every inch of your exposed body.
Then Jongseong laid back, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better view of you. His gaze locked with yours, you gasped softly when you notice the change in his appearance.
His pupils had gone completely black, pure darkness, blown wide.
Something else wrapped around your waist—slick, warm, textured like stretched skin, soft and strong at once. Your eyes widened as you looked down to see tendrils—tentacle-like extensions—curling from his body, wrapping around your midsection, your hips, your thighs.
"Jongseong..." you breathed.
He smirked and thrust into you hard enough to make your vision blur.
You cried out, body jolting, and then you felt another tendril—longer, thinner—slide between your legs. It pressed against your clit, stroking with an eerie, perfect pressure.
Your whole body keened.
"Oh—fuck!" you moaned, louder than before, your voice cracking as the sensation detonated through your core. It was too much. It was perfect.
Jongseong's other hand gripped your hips tighter, his fingers now stretching with inhuman dexterity, more of him wrapping around you, holding you. His cock kept thrusting up into you, the tendril at your clit stroking in sync, teasing the edge of your next orgasm.
Your breath hitched, your mind unraveling, the next orgasm building fast and hot, just out of reach.
"Need more?" Jongseong teased. More tendrils slithered around your body, responding to his command, flickering against your nipples—tight, wet licks of pressure that made you arch and whine, your chest thrusting forward instinctively. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, your head falling back, lips parted in wordless pleasure.
Your mind was far too hazy at this point, soaked in ecstasy and sensation.
Then you felt something soft and cool brushing the tight ring of your ass.
You flinched, hips jerking instinctively, but the tendrils around your thighs clamped tighter, anchoring you. Keeping you still. Keeping you open.
"Shh," Jongseong whispered against your neck, his voice patient, tender even as his body dominated yours completely.
The tendril at your ass was thinner than the rest, careful as it pressed inward—probing, stretching, sliding slowly. You gasped, muscles tightening, overwhelmed by the double penetration. His cock still thrust into your soaked cunt, fast and deep, while the tendril began to move inside you, teasing your second entrance.
You were so full, stuffed, surrounded, owned and every part of your body lit with fire.
"Why are you not talking?" Jongseong whispered, lifting his gaze to yours.
His eyes were fully dilated, pure black, wild and beautiful. You stared at him, mouth open, gasping—because God, he looked so hot. That face. That voice. That control.
The tendril inside your ass began to thicken, stretching you further, matching the rhythm of his cock as your body struggled to keep up. Your legs shook violently, your core fluttering as another orgasm surged too quickly to contain.
You were crying out, words lost to moans and breathless gasps. Jongseong thrust harder, faster; his hands, his cock, his tendrils working in unison. Every inch of you was stimulated. You were locked in his arms, caged in his grip, the hybrid strength in him overpowering but not brutal.
"I can feel you," he groaned. "All of you. You're squeezing me so tight, fuck—don't stop. Cum for me again."
And you did, you shattered, screaming his name, your entire body shaking as pleasure tore through you in electric waves. Your cunt clenched violently around his cock, your ass pulsing around the tendril still buried deep, and everything inside you collapsed into white heat.
Jongseong held you through it, driving into you with steady, desperate rhythm, chasing his own high, his body burning beneath yours, jaw clenched as he thrust one final time and groaned as he came deep inside you again.
Your head rested against his shoulder, your breath shaky in his ear. Slowly, the inhuman tendrils that had wrapped around you began to withdraw, pulling back into his arms, retreating beneath the skin.
His human hands replaced the tendrils, sliding around your back, palms soft as they cradled you. Then his lips pressed to your forehead, he brushed the hair from your face, fingers gliding through it carefully, over and over. The small, unconscious motion soothed something deep inside you.
The affection made you smile. You let your body melt into his, sinking deeper into the curve of his neck, where his scent surrounded you.
"Love you," you whispered in confession, your voice barely there . You felt the subtle shift in his chest, the rise of a soft laugh beneath your palm as he smiled against your hair. “I don’t want to regret any day I didn’t say that,” you continued. “Even if what I feel is just parasitological reaction, even if it’s some rewritten instinct pretending to be love—I don’t care. I love you.”
His hand pressed gently against the curve of your spine. "I love you," he whispered back, and the way he said it—so simply, made your heart throb.
You lifted your head slightly to look at him, eyes still half-lidded, dazed from pleasure and affection. You took in the mess of him: sweat-slick skin, tousled hair, the soft flush across his cheeks.
Beautiful, you thought again.
You smiled, lazy and warm. “More?”
Jongseong’s lips curved slowly into that familiar, crooked smirk.
The morning crept in quietly.
No alarms, no machines humming, no scans running downstairs in the lab. Just the soft amber light of dawn leaking through the half-closed curtains, casting warm streaks across the floor and the tangled mess of sheets.
You stirred first.
Jongseong’s arm was still wrapped around you, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. His warmth radiated through the blankets, his breath steady against the back of your neck. You could feel his hand resting against your stomach.
You didn’t move right away.
You let yourself lie there, blinking slowly at the ceiling, muscles pleasantly sore, body still humming in a low, contented way. You could still feel the echo of last night in your bones, in your skin. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you.
You turned slowly in his arms to face him.
He was awake. His eyes were open, soft with sleep but focused entirely on you. The moment your gaze met his, his lips curved into a small smile, tired but intimate.
“Morning,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep.
“Hey,” you whispered. “How long were you watching me?”
“A while,” he admitted. “You twitch when you dream.”
You groaned, burying your face briefly in his chest. “Great. Bet I looked terrifying.”
He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your cheek. “No. You looked... peaceful.”
You shifted, resting your chin on his chest to look at him properly. “You sleep?”
His hand brushed up your back in a lazy, soothing arc. “I do. When you’re here.”
That silenced you for a moment. “You always say things like that,” you murmured, “like you don’t expect this to last.”
Jongseong was quiet for a long breath. His fingers slid into your hair, combing it gently, thoughtfully. “I don’t take it for granted,” he said. “Not when everything about what we are could change tomorrow.”
You watched his face, trying to read between the words. “Do you think it will?”
He met your gaze. “Maybe. Our biology’s still in flux. Your last scan showed increased neural conductivity in your spinal column. Mine too. Whatever’s happening to us—it isn’t done yet.”
You nodded slowly, tracing the skin of his shoulder with your fingertip. “Do you think we’ll stop being us?”
He caught your hand and pressed it against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “I don’t know. But if I do change... I want to remember this. You. This moment.”
You leaned in, forehead resting against his. “Then let’s make more of them.”
His arm tightened around you, pulling you close until your nose brushed his. “Deal,” he whispered.
“Pathology of Parasites.”
You glanced up from your spot on the floor beside Jongseong’s lab table, brows lifted as you read the scribbled title on the datapad he'd just tossed aside.
“Wow,” you said, lips curving. “Very romantic.”
Jongseong looked up from his microscope, clearly unamused. “It was a working title.”
You held back a laugh as you pulled the datapad closer, scrolling through the contents—notes, schematics, overlapping neural maps. Some of it made sense, some of it looked like nonsense equations written in a fever dream. But it was his—every word a window into how his mind worked. Clinical. Focused. Relentless. And yet… there were margin notes scrawled in a different tone—curious, reflective.
One read:
Subject B demonstrates emotional regulation post-mutation. Possibly adaptive. Possibly… intentional?
You knew Subject B was you.
“You study me a lot,” you said softly, setting the pad down beside you.
Jongseong looked at you for a long moment, eyes steady, warm. “I don’t study you,” he corrected. “I try to understand you.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s somehow worse.”
He snorted. “Maybe. But you’re fascinating.”
You turned your head to rest it against the side of the table, eyes drifting upward to where he sat, perched in his rolling lab chair, hunched slightly over some slide under the scope.
“Do you ever miss it?” you asked. “Being a normal doctor?”
His jaw tensed, and he leaned back slowly, pulling away from the microscope. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “I miss helping people and knowing what I was fixing. Now... I’m just making guesses. Mapping new anatomy no one’s ever named. Studying nervous systems that grow new endings when I’m not looking. It’s not medicine anymore. It’s—”
“—exploration,” you finished.
He glanced at you again, his lips twitching slightly. “That’s one way to put it.”
You reached up and tugged at the end of his sleeve. “Come down here.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now.”
He hesitated only a second before pushing the chair back and sliding to the floor beside you. You leaned against him immediately, head settling on his shoulder, your knees brushing his thigh.
“You ever think,” you murmured, “if we weren’t like this… if we were just two strangers in a city... we would’ve passed each other without a second glance?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Maybe.”
You looked up at him. “Do you like that idea?”
He met your gaze, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “No.”
You tilted your head. “Why not?”
“Because if we were normal,” he said, “I wouldn’t have seen you split your face open like a flower. Or sprout wings. Or smile after turning into something terrifying. I wouldn’t have seen all the parts of you that are beautiful because they’re impossible.”
Your throat tightened. “You always say the nicest horrifying things.”
“I mean every one of them.”
You turned toward him fully now, your legs folding under you, fingers brushing against the back of his hand. “Do you think we’d still fall in love?” you asked.
He paused. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe we’d never look close enough.”
You nodded slowly, fingers tracing invisible lines over the back of his hand. “Then I’m glad it happened like this.”
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours. “Even if it hurts?” he asked.
You looked up at him, smiling just a little. “Especially because it hurts.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and grounding. “You know what I think?”
“Hm?”
“I think our pathology isn’t just parasitic. It’s poetic.”
You laughed under your breath. “Are you writing love poems in medical terms now?”
He smirked. “Only when I’m inspired.”
You leaned in and kissed him. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about heat or need—but about knowing and choosing.
When you pulled away, you stayed close, your forehead against his.
“I like this version of you,” you whispered. “The one who smiles when I mess with your research notes.”
He chuckled, his voice low in your ear. “And I like this version of you—the one who pretends not to be touched when I leave you notes shaped like protein chains.”
“You thought I didn’t notice?”
“I was hoping you did.”
You smiled. The datapad beside you still read Pathology of Parasites, but under it, someone had added in smaller handwriting—And the ones who survive them together.
The weather was quiet—eerily so.
Outside, the garden swayed gently under a pale morning sky. The another flowers you'd planted weeks ago had begun to bloom in earnest, soft bursts of color dancing in the breeze. Petals fluttered open toward the sun.
Inside, the air was still. Calm. The kind of stillness that didn't last.
Jongseong sat hunched at his lab desk, deep in a web of data. The neural scanner whirred quietly beside him, tracking changes in his cellular rhythms. Graphs rose and fell on the screen. Numbers blurred into pattern. His brow furrowed, fingers flying over the touchscreen, eyes sharp with focus.
The sound of wheels.
Faint at first. Too faint for most ears.
But not his. Jongseong body tensed instinctively.
Wheels. Two vehicles. Tires on gravel. He closed his eyes for a second, counting.
One... two… four sets of footsteps. Three kilometers.
Getting closer.
Jongseong rose from his seat with calculated calm, brushing a hand back through his hair, then pulled off his glasses and set them on the desk. His movements were controlled, but fast. He strode to the reinforced lab door, locking it with practiced ease before tugging a small, folded rug from under the emergency shelf. He draped it over the entry seam, concealing the frame as if it were just a storage hatch, then adjusted a nearby cabinet to further obscure it.
Once satisfied, he stepped back, exhaled sharply, and turned toward the stairs.
By the time he reached the living room, you were already there.
You stood at the edge of the hallway, barefoot on the wooden floor, arms wrapped around Jongjong. The little orange cat was tense in your grip, ears back, tail stiff, sensing the same wrongness that you did. Your eyes met Jongseong’s—and they were wide with fear.
“Who are they?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard—cars, and footsteps. They're close.”
Your brow furrowed, panic rising, but Jongseong was already moving toward you. His expression was calm, but you could see the tightness in his jaw. He cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye. “Shhh… don’t be afraid,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I don’t know who they are. But I’ll protect you.”
You swallowed hard, nodding once, clutching Jongjong closer to your chest.
The knock came sharply. Jongseong froze, he took a slow breath, then stepped forward, unlocking the front door with careful precision, standing just beyond the threshold was a man in a dark-gray uniform, flanked by two others. Another figure stood beside the nearest vehicle, partially obscured.
The man at the door wore a clean, crisp jacket with a silver emblem pinned near the collar. His expression was unreadable, polished. Government.
“Good morning, Dr. Park Jongseong,” the man said evenly. “I’m Lee Heeseung. Task Force Division Five. Anti-Parasite Intelligence Unit.”
Jongseong’s eyes flicked down briefly to the ID badge clipped at the man’s belt, then back up to his face. His features didn’t move.
“I wasn’t aware I was still listed under my former title,” he replied coolly.
Heeseung’s lips twitched into something close to a smirk. “Well, it’s been what… two years since you resigned after your incident. You can imagine it took some digging to find this place.”
He gestured loosely toward the landscape—gravel winding through old pine, the isolation of the hills, the unmarked road that led to nowhere. “Your house is… subtle,” he added. “Almost like you didn’t want to be found.”
Jongseong didn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t know that was illegal.”
“It’s not,” Heeseung replied, smile sharpening slightly. “Not yet. But you know how we work—we keep tabs on anyone with a profile like yours. Especially those who survived and then disappeared without a trace.”
“I resigned because I was hospitalized with thirty-five internal injuries,” Jongseong said evenly. “I’m sure you read the files, didn’t you? Spent a few late nights combing through the classified parts?”
Heeseung gave a quiet chuckle. “I skimmed the highlights. They don’t make many survive cases like yours, so you’re... of interest.” His eyes flicked past Jongseong’s shoulder—and landed on you.
You stood near the far end of the hallway, half-visible in the doorway, Jongjong cradled in your arms. You tried to stay still, neutral, but the weight of his gaze made your grip tighten. The kitten stirred with a faint mewl as you forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Heeseung’s head tilted slightly. “Girlfriend?”
There was something in his tone—probing, too casual to be genuine.
“Quite a familiar face,” he added. “I think we flagged her name once. Ran away from home, wasn’t it?”
You swallowed, every muscle in your body tensed beneath your skin.
Jongseong stepped forward, subtly blocking the doorway with his body to cover you. “We’re getting married,” he said flatly.
Heeseung’s brows lifted a fraction, but the smirk never left his face. “Well. Congratulations, then.” His tone made it sound like anything but a blessing.
Jongseong’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
Heeseung’s smile faded slightly. Not gone but tempered. “There’s been parasite movement in this region,” he said. “We’ve been tracking electromagnetic fluctuations coming from your grid. Spike patterns. Irregular heat signatures. Even some satellite interference.”
He paused, studying Jongseong's face for a flicker of reaction that never came. “Nothing conclusive,” Heeseung added, “but... interesting. Enough to warrant a visit.”
Jongseong didn’t flinch. “Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You found a retired doctor with backup power.”
“Maybe.” Heeseung tilted his head slightly. “Or maybe we found a man who’s been hiding something more than outdated diagnostics.”
Jongseong stepped back half a pace—not in retreat, but to take a stronger stance. The door remained open behind him, but his presence filled the threshold like a barricade.
“If you had proof,” he said, voice low, “you wouldn’t be here asking questions.”
Heeseung’s smirk returned. “That’s true. For now.” His eyes flicked to the hallway again—just a second too long, settling on the space where you'd stood before he arrived. His gaze lingered, speculative.
“Thing is,” he continued, tone softening just enough to unsettle, “it’s only a matter of time. Sooner or later, all hosts lose containment. Doesn’t matter how strong they are. Or how careful.”
Jongseong’s jaw flexed. “And if they don’t?” he asked.
Heeseung’s eyes gleamed with the hint of something darker—curiosity, maybe. “Then they become something else. And that’s when they’re really interesting.”
Heeseung stepped back. His smile returned as he reached into his coat and pulled out a small card, placing it gently on the railing beside the door.
“If you ever decide you want to talk,” he said. “I’d be happy to listen.”
Jongseong didn’t respond. He didn’t take the card. Just watched.
Heeseung turned away, nodding once to the officers near the car. As he walked down the steps, his voice carried over his shoulder:
“Take care of your fiancée, Doctor."
The car doors shut with a dull clunk, and the engines rolled back to life.
Jongseong waited until the sound faded completely before closing the door. Not slamming it, just quiet.
The room was still again.
The echo of car engines faded into the distance, swallowed by the thick silence of the woods. But the unease didn’t leave with them. It settled in the corners of the room, in the shadows of the hallway, in the hush of the air itself.
Jongseong stood unmoving for a long moment, staring at the door. Then, slowly, he backed away, step by step, until he reached you.
His voice was low. Bitter. Tired.
“Government’s so fucking fake,” he whispered under his breath. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.
Your body responded before your brain could catch up. Your arms encircled him, clutching Jongjong between you, the little cat still tense, mewing softly with each shift of breath.
You could feel Jongseong’s heart beating faster than usual. Not panic—but calculation. Instinct already grinding into motion.
Your own chest ached with the weight of it. “They’ll raid us,” you said, your voice strained. “You know that, right? It’s just a matter of time.”
“I know,” he murmured into your hair.
He was already thinking, you could feel it in him—muscle memory kicking in, mind running down contingency plans, routes, caches, what to take, what to leave behind. But for one more second, he just held you there, breathing in the moment. Then he pulled back, hands firm but gentle on your shoulders.
“We need to move. Fast.”
You nodded, eyes wide but steady. “Where?”
“There’s a site. Old observatory, two hours east. No power grid, no satellite interference. It’s buried in forest. Abandoned for years.” He was already turning, heading toward the concealed panel in the hallway, the one that led down into the lab. “I used to store backup gear there. We can set up a new node. No one should find us.”
You followed him, Jongjong tucked against your chest, your footsteps light and quick on the floor. Down in the lab, the air was cooler—sterile, humming with faint electricity. But this time, the room didn’t feel like safety. It felt like a ticking clock.
Jongseong moved with swift. He was already pulling storage drives from the mainframe, detaching power cells, collecting physical records. “Grab your scans,” he said without looking. “The ones from last week. The DNA strand with the tertiary mutation—we can’t leave that behind.”
You rushed to the desk, locating the labeled folders, the encrypted drives. “Do we take the entire core?”
“No. Too heavy. Just the segments I isolated in Case File Delta-11. Everything else, we burn.”
You paused, breath caught. “Burn?”
He turned, locking eyes with you. “If they come here, they’re not just looking for us. They’re looking for proof. If they find it, we lose everything.”
You swallowed hard and nodded.
He returned to packing—the slow dismantling of a life that had once felt permanent. The garden. The house. The bed. The scent of tea in the morning and soft footsteps on wood. All of it, now just a risk.
“You’re doing okay?” he asked suddenly.
You looked at him, startled by the question. “What?”
He paused. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m trying not to fall apart,” you said honestly.
Jongseong walked to you, took your hand, laced his fingers through yours. “Then fall apart later. Right now, we survive.”
You blinked fast, refusing to cry, and nodded.
For the next hour, the house came alive with motion You cleared out the bedroom, pulling your few clothes into a duffel bag. Jongseong moved through the kitchen, the basement, the lab—grabbing rations, medical supplies, essential tech. Caches were unlocked from beneath floorboards. Batteries charged.
Jongjong mewed at your heels, sensitive to the sudden shift. You scooped him into a small reinforced carrier, latching the top shut gently as you whispered, “It’s okay, baby. We’re not leaving you.”
When everything was ready—what little they could carry—the rest was rigged.
Jongseong stood by the lab console, thumb hovering over a small interface.
“Are you sure?” you asked softly.
He looked around the room. The whiteboards, the shelves, the soft glow of monitors that had flickered through endless nights of quiet obsession. “I loved this place,” he said. “But it was never meant to last.”
Then he pressed his thumb to the screen. The countdown began: 120 seconds.
He turned to you.
“Let’s go.”
The two of you moved quickly through the trees, boots crunching against the uneven trail that led away from the house. The duffel bags strapped over your shoulders weighed heavy, and Jongjong’s carrier bumped gently against your side as you kept pace with Jongseong. Every breath burned in your chest, lungs tight from urgency, but you didn’t slow.
The road wasn’t far. Behind you, the first hint of black smoke coiled upward into the sky—thin at first, then thicker, darker, alive with the scent of something ending. Chemicals. Plastic. Burnt paper. Memories.
You glanced back once, just once, and saw the roof of the house begin to buckle in the distance, flames licking hungrily through the glass of the greenhouse.
The safehouse was gone.
You turned your face forward again, biting down hard on the grief rising in your throat.
Then, just as you and Jongseong stepped out from the treeline onto the narrow, cracked road, you heard it—engines. Multiple.
Too close.
Jongseong’s hand shot out instinctively, halting you in your tracks as headlights cut across the road ahead. Then another flash of light from behind. The hum of electric motors shifted into full roar as a wall of vehicles emerged from the forest—sleek, matte black, no visible insignia.
One car. Then two. Then four. They encircled you with military precision.
“Fuck,” Jongseong breathed.
Your heart kicked into a sprint.
The tires screeched as the cars completed the circle, trapping you both in the center. Doors slammed. Boots hit gravel. From the trees, two more massive transport trucks rumbled into view—large, reinforced, bearing symbols you didn’t recognize.
Your pulse rang in your ears. Jongjong whimpered inside his carrier.
Around you, agents moved into formation—helmets, rifles, armor too advanced for local law enforcement. These weren’t just military. This was containment.
You felt Jongseong’s hand slip into yours, grounding. His grip was steady, but the tension radiating from him was unmistakable.
They’d come fast. Too fast. Someone had been watching long before Heeseung ever stepped onto the porch. The visit had been a test—a warning disguised as politeness. And now, the real answer had arrived.
Jongseong stood still beside you, his body calm but coiled like a spring. Eyes scanning every angle—counting rifles, reading stance, calculating distance.
“We don’t run,” he said quietly, his voice low and measured.
You nodded, barely. Your mouth had gone dry. Every muscle in your body was buzzing with restrained panic, but his steadiness held you together. Barely.
Then the voice came, amplified by a mounted speaker from one of the armored vehicles ahead.
“Park Jongseong. Parasite host that evolved with retained intelligence. Subject Code 1072. You are surrounded. Surrender peacefully.”
Parasite. Host.
You felt something clench in your chest. They thought Jongseong was gone. That he was nothing but a skin-walker—a parasite wearing his face. They thought he had taken Jongseong’s memories. Not kept them.
And if that’s what they thought of him… what did they think you were? You were both still yourselves. Still human in the ways that mattered. Conscious. Feeling. Choosing. How could they not see that?
It was easier to reduce you to subjects—to codes and categories. It was easier to eliminate anomalies than to understand them.
You flinched as the quiet clicks of safety switches echoed around you. One by one. Like a metronome of dread. The hiss of containment coils charging up, the faint hum of EMP disruptors warming beneath the truck chassis. Cold, impersonal tools built to restrain monsters.
This is it. This is how it ends.
You choked back a cry, your vision blurring with panic, heart jackhammering in your chest.
A hand, warm and steady, wrapped around yours. You looked up instinctively, drawn by that calm pull, and saw Jongseong’s face turned toward you. No fear in his expression.
Only you.
His thumb brushed gently across your skin—once, twice, the motion grounding. His eyes held yours, soft and unwavering, and in them was a message louder than the voice still barking orders from the trucks:
We’ll be alright.
No matter what happened next. Whether they fought, ran, or burned it all down—he would not leave you. Not now. Not after everything.
You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead briefly to his shoulder.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” he said. “I’m not a host. I’m not a parasite."
But they weren’t listening. Before the next breath, the soldiers moved.
Shadows broke from the perimeter—six of them, black-clad, rifles raised, moving with ruthless efficiency. You barely had time to react before they were on you, splitting you apart.
“Jongseong!” you screamed, voice raw, panic lacing. You twisted violently in their grip, but they were trained for this. One of them was already behind you, and then—Cold metal—pressed hard against the back of your skull.
“Do not touch her!” Jongseong roared, voice losing all calm. “I came out here on my own. I’m trying to handle this peacefully—hear me out first!”
“What a nerve for a parasite.”
Heeseung stepped forward from the rear of one of the vehicles, casual as ever, a tablet under one arm and a sleek black coat whipping slightly in the breeze. His expression was between amused and disappointed.
“You know what fascinates me about your kind?” he asked. “You think memory makes you human. That because you remember who you were, that gives you the right to pretend you still are.”
Heeseung smiled thinly, but his eyes were sharp and gleaming. “You’re not a miracle, Park Jongseong. You’re a malfunction. A parasite too stubborn to wipe clean. An error in the code.”
“You’re wrong,” Jongseong said, voice low and shaking with barely-contained rage. “I’m not pretending. I am still me.”
“Oh?” Heeseung lifted an eyebrow, then glanced at you, pinned and trembling. “Then why does your biology say otherwise?”
“This,” Heeseung continued, “is not human. And it never will be again.”
He stepped closer to you now, far too close, gaze crawling over you. His hand reached for your face.
You flinched and Jongseong snapped. “Don’t touch her!” he bellowed. His body tensed, pulsing with barely contained energy, the hybrid signature humming just beneath his skin.
But the soldiers were faster this time. Before he could fully shift, they surged forward, slamming him to the ground with blunt, brutal force. A shriek tore from your throat as metal restraints clamped around his wrists, locking into his nerves with a cruel hiss. Another device—a containment collar—was pressed to the base of his neck and activated with a low whine. It snapped shut, injecting something through the skin.
"No!" you screamed, trying to lunge toward him, but two soldiers seized you by the arms and yanked you back. From the corner of your eye, you saw them dragging Jongseong toward one of the trucks. His head lolled forward, jaw clenched, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. But his eyes—his eyes—were still locked on you.
“My cat,” you whispered hoarsely, panic rising in your throat as you clutched the carrier tighter to your chest. The soldiers didn’t stop—they reached for it too.
"Please don’t hurt Jongjong,” you begged, voice cracking as the straps were torn from your hands, the warm weight of the carrier suddenly gone. “Please.”
The truck doors slammed behind Jongseong. Heeseung approached you, boots slow on the gravel, his expression unreadable. You expected amusement, or cold detachment. Instead, he looked… fascinated.
He stopped just in front of you, gaze flicking over your face, then lower, he reached out and plucked a strand of your hair.
You jerked back, but he already had it between his gloved fingers, holding it against the light.
It twitched. A subtle motion, almost imperceptible. The strand pulsed—flexed—like something living beneath the keratin. A ripple of parasite-altered structure, responsive to stress. Adaptable.
Just like Jongseong’s.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. You stood rigid, breath shallow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of fear.
He didn’t need you to speak. He already knew. You moved differently too.
Not like the ones they captured in the early waves—parasites that tore through their hosts in hours, leaving nothing behind but mindless hunger. Those were feral. Primitive. No self-awareness, no identity. They moved in twisted packs, bonded by instinct and survival programming alone.
You showed restraint. Expression. Emotion. A parasite that retained host memories wasn’t unheard of, but this level of cognitive mimicry? This illusion of selfhood? It was advanced. Dangerous.
Heeseung’s gaze flicked toward the truck where Jongseong was being restrained, injected, monitored. Still conscious, still resisting. Still looking at you.
The way you’d screamed for him. The way he’d fought back. The way your bodies moved in sync when threatened, like one half of the same adaptive system.
Heeseung’s brow furrowed faintly as his mind worked. Two parasites. Two separate hosts. And yet—shared behavior, matched speech patterns, mirrored stress responses.
Coordination. There was no record of parasite hosts operating this way.
No. These two were different.
They operated like a bonded system—distinct, but synchronized. Reflexively connected. Conscious units that didn't just act... they adapted. They evolved in tandem.
Like they remembered how to be human.
Heeseung turned from you without another word and walked briskly toward the rear vehicle.
The heavy doors of the transport truck slammed shut behind him with a hollow thud, sealing away the forest light. Inside, the air was sterile and close—metal floors, reinforced paneling, containment restraints bolted to the walls.
Jongseong sat chained at the wrists and ankles to a steel platform welded to the floor. A neural-suppression collar wrapped around the base of his neck, blinking with slow, pulsing red light—designed to keep his nervous system dormant. His breathing was shallow, restrained by the collar’s influence, but his eyes…
His eyes were alert. Fixed on a spot on the floor in front of him, still burning with thought.
The soldier at the rear finished checking the restraints, nodded once to Heeseung, then stepped out, leaving the two of them alone as the engine rumbled to life.
The truck began to move.
Heeseung sat across from him, there was a moment of silence before Jongseong spoke.
“Where did you put her cat?”
He didn’t look up—just stared at the floor, wrists loose in the restraints, posture deceptively relaxed.
Heeseung blinked, caught off-guard by the question. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just calm, focused concern. That tone again. Human, not host mimicry.
“She was worried,” Jongseong continued. “Even when they put a gun to her head. She didn’t cry for herself.”
“Your first question,” he said at last, “after all this—after being tranquilized, collared, contained—is about a cat?”
Jongseong’s jaw shifted slightly. “He’s all she has left."
Heeseung leaned back in his seat, watching him, trying to see where the parasite ended and the man began. “You say that like you care.”
“I do,” Jongseong said simply.
“You’re not supposed to,” Heeseung said flatly. “Parasites don’t care. They consume. They replicate. They preserve function only long enough to blend in and feed. Emotions aren’t in the architecture.”
Jongseong finally lifted his eyes. And when he did, the calm in them unnerved even Heeseung. “Maybe your data’s outdated.”
Heeseung didn’t answer right away.
The collar blinked again—another suppression pulse. Jongseong winced slightly, just a flicker. But the control was slipping.
Jongseong tilted his head. “You think that’s the parasite, don’t you? A mimicry of love?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” he replied quietly. “It’s something stronger than that. Something your experiments can’t replicate.”
Heeseung watched him for a moment longer, then pulled a tablet from his coat. He tapped the screen once, bringing up a live feed.
On it—your containment cell.
You were seated on a cold bench, hands cuffed, staring at the wall with red-rimmed eyes. Jongjong’s carrier sat in the far corner, intact. The kitten was curled up inside, asleep, breathing shallow but steady.
“She’s safe. For now,” Heeseung said. “As long as you cooperate.”
Jongseong didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on the screen showing your containment room. The only motion came from his fingers—subtle, rhythmic tension in the knuckles as they flexed against the cuffs around his wrists.
The low rumble of the truck filled the silence between them as the vehicle rolled down the cracked road. The steel walls vibrated faintly with every turn, every bump. The hum of the suppression collar echoed with each pulse, a soft, almost inaudible thrum designed to keep the nervous system in check.
Heeseung sat opposite him, tablet resting on one knee, but he wasn’t looking at the screen anymore.
He was watching him. Heeseung had spent years studying parasite behavior. He’d seen the aftermath of outbreaks, the scorched ruins of cities where hosts turned feral. He’d dissected bodies whose minds had been consumed, hijacked by instinct. He knew how the infection behaved. The timeline. The neurological decay.
Heeseung leaned forward slightly, watching every twitch of the man’s jaw, every micro-movement in the corners of his eyes. There was no vacant, drone-like stillness. No flickering dissonance between body and mind. Jongseong moved with control. With memory.
“Two years,” Heeseung said quietly. “Since your incident.”
Still, no reply.
“No symptoms of degeneration. No neural collapse. No regression to instinctive behavior. Not even a shift unless provoked.”
Heeseung’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Parasites don’t do that.”
“You should’ve lost cognitive function by now,” Heeseung muttered, as if to himself. “Or at least shown instability. But you’re not twitching, not fragmenting. You’re still here.”
Jongseong didn’t answer.
Heeseung studied him harder now. “You responded to pain. But you didn’t lash out. You defended her first. Like you weren’t the one being contained.”
He stood slowly, pacing a step across the cramped transport cabin. “You aren’t fighting for survival like the others. You’re fighting for her. And the cat.” He said the last part with disbelief.
“And even now—with everything shut down inside you—you’re not asking how to escape.” He tapped a knuckle lightly against the wall. “You’re asking about a cat.”
Heeseung exhaled slowly, almost reluctantly, he muttered the thought that had been coiling in the back of his mind since he first saw the two of you together:
“…What if we didn’t catch a parasite?”
Across from him, Jongseong finally lifted his eyes. “You didn’t,” Jongseong said quietly.
His voice was calm. Too calm. It made Heeseung’s spine tighten.
“You didn’t catch a parasite,” he repeated. “You caught me.”
Heeseung turned toward him, narrowing his eyes, the flicker of doubt still not strong enough to override years of indoctrinated procedure. “So what are you then? The host pretending to be alive? Or the thing that took his name?”
“I’m not pretending,” Jongseong said, sitting straighter despite the restraints. “I never stopped being me.”
Heeseung folded his arms, cautious. “Parasites can adapt to memory. Form neural imprints. Replay emotions. It doesn’t mean they feel them.”
“I remember my mother’s voice,” Jongseong said. “The smell of mint in my lab. The first time I stitched a wound clean."
He leaned forward just slightly, eyes locked with Heeseung’s. “Tell me. What kind of parasite chooses restraint?”
Heeseung didn’t answer.
“I should have attacked when you put the collar on,” Jongseong continued. “When you touched her. When you threatened a cat. But I didn’t. Because I still have choice. I still have will. And if I wasn’t me... you’d all be dead.”
Heeseung’s jaw tightened. “That’s not proof of humanity. It’s control.”
“It’s both,” Jongseong said. “That’s what you can’t see. You’ve been fighting a war against an infection—but you never stopped to consider that maybe, some of us… integrated.”
Jongseong nodded once. “Symbiosis. On a level your science hasn’t reached yet. Our cells merged. Our minds remained intact. Not corrupted."
The idea clawed at the edge of his discipline. It wasn’t just unorthodox—it was heretical in the field of parasite containment.
“This isn’t a theory we can test,” Heeseung muttered, as much to himself as to Jongseong. “There’s no model for what you’re describing. No neural map that explains how host and parasite can both retain identity—”
“Because you’ve never looked,” Jongseong cut in. “You see symptoms. You don’t see survival. You isolate, contain, and kill before you understand.”
Heeseung stopped, and look at him again. “Why her?” he asked again, softer this time. “Why protect her like that?”
Jongseong’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because I love her. Not because the parasite remembers it. Because I do."
Heeseung was silent, the silence between them thickened.
“If you're going to cut us open, then leave her out of it. I’ve already run my bloodwork. The cells in our systems—they’re nearly identical. If you need a subject, take me.”
Heeseung narrowed his eyes. “You’re admitting you’re infected.”
“I’m saying I know more about what’s happening inside me than you ever will,” Jongseong said. “I’ve seen the mutation pathways. I’ve watched how the parasite interacts with host DNA. It doesn’t consume. Not in our case. It synchronizes. Rewrites with us, not over us.”
“You expect me to believe this is some kind of... biological partnership?”
“I don’t care if you believe it,” Jongseong said coolly. “I care if you let her live.”
Heeseung stood motionless, his fingers tightening slightly over the edge of his tablet. His mind clearly spinning, trying to stitch logic back together with a theory that had no precedent, no documented case, no rules.
Then a sudden bang was heard at the front of the transport.
The front of the transport jolted sideways, metal groaning as something massive rammed into the vehicle’s outer shell. Jongseong’s head snapped up, his body jerking violently against the restraints. The suppression collar flared with a pulse of light as it tried to regulate the surge in his nervous system.
But instinct was already rising. From deep in his bones, something ancient and sharpened stirred.
Warning sirens shrieked from the cockpit, pulsing red light flooding the interior. A violent, inhuman screech tore through the walls of the transport, piercing and layered with a sound that no natural throat could make.
Heeseung spun toward the back, eyes wide, gun already in hand as static exploded over the comms.
“—under attack—Sector Four breached—multiple signatures—non-registered forms—”
Then: silence. The comm cut out with a sharp burst of static.
Another impact—closer now.
The left panel of the truck ripped open, jagged claws punching through the hull. The interior sparked, wires torn from the wall. Screams erupted outside, brief, panicked, human—and were immediately silenced.
Gunfire flared, distant and fast. Then stopped. The truck screeched to a halt. Everything inside shuddered.
Jongseong’s breathing slowed. His pupils dilated. A sharp ringing started in his ear, piercing and constant. A signal. An echo. He knew that sound. The ferals were here.
Heeseung backed toward the wall, cursing under his breath, eyes darting toward the ruptured seams of the truck. “Shit—ferals. We’re not the only ones who tracked your signal.”
The vehicle hissed, locking down in emergency containment mode, blast doors grinding into place—but it wouldn’t hold.
It never held against evolved ferals.
A voice crackled in over the emergency channel, panicked and distorted.
“They’re cutting through the outer convoy—unit integrity compromised—blades—gods, their heads—!”
Heeseung turned toward the hatch with frantic precision, slamming a hand against the biometric reader. It blinked red.
Denied. Lockdown protocol in effect.
He snarled and spun toward one of the soldiers just as they dropped in from the front cabin, blood on their chest armor.
“What the hell are they doing here?!” Heeseung barked, breath ragged.
The soldier stumbled forward, panting. “We were being tracked. They're grouped, coordinated. They sensed the suppression signals. We were too focused on the subject—on capturing him—we didn’t see them grouping up!”
Heeseung’s face twisted, horror blooming beneath the sweat on his brow. He hit the external door override and shoved it open.
The wind roared in—along with the sharp scent of blood and ozone. He stepped out onto the highway and stopped cold.
The road was carnage.
Vehicles overturned. Trucks in flames. Smoke coiling into the sky. The asphalt was smeared with streaks of red. Civilian cars had been caught in the chaos, crumpled in the crash zone, some still running. The sound of alarms blared faintly beneath the screams.
And all around them—parasites. Dozens of them.
Moving in brutal synchronicity. Their heads had split open, revealing rows of blade-like bone and twitching sensory tissue, extending into curved, serrated weapons. Limbs bent at impossible angles. Some crawled low, others leapt over crushed vehicles.
One slammed a containment soldier into a guardrail, slicing through armor like foil. Another dragged someone beneath a flipped transport, the sound that followed barely human.
“Fuck!” Heeseung shouted. “We’re on a highway! Civilians are here!”
He watched as one parasite tore through a family vehicle. And suddenly, Heeseung understood the truth he’d ignored for too long:
While the government hunted for anomalies, the real parasites were already evolving—together.
"Jongseong!" Your voice cut through the gunfire, the sirens, the screeching metal—and Jongseong’s body reacted instantly.
His head snapped up, muscles tensing, eyes blown wide with instinct. The suppression collar hissed against his neck, trying to contain the surge of parasitic activity pulsing beneath his skin, but it was failing—overloaded by the ambient energy from the ferals outside. He pulled against the restraints, harder than before, the reinforced cuffs groaning.
Heeseung spun, eyes wide, curse caught in his throat as he raised his pistol again and fired into a cluster of parasites tearing through the defensive line.
Shots rang out, shells clinking against the scorched metal floor. Smoke billowed from one of the downed trucks. The soldiers had formed a defensive circle around the transport, rifles raised, trying desperately to hold position. Their formation was tight focused on protecting the anomaly inside.
But they didn’t see you. Your form moved like a blur—inhumanly fast—leaping across the crushed hood of a nearby vehicle. Metal dented under your weight as you sprang upward, hair whipped by the wind, eyes burning.
“How the hell—” one soldier stammered. “How did she escape containment?”
Another parasite lunged toward you, its jaw split wide in three directions, blade-arms drawn back to strike—but you twisted mid-air, your arm morphing as it flared into a winged shield, catching the creature mid-swipe and launching it backward with a bone-cracking crash.
You landed hard on the ground, crouched and panting, blood spattered on your cheek but your eyes were locked forward.
“Get away from him!” you screamed, your voice tore through the cacophony.
More soldiers had arrived—reinforcements spilling onto the blood-slick highway, shouting over their comms, rifles raised, movements tight and confused. But they couldn’t keep formation. They couldn’t keep up.
The parasites were everywhere crawling over the wreckage, tearing through armor. Heads split in jagged, serrated formations. Limbs bent backward, adapted for slicing, climbing, killing.
Heeseung stood in the center, spinning in place, trying to process it all.
Too fast. Too many. His team was trained for containment, not war.
“Sector is compromised—” a soldier barked through the radio before his voice was swallowed in static and a wet, bone-snapping crunch nearby.
All around him, his men were falling. One circle formation collapsed entirely, parasites tearing through the armored bodies within seconds. Another squad tried to regroup behind the burning transport, but were picked off before they even knelt.
Heeseung turned, frantic, searching for something to ground the moment. His eyes locked on you again.
You were in the open now—half-covered in smoke and ash, crouched behind a twisted heap of steel. Your breath was ragged, chest heaving, your once-formed wing-arm flickering with strain. Bone pushed through skin, not cleanly. It was raw. Exhausted. Overused.
You lifted your hand again but it refused to hold shape. Too many eyes.
The soldiers had seen you, so had the parasites.
And now everyone was targeting you. They didn’t care if you were like them or not—they only knew you weren’t theirs.
Gunfire cracked again, a warning shot grazing the steel beside your head. You ducked, eyes wide, hand burning as it twisted, half-shifting into something between claw and shield.
“Jongseong!” you cried out, breath shattering on his name. You didn’t know if he could hear you, but he felt you.
Body twisting against the chains as the parasite beneath his skin surged upward. The steel groaned. Jongseong’s wrists ripped free from the restraints in a burst of heat and sound. Sparks rained down as his hands—half-shifted now, gleaming with dark, fluid armor—tore the collar from his neck with a violent crack, tossing it against the wall where it exploded in a flash of white.
One leap carried him from the open truck, landing on shattered pavement just a few meters from you. Smoke curled from his shoulders. The wreckage of the convoy burned behind him. But he wasn’t looking at the fire.
He was looking at you.
“Stay back!” one of the soldiers shouted, stepping into his path.
Another raised a weapon and then they shot him.
The crack of the rifle echoed.
A high-velocity round tore into Jongseong’s back, slamming into the base of his spine, his arms dropped slightly.
And that’s when something inside you snapped.
The sound of the bullet, the sight of him being hit—again—sent a wave through your chest that wasn’t fear.
"No!" Something inside you responded. Your ears rang—not from the gunshot, but from a deeper frequency. Like pressure under water, like something old and waiting inside your blood suddenly woke up.
Heeseung saw the shift too late.
“No! Hold your fire!” he shouted, voice cracking as he pushed through the chaos, waving his arm wildly at the squad still taking aim. “Cease fire—stand down!”
Jongseong’s body hit the pavement hard, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat. The bullet had struck at the base of his spine—the most sensitive part of his body, where parasite and host tissue merged deepest. His limbs trembled, nerves crackling like snapped wires. The world around him blurred.
Sound fractured. Vision swam. But even through the fog, his body moved.
He forced one arm forward, dragging himself across the cracked asphalt, blood trailing behind him. Grit tore into his palms. Every movement lit his back. He had to reach you.
His breath hitched, when he looked up and saw you.
You were standing amidst the ruin, body trembling, chest rising, your head is split. Down the center, your skull had begun to peel open, petals of bone and skin folding back in a horrifying symmetry.
Inside, the interior of your skull pulsed with living tissue—luminous, intricate, organic architecture sculpted into motion. The folds moved, shimmering with pale bioluminescence beneath layers of exposed membrane. Thorned tendrils extended into the air, twitching like antennae, reaching in all directions—reading everything.
You weren’t looking at anyone. You were looking at everything.
And anything that moved was a target.
Jongseong watched, breath stuttering in his throat as he pushed himself to his feet, limping, wounded, bleeding, but still moving toward you.
“No…” he whispered, his voice frayed with pain. “Please—look at me.”
But your head remained split open, the sensory limbs on full alert, searching, flinching, vibrating with threat-perception. You were caught in something deeper than instinct. Something merged. Not fully parasite. Not fully human.
Hybrid rage.
He saw your hands flex—one already reshaped into a half-scythe, twitching.
His steps faltered. You didn’t recognize movement anymore. Only motion. Only danger.
And that’s when a memory crashed through him.
“If I stop choosing?” you asked him, voice fragile, small in the silence of your shared bed. “If I lose myself?”
He cupped your face and smiled faintly, "remember what I said when we first met?"
"I’ll stop you,” he said.
Jongseong staggered closer, lifting a hand.
“Come back to me,” he whispered, blood dripping from his fingers. “It’s me, remember? You asked me to stop you. But I know you’re still in there.”
Your tendrils twitched, one sweeping dangerously near his face. Another moved to your back—coiling instinctively, ready to strike anything that came close.
He didn’t move faster. He moved slower. One step at a time. No aggression. No sudden gestures. Just presence.
Your exposed mind pulsed again, recognition flickering across the movement sensors.
The rage inside you paused.
Jongseong was right there, wounded and reaching. His hand stretched toward you, fingers trembling, eyes full of you.
You saw him. He saw you.
For a moment, the chaos faded beneath the ringing in your head. The rage had cracked open, flared, and then wavered. The kill-reflex that had overtaken you flickered like a faulty circuit. Jongseong was there—his body broken, bleeding, limping toward you, arms out like he wasn’t afraid. And you weren’t afraid either.
He was calling you back. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze, in the tremble of his voice, in the way he said your name like it still belonged to a person, not a monster.
But the world never gave you time to breathe.
“Target in range!” came the voice, sharp and too close.
A soldier burst through the smoke to the left of the wreckage, rifle raised, armor streaked with ash. He’d broken rank. His orders were panic now, and his eyes were locked not on you—but on Jongseong.
He didn’t see the moment between you.
He saw a parasite protecting another parasite. He pulled the trigger.
And the world snapped back into motion.
Your body reacted faster than thought. Your limbs twisted with violent precision, burning pain ripping through your shoulders as tendrils re-flared wide. The trajectory of the bullet was instant, and so was your movement. You lunged—not toward the soldier, but toward Jongseong.
The shot rang out.
It hit you in the side of the head. The force snapped your body mid-leap, the angle of your descent faltering as the impact twisted your momentum. You crumpled in the air, before collapsing into Jongseong’s arms.
He didn’t process it at first. His mind refused to.
He had just seen your face—your eyes, focused and full of something fierce. You’d moved to shield him. You had chosen. And now your weight was in his arms, limp, warm, and wrong.
Jongseong’s eyes widened, his pupils blown wide as your body hit him. You slid into his chest, your limbs folding over him.
“No—” The word broke from him. Your blood was already pooling in his lap, hot and thick, soaking through the front of his shirt.
Your head lolled against his shoulder, and for one breathless, agonizing moment, he thought it was over. That whatever part of you had held on through mutation and fear had finally let go.
Then, you moved.
Your fingers twitched against his chest, searching weakly, as though your body still knew him. As though your nerves had memorized where he was. His hand flew to your cheek, cradling your face, feeling the fresh, searing heat of the wound just above your brow, where the bullet had grazed—not pierced—just grazed, carving a shallow line along the temple instead of burrowing deep.
It hadn’t gone through.
It hadn’t gone through.
“Hey—hey,” Jongseong whispered, his voice trembling as his thumb brushed away the blood streaking down the side of your face. “Stay with me. Look at me. Come on, open your eyes.”
You stirred faintly in his arms, eyes fluttering open halfway. Blurry. Unfocused. One pupil dilated, the other slow to respond. Your breathing came shallow, uneven. But you were still there.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, slurred. “You were in the way.”
Tears welled in Jongseong’s eyes, stinging hot. “You think I care about that?” he said, a bitter laugh breaking through his grief. “You shouldn’t be protecting me. I’m supposed to protect you. That was the deal. That was the whole damn deal.”
Your mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “We keep switching places.”
He let out a breath—part sob, part laugh—and pulled you tighter against him, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get out of this. Just don’t close your eyes, okay?”
Around you, the world was still burning.
The smoke curled through the air, lit red by fire and violence. Parasites clashed with soldiers. Screams rose and fell. Metal groaned as the transport vehicles burned. But inside this circle, there was only the two of you.
Jongseong cradled your body close, arms trembling, holding you. You were breathing but just barely, and each breath was a battle. Your eyes were open, unfocused, but searching only for him.
“I said hold your fucking gun!” Heeseung’s voice tore through the smoke, sharp and furious. He stormed forward, boots crunching glass and debris.
But halfway there, he froze. A small, unmistakable sound pierced the tension.
"Meow."
Heeseung blinked, momentarily disarmed.
Out from behind a crushed tire, padding softly on tiny feet, came the orange kitten. Its fur was matted with soot, but it was unharmed. It limped slightly, dazed but determined, weaving its way across the field of bodies and broken machines. It meowed again, louder this time, heading straight toward the two figures curled together on the ground.
Heeseung watched, stunned.
The kitten crawled into the small space between your arms and Jongseong’s chest, nudging at your hand until your fingers curled faintly around its fur. A soft sound escaped your lips—almost a sob. Jongseong let out a broken breath, head bowed low, tears trailing silently down his blood-streaked face.
Heeseung had seen hundreds of parasite cases. Dissections. Failures. Living corpses. He’d seen what it looked like when something wore a human face like a mask.
They weren’t mimicking emotion.
They were feeling it.
And suddenly, something cracked in him. Maybe it was the way Jongseong hadn’t fought back. Maybe it was the way you had shielded him without hesitation. Or maybe it was the cat—meowing stubbornly like it belonged in this hell, like it belonged to someone who mattered.
Heeseung turned away. “Take them to the hospital,” he said gruffly. "Now.”
The remaining soldiers hesitated. He turned his head slightly, eyes hard. “They are just normal beings. You hear me?”
The sun was bright—too bright, almost unreal after everything. You lay on your back in the grass, eyes half-lidded, your arm stretched above your head as your fingers tried to catch the warmth. The heat soaked into your skin that reminded your body it was still alive.
The breeze danced lightly across your face, carrying the scent of earth and new flowers. Birds chirped somewhere distant, lazy and indifferent to what the world had gone through.
For once, it was quiet.
Jongseong dropped down beside you, his breath soft as he settled into the grass. His shoulder brushed against yours.
“You’re happy?” he asked, you turned toward him, giggling gently as you scooted closer, resting your head against his arm until your nose touched the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Yes,” you whispered, eyes closing. “The house you bought has neighbors. Real ones. I hear them laughing sometimes through the trees.”
You let your hand slide down into the grass, brushing over a patch of tiny purple flowers that had just begun to open. “The flowers are blooming again,” you added.
You felt his arm slide under your neck, pulling you gently into him. The warmth of his chest against your back. The sound of his heart, steady and strong.
“You’re blooming again too,” he said quietly, lips brushing the top of your hair. You smiled, tucking yourself in closer, your fingers playing absently with the hem of his shirt.
“I talked to my mother,” you said after a pause, voice barely more than a breath.
Jongseong tensed slightly behind you, just surprise. His fingers paused mid-stroke along your arm.
“They cried,” you continued, your voice catching somewhere between joy and guilt. “Not because I ran… but because I was alive. Still me. I don’t think they fully understand what I’ve become, but they—believed me. That was enough.”
“That’s more than most people get,” he said softly. “More than I thought either of us would get.”
You turned just enough to look up at him over your shoulder, your cheek still resting on his chest. “They asked about you too, you know.”
He smiled faintly. “What’d you tell them?”
“That you were the reason I came back. That you weren’t a monster. That you were the most human thing left in the world.”
He didn’t answer that. Just held you tighter.
The breeze passed again, ruffling his hair, and for a few long moments, you stayed like that.
“I… got a job offer.”
You blinked, lifting your head slightly. “A job?”
He nodded. “From the Anti-Parasite Intelligence Unit.”
You sat up just a bit, your brow furrowing as you turned toward him. “Huh? That doesn’t even make sense—they tried to kill us. You think they won’t dissect you the moment you scan wrong on their monitors?”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Not this time. Heeseung vouched for me.”
You stared at him. “The guy who raided your house and locked me in a steel box?”
Jongseong gave a small shrug, like he was still trying to believe it himself. “He said watching us changed something. That they need people who understand—not just destroy. Someone who’s walked both sides.”
You exhaled slowly, processing that. “And… do you trust him?”
“No,” he said honestly. “But I trust myself.”
You looked at him, eyes soft but filled with worry. “I don’t want to lose this. What we have. What we made.”
“You won’t,” he said, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “I won’t let them take that. I just… I want to be part of shaping what comes next. So no one else has to live like we did.”
You were quiet for a moment, then reached up and ran your fingers through his hair.
“So…” you murmured with a crooked smile, “I’ll just be the one staying home? Waiting for you to come back from your mysterious, morally ambiguous government job?”
He chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
You shrugged, teasing. “I don’t know. I was hoping for something a little more… exciting.”
Jongseong’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing between yours gently. “Then marry me,” he said.
You blinked. “W-What?”
He turned slightly onto his side to face you, pressing a kiss into the back of your hand. His voice didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t stray.
“Marry me,” he repeated, lips still brushing your skin. “Not because it’s perfect. Not because we’re normal. But because we survived. Because I want to spend every day I have left choosing you again.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You sat up slowly, stunned, the words echoing louder now in the silence between you. The wind quieted. Even the trees seemed to hush.
“You’re serious,” you whispered.
He sat up with you, his face close now, eyes full of something more vulnerable than fear. “I don’t know how long this peace will last. But I know I want to build something with you. Something that no one can take from us. Not science. Not governments. Not even time.”
You laughed. “You idiot,” you said, tears in your eyes. “You didn’t even bring a ring.”
He smiled. “You’d say no if I did?”
You shook your head, laughing again through the tears. “No.”
Then quieter, as your hand pressed to his chest, you whispered:
“Yes.”
And when he kissed you this time, it was full of sunlight and the sound of blooming things.
“Pathology of Parasites.”
The words glowed dimly on the top corner of Jongseong’s datapad screen, the title of a document he’d first created over two years ago.
Rows of categorized data: genome sequencing, mutation rates, cellular instability markers. Diagrams of parasite-host binding sites. Bone marrow compatibility. Immune rejection cycles. Timelines of when the parasite first entered his nervous system. His own handwriting, still neat back then, filled the digital margins—observations in shorthand, notes from sleepless nights.
Date: March 4
Neurological sensitivity peaked at 3:21 AM. No external triggers. Breathing accelerated. Controlled.
Note: Dreamed in third person again. Strange.
But the pages had changed with time.
What began as cold, methodical data shifted the moment you entered his life. Your name didn’t appear at first. Then it did.
“Unconfirmed bond pattern. Same cellular merging. Same control.”
But eventually, it wasn’t numbers anymore. He'd begun sketching you—rough outlines in the corner of the file margins. Not parasite diagrams. Just you. The curve of your jaw when you smiled. The ripple of your morphing wing when light hit it just right. The split of your skull the first time you showed him what you really were—and how he still found you beautiful.
More files were added. Pages documenting the moments no microscope could capture:
“She laughed while watering the flowers today. Her breathing pattern returned to baseline immediately afterward. Possibly tied to emotional regulation.”
“Her T-cells adapted faster than mine. She smells like copper and summer rain when she’s shifting. No documented reason. Just… her.”
The datapad buzzed faintly beneath his fingertips. He sat in the quiet of his study, your silhouette just visible through the open window—standing in the garden, laughing at Jongjong as the cat tried to chase a butterfly it would never catch.
Jongseong looked down at the title again.
Pathology of Parasites.
He stared at it for a long time. Then, slowly, he raised a finger and tapped on the word Pathology.
He highlighted it, then deleted it to typed something else.
꒰ ✉️ ꒱ where you decide to assist jay with pushups one morning.
ㅤㅤ﹙559﹚ ㅤ장르 fluff, est. realㅤㅤwarnings light kissingㅤᐢᗜᐢ for @bywons' on our love event ! happy 1k again sru berry >< iNDEX
“so how long do you plan to stay down there?” the words fall off his lips almost breathlessly, eyes fixed on your pretty face, his dainty golden chain hanging near your face.
“hm, not sure,” you reply while reaching out to his soft locks with your fingers and brushing the strands away from in front of his eyes tenderly. “i like the view,”
he lets out a soft, breathy chuckle at your words, continuing the last of his morning workout which seems to be dragged out because of you. he pushes himself up, noticing how you’re lying still while holding in a laugh as he leans down a bit too close to your face.
he tries to focus on the push ups but the way your eyes trace over the muscles of his arms makes his resolve falter. “you’re making this harder than it already is, angel,”
“i’m barely doing anything,” you reply with an innocent giggle and he stops in a higher plank position, looking at you before letting out a scoff. that’s the catch— you’re not doing anything and he’s having a hard time balancing on top of you, his arms parallel to the side of your face, legs trapping yours.
you don’t even have to do anything, jay already has it bad for you. the adorable and drowsy smiles you give him after waking up makes the blood rush to his cheeks. he tries to hide it, but you can definitely notice the way his ears turn red and he’s smiling like a fool at just one look from you. even now when you’re under him, looking like heaven’s incarnate with mischief in your eyes, making it hard for him to focus on exercising— albeit, he doesn’t ask you to leave— he feels like you’ve put a spell on him.
he admires the cheeky grin on his lips, lowering himself down to peck your lips ever so gently before pushing himself back up. “are you having fun?”
“a lot,” you nod with a smile that has him melting and running laps in his mind, one that grows wider at the touch of his lips, making your chest flutter.
“good,” and he pecks your lips again, this time staying down for a few seconds more to savour the feeling of your lips against his a little longer.
you’re looking at him expectantly for another kiss but he gets off you, making your brows knit in confusion. you blink in surprise, sitting up on the floor, words spoken with a silver of confusion. “what are you doing?”
“you had your fun. now my turn,” and he wraps his hand around the back of your neck, slamming his lips against yours, making you melt in the moment. it feels like a daydream— the way his soft lips move against yours slowly and sweetly, in love, and you hope it stays like this forever.
The living room looked like a toy store had exploded. Plush dinosaurs were strewn across the carpet, a teething ring hung precariously off the couch arm, and a half-eaten biscuit rested on the floor like it had been there for hours. You didn’t mind—well, mostly—because in the center of it all, your seven-month-old son was clinging to you like he was part of your shirt.
“Mama, mama, mama!” he babbled, pressing his tiny cheek against yours and wrapping his arms as tightly around your neck as humanly possible.
Jake leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, brows furrowed in exaggerated offence. “Well… I see how it is,” he said, letting out a mock sigh. “Daddy comes home, and suddenly I’m third wheel to the cutest little monster ever.”
Your son cooed and wriggled, trying to bury himself even deeper into your chest. You scratched the soft fuzz on the back of his head, grinning down at him. “He’s just… very attached right now,” you said, voice soft.
Jake’s lip trembled in the most dramatic way possible. “Very attached, huh? So… Daddy gets zero attention? Not even a tiny hug?”
You laughed, holding your little one closer. “He’s a mama’s boy today.”
“Today?” Jake’s voice was incredulous, like you’d just announced a national tragedy. “Today?! What about the rest of the week? Daddy’s feeling… neglected.”
He took a slow, exaggerated step forward, arms reaching out. “Hey. Can Daddy get a hug, too? Pretty please? I promise I won’t let you go anywhere.”
Your son glanced at Jake, curiosity flickering in his big eyes, but didn’t move. You raised an eyebrow, trying to act stern. “Hmm… he’s… busy right now.”
Jake groaned, dropping to his knees so he was at eye level with both of you. “I can be busy, too! I’m very huggable, you know.”
Your son wiggled against your chest, and Jake reached in carefully, letting his hand brush your son’s back. “See? I’m friendly. I come in peace.”
After a few moments, your little guy seemed to make a decision; suddenly, he squirmed out of your arms and plopped into Jake’s lap with a tiny gurgle of approval. Jake’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Victory!” he whispered, kissing the top of your son’s head.
You crouched down, resting your chin on Jake’s shoulder, watching the two of them together. “Looks like someone finally noticed Daddy is fun too.”
Jake nudged your son gently with his nose. “I am fun! Right, little man?”
A tiny squeak of agreement. Then your son yawned, leaning back against Jake, tiny fingers curling around his dad’s shirt. Jake’s hand instinctively rubbed little circles on his back.
“And now…” Jake glanced at you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now it’s your turn. You’re not getting away from me just because he’s being clingy.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing as he scooped you into a gentle hug, as your son snuggled between you. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, nuzzling into his shoulder.
“I know I’m ridiculous. But I’m also adorable, and I need my attention,” he replied, voice softening as he kissed your hair. “You’re mine too, you know.”
Your son let out a tiny gurgle of protest, or maybe agreement, it was hard to tell. Jake laughed, tightening his arms around both of you. “Yep. I’ve got my little family right here. Perfect.”
Your son wriggled, and Jake lifted him so he could see your face. “Look at you! You love Mama, and I love both of you. We’re unstoppable.”
You pressed a kiss to Jake’s cheek. “I love you, you know.”
“I know,” he murmured, eyes soft. “But sometimes I need a reminder. Daddy needs a reminder… and apparently, so does our little guy.”
Your son yawned, resting his head against Jake’s chest, tiny hands clutching at his shirt like they were never letting go. Jake let out a contented sigh, holding both of you close. “I could stay like this forever,” he whispered.
“And we could,” you replied, wrapping an arm around him and letting the three of you melt together in the middle of the toy-strewn living room, “as long as you’re willing to share the hugs.”
Jake chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Oh, I am willing. But just a warning… Daddy’s not sharing next time without negotiations.”
You laughed, heart full, watching your son doze off against Jake’s chest. “Negotiations accepted,” you said softly.
And there, surrounded by toys, tiny biscuits, and laughter, the three of you stayed curled up in the warm, messy, perfectly chaotic little world that was all yours.
They smile when they compare you to your sister, like it’s harmless. Like it’s helpful. Like they’re doing you a favour.
“Your sister was never this emotional.”
“She handled pressure better than you.”
“You really should learn from her.”
The words slip into the air during dinner, during car rides, during phone calls with relatives. Always casual. Always framed as concern. And every time, you feel yourself shrink a little more, folding inward so you don’t take up too much space.
You learn how to laugh it off.
You learn how to nod.
You learn how to swallow the lump in your throat until it feels permanent.
What hurts the most is that you are better.
You work harder. You push yourself further. You fight through panic attacks in bathrooms and sleepless nights full of spiralling thoughts. You show up even when you’re exhausted, even when your chest feels tight and heavy and wrong.
But none of that matters.
Because in their eyes, you are still the difficult one.
The one who feels too much.
The one who complicates things.
The one who never relatively measures up to the version of love they give your sister so easily.
And no matter how many times you try to explain yourself, they never listen.
“Why are you crying again?”
“Stop being dramatic.”
“We didn’t mean it like that—you always twist things.”
So eventually, you stop talking.
Jay notices the silence before he notices anything else.
You sit beside him on the couch, legs tucked under you, staring blankly at the TV without actually watching it. Your laugh is quieter these days. Your smiles don’t quite reach your eyes. And when he asks how your day was, you say, “Fine,” like it’s a reflex.
He doesn’t call you out.
He oversees you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away.
One night, you come over later than usual.
Your eyes are red. Your face is calm in a way that scares him more than tears ever could.
“Hey,” he says gently. “What happened?”
You shake your head, already stepping past him into his room like your body knows where it needs to be even if your mind doesn’t. You sit on the edge of his bed, hands clenched in your lap.
Jay closes the door behind him.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says softly. “But I’m here.”
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Your shoulders start shaking before you even realize you’re crying. Silent at first, controlled, like you’ve trained yourself to be. You press your lips together, trying to keep it contained.
Jay’s heart breaks.
He crosses the room in two steps and kneels in front of you, hands hovering uncertainly like he’s afraid to scare you.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, look at me.”
You do, and the second your eyes meet his, everything spills over.
“I’m so tired,” you choke. “I’m so tired of trying to be enough for them.”
Jay’s throat tightens.
“They don’t hear me,” you continue, voice cracking. “They don’t listen. Every time I open my mouth, it turns into a comparison. Every feeling I have turns into a flaw.”
Tears drip off your chin now, unstoppable.
“They laugh at me,” you whisper. “My own parents laugh at me when I cry.”
Jay reaches for you then, carefully pulling you into his arms. You collapse against him as your body has finally given up holding itself together.
“I try so hard,” you sob into his shoulder. “I do everything right. I do better than her. And it still doesn’t matter. I still don’t matter.”
Jay holds you tighter, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
“They make me feel like I’m unlovable,” you whisper. “Like there’s something wrong with me.”
He pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.
“Don’t you dare believe that,” he says, voice shaking with restrained anger. “Not for a second.”
You laugh weakly, broken. “Then why does it feel so real?”
Jay presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needs it to survive.
“Because they taught you to doubt yourself,” he says quietly. “And because you trusted them.”
That hurts worse than anything else.
Your hands clutch his shirt. “I just wanted them to be proud of me.”
Jay closes his eyes.
“I am,” he says immediately. “I’m so proud of you it hurts.”
You freeze.
He pulls back, eyes burning with emotion.
“You’re strong in ways they’ll never understand,” he continues. “You feel deeply. You see things others ignore. You fight battles they don’t even notice, and you keep going anyway.”
Your lips tremble. “What if I’m too much?”
Jay shakes his head.
“Then let me be the one who holds all of it,” he says. “Let me be the place you don’t have to shrink.”
You break again, this time quietly.
He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapped fully around you, rocking you gently as your sobs slow into soft hiccups. His hand rubs steady circles into your back, grounding, constant.
“You’re safe here,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to earn love with me.”
You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Jay presses a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then rests his cheek against your head.
“Good,” he says softly. “Because you’re not.”
Outside his arms, the world still hurts. Your parents will still compare. They’ll still misunderstand. They’ll still fail you in ways that leave scars you don’t know how to heal yet.
jay looks offended, deeply offended, and if they handed out oscars for the most disturbed-looking husband on a random thursday afternoon, he would’ve walked up to that stage with a speech memorized. no hesitation.
he lowers the hammer in his hand, lets it drop onto the half-assembled desk with a dull clunk, and wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, smearing a bit of sawdust across his temple.
“i literally married you,” he says, breathless, as he steps near you, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“yeah but people marry people,” you sigh, putting on a faux sad expression, “but do you really love me—”
“darling, i’m literally building you a wooden vanity closet,” he cuts you quick in your sentence, his eyes wide, “and it has been three hours now. i wouldn’t do that for anyone else.”
you press your lips together to keep from laughing. “you look good doing it though.”
his jaw ticks, he knows not to lose his patience, especially when you are all cute and testing it. he still thinks your question is ridiculous, of course he loves you. he loves you way more than the effort he’s putting in the vanity, and it’s not even one percent of what he’d do for you.
“my back hurts.” he sighs yet again
“because you love me?” “because i’m married to you,” he deadpans, rolls his eyes and strawls closer to you.
you pout. it’s exaggerated, a little playful. “so you don’t love me?”
jay huffs, then drops to his knees in front of you with a thud, on the bed. his hands settle on your thighs, sawdust and all, and his fingers press into your skin gently, grounding.
he looks up. his eyes are warm, but serious. intense, even.
“you drive me insane,” he murmurs. “you leave the shower light on. you forget where your charger is every day. you sing off-key when you think i’m not listening.”
you breathe stops, and before you can muster up a sentence, he says again.
“and i love you like i’m sick with it.”
you feel like your stops, with blood rushing up to your cheeks you really don’t know if you can handle this anymore. his thumb brushes over your knee.
“and if you say dumb shit like that again,” he says, voice low, “i might have to marry you again, just to prove a point.”
you open your mouth, ready to sass him back, but he leans in before you can.
his hand finds your waist, warm and rough from hours of sanding wood. his other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s mapping it out. like he missed it all day. like he needed this more than food or rest or sanity.
and then he kisses you. not a soft peck. not a tired brush of lips. it’s full. warm. deliberate.
his mouth slides against yours like he’s finally off the clock, like this is his reward — the only thing that makes the bruised knees and splinters and forgotten lunch worth it.
your fingers twist into his shirt instinctively. his thumb brushes down the side of your neck as his lips move against yours with something a little hungry, a little breathless, but still so stupidly in love.
you pull away for air, lips tingling, chest rising in soft, quick breaths. your fingers are still fisted in his shirt, and he looks up at you like you just knocked the wind out of him — which, to be fair, you did.
jay’s lips are red, a little kiss-swollen, and he’s breathing just as hard.
you blink, lips tingling. “so, i guess, you really do love me?”
“i love you when you talk too much,” he continues against your lips, grinning, “and when you ask dumb questions, like if i still love you.”
you let out a tiny gasp, equal parts amused and overwhelmed, and he pulls you even closer, your forehead pressed to his. your hands rest on his shoulders, thumbs brushing the slope of his neck.
“hey,” you whine softly, but he leans forward again and steals another kiss before you can complain further — short, warm, like a punctuation mark.
“i spend three hours building a closet,” he continues, kisses the corner of your mouth, “you sit here looking like a whole heart attack—” another kiss, this time near your chin, “—and then you ask—” kiss “—me—” kiss “—if i—” kiss “love you?” another kiss.
you laugh into his shoulder, hands slipping up into his hair, heart stopping “i just wanted to hear it.”
his lips curl, lazy and crooked. “you’re so annoying,” he mutters
your breath catches as he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing, full of love. “god,” he mutters, eyes still closed, “you drive me insane,” he chuckles again like a reminder.
“you like it,” you whisper, a chuckle falling on your lips.
he smiles, just a little. then, without letting go of you, he sinks to the floor.
kneels. infront of you.
his arms wrap around your waist, cheek pressing softly to your thigh. he exhales against the fabric of your shorts, like being close to you settles everything.
you run your fingers through his hair, slow. comforting. he hums under his breath, content and quiet, letting his body relax against your leg.
“this okay?” he sighs, his lips tickling your skin as he grins on it.
you nod, resting your hand on his cheek. “yeah,” you smile. “more than okay.”
his lashes flutter as he closes his eyes again.
and there you sit, a half-finished vanity in the corner, a husband with sawdust on his arms and love in every touch, and a kiss still tingling on your lips like a promise that never gets old.
your heartbeat is still racing a little. his breaths are slower now. calm. heavy.
“i love you,” he says eventually, voice muffled and slept against your thigh.
you smile. bend forward and kiss the top of his head, “i know. i love you more.”
스루 ܃ uploading this from my college library .. chem i hate you 😞 feedbacks are very much appreciated !
TAGS: Arranged Marriage, Business AU, Angst, Fluff
WARNINGS: Explicit Language, Smut (18+, MDNI, it’s mild but still), Pregnancy and Its Horrifying Symptoms, Fingering, Real Estate and Divorce Proceedings Inaccuracy
WC: 23.7k
SUMMARY: There wasn’t a single day in your marriage that Choi Seungcheol wasn’t sincere, even when you wanted him to do the exact opposite, even when it hurt. The most hurtful truth of it all? You’re his wife, but you’ll always be the other woman.
A/N: Guys, this final part is genuinely just for closure so please don’t expect too much 🥹🙏 (I say that and somehow still ended up with 23.7k words LMAO, but honestly this story could’ve ended at PT.1).
PART 1 | PART 2 (CURRENT)
Choi Seungcheol doesn’t know what’s true anymore.
The drawers beside his are empty, the toothbrush holder in the bathroom has an open space for one, the sheets beside him are cold, and the house is deafeningly quiet. The only thing Seungcheol has known this past week is silence, but he’s come to realize that there is no peace to be found.
Seungcheol walks through the world like a man pulled by strings, by forces beyond his control. There’s an ache in his soul that’s begging him to stay, to rest, to stop, to feel, but his brain is telling him to move until the exhaustion makes him numb. He thinks it’s the only way he can live with himself: half-awake and half-dead as he burnt himself out trying to forget.
Everything’s a blur. The days bleed into each other, one after another like a nightmare with no end. None of it feels true, and every single fiber of his being wishes that none of it was. Because if it was true, that would mean that the papers on his desk were just as true as your absence.
Petition for Divorce
Those three words have branded themselves into Seungcheol’s eyelids. He sees them even when the rest of the world is black.
Seungcheol didn’t want this marriage. It had ripped him from the woman he loved, had ripped from that little city that gave him freedom. If anything, the papers on his desk should have him jumping for joy and booking the next flight to Charles de Gaulle. This was his way out.
Seungcheol didn’t want out.
Seungcheol wanted to go back in, wanted to go into your house, lean into your touch, and fall back into your arms. He wanted to wake up next to you, eat your half-burnt meals, go on endless vacations with you, watch your hairs turn grey together, and sit your tombstones next to each other, no matter how morbid that sounded.
You never know what you have until it’s gone. Seungcheol used to think that was a load of shit until it happened to him.
The right thing to do would be to sign those papers and let you live your life after all the hurt he put you through. You deserved someone who was sure about you, not someone who only realized they were in love you when you’ve already packed your bags and left.
Sohee was nostalgia.
She was slow, calm, and comfortable. With her, Seungcheol could feel at ease. Running around and playing in the garden with Sohee had been his escape from the clutches of his overbearing mother and his strict father. In his adulthood, that had blurred into morning strolls and midnight entanglements in Paris.
“Hyung, did you ever even love Sohee?”
Maybe he did at one point. He wouldn’t have sworn promises against her lips and cared for her son like his own if he didn't. However, he thinks that love died a long time ago. When the novelty faded and the nostalgia died and bared the bones of their relationship, Seungcheol found that the only thing keeping that relationship alive was his stubbornness to ensure that his promises remained true.
“If you wanted to fight for her, you would’ve done it.”
Somehow Mingyu knew him better than he knew himself. Because the man was right. Seungcheol was nothing if not stubborn, and if he really loved Sohee as much as he claimed he did, he would’ve ripped the marriage agreement with his bare hands and fucked off to the lively alleys of Paris, never to return to the cold streets of Seoul… But he didn’t.
Seungcheol loves you.
There was no need to cling to the happy memories of a boy who mistook familiarity for love. Choi Seungcheol didn’t need to clutch onto those happy memories when he was with you because he was living through and creating them with you. If Sohee was a happy memory, then you were the future he wanted to see. A future he lost.
A future that he’d fight against all odds for just to bring back.
Seungcheol’s respect for your decision only lasted for two weeks before the void in his soul became too much to bear. Stubbornly, he refused to let you go, not without a fight. You could scream at him, throw things at him, and kick him out, and he’d take all of that over going away quietly and live a lifetime wondering what it would be like if he had fought for you.
This was him honoring the aching longing in his chest.
This was him honoring your last request.
“My last request is that we have to talk to each other if there’s a problem. No matter how big or small it is.”
—
Kwon Soonyoung thinks he’s going to shit himself.
He was on lunchbreak, peacefully chewing through the food he bought from the convenience store across the company building. He was laughing at some stupid TikTok video that he just knows is frying his brain when Choi Seungcheol walks in with a fire in his eyes and hell in his stride.
Oh shit.
Soonyoung swallows the half-chewed pork in his mouth and nearly chokes, but dying from a blocked airway was the least of his concerns when his boss’ husband—soon-to-be-ex-husband (?)—walks into a room looking ready for a confrontation.
Oh god, what was he going to say if Seungcheol asked him where you were? You specifically instructed Soonyoung not to tell Seungcheol, after all.
“Mr. Choi!” Soonyoung greets the man with enthusiasm like he isn’t about to piss his pants, shit himself, and vomit from the fear that Seungcheol’s sheer presence instills in him. “What brings you here?”
“I’m looking for Y/N,” comes Seungcheol’s reply, his eyes flickering around the office to stare at all the little trinkets lying around. Soonyoung notes that his eyes seem to linger on the framed picture from your honeymoon. “Is she out? I can just come back if she is.”
Seungcheol’s gaze feels like an all-seeing eye, and Soonyoung panics. Immediately, the truth slips from his mouth before he can bite his tongue and think of an excuse, “Ms. L/N is on an indefinite leave.”
Good job, Kwon Soonyoung!
Seungcheol’s strong brows furrow and the corner of lips dip into a frown. Soonyoung resists the urge to flinch when Seungcheol speaks again, “Since when?”
“It’s been a week, sir,” Soonyoung replies. He hopes you can forgive him for telling Seungcheol the truth. In his defense, your husband was terrifying! And Soonyoung had a feeling that if he lied to Seungcheol today, the man would still find out the truth someday, and Soonyoung’s neck would be on the line.
“Did she say why?” Seungcheol asks as he picks up the picture frame on your desk. Soonyoung notes the way the man’s eyes seem to soften at the sight of the picture in it.
“No, sir,” Soonyoung says as he shakes his head. He didn’t have to worry about lying for this one because he really did have no idea. You had just packed your things, rendered your tasks, then never returned to the office. You were still involved, technically, but only when it was urgent, and only remotely.
“Where is she now?” Seungcheol drops the frame and Soonyoung’s stomach drops with.
Well, now was the time he really needed to lie. This was the one thing you didn’t want anyone, especially Seungcheol to know. You had only told Soonyoung because he was your trusted secretary, and he needed to know where to run in case things at the company went to shit and he couldn’t reach you via the phone.
“I don’t know, sir,” Soonyoung hopes he sounds convincing.
Seungcheol clicks his tongue, and Soonyoung swears that he felt it in his soul. It’s probably why you’re divorcing this man, he thinks. The man had a serious case of pretty boy face, but holy shit, he was terrifying.
“I doubt that, Mr. Kwon,” Seungcheol says, dark eyes piercing straight into Soonyoung’s terrified ones. “I’ll find out for myself.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Soonyoung bows deeply.
“I understand,” Seungcheol’s shoulders slump as he sits on the edge of your desk. The tension in the room disappears, and in its place is defeat. Soonyoung almost feels sorry for the man. “Is she doing well, at least?”
A ping coming from Seungcheol’s phone cuts through the air, and Soonyoung watches as Seungcheol pulls out his phone and starts typing away.
“She’s still responding to work e-mails, sir,” Soonyoung replies vaguely. He doesn’t know how you’re doing considering the fact that you don’t really divulge anything about your personal life. That and the fact that he’s always found it difficult to read you. You weren’t the type to wear your heart on your sleeve. You were kind and seemingly outgoing, but Soonyoung always feels like there’s something more beneath all that. “I could ask on your behalf.”
There’s a satisfied look on Seungcheol’s face when he pockets his phone and looks straight at Soonyoung. It’s a little horrifying, if Soonyoung was being honest.
“There’s no need Mr. Kwon,” Seungcheol replies with a wave of his hand as he pushes himself from the edge of your desk. “I’ll ask her myself.”
Oh shit.
—
Boeun is peaceful.
It’s a little lonely, but you think that’s your upbringing talking. Compared to the concrete jungle of Seoul with its towering buildings and light pollution, Boeun boasts sprawling greenery and stargazing opportunities. It’s a stark contrast to the world you grew up in.
It’s terrifying sometimes. Moving to a completely different place meant that you knew no one. You have no one to turn to in case things go awry. You could get murdered in the middle of the night, and no one would know until someone from Seoul came looking for you. The closest neighbor you had lived a few hundred meters away, a kind old lady named Park Soonja who had brought you vegetables and fruits from her garden after she heard someone new was moving in. In the week you’ve been here, she’s made sure to check up on you every morning as a part of her routine after finding out that you were pregnant.
It’s a little sweet.
Fuck, were you seriously going to cry again? You’d rather not. Especially not when you were just about to put on your shoes and grab your things for your first prenatal visit. The last thing you wanted to do was to show up in Dr. Lee’s office with red eyes and a shallow reason for it.
Once you’ve locked your doors, you’re quick to get into your tiny Hyundai and start driving to the hospital situated a few kilometers away from your house. It’s a quick drive with minimal changes in direction, a complete 180 from Seoul’s noisy traffic and mind-boggling turns.
When you get to the hospital, the staff is quick to point you in the direction of Dr. Lee’s office. You were her second patient for the day, and the appointment was still ongoing, so you still had to wait.
You take a seat on one of the plastic chairs outside, eyes trained on the clock at the end of the hallway as you watch the hands change at every minute that passes. Some part of you couldn’t help but feel sorry for yourself.
Honestly speaking, this wasn’t how you expected your first pregnancy—or any of your pregnancies, really—to go. There was something about sitting in an empty hallway that just gnawed at your heart and left you aching. It took two of you to make that child, but somehow here you were, alone.
It hurts.
It hurts to think of what your life would look like if you had stayed behind and told Seuncheol the truth. Would he be there to hold your hand and ease your worries? Or would he shun you and the child inside you? You don’t think he’d do the latter. He wasn’t that horrible.
Seungcheol just loved, and you couldn’t fault him for that. Your marriage had ripped Seungcheol’s love apart and fed from the blood that seeped from their broken hearts to come into fruition, and you reaped it. You don’t know why you expected things to work out when doom already lingered in your marriage from the very start.
To add insult to injury, Dr. Lee’s door opens, and a couple bearing the widest smiles exits. The woman is glowing as she cradles her bump, her husband’s arm wrapped around her like a shield from all the world’s dangers. He’s holding a copy of the sonogram, adoration practically dripping from his eyes as he stares.
You lower your gaze. Looking at them physically hurt when all you could imagine was what Seungcheol would look like in his position. Would his smile be as bright? Would he hold you with as much care?
“Ms. L/N?” One of the nurses calls out, and immediately, you snap from your thoughts.
“Yes, that’s me,” You reply as you stand up from the chairs.
“Please proceed inside,” The nurse bows with a smile as she gestures for you to come inside.
You bow in response and head into Dr. Lee’s office.
“It’s good to finally see you in person, Ms. L/N,” Dr. Lee greets, the wrinkles around her eyes becoming more visible as she gives you a bright and kind smile. “Please, take a seat.”
Gingerly, you take a seat, hands folded over your lap as you observe her scan through your records. Her desk is neat despite the stack of papers. The only thing that seems to have her personal touch on it is a picture of her with a young woman in a toga who looked like her carbon-copy. Her daughter, probably.
“Are we waiting for anyone?” Dr. Lee looks up from her aged computer to stare directly at you.
Once again, you’re briefly reminded of the fact that you were alone in this. You had no one to turn to, no one to come with you, and no one to hold you through it all.
You swallow the lump in your throat and blink back the tears you know are forming. With a tight smile, you speak, “No, doc. It’s just me today.”
And tomorrow, and the day after, and the week after, and every other foreseeable time period in the future.
It’s just you.
It’s terrifying, lonely, and freeing all at once.
Dr. Lee’s eyes turn soft with knowing, but she doesn’t comment further. It’s something you’re thankful for. “Let’s get started then.”
The visit goes smoothly under Dr. Lee’s care. She’s very accommodating throughout the whole process, and she carefully guides you through each and everything you need to know at that point of your pregnancy. After a physical, urinalysis, ultrasound, and a blood draw, your appointment finally wraps up and Dr. Lee is sending you off with a smile and a sonogram.
“Remember to eat well and sleep a lot, Ms. L/N,” Dr. Lee says, patting you on the back as she walks you out of her office. “You need a healthy mom for a healthy baby, after all.”
“I will, Doc,” You smile at her, clutching the sonogram to your chest as you blink away the tears.
“Call me anytime you have a concern, okay?” Dr. Lee says. “Even if it’s the middle of the night. I really don’t mind.”
You laugh shyly, “Doc, you’re too kind—“
“Nonsense,” Dr. Lee waves you off. “Us women have to stick together when everyone else has failed us.”
The picture on her desk briefly flickers in your mind, and suddenly, it clicks.
With a teary smile, you bow to her. “I will, Doc. Thank you.”
“Drive safe, Ms. L/N.”
When you get home, the first thing you do is set your bag on the side, sit on the floor, and take out the sonogram. It’s small, you think. A tiny white bean in a sea of black and white. It hits you, all at once, that it’s all real. This is real. In a few weeks that bean will grow and your stomach will swell, and after 32 weeks, you'll be holding your child in your arms.
A sweet, innocent child with no knowledge of the world.
Would they take after you? Would you spend the rest of your life nurturing your own reflection and making sure that they live a life better than yours? Or would they take after Seungcheol? Would you spend the rest of your life looking at that child and be tormented by the features you fell in love with? Would you spend the rest of your life haunted by the what ifs and what could’ve beens?
It didn’t matter, you would see this through the end. You haven’t even met your little baby, but you already knew that you’d give them the world and more.
That night, you fall asleep on your bed, sonogram on your side and the promise of a better future in your mind.
—
Like every other day, the first thing you do when you wake up is to empty your guts in the toilet before heading to the kitchen. Cooking was honestly the last thing you wanted to do considering your nausea, but you were no longer eating for yourself. You were eating for two now.
Despite not being the best cook, solitude has forced you to become self-sufficient, and you can proudly say that you had a better sense of what to do in the kitchen. You’re still not good, but at the very least, you no longer have to settle for eating something raw or completely burnt.
You’re staring at the ingredients in the refrigerator when a knock at your door snaps you from your musings. There’s only one person who’d be knocking at your door this time, so without bothering to look through the door viewer, you open the door.
“Good morning, halmeoni,” You greet Soonja with a smile. “Come in, I was just about to cook breakfast.”
“You haven’t cooked? Perfect,” Soonja, despite her age, still has the strength and stubbornness of a fiery young woman. She shuts the door behind you, and immediately guides you to sit down at the dining table. “You stay put. I’ll cook you breakfast.”
You’re quick to protest, attempting to grab the pots from her hand, “Halmeoni, I can still move you know—“
“I know, but let me help,” Soonja scolds with a light swat at your hands. “I know how hard the mornings can be at this time.”
With an empty stomach but a heart so full, you watch as Soonja works her way through your kitchen. She pulls out various ingredients you wouldn’t even think of touching, but somehow all the things she’s throwing in still looks appetizing.
When Soonja finishes, you’re quick to pull out bowls and dishes for two as she sets her freshly cooked dishes on the trivet placed on the table. Quickly, you scoop the food into the dishes, and by the time you’re done, the two of you have your portions of miyeokguk, gyeranjjim, and rice.
“You didn’t have to get some for me,” Soonja says. “This is supposed to be your food.”
“I just…” You’re a little embarrassed of your next words despite knowing that Soonja would be the last person on Earth to judge you. “I didn’t want to eat alone.”
You don't miss the way Soonja’s face seems to fall. If there was anyone who knew what loneliness was like, it would be her. Soonja was, after all, already widowed, and her children had lives of their own in the city.
“Dear, I’ll eat breakfast with you every day that I’m free if you want me to,” Soonja says as she sits on the chair across from yours and grabs her spoon. “Let’s eat. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
The rest of breakfast passes by in a blur of lighthearted conversation and stories from Soonja’s youth. Before you knew it, Soonja already had to leave for her meetings at the town hall with a few of your other neighbors.
“Thank you for breakfast, halmeoni,” You smile as you watch Soonja who’s putting her shoes on.
“No need to thank me, dear. It was my pleasure,” Soonja replies as she wraps her arms around you in the warmest hug you’ve received in weeks. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t lift anything that’s too heavy, and don't overwork yourself.”
“Yes, halmeoni,” You reply, rubbing her back up and down before the two of you pull away. “You might be late to the meeting if you keep worrying about me.”
“Exactly, so don’t make me worry, okay?” Soonja says as she waves goodbye.
“I won’t, I promise.” You nod, returning her wave.
Once your door is shut, you’re quick to walk into your little office to open your laptop for any pressing concerns from the company. There wasn’t much to see, something you're thankful for. You could probably take a quick walk around the town given the lack of—
Your phone rings.
Secretary Kwon
Immediately, you pick up the call.
“Hello? Is everything alright, Soonyoung?” You ask, fingers tapping anxiously at the wood of your desk.
“Yes, Ma’am! The company is doing fine.” Soonyong replies, and that somewhat eases you. However, that still doesn’t explain why Soonyoung is suddenly calling you. “I actually called to talk about the divorce papers you sent to Mr. Choi.”
Your heart drops. Had he signed it? It’s stupid, you think. You’re the one who filed for divorce, but somehow, the idea of Choi Seungcheol signing those papers actually terrified you. Deep down, even when you chose to push him away and run to the middle of nowhere, you still loved Seungcheol.
The words weigh your tongue down as you speak, “Did he sign it already?”
“Mr. Choi burned them, Ma’am,” comes Soonyoung’s reply. “We could just send him another one to show your efforts in contacting him, then Atty. Chwe said the court could grant a default judgment if you still want to pursue the case.”
Why would Choi Seungcheol burn those papers when it was his one-way ticket to starting over with the love of his life? There was no logical explanation for his behavior. You had honestly thought that Seungcheol would immediately agree and make the divorce process easier, but you have a feeling that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
You think of the entire process: the numerous court visits you would have to do, the lengthy terms you would have to discuss, and all the other time-consuming, soul-draining legal processes you would have to go through. It would be difficult to do all of that when you were pregnant and all the way in Boeun.
“Ma’am? Are you still there?”
Kwon Soonyoung’s voice forces the racing thoughts in your head to halt.
“Yes, sorry. I was just thinking,” comes your reply. “I assume this process is going to take a while if I decide to pursue it?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Soonyoung replies.
“Okay,” You bite on your lip and wonder if you’re really going to say whatever it is you’re about to say. In your defense, you had done what you could, and Seungcheol stubbornly refused to play his part. You weren’t about to stress yourself out when running away from it all until you were strong enough to face it was a viable option.
Mind made-up, you continue, “Tell Atty. Chwe that I won’t be pursuing it anymore.”
—
If you thought the 8th week of your pregnancy was bad, the 9th week was somehow worse.
Your symptoms had you reaching a whole new low. The nausea was so bad that you barely ate, and anything you did eat was quickly vomited into the toilet. Not only that, but your mood was all over the place. One minute, you’d be crying because your jeans wouldn’t zip up properly due to all the bloating, and the next thing you know, you’re irrationally angry at the table that made you stub your toe.
It was horrible.
Soonja tries to help. The sweet old lady makes sure to drop by and check-in on you, and on the days she has no commitments in the morning, she even eats breakfast with you. While all her efforts helped, none of them ever truly eased the physiological pains your pregnancy brought. The only thing you can do is lay on the couch and hope that your hormones will have mercy on you. Sooner rather than later, you hope.
You’re lying on the couch, extremely miserable while you watch some drama play on the television, when a knock on your door disturbs you. Your eyes flit over to the clock on the wall, and you note that it’s half past 3. It’s too hot outside for it to be Soonja. While you didn't doubt the old lady’s health, no sane individual would choose to walk under this heat unless they really needed to.
A little annoyed, you stand up from your couch and walk towards your door. Whoever it was, they better have a good reason for disturbing you. You were already so comfortable on the couch, and the nausea was just starting to ease up. Now, you’re back to square one.
With a furrow between your brows and hell on the tip of your tongue, you pull the door open.
“Hi.”
The door is immediately slammed shut.
Why is he here? How did he find you? What happens next? What the hell do you do? Thousands of thoughts run through your mind as you stare at the door. Your heart is pounding at its cages, threatening to jump out if you don’t make up your mind on whether you would fight or flee. You were torn. You’re not sure if you wanted to slap the man or kiss him on the mouth.
He stood behind that door, and you’re not sure if you wanted to open it again or keep it shut forever.
He calls out your name, muffled but somehow your ears pick up on it clear as day. You hate the way your stomach flips, hate the way your heart still seems to jump in his presence. Because despite the hurt and hardship, some part of you was still hopelessly, stupidly, unconditionally in love with the man that did nothing but break your heart. You hoped that part of you would just die, but for some reason it wouldn’t.
Slowly, you breathe in, focusing on the way your diaphragm expands as the air fills your lungs. You needed to be rational about this. There was no room for love or longing when so much was at stake.
With a slow exhale, you open the door.
Choi Seungcheol stands before you with apologetic eyes. His hair is shorter now and his body somehow broader, but the look in his eyes is just as miserable as the day you left him, if not more. You have to fight every single fiber of your being that’s itching to reach out and soothe the ache in his soul. It would be stupid to do that when you couldn’t even ease the one in yours.
“What are you doing here?” You’re surprised that your voice comes out stable despite the painful stabbing in your heart and the crushing weight on your shoulders.
“I heard you lived here now,” Seungcheol answers, and you don’t miss the way he seems to look a little unsure, uncertain. Good, he should be. “Can I come in?”
“No,” You say firmly. “Seungcheol, do the two of us a favor and just agree to the divorce. That way, I can live my life as I always have and you can go to Sohee—“
“I don’t want to,” You don’t miss the way Seungcheol’s jaw hardens and fists clench. “I don’t want to go to Sohee.”
“Then what do you want?” You can’t help the way your unbothered facade breaks into exasperation. You were tired, hormonal, and nauseous, and the heartache and confusion Seungcheol brought with him only made you feel worse. You just wanted this over with.
“Your third request,” Seungcheol stares you dead in the eye as the words leave his mouth. “I’m fulfilling your third request.”
Your eyes narrow at Seungcheol as you speak, “What?”
“You said you wanted our marriage to work,” Seungcheol says, taking a step forward, an action that has you stepping back and holding onto the door. You ignore the way Seungcheol’s eyes seem to fall. “Your third request was that we have to talk about our problems, no matter how big or small.”
“Seungcheol, why are you doing this?” You ask, eyes searching through Seungcheol’s face for an answer, a glimpse into his thoughts. “We married out of obligation, and I’m giving you a way out. You love Sohee—“
“I don’t.” Seungcheol says it firmly, like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. He had said it with so much conviction that you didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t how you expected this conversation to go. In fact, you didn’t even expect this conversation to happen at all.
“I did, at one point, I did love her,” Seungcheol says, hand shooting out quickly to hold onto the wall to prevent you from slamming the door in his face. Quick thinking on his end, really. You were about to do just that if he hadn’t put his hand in the way. “But not anymore, not after you. I don’t think I’ve been in love with her for a while.”
You don’t believe him. You know Choi Seungcheol doesn’t lie, but the words falling from his mouth were too outrageous.
Eyes narrowed and heart closed, you speak, “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I love you,” Seungcheol says it like a plea, desperation lacing his words as he looks into your eyes like he’s in search of some sign. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but I really do—“
“You’re right, Seungcheol.” You stare at the man before you, eyes hardened despite the trembling in your soul, the ache in your bones that’s telling you to hope. You hoped once, and look where it brought you now. “I don’t believe you, so go home.”
Seungcheol is undeterred despite your unfeeling words, “It’s not the same without you.”
“Then learn to live with it,” You hiss through gritted teeth, patience snapping and eyes tearing up. “I learned to live in Sohee’s shadow. Learn to live in my absence.”
Seungcheol’s mouth opens to respond, but you beat him to it.
“I loved you, you know?” You whisper, voice wavering as your eyes go blurry. “I only ever watched you from afar when we were younger. Even then, I accepted that it would just be a stupid little crush.”
“I was happy when I heard that it was you that I was getting married to instead of some shitty old man who’d make my life miserable,” You wipe at the tear on your cheek before Seungcheol’s hand even reaches your face. “Do you know what it’s like? To be in love with someone who’s in love with someone else? I settled for second-best to keep you, and that was my mistake.”
You can’t quite decipher the gleam in Seungcheol’s eyes as he speaks, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all you ever say, but it never really fixes things,” You reply, hand reaching for Seungcheol’s to pry his fingers from the wall. “Go home.”
“What do I need to do for you to believe me?” Seungcheol cries out desperately, hand refusing to move. “I know I was being stupid. I know I hurt you, so please. Give me the chance to make this right.”
“I’m done,” It’s all you say before mustering all of your strength to push Seungcheol’s hand away and slamming the door shut.
You walk away from the door, refusing to look back. You don’t know if you can keep your walls up and your heart guarded if Seungcheol kept talking the way he did. You don’t know why he’s doing this. Infatuation? Possible. Comfort? Most probably, but whatever it was, it wasn’t love.
Seungcheol will realize it soon, and he’ll get over it. It’s better for you to keep to yourself while Seungcheol sorts his feelings lest you become collateral damage yet again.
That afternoon, you curled up on your sofa and cried until you exhausted yourself to sleep.
When you wake up, the sun is already beginning its descent. Sunlight filters through the open window, bathing your living room with an orange glow. It’s sunset now, Seungcheol must have already left.
The thought makes your chest ache, but you refuse to dwell on it. The longer you thought about it, the more it would hurt. It would be in your best interest to keep yourself busy to prevent Seungcheol from constantly invading your mind.
Slowly, you get up from the sofa and head towards your kitchen to look for something to eat. When you get there, you find that there’s nothing in the fridge that you want to eat. Your eyes flicker to the little note stuck to the fridge, and you realize that you forgot to do your groceries today (you blame it on Seungcheol’s unexpected arrival).
Amazing.
You would have to eat out tonight. You really were not in the mood to buy various ingredients and take on the mental labor of coming up with recipes. Luckily, one of your neighbors ran a small restaurant, and it was only a few meters away from Soonja’s house, so it was technically within walking distance. You could get dinner and exercise all at once.
With a newfound motivation, you’re quick to grab your trusty tote bag and put on your shoes. You pull the door handle, and with a swing, the world is bared—
“What the hell?!” You shriek out, heart jumping and body jolting as you stare at Seungcheol who’s back is turned to you, sitting on the steps leading to your door. “What are you still doing here?”
Was he outside the entire time?
Seungcheol is quick to turn at the sound of your voice, sweat on his reddened skin as he looks at you with pleading eyes. At the sight of his face, you’re quick to realize that he was, indeed, outside the entire time.
“One month,” Seungcheol breathes out desperately as he stands. “Give me one month to make it up to you, and if you still hate me, I’ll agree to the divorce.”
It’s unfair, you think. The odds are in Seungcheol’s favor because you didn’t hate him. Yes, you were hurt, heartbroken beyond comprehension, but you didn’t hate him. A week or two apart would not change years of pining, of silently hoping. However, despite the unfairness, you still think that this is the easiest solution.
You just had to stay strong for a month.
A month of silence, avoidance, and concealing. You have to ensure that Seungcheol never gets too close because if he does then you don’t think you can push him away again. Not only that, but if he got too close and found out about your pregnancy…You’d never be able to get rid of him. Seungcheol and his sense of honor coupled with his stubborn streak would never leave you alone. He’d feel obligated to stay, and that was the last thing you wanted.
“Fine,” You relent, refusing to acknowledge the way Seungcheol’s face seems to light up. “Do what you want, but you have to be gone in a month.”
Seungcheol nods, “I’ll do my best to last longer than that.”
“I doubt it,” You mutter, walking past Seungcheol and down the steps of your house.
“Where are you going?” Seungcheol ignores your words, and instead shuts your front door before running after you.
“Getting dinner.” You keep your replies short because you know that if you gave Seungcheol more than that, he’d find a way to wriggle his way into your heart like a parasite before leaving an empty space once he inevitably leaves.
“Can I join you?” Seungcheol asks as he walks next to you, hands in his pockets and eyes a little unsure.
“You’re already here,” You shrug. “Do what you want.”
You don’t know why Seungcheol smiles at that.
—
Choi Seungcheol was going to do it right this time.
It’s the only thing running through his head as he watches the way your eyes light up with every bite of the bibimbap. Sometimes you’ll look his way, and your eyes seem to fall, and while it left an ache in his chest, he couldn't help but be happy as well because at the very least, you were looking his way.
It’s a small step, but a step nonetheless.
Despite your cold attitude towards him, Seungcheol finds himself filled with hope. The words ‘I loved you’ were on repeat like background music in his mind, and though the words were in past tense, Seungcheol takes comfort in the idea that you loved him once.
He’ll make you do it again, and this time, he’ll be with you through it all. No matter what it takes.
“Is the food good?” Mr. Kang, the owner of the little restaurant as Seungcheol learned half an hour ago, asks as he stops by your table, eyes locked onto Seungcheol.
“Yes, sir,” Seungcheol says as he smiles at the old man. “It’s my first time eating bibimbap this good.”
And Seungcheol wasn’t lying. Something about the flavor of the bibimbap in his bowl had Seungcheol feeling like he was right at home.
“My wife made it,” Mr. Kang boasts with the brightest smile on his face. “Say, are you Y/N’s husband? It’s my first time seeing you here.”
“Yah, you have such a good-looking husband. You should be showing him off!” Mr. Kang teases as he claps Seungcheol on the back.
Seungcheol can only laugh, eyes trained on the way you roll your eyes with a small smile playing on your lips.
You look more beautiful when you’re happy, he thinks.
“Don’t compliment him too much, Mr. Kang. His head might grow bigger than it already is,” You reply with a teasing smile.
“I have to give credit where it is due,” Mr. Kang replies. “You should keep an eye on this one. The neighborhood aunties might snatch him up with how handsome and reliable he looks.”
“They can try, sir,” Seungcheol responds, eyes locked onto you. “But my heart will always be her’s.”
Seungcheol doesn’t miss the flustered smile on your lips that you try to quickly conceal with a cough. He hasn’t seen it in a while, and god, it was doing things to his heart.
“What a lovely couple you two make,” Mr. Kang smiles warmly. “My wife and I used to be just as sweet back in the day, but we’re even sweeter now.”
Mr. Kang pulls out a chair and sits beside the table, and the rest of dinner was spent listening to him recite his love story from start to present. You’re listening intently, but Seungcheol finds himself tuning the man out. The only thing he can focus on is you. Seungcheol thinks he won’t be too different from Mr. Kang when he gets older, head filled with nothing but the love of his life, head filled with nothing but you.
By the time the two of you finish eating, the sky is already dark.
“Well, I’ll let you two go,” Mr. Kang laughs as he stands from his chair. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure Y/N needs as much sleep as she can get.”
“Thank you for the food, Mr. Kang,” You bow lightly and Seungcheol follows suit.
“Aigoo, it’s nothing. If anything, I should be thanking you for eating here so often,” Mr. Kang says with a wave of his hand. Then, he turns to Seungcheol, “Take care of your wife, okay? Don’t stress her out, and make sure she’s always eating properly. It’s a lot of hard work and adjustment considering that it’s your first, but it’s worth it in the end.”
Seungcheol sees the way you freeze and the way Mr. Kang seems to stare fondly at the graduation picture of his son that’s on the wall. He feels like there’s something more to Mr. Kang’s words that he’s missing, but he just can’t seem to put his finger on it.
“I will, sir,” Seungcheol replies with a smile. “You don’t have to worry about her.”
Seungcheol would spend the rest of his life making sure you were happy and safe.
When the two of you arrive back at your house, Seungcheol grabs his things from the trunk of his car and brings it inside. He can’t help but be overwhelmed by guilt the moment he steps into your house.
You’ve been living in this small house, all alone with no one to look after you, cook for you, or even keep you company. While Seungcheol didn’t doubt your ability to adapt and be independent, he can’t help the ache that grows in his chest when he realizes that his actions had forced you to accustom yourself to a life like this.
Shit, he really did have a lot of making up to do.
“The couch is yours,” You inform him, and Seungcheol can only look at the tiny space you’re pointing at. Fuck, he thinks, that’s going to be so uncomfortable. “My room is there if you need me.”
After that, you walk away, and Seungcheol is left alone in your living room. Honestly, he had expected worse. He had expected you to not let him in, and he was fully considering sleeping in his car parked outside the house, so a couch was a huge upgrade. However, that still doesn’t change the fact that he wants to sleep beside you. Hell, he’d be fine with sleeping on the floor of your bedroom as long as he could keep an eye on you and make sure that you were sleeping soundly.
Baby steps, he thinks. He’ll get there eventually.
With a heavy sigh, Seungcheol sets his bag on the side and then moves to take a shower. After that, he heads to his assigned couch. It’s small, he notes. If he stretched to his full length, his calves would have to be on the armrest while his feet dangled in the air. The idea makes Seungcheol wince, and he’s quick to curl up on the couch and throw one of your round pillows under his head.
It’s painful, miserable, and wholly different from what he’s accustomed to, but he thinks it’s so much better than not having you around at all. He’d gladly sleep on the ground outside as long as it meant that you’d only be a few meters away.
Seungcheol catches the scent of your perfume on the pillow under his head, and for the first time in weeks, he finds himself fast asleep.
—
It’s half past 10, and you’re still wide awake.
You were torn. Were you being too mean or not mean enough? The couch is small, and even you have to curl up just to comfortably fit in it. Not to mention the fact that it gets cold in Boeun at night, and you didn’t even give Seungcheol a blanket. The guilt gnaws at you as your brain is filled with mental images of Seungcheol curling up in odd, uncomfortable positions just to rest. He had driven all this way, stayed out in the sun for hours, and walked a considerable distance just to accompany you, and now he’s forced to sleep in a couch that can barely contain him.
Unable to bear the guilt, you’re quick to throw the covers off yourself and head to your cabinets to get an extra blanket.
Quietly, you open your door and walk with slow, measured steps towards the living room, careful to avoid the areas that you know will creak under you.
Soft snores echo through the darkness of your living room, and you find that Seungcheol is curled up on the couch with one of the living room pillows clutched tightly to his chest. He looks… peaceful. Slowly, you pad over to where he is, gently covering him with the blanket. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
You can’t help the way you linger, crouching beside the sofa and tracing Seungcheol’s face with your eyes. He looks the same and yet so different all at once. His soft, gentle features didn’t change, save for the dark circles under his eyes that you were starting to feel even more guilty for. He’s a little more tan, you guess you could blame that on the fact that you had left him on your doorstep under the afternoon sun. His hair is shorter, and you find that it only makes him even more handsome than before.
Unable to resist, you brush the hair away from his forehead. You’ve missed this, that much you can admit. Missed being in his presence, missed touching him freely, missed hearing his smooth voice, missed his comforting scent… You missed Choi Seungcheol.
You wanted to believe him, you really did.
At your touch, Seungcheol stirs, head leaning towards your hand that you’re quick to pull away. Not wanting to wake him up, you stand up and immediately disappear into your room, heart racing and eyes welling up.
You don’t think you can survive a month of this.
When the birds start chirping in your window, you’re quickly hit by that familiar, stomach-stirring nausea that never fails to make your mornings miserable. Immediately, you’re running out of the bedroom, throwing the bathroom door open, and emptying your stomach into the toilet bowl.
The sound of rushed footsteps alarms you, and it’s only now that you’re remembering that you weren’t alone in the house, not anymore.
Fuck fuck fuck—
“Y/N?”
You’re hit with another horrid wave of nausea. One problem at a time, holy shit. You ignore Seungcheol, too caught up in the feeling of acid burning your throat.
Seungcheol is quick to crouch behind you, one hand holding your hair back and the other rubbing your back up and down soothingly.
Fuck, what were you going to tell him? You couldn’t exactly blame Mr. Kang’s cooking considering the fact that you and Seungcheol ate the same thing, and you didn’t really want to turn the sweet old man’s restaurant into a scapegoat. His beloved wife cooked that after all, and she was one of the sweetest ladies you knew!
When the nausea eases into a milder version of itself, you wipe at your mouth, and Seungcheol is quick to bring you a glass of water to rinse your mouth.
“Are you still sick?” Seungcheol asks as he hands you the glass. You can see the suspicion in his eyes. It’s faint, but it’s there. “You were throwing up the last time we saw each other, and you’re still throwing up now.”
You freeze at that, your body going into fight-or-flight at Seungcheol’s line of questioning.
“Have you gone to hospital?” Seungcheol asks, wiping away the sweat on your forehead. “Y/N, be honest with me. We need to get you checked, that might be something serious—“
“I went already,” You cut him off, lightly pushing his hand away. “It’s just stomach flu.”
One truth, one lie.
Seungcheol doesn’t seem satisfied, but he doesn’t pry. “Go rest, I’ll make you breakfast.”
You’re quick to protest, “I’m fine—“
“No,” Seungcheol is firm this time. Unlike yesterday where he just bent to your every whim, Seungcheol seems to set his foot down on this one. “Argue with me on anything else, but don’t stop me from taking care of you. Now rest, or I’ll force you to.”
Why did this man have such a strong sense of responsibility?
Unable to argue, you flush the toilet over and over until no traces of your morning disaster remain. After that, you brush your teeth and quickly settle into the couch in the living room. From where you’re seated, you have a clear view of Seungcheol moving around in the kitchen.
His back is turned to you, and his attention is completely focused onto the food he was preparing. You’re free to look at him all you want. Free to admire his broad back, free to see the way his arms flex when he reaches for something, and free to pretend like everything’s okay.
When you see Seungcheol set the plate on the table, you’re quick to walk over and see what it is.
“Eat up,” Seungcheol says as he hands you a plate with bread, scrambled eggs, and slices of fruit. “It’s all I could make with the ingredients you have. I’ll go grocery shopping later so if you have a list, just give it to me.”
You frown at that. Did he not want you to go with him?
Seungcheol seems to read your mind because he’s quick to continue, “I’d take you with me, but you need to rest.”
“I’m fine, though,” You reply. You don’t know why you’re arguing so hard on this considering the fact that staying far away from Seungcheol works in your favor. “I’m just a little dizzy.”
“Y/N, trust me when I say that I would love nothing more than to go grocery shopping with you,” Seungcheol replies with a heavy sigh. “But I’m not risking your health like that.”
“Fine, whatever,” You mumble out petulantly before taking a harsh bite out of the bread and chewing angrily at the fact that Seungcheol wouldn’t indulge you. First, he says he loves you, and now all of a sudden, he doesn’t want to be around you? Well, fuck him! He can go screw himself—
Wow, you needed to get a grip. Your hormones were not doing well today.
Seungcheol seems amused at your little tantrum, a small smile playing on his face as he sets his own plate down on the table and sits across from you. “We’ll go together next time when you’re feeling better.”
“Do it alone,” You hiss out before angrily biting into the apple slice.
Seungcheol snorts at you petulance, digging into his own food with an annoying smile on his face. What was he so happy for? You were aching, miserable, nauseous, and annoyed, and he was over here smiling like an idiot. Is he even trying to win you over like he said he would?
“I’ll miss you, though?” Seungcheol fake pouts.
“I don’t care,” You reply, hoping that the harshness of your tone will be enough to mask the fluttering in your chest. “Suffer, for all I care.”
Seungcheol only laughs, seemingly endeared by the attitude you were sending his way. He’s gone insane, you think. One night away from his stupidly expensive mattress, and it’s already getting to his head.
“You’re cute when you’re angry,” Seungcheol says and you’re quick to narrow your eyes at him.
“Are you trying to piss me off?” You ask, the annoyance in your tone clear as day.
“Is it working?” Seungcheol asks with a self-satisfied smirk that has you wanting to reach over and fight him.
“Yah, Choi Seungcheol—“
A familiar knock on your door cuts you off, and the teasing look on Seungcheol’s face is quick to turn serious.
“Who’s that?” Seungcheol immediately asks, standing up after you as you walk towards the door.
“My neighbor,” You reply. “She usually stops by in the mornings to join me for breakfast.”
With a pull, you open the door, and before you stands Soonja with a tupperware of food.
“Oh, who’s this?” Is the first thing Soonja says as she registers the unfamiliar presence looming behind you like an overprotective guard dog.
“My husband, halmeoni,” You reply. Soonja doesn’t know the entire story. The only thing she knows is that you had a huge fight, and you never wanted to see him again. She didn’t know about the arrangement, the other woman, and the fact that Seungcheol knew nothing about your pregnancy. “Seungcheol, this is Ms. Park. She’s one of our neighbors.”
“Yahhh, I can see why Y/N married you,” Soonja smiles. “Your child is going to be one hell of a looker with parents like the two of you.”
A freezing cold washes over your body at Soonja’s words.
“You’re too kind, ma’am,” Seungcheol laughs, completely unaware.
You’re quick to ease up at that. The comment must have flown over Seungcheol’s head. Maybe he thought it was a hypothetical situation. Yes, that must be it.
“Aigoo, call me halmeoni,” Soonja says to Seungcheol. “Here, it’s a good thing I brought multiple servings. The two of you can share it.”
“You’re not staying?” You ask, as you take the tupperware from Soonja.
“I would love to, dear, but I have a meeting at the town hall this morning,” Soonja replies in an apologetic tone. “I’ll make sure to drop by tomorrow, don’t worry. I have to get to know this handsome husband of yours after all. But I really do have to get going, okay?”
“We’re looking forward to it, halmeoni,” Seungcheol says as he waves the woman goodbye.
“So am I!” Soonja cheerfully calls out from behind her.
When you shut the door, Seungcheol is quick to send a teasing grin your way. “I like her.”
“You just met her?” You raise a brow at him as you walk to the kitchen with the tupperware in hand.
“She said we’d make pretty babies,” Seungcheol shrugs. “That automatically wins my approval.”
The mention of children has you pausing for a second before you’re quick to recover, pulling the refrigerator door open to put the tupperware inside. “Those were definitely not the words she used.”
“Same meaning, so it counts,” Seungcheol replies in a tone that tells you he’s about to bicker with you.
You would have indulged him in the past, but this time, you don’t. There was no room for familiarity, no room for hope. Things had to be nipped in the bud before they grew out of control.
“Whatever you say,” You relent, and you watch the way Seungcheol’s expression falls.
You can do this.
It’s just one month.
—
After a week of living under the same roof, you and Seungcheol have established a new routine.
In the mornings, Seungcheol makes sure to have breakfast prepared before you wake up. You eat together, and while you’d prefer to avoid that sort of proximity, the hopeful look on Seungcheol’s face as he serves his latest creation on the table has guilt gnawing at your bones. Seungcheol always makes sure to strike up conversation, and it comes so naturally that you often forget that you were trying to avoid interacting with him. Sometimes Soonja would join, but her visits had gotten shorter when she realized that there was finally someone looking after you.
After breakfast, the two of you would go your separate ways. Seungcheol would stay in the living room and handle his business remotely, and you’d hide away in your little office and attend to any concerns that Soonyoung deems major enough to require your intervention.
When lunch comes around, it’s your turn to cook, and Seungcheol makes sure to shower you in compliments. It’s a little embarrassing, but some part of you glowed underneath the praise. You had gone from serving Seungcheol burnt food to decent quality dishes, so it was an achievement on your end.
After lunch, the two of you lounge in the living room. Which seems counterproductive on your end, but the TV was your designated source of entertainment for the afternoons, and it just so happened to be situated in the area that Seungcheol frequented. However, some part of you knows that you stay there because you crave that man’s presence like a drug you shouldn’t be taking.
That continues on until dinner, where Seungcheol takes the responsibility of cooking, again. Similar to the other mealtimes, Seungcheol makes sure to talk your ear off. It’s a little unusual, you think, how the roles suddenly seem to be reversed. Seungcheol, who used to listen to you talk endlessly, was now the one doing the talking, if only to fill the silence you desperately tried to enforce. Something you were clearly failing at.
After dinner, you would go out for a quick walk, and Seungcheol, unable to sit still at the idea of you walking alone outside in the dimly lit streets, is quick to rush after you despite your insistence on the fact that the streets were safe and that you were fine walking alone.
You were getting used to it all, and that was dangerous.
It had only taken Seungcheol a week to get you to talk more, to get you used to the domesticity of everyday life with him in this tiny house planted in the middle of a quiet town. It had only taken Seungcheol a week to get your walls to start chipping.
You were absolutely fucked.
The more time you spent with Seungcheol, the more you found yourself believing in the idea that maybe he really did love you. Why else would he endure the couch and the back pain that came with it? Why else would he wake up early in the morning to cook you breakfast despite the decline in his sleep quality? Why else would he try so hard to talk more despite having a more reserved nature?
No explanation made sense unless you included love into the mix.
You didn’t know what to do anymore.
The most practical solution would be to believe Seungcheol. You could fix your marriage, return to the city, and raise your child with a complete family. It’s the ideal outcome, but it’s easier said than done. Some part of you will always be haunted by Seungcheol’s drunk murmurings, haunted by a faceless woman that had come before you. Dealing with that would make you bitter, and becoming bitter would inevitably affect the people around you, including your child.
You throw the covers off you, frustration fueling your form as you walk out of your bedroom to go to the kitchen. You had a feeling that the storm in your head wasn’t going to let you sleep anytime soon, and it sucked because sleep was your only escape from the nausea, fatigue, and ache.
There’s a soft glow coming from the kitchen, and the sound of keyboard clicks gets more distinct the closer you get to the kitchen. When you get there, you’re met by the sight of Seungcheol seated at the dining table, fingers typing away on his laptop.
The keyboard clicks pause when Seungcheol spots you.
“Why are you awake?” Seungcheol asks softly, watching as you pad into the kitchen. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Yeah,” You reply coldly, moving past Seungcheol to get a glass from the cupboard and a pitcher of water from the refrigerator. The indifference in your tone even has you flinching, and the guilt in you only grows. Why the fuck was Seungcheol making it so hard to push him away?
Seungcheol, already used to it, only watches you with concern. “Are you okay—“
“Why are you still here?” You finally snap, turning around to look at Seungcheol with the most hateful look you can muster. “Seungcheol, I’m already treating you so horribly, so why won’t you just leave? You don’t even have to be here!”
The sight of Seungcheol goes blurry as your eyes fill with tears. You know your anger is misplaced. You know it’s your guilt, your frustration, and your inability to trust his sincerity that’s ripping the words from your throat and throwing them straight at Seungcheol who’s done nothing but save your marriage since his arrival. Seungcheol was doing everything right. He was patient with you even when you were short with him. He was kind despite the indifference you showed him. Seungcheol was trying his best while you gave him your worst, and he still wouldn’t fucking budge.
“I know I don’t have to be,” Seungcheol says as he takes cautious steps towards you, almost as if he was approaching a wounded animal that would snap and bite at any sudden movement. When you don’t run, Seungcheol risks another step, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. Tenderly, lovingly, Seungcheol wipes away your tears. “But I want to.”
Choi Seungcheol never lies, and that fact coupled with his touch, his words only serve to feed the growing ache in your heart.
The tears start flowing harder, your body shaking from the sobs that wrack through your body. The pain is visceral, ripping your heart into shreds while your head pounds from the numerous thoughts that sought escape from the confines of your skull. You’re so overwhelmed that when Seungcheol wraps his arms around you, you don’t think twice about burying yourself into his embrace.
“It’s okay, cry it out,” Seungcheol mumbles into your hair, body slacking against yours as he brings you deeper into his hold. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
His words only make you cry harder, fingers gripping tightly at the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face into his chest.
“I—I’m so—“ Your words are cut off when your body forces you to gasp for air between your sobs. You hate this. God, you hate this so much. “I’m s-sorry—“
It’s the only thing you can breathe out through the turmoil in your soul. It’s only a fraction of everything you want to say, but it took the entirety of your being just to wrangle the words from your throat.
“Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize,” Seungcheol shushes you, hand rubbing up and down your back to soothe your cries. “It’s my fault for not realizing sooner, for making you feel like you were lesser. I was so caught up in the past that I couldn’t see what was in front of me.”
Seungcheol pulls away a fraction from you, cupping your cheek to make you look up at him. “I love you, and I should’ve told you sooner.”
“But—“ You stare up at him, mind flooded by the memory of him murmuring Sohee’s name. “Do you remember the night you came home drunk? After that meeting with Mingyu?”
“I don’t remember much from that night,” Seungcheol says. “But… It wasn’t a good meeting. Why?”
“You said ‘I love you’ that night, and I thought it was for me,” You whisper weakly, voice shaking as you grip onto Seungcheol’s shirt. “But then you said her name, and Cheol, it hurt so much—“
You’re back to sobbing, tears falling onto Seungcheol’s shirt as you tuck your head underneath his chin. “I know you were d-drunk, and I shouldn’t make such a big d-deal out of… Out of it but—“
“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol’s grip around you tightens as he presses a tender kiss to the side of your head. “I don’t know why I said her name. I don’t even remember it, but I know that doesn’t make it any better.”
“Mingyu and I were talking that night, and I just…” Seungcheol breathes out a heavy sigh. “I was torn between staying true to my promises to Sohee and accepting the fact that I was in love with you.”
Hearing her name still made you feel like you were being stabbed over and over with a blunt knife.
“I can’t take it back. No matter how much I wish I could,” Seungcheol whispers desperately, like a plea for you to stay. “But let me prove to you that it’s all in the past.”
You pull away to look at Seungcheol only to be met by his teary gaze. Unable to resist, you wipe away at his tears, watching as he leans into and chases your touch like it was his only lifeline.
“Let me love you the way you deserve,” Seungcheol breathes out, pressing a kiss onto your palm that has your heart aching all over again at how desperate and tormented Seungcheol looked. “Please.”
Would it really be so bad to try again?
“I need time, Seungcheol,” You whisper through tears. “If we’re doing this—really doing this… We have to take it slow.”
“I’ll wait forever if I have to,” Seungcheol says with so much conviction that it terrifies you. “We can go as slow as you want us to, but please, don’t go where I can’t reach you.”
—
The moon is still high when Choi Seungcheol stirs awake.
Your bedroom floor is cold underneath him, hard surface only softened by the pillow he had taken with him from the living room. He had carried you to your bedroom after you cried yourself into exhaustion in his arms, and he couldn’t find it in himself to leave you all alone, so he slept on the floor. Sleeping on the bed felt like an intrusion.
However, none of that explained the weight on his arm and warmth pressed against him.
Seungcheol’s eyes flutter open, only to be met by the sight of your sleeping face. Alarmed, Seungcheol gently taps you. Why the hell were you sleeping on the floor? You were going to hurt your back at this rate!
“Y/N, why are you on the floor?” Seungcheol whispers gently as you stir awake.
Your eyes remain shut, and you only nuzzle deeper into Seungcheol’s warmth as you sleepily murmur, “I wanted to sleep beside you.”
Seungcheol should be concerned, should be worrying for your comfort, but those feelings are violently pushed aside by the giddy feeling in his chest. You wanted to sleep beside him? Fuck, you were so cute.
“Baby, you’re going to hurt your back,” Seungcheol tries to reason with you, but the arms wrapping themselves around you only serve to contradict his words.
“Cheol, just let me sleep,” You grumble, a furrow settling in your brows.
Seungcheol smiles. You really are stubborn when you want to be.
“I’ll put you in bed, okay?” Seungcheol says as he stands up to carry you.
“Don’t leave,” You whisper as Seungcheol sets you down on the bed and tucks you underneath the blanket.
“I won’t,” Seungcheol says as he slips underneath the covers beside you and pulls you into his arms.
For the first time in weeks, Choi Seungcheol finally feels at home.
When morning comes, Seungcheol feels like a brand new man. It’s the best sleep he’s had, even better than the sleep he had on your couch, and he thinks it’s because he’s finally where he’s meant to be.
Seungcheol turns his gaze to the clock on your wall. The hands point to 6:00 AM, and he has around an hour to prepare before you wake up like you usually do at 7:00. Selfishly, he promises himself 15 more minutes.
15 more minutes to watch you sleep.
15 more minutes to savor your warmth in his arms.
Seungcheol thinks you look like a goddess underneath the morning sun with your hair sprawled behind you and your soft cheek smushed against his arm. The urge to trace and worship each of your features with his touch, his lips is strong, but Seungcheol holds himself back. There were boundaries he needed to respect, and like a visitor in a museum who can do nothing but marvel, Seungcheol can only watch.
You were glowing.
Was it the love speaking? Maybe. However, Seungcheol genuinely thinks that something about the way you look was different. No amount of baggy clothes and lazy hairstyles could hide the glow on your skin and health in your features. Hell, even your hair looked so vibrant that Seungcheol was wondering if he was such a problem that time away from him made you look this good.
Not that you weren’t pretty before! You’ve always been beautiful, but something about the way you looked like a sleeping deity in his arms had Seungcheol wanting to build you houses and waging war on those that dare to speak of you with a tone lesser than devotion.
Fuck, he was whipped.
When the clock strikes 6:15, Seungcheol begrudgingly parts from you, careful to remove his arm gently lest you wake up before the time you usually do. Once Seungcheol successfully pries himself from bed, he walks to the kitchen and starts preparing breakfast.
Seungcheol grabs the rice cooker and starts preparing the rice, and once it’s on cook, he moves to pull out the seolleongtang that Soonja gave yesterday (bless her soul for always dropping off soups). He transfers it into a small pot and starts heating it up on the stove. Once those two have settled, he pulls out oranges and starts cutting it up into little slices before peeling the sides. When he finishes, he sets it aside and moves to watch over the rice and the soup.
The breakfast is kept light because Seungcheol knows you don’t have much of an appetite in the mornings. While your vomiting has lessened, your nausea was still there, and Seungcheol wasn’t about to aggravate your stomach with heavy dishes.
In all honesty, he’s getting extremely concerned. While you’ve reassured him many times that it was just stomach flu and that you’ve already gone to the doctor for it, he thinks that you’ve been sick for too long…
…Unless it wasn’t stomach flu?
“Is that the seolleongtang that halmeoni gave?” Seungcheol’s thoughts are interrupted when you come up beside him to look at the pot on the stove.
Maybe you were getting better. Seungcheol didn’t hear you puke, so maybe it really was just a bad case of stomach flu.
“Yes,” Seungcheol replies as he opens the pot to stir it. “Do you want anything else? I can cook something else if you want.”
“No, it’s okay,” You shake your head. “I like halmeoni’s cooking.”
Seungcheol pouts at that, turning to look at you with a deflated expression. “Do you not like my cooking?”
“I do,” You reply, but there’s a hint of teasing in your tone as you speak, “But I like halmeoni’s more.”
“Hey, that’s not a fair comparison,” Seungcheol grumbles. “She’s old. She has years of experience.”
“How rude, Choi Seungcheol,” You fake gasp. “You should never discuss a lady’s age like that.”
Seungcheol smiles at the way you seem more comfortable around him. You were joking now, engaging in lighthearted banter, and all those facts work to fill Seungcheol’s chest with hope for the future.
“Are you feeling better now? I didn’t hear you in the bathroom this morning,” Seungcheol asks absentmindedly as he shuts the stove off.
He doesn’t miss the way you freeze.
“A little dizzy, but it’s better than before,” You reply, busying yourself with pulling bowls from the cupboard to avoid Seungcheol’s gaze.
“Okay,” Seungcheol doesn’t press further. “But if it gets worse, tell me.”
“I will, dad,” You tease as you hand him the bowls, and Seungcheol only smiles. “Stop worrying so much.”
“I can’t help it,” Seungcheol grumbles as he fills the bowls with broth and some meat. He doesn’t add too much of the latter lest it irritate your stomach. “I don’t like seeing you sick or hurt.”
“I’m fine, I swear,” You reply before pressing a quick kiss on Seungcheol’s cheek and taking the bowls from him. “Let’s just eat, okay?”
He can only nod at you with a stupid smile on his face.
—
Seungcheol has two weeks left, and he honestly doesn’t know if he’s doing well or doing horribly.
You only ever have three states around him: clingy, horny, or angry. Seungcheol never knows which one is coming, and he either finds himself pleasantly surprised or absolutely horrified. Sometimes you’ll be screaming at him, and sometimes you’ll be rubbing all over him like a cat in heat (he doesn’t know how he’s been able to hold back). He honestly doesn’t remember you having mood swings this bad and this sudden, but he finds that it’s much better than your indifference.
“Cheol-ah, why’d you get up so early?” You’re pouting as you walk towards him bustling in the kitchen, arms wrapping around his torso from behind while you nuzzle your nose into his back. Seungcheol doesn’t miss the way you breathe him in like an illicit drug.
Clingy is the mood for the hour, he realizes
His favorite mood, really. Though the devil on his shoulder calls him a liar because his favorite obviously hor—
“Do you not want to sleep beside me anymore?” You whine out, and Seungcheol knows that if he doesn’t placate you, you’re going to start crying.
“No, no, not all, baby,” Seungcheol quickly takes the pancake off the pan and turns the stove off so that he can turn around and pull you into his arms. “I was making breakfast.”
“You should’ve woken me up,” You complain, cheeks puffing and lower lip jutting out in a pout. “I could’ve helped you.”
“I wanted you to get more rest,” Seungcheol explains. Fuck, you looked so cute, and you were just so soft in his arms. It was taking everything in him not to squeeze the life out of you.
“I had plenty of rest,” You huff out. “You just don’t want me around.”
“No, baby, I do—“
“Whatever,” You push him away, annoyed, and Seungcheol realizes that you’re now transitioning from clingy to angry. “Eat alone.”
“Y/N, you have to eat—“
“Save it, Choi,” is the only thing you say before walking back to the bedroom and slamming the door.
Wow, you were going to give Seungcheol whiplash with how quickly your moods change.
However, Seungcheol needed to be firm. He wasn’t going to cower in fear and let you skip breakfast. He wouldn’t fight you on anything else, but your health was non-negotiable.
Seungcheol knocks on the bedroom door, “Can I come in?”
“No,” comes your muffled reply from behind the door.
“Baby, you have to eat,” Seungcheol urges, hand on the doorknob.
“I don’t want to see your face.” The door does nothing to buffer the venom in your voice.
“I’ll cover my face while you eat,” Seungcheol suggests. “I’ll stay in the living room if you want me to, but you have to eat.”
It’s silent for a few seconds before the door swings open.
“Fine,” is the only thing you say to Seungcheol before you walk to the dining table.
Seungcheol, true to his word, quietly eats breakfast in the living room like an outcast as he stares at your back longingly. He can only hope that you switch to a better mood soon. You’re so moody that you could put a pregnant woman to shame.
That night, his wish is granted.
You had spent the whole day avoiding Seungcheol, and every chance encounter with him was filled with glares and petulant huffs. Seungcheol would honestly have been offended if he didn’t find the annoyed look on your face so endearing. Thankfully, something in your mood seems to shift after dinner.
Seungcheol is typing away to answer the last pressing email in his inbox when you take cautious steps toward him.
There’s guilt swimming in your eyes as you speak, “Do you want to walk with me?”
“Of course,” Seungcheol replies without a second thought, fingers clicking send before he closes his laptop. “Usual route?”
“Yes,” Your eyes immediately light up at Seungcheol’s quick response.
The air is cool against Seungcheol’s cheeks, the only source of warmth in the street being your hand in his. It’s quiet, but it isn’t suffocating. It’s nothing like the silence in his bedroom back in Seoul that presses and weighs down on the shoulders of all that enter.
It’s peaceful.
“Do you think we should move here permanently?” Seungcheol suddenly asks. He knows he’s getting ahead of himself. You haven’t even fully forgiven him, and he’s not sure if he’ll even succeed in getting you to trust him again, but no one could really blame him for dreaming.
“It’s too far from the city,” comes your reply. “It’s not practical.”
“I can make it work,” Seungcheol shrugs as he traces the constellations in the sky with his eyes. It’s a rare sight that he makes sure to savor whenever the two of you go out for an evening walk. The light pollution in Seoul made it nearly impossible to ever see the stars at night. “You seem happier here.”
“It’s… quieter,” You reply. “If I could go back in time and pick a place to grow up in, I think I’d choose this place.”
Seungcheol thinks of little Y/N from the photos your mother had shown him. He thinks of the pretty dresses, the bejeweled tiaras, and he wonders if you’d still be the same person if you had grown up living a more humble life.
“Do you not like it in Seoul?” Seungcheol asks, but he has a feeling that the answer is yes. You always seemed to be happier when you were far away from the city. Maybe he should start investing in properties in the countryside, if only to give you a sanctuary from the tumultuous lives you had in the city.
“Seoul has its charm, but it’s no place for a child,” You reply, and Seungcheol doesn’t know if he’s imagining things, but he feels like there’s something more to your words. “I think it forced us to grow up quickly.”
It did, it does. The city, regardless of what part you lived in, ages the soul too quickly. A person could only tolerate heartless corporations, blinding lights, and concrete prisons for so long before the city buried them alive.
If Seungcheol had a choice, he probably wouldn’t choose to grow up in the city either. However, it was too late for that, and Seungcheol can only hope that his children—if you wanted to have them—wouldn’t have to suffer the same fate. He’d raise them far away from the vultures of his world, raise them far away from the tragedy that lines the walls of your house back in Seoul.
He should probably sell that house soon.
“Let’s go back,” You suddenly say, and Seungcheol is quick to turn to you. “I’m getting a little dizzy.”
“Ok,” Seungcheol replies as he examines you. Your grip on him is getting a little weaker, and your footsteps are starting to drag. All of Seungcheol’s senses are suddenly on high alert as he realizes that you were definitely not looking good. “We’re only a few meters away, don’t worry.”
Seungcheol makes sure to hold onto you, gripping you tightly just in case something went wrong. You look like you’re about to pass out, and while Seungcheol was internally panicking at how faint you looked, he couldn’t let it show. He needed to have a level head to make sure that you got home safe and sound.
Everything comes crashing down the moment you arrive at home.
You’re crouching down to remove your shoes, Seungcheol only a step or two behind you as he watches you intently. You move to stand up as you speak, “Cheol, I might have to sleep first—“
Seungcheol is quick to catch your limp body, panic flooding through his veins as he realizes that you just lost consciousness. A million horrible scenarios are running through Seungcheol’s head, but he can’t let the panic win.
Immediately, Seungcheol is grabbing his keys from where it’s hanging near the door. He carries you to the car, lying your unconscious form down on the seat before he speeds to the closest hospital.
Fuck, what had happened to you? Was it the stomach flu? Was it just stomach flu? Did you get a misdiagnosis? Were you going to be okay?
Seungcheol rushes you into the emergency room, and the nurses there are quick to accommodate him. Luckily for you and for him, the hospital only catered to a small population, so they weren’t too busy that night.
The other nurses take you away to check on your condition while another nurse pulls Seungcheol aside to ask him the details of what happened.
“What happened to her, sir?” The nurse asks.
“We were just walking, and then she said she was dizzy,” Seungcheol says, recalling every detail he can in hopes that it will help the staff treat you faster. “We went home as soon as she said that, but she just fainted all of a sudden.”
“Did she hit her head while fainting? Are there any other injuries?”
“No,” Seungcheol shakes his head. “I caught her before she hit the floor.”
The nurse asks a few more questions, and Seungcheol answers them like he’s on autopilot. The only thing he can focus on is your unconscious form on the bed as a physician rushes over to you. His heart is pounding violently in his ears, fear flooding his veins as he tries to recall where everything went wrong.
Seungcheol doesn’t know how long he waits there, hunched over as his leg shakes violently from the anxiety gnawing at his stomach. Every single second was torture when he didn’t know how you were doing, but he knew better than to interere with the professionals.
You’ll be okay, you had to be. Seungcheol refused to entertain any other possibility.
When the doctor walks his way, Seungcheol is quick to stand.
“Good evening, sir. I’m Dr. Lee,” The doctor introduces herself. Seungcheol could not care less about the pleasantries, he needed to know if you were okay. “May I ask how you’re related to the patient?”
“I’m her husband,” Seungcheol answers quickly, and he doesn’t know if he’s imagining it, but there’s a flicker of disdain in the doctor’s eyes before her face takes on that neutral, professional expression she was sporting previously. “Is she okay, doc?”
“Ms. L/N is fine, but her iron is a little low,” Dr. Lee replies. “The baby is doing well too, but we have to raise your wife’s iron levels to make sure that her pregnancy goes smoothly. She’s also going to need a lot of rest…”
The baby is doing well too?
The baby?
Seungcheol thinks it’s going to be his turn to faint. The doctor is speaking, but Seungcheol couldn’t hear her over the blood rushing through his ears and the violent pounding of his heart.
Everything suddenly made sense. The unpredictable swing of your mood, the healthy glow of your skin, the change in your scent, the constant vomiting—
You’re pregnant.
All the signs were pointing towards it, but Seungcheol was too fucking dumb to connect all of it together.
There’s a million emotions running through him all at once: happiness, fear, love, excitement, guilt, insecurity, hope, anxiety, adoration—Choi Seungcheol didn’t know what to feel first. Not only that, but Seungcheol was now plagued with a million questions as well. How long have you known? Were you hiding it? Why were you hiding it? Were you ever going to tell him? How did you cope with all of that alone? Would he be a good father when he couldn’t even be a good husband? Do you even want him around the child? What should he name them? Would they look like you? Like him?
What happens next?
“She’s scheduled for a visit soon, so make sure to attend that,” Dr. Lee says as Seungcheol’s attention finally snaps back to her. “I’ll put her on supplements, but I like to think that nothing beats proper nutrition, so please do try to make her consume more iron-rich foods.”
“I will, doc,” Seungcheol nods, finding himself filled with a newfound determination. He needed to do his best. He was taking care of two people now. “Do you have anything I could take a look at? A guide or something?”
There’s a smile on Dr. Lee’s lips as she replies, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Dr. Lee gives Seungcheol numerous educational pamphlets on pregnancy along with a list of resources he can check for himself. She tells him everything he needs to know to prepare, and Seungcheol takes each and every single word as gospel. There was no room for incompetence, not anymore.
“That’s most of it,” Dr. Lee finally concludes the long lecture, but Seungcheol still isn’t satisified. “Now, go to your wife. I’m sure she’ll wake up soon, and it’s best that you’re there for her when she does.”
“Thank you, doc,” Seungcheol bows gratefully. “I’ll make sure she eats properly and gets all the rest she needs.”
“You better, Mr. Choi,” Dr. Lee says it like a joke, but Seungcheol can sense the threat underneath it. “Ms. L/N is one of my favorite patients, so you better take care of her.”
Seungcheol only smiles.
When his conversation with Dr. Lee wraps up, Seungcheol is quick to take a seat on the chair beside your bed.
Now, he waits.
—
The first thing you see is Choi Seungcheol.
One of his hands is intertwined with yours, the other scrolling through his phone. He looks wholly invested in what he’s reading, brows scrunched and eyes focused like he’s reviewing for an exam.
Briefly, you pull your attention away from him, eyes scanning your unfamiliar surroundings only to realize that you were in the emergency room. What happened? The last thing you remembered was telling Seungcheol you were dizzy before the two of you got home and the world went black—
Oh god was your baby okay?
Seungcheol seems to feel the way you tense because he’s quick to turn his phone off and wrap you in his embrace.
“Fuck, don’t ever scare me like that again,” Seungcheol says, the relief in his voice mixed with fear.
“What did the doctor say?” You ask as Seungcheol pulls away and goes back to sitting on the chair beside your bed. Once again, one of his hands finds its way to intertwine with yours.
“She said you’re okay, but you need rest. Your iron is also low so we have to fix that,” Seungcheol replies, thumb rubbing back and forth on the back of your hand. Was it to soothe you or to soothe him? You’re not really sure.
You take in his words. How the hell were you going to ask if the baby inside you was fine without revealing it to Seungcheol—
“The baby’s okay too,” Seungcheol looks you dead in the eye as he says it.
Oh fuck.
You can’t read Seungcheol. Is he angry? Is he happy? Is he worried? He’s looking at you like he wants answers, and you’re looking at him with the same gaze.
“I’m sorry,” is the only thing that comes out of your mouth. You’re sorry for a lot of things, really. For not telling him, for making him find out this way, for endangering your child, for being so stubborn, for… Just everything. “Are you angry?”
“Not at you,” Seungcheol replies softly as he kisses the back of your hand, the warm, shaky breaths that leave him tickling your skin. “We’ll talk at home, okay? Right now, my priority is to make sure that you’re doing fine.”
You can’t help the way tears well up in your eyes as Seungcheol stands up. Softly, he cups your cheek, tilting your face to look up at him before he presses a soft kiss onto your forehead.
“I love you,” Seungcheol whispers against your skin. “I’ll go tell them you're awake so that we can go home.”
You can only nod and watch as Seungcheol rushes to the nurse’s station. The words wouldn’t leave you. You were too overwhelmed by everything to even form a coherent sentence. The emotions swirling inside you didn’t know which one of them would take precedence. Relief? Fear? Hope? Happiness?
After you wrap things up in the hospital, and Dr. Lee gives you a loving scolding, Seungcheol drives home. It takes the two of you a while, considering how Seungcheol was driving like an old man. You’re sure that he was only a few km/hr away from hitting the minimum allowable speed on public roads.
When the two of you get home, Seungcheol hovers behind you like an overprotective guard dog, eyes never leaving your form and body never more than three steps away. The only time he settles down is when you’re finally sat on the couch, but even then, you can see the way he’s eyeing the couch warily.
“Cheol, you’re acting weird,” You say as you give him the most judgmental side-eye. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”
Seungcheol stares at you like your sentence doesn’t make sense, and you have to resist the urge to start fighting him then and there.
“I’m just worried,” Seungcheol grumbles as he takes a seat beside you on the couch. “Do you… Want to talk about it?”
You nod. You couldn’t run from the truth forever. It was only a matter of time before Seungcheol found out, and if you were being honest, you’re surprised that you were able to keep it a secret for this long.
“When did you find out?” Seungcheol asks, eyes boring into yours.
You tear your gaze from him, eyes falling down to your lap as you fiddle with your fingers. “Remember the night we fought? I found out before you came home.”
It wasn’t a fight, not really. It had been too quiet, too defeated to call whatever happened that night a fight.
It was a resignation.
You see the way Seungcheol pales at your words. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you leave? Y/N, you knew you were pregnant so why—“
“Because you still loved Sohee,” You cut him off, heart aching at the memory. “I asked you if you still loved Sohee, and the only thing you could tell me was sorry.”
“I don’t love her,” Seungcheol says firmly. “I was being stupid then, but you didn’t have to leave. Especially not when you’re pregnant. Y/N, do you know how dangerous that is?”
“I was doing just fine before you arrived,” You retorted, finally looking at Seungcheol with the harshest gaze you’ve ever thrown his way. Choi Seungcheol, of all people, didn’t have the right to question you. “And I left because I didn’t want to raise my child in a house where they’d always be second-best.”
You could practically hear the way Seungcheol’s heart breaks at your words.
Seungcheol open his mouth to reply, “They wouldn’t have been—“
“Yes they would!” You cry out, anger pooling in your eyes and pricking at your lashes. “It’s always been Sohee this, Sohee that. Every single part of that fucking house is full of Sohee even if you removed everything that reminded you of her.”
“Y/N—“
“You don’t need all those stupid things to remember her because you carry her everywhere with you like a fucking ghost,” You hiss out, standing up and stepping away fron Seungcheol. You know you’re being unreasonable. Seungcheol has apologized for it many times, has spent every single day since his arrival to show you how serious he was, but it was so difficult to let go. “You would have felt obligated to stay with me, but your heart would have always been with Sohee.”
“When are you going to let her go?” Seungcheol groans out in frustration as he stands up after you. “Y/N, I don’t love her anymore. I’m here, I’ll always be here. I’ve already buried Sohee in the past, so why won’t you let her go?!”
“A few weeks isn’t going to fix months of that bullshit,” You spit out angrily. You don’t know what you’re angry at, really. Was it at Seungcheol for making a mistake he’s been repenting for? At yourself for not being able to move on? At Sohee for ruining your life without even knowing? At the universe for dealing you with the worst cards possible? “This isn’t going to work, Seungcheol. Just leave.”
You’re afraid. Afraid that Seungcheol would actually pack up and follow your words. Afraid that you’re falling into that familiar pattern of self-sabotage. Afraid that you’re depriving your child of a father because you couldn’t bury that godforsaken woman in the past where she belongs.
Just when Sohee stopped haunting Seungcheol… She started haunting you instead.
“No,” Seungcheol says it with so much anger and conviction that it had you shaken. “I’m not leaving you.”
You move to walk away, but Seungcheol is quick to grab your wrist. Angry and afraid, you hiss, “You promised me. If I didn’t forgive you in a month, you said you’d agree to the divorce and leave—“
“It’s the only time I’m breaking a promise, then,” Seungcheol says as he looks you dead in the eye. “I let you go once, I’m not doing that again.”
“Fuck you,” You cry out as the sobs start taking over your body. “You promised! I hate you—“
Seungcheol only pulls you into his arms, repeatedly murmuring ‘I love you' into your head as you cuss him out and slam your fists into his chest over and over. He doesn’t give you the fight you’re asking for, he just endures. He takes your blows, your words, and returns it with a tenderness unmatched and the promises of a better future.
You sob into his chest, your anger dying down into a paralyzing fear as you desperately latch onto him. You don’t want him to leave, and that scared you. What if he hurt you again? What if you hurt him in the process? What if you could never let Sohee go? What if you became the reason all your greatest fears came true?
What if Seungcheol ends up hating you?
Seungcheol holds you until your sobs quiet down, holds you until the fire and fight in you dies. When you calm down, he carries you to bed and changes you into your pajamas, and you find that you’re too exhausted to protest or worry about anything else.
After Seungcheol changes into his own pajamas, he lies down beside you, silent, patient.
“I’m sorry,” You whisper out into the darkness of your bedroom, waiting with bated breath as you look at Seungcheol.
“Stop apologizing,” Seungcheol mumbles, the sheets rustling as he pulls you into his embrace. “I love you. No amount of fighting or screaming is going to change that.”
“You deserve better,” You reply. “You’re trying so hard to make it work, and all I do is run away.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind the cardio,” Seungcheol jokes.
“I hate you,” You groan out, but you can’t help the way a bittersweet smile starts forming on your face.
“And I love you,” Seungcheol replies. “Stop worrying and get some sleep. Stress isn’t good for the baby, you know?”
Your heart stills at the reminder.
Well, that’s another issue you haven’t covered. Quickly, you’re sitting up and moving your gaze to meet Seungcheol’s.
“Are you okay with this?” You ask, and you can feel the fear creeping up on you again as the seconds pass.
“With what?” Seungcheol asks, sitting up as well before grabbing your hands.
“The baby…” You mumble, uncertainty gripping at your chest. “We didn’t exactly plan this, you know?”
Seungcheol snorts at that. “Bareback sex for days straight was just asking for it, if we’re being honest.”
You flush at the crudeness of his words, “Seungcheol, I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Seungcheol chuckles out. “Baby, I’m more than okay with this, with everything. Sure, maybe I wish that things happened with better timing, but… I wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.”
“You don’t regret it?” You ask, voice small as you tighten your hold on his hand. Seungcheol’s here, he loves you, he isn’t leaving.
“The only thing I regret is not being there for you sooner,” Seungcheol says. “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to find out like that then have to deal with everything on your own.”
“Halmeoni and Dr. Lee looked after me,” You remind him. “It was easier with them around.”
“Still,” Seungcheol counters, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I should’ve been there.”
“You’re here now,” You say as you smile at him, hand letting go of his to smooth the crease between his furrowed brows. “That’s more than enough.”
“No, it’s not,” Seungcheol shakes his head. “I still have a lot to prove to you, and to our little one.”
Your heart practically melts at the way Seungcheol’s eyes soften when they fall onto your stomach.
“Do you think they can hear me?” Seungcheol asks.
“No, Dr. Lee said they don’t start hearing until 18 weeks,” You reply, watching as Seungcheol reaches out to trace your stomach with a feather-light touch.
“Perfect, I have a few more weeks to come up with a good apology,” Seungcheol jokes.
“Maybe we should stop apologizing,” You suggest, hand falling on top of Seungcheol’s as you look him in the eye. “Let’s make this work, Cheol.”
Seungcheol beams at that, and you don’t miss the way his eyes seem to glisten under the moonlight. “I can do that.”
You don’t know what comes over you.
Slowly, you lean forward, lips pressing against the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth to test the waters. You don’t miss the way Seungcheol’s breath hitches and his lids flutter. Unable to resist, you press another kiss onto his skin. This time, it’s on his chin.
“Fuck, don’t do this to me right now,” Seungcheol whispers shakily.
“Do what?” You tease, hands reaching out to brace yourself on his firm thighs. “I’m just kissing you.”
“You know it never ends with just kissing,” Seungcheol stares at you pointedly. “Y/N, I’m serious—“
Seungcheol chokes on his words when you press a kiss to his throat.
“Baby, you’re pregnant,” Seungcheol tries to reason with you as your fingers trail up his thighs.
You ignore his words, mouth capturing Seungcheol’s in a kiss that’s all tongue, spit, and desperation. Contrary to the hesitance in Seungcheol’s words, he’s quick to reciprocate with just as much hunger, if not more. He kisses you like he’s trying to eat you alive, like you’re the first thing he’s eaten in years.
However, reason seems to find its way to Seungcheol’s head through the haze because he quickly pulls away.
“Cheol, why’d you stop?” You whine out in complaint.
Seungcheol speaks to argue, “You’re pregnant—“
“Pregnant women are allowed to fuck, Cheol,” You pout.
“I know but we just got back from the hospital,” Seungcheol replies softly, hand carding through your hair. “I might make things worse.”
“You won’t,” You shake your head. “I trust you.”
“Y/N, don’t make this harder,” Seungcheol pleads.
“Fine, be like that,” You huff out petulantly before lying down on the bed and turning your back to Seungcheol.
“Baby,” Seungcheol coos as he slips behind you. “I’m sorry, come on. We just got back from the hospital. We can do it when I’m sure that you’re all better.”
You don’t reply, only pulling the covers around you tighter.
“Baby,” Seungcheol sighs as he wraps his arms around you. “Come on.”
“Just say you don’t want me,” You huff out. You’re being unreasonable, you know that, but your hormones were constantly all over the place, and they somehow decided that now would be the perfect time to make you all hot and bothered.
“I do want you, badly,” Seungcheol says. “But your health comes first.”
The fire in you dies. He had a point. “Fine.”
“I can still help you out, if you’d like?” Seungcheol whispers against your ear in a low tone that has your insides quivering. “No fucking, but my fingers should be fine for now, no?”
You can feel the way Seungcheol’s fingers are playing with the waistband of your sleep shorts.
“Please,” You breathe out, whining when Seungcheol pulls away.
Seungcheol sits against the headboard before he pulls you to sit between his legs, your back resting against his warm chest.
“Can you take your shorts off for me, baby?” Seungcheol whispers against your ear as he rubs his hands up and down your waist.
You’re quick to oblige, a gasp leaving your throat when Seungcheol’s fingers brush against your sensitive nipples.
“Oh, you’re so sensitive,” Seungcheol remarks, hands giving your chest one firm squeeze that shoots straight to your core. “Fuck, I can’t wait until these are leaking.”
A moan rips itself from your throat when Seungcheol pinches your nipples.
“Need your fingers inside, Cheol,” You moan, hand grabbing one of Seungcheol’s and bringing it down to your panty-clad mound. “Please.”
“So polite,” Seungcheol coos, hand slipping underneath your panties to rub through your dripping folds. “What happened to the brat that got us here, hm?”
You only moan, lost in the feeling of finally experiencing Seungcheol’s touch again. His fingers are rubbing sloppy circles onto your folds, each flick of his wrist sending fiery pulses through your nerves.
“You’re so wet, baby,” Seungcheol mumbles as he slips two fingers inside. He scissors them inside you, rubbing, prodding, and exploring like he’s looking for something. “So warm too, fuck.”
Your eyes roll back when Seungcheol’s fingers brush against that bundle of nerves inside you, mouth falling open to release desperate moans and whines as Seungcheol works you closer and closer to your high.
“You’re tightening up already?” Seungcheol teases. “Is my needy girl about to cum from a little fingering?”
“Yes, fuck!” You cry out, back arching as you feel your high get dangerously close. “Cheol, please, please, please—“
“Shh, baby just cum for me. I’ll get you there don’t worry,” Seungcheol soothes, fingers driving in and out of you with methodic strokes. “Cum for me baby, cum—“
“Cumming!” You cry out before your mouth falls open into a silent scream, body seizing as Seungcheol continues to fuck his fingers in and out of you to let you ride out your high.
By the end of it, you’re boneless in Seungcheol’s arms, breathing heavy and mind hazy with the aftershocks of your climax.
Seungcheol, like the filthy man he is, is quick to lick his fingers clean, and the moan that leaves him when your taste hits his tongue is obscene. “Fuck, I missed that.”
“Cheol, you’re hard,” You mumble through your sleepy, pleasured haze. You can feel him pressing against your back. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine,” Seungcheol replies as he moves to lie the two of you down. “Just get some rest.”
“Are you sure?” You offer one last time, trying to fight the sleep that was slowly pulling you under.
“Yes, baby,” Seungcheol replies with a kiss to your forehead. “The sooner you get better, the sooner you can get all of me.”
You have never slept faster in your entire life.
—
Choi Seungcheol made one hell of a DILF.
If husbands were graded on how well they handled pregnancy, you think Seungcheol would get a 99.99%. The 0.01% is missing only because Seungcheol could be a little too overprotective at times. Ever since he found out about your pregnancy two weeks ago, he’s been nothing short of caring. Most of his days are spent catering to you, and when he isn’t fussing over you, he’s busy reading every single parenting book published in the last five years. He’s also extremely patient, and your mood swings are no match for his gentle words and touches.
Fuck, you wanted to jump this man so badly.
It’s a shame he’s so hellbent on holding back for your sake. You could take him! In more ways than one, but he refused to listen. The man constantly treated you like you were made of glass, and you were honestly getting tired of it. You were cranky and horny with a husband that could make it all better, but he refused to.
You’re considering lowering his grade to a 98%.
“I think we’re going to need a bigger house,” Seungcheol says as he walks into the living room. “This one is okay, but we’re going to need more room when the baby comes.”
“We already have a house back in Seoul, though?” You ask, brow raised in question as you flip through the channels. “Do we really need another house?”
Seungcheol freezes at that. “About that…”
You turn your questioning gaze to Seungcheol.
“What?”
“I put the old house for sale,” Seungcheol replies. “It held too many bad memories.”
You gape at Seungcheol.
To be fair, you didn’t like the house either. You’d set it on fire if given the opportunity, but to suddenly find out that Seungcheol had sold it…
Well, it was shocking.
You had other properties, of course. So finding somewhere to stay when you inevitably go back to Seoul wasn’t a problem, but Seungcheol had lived in that place for so long that some part of you felt bad that he had to let it go.
“Where will we live then?” You ask.
“I heard it’s quieter in Mingyu’s neighborhood,” Seungcheol says as he takes a seat beside you. “I’ve been asking my agent to look for some houses in the area, and I already have the list but… I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.”
“But you’ve lived in that house for so long, Cheol,” You reply, hand reaching out for his. “Won’t you miss that place?”
“No,” Seungcheol shakes his head. “It’s just a house.”
Seungcheol reaches for your stomach. There’s a little bump on it now that you’re 13 weeks in. Softly, he presses his palm on it. “The two of you are my home now.”
Your heart swells at Seungcheol’s words, tears pricking at your eyes as you press a kiss against Seungcheol’s cheek. “Do you want to look through the list together?”
Seungcheol beams at that, quickly pulling his laptop closer and opening it. “I’ve been waiting for this.”
The rest of the afternoon is spent scrolling through the list that Seungcheol’s agent sent. It was complete with pictures and even videos showing the features that each property had to offer. Some houses were too big, some were too small. Some didn’t feel right while some were only a few steps away from perfect.
There’s a constant back-and-forth between you and Seungcheol as you consider the pros and cons of each house. He was clearly taking this seriously, giving insight on things that even you failed to consider.
By the end of it, the two of you agree on a 4-bedroom house that had a large backyard and a small pool. It’s a little extra, but Seungcheol wanted nothing but the best for his growing family.
“We could check it out soon, if you’d like,” Seungcheol offers. “But I don’t mind staying here.”
You love Boeun, but you knew it wasn’t practical.
Your life was still in Seoul, and Boeun was just meant to be a temporary break from the city’s chaos while you gathered your bearings. You were always meant to leave this place, but knowing that doesn’t make the idea of departure any easier. You’d miss Soonja, Dr. Lee, Mr. Kang, and everyone who had been with you throughout your stay, but you knew that sacrifices had to be made.
Your job was waiting for you, your family was waiting for you, and you could only make those things wait for so long before they began chasing you all the way to this quiet town.
“Do you want to check it tomorrow?” You ask. The drive would be smooth since it’s a Wednesday tomorrow, there was even less traffic compared to if you’d go to Seoul on a Monday or a Friday.
“Already?” Seungcheol clarifies, a little baffled at how quick you were to ask. “I mean we can if you really want to, but… Isn’t it a little too soon?”
“Cheol, the two of us can only work from home for so long,” You reply. “Our life is in Seoul whether we like it or not.”
“Will you be okay?” Seungcheol asks, worry written all over his features.
“Of course,” You reply softly. “I’m going to miss everyone here, but it would be more practical to move now while I still have the energy to handle it all.”
“Okay. Happy wife, happy life,” Seungcheol presses a quick kiss to your lips before he pulls out his phone. “I’ll text Mr. Jang to set a visit for tomorrow afternoon, then I’ll book a hotel for the night. Is that okay?”
“That would be perfect,” You smile.
—
Choi Seungcheol thinks you look like a goddess in this light.
You’re looking through the house, listening to Mr. Jang explain the history and make of each area, and the only thing Seungcheol can do is watch as the sun shines on you through the glass doors leading to the patio and the backyard. It gives you a heavenly glow, and the bump of your stomach lightly poking from your dress only had Seungcheol wanting to worship the ground you walked on.
He could already imagine it. In a few months, you’d be seated in the little patio, cradling a little baby—he hopes it’s a girl—and cooing to her (he insists) in a soft loving voice. In a few months, he’d be rushing home from work to see his girls—Seungcheol is not letting go of that—and when he gets home, he’s going to give the two of you the tightest hug he can safely give and tell you how much he missed you.
Fuck, he can’t believe all of this is real. He might actually start crying if he dwells on it.
When you walk over to him with a smile, Seungcheol realizes that this is it. This is the house.
“Do you like it?” Seungcheol asks, one hand pulling you in by the waist and the other moving to cup your cheek.
“How soon can we move?” You ask him with an excited smile. “I can’t wait to decorate. Plus, we need to make sure that everything is baby-proofed. The sooner we get here, the sooner we can fix all of that.”
“Well, Mr. Jang, you heard the lady,” Seungcheol grins as he addresses his trusted agent. “How soon can we move in?”
“Well, it usually takes weeks, Mr. Choi, but considering the fact that you’re very close friends with Mr. Yoon, it will be very quick.” Mr. Jang answers. “I can give you the papers by Friday, and if you have any personal items that you’d like to move, then we can do that for you as well.”
Of course Jeonghan owned this place. Seungcheol sometimes forgets just how much land and property the Yoons own throughout Seoul. Maybe he should ask for a discount just to fuck with the man.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Jang,” You smile. “We’ll probably be able to move in next week since we still have some things to sort in the province.”
“No worries, madam,” Mr. Jang replies.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Jang,” Seungcheol firmly shakes the man’s hand.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Choi.”
When the two of you reach the hotel, you’re quick to give Seungcheol a hug. It’s tight, it’s warm, and it’s full of the love that Seungcheol has always longed for.
“I can’t believe this is real,” You murmured into Seungcheol’s chest.
“You like the house?” Seungcheol asks, falling back onto the hotel sofa and sitting you on his lap.
“I do,” You nod, wrapping your arms loosely around Seungcheol’s neck. “It’s like a fresh start.”
“It is,” Seungcheol replies as he presses a quick kiss to your chin. “I promised to do things right. I’m just fulfilling that promise.”
“I love you.” It falls from your lips and settles into Seungcheol’s unguarded heart.
Seungcheol would never get tired of hearing those words come from your lips. He could listen to it all day, everyday, for the rest of his life, and it would still send his heart into a frenzy.
“Not as much as I love you,” Seungcheol whispers before capturing your lips into a kiss.
Everything was finally falling into place.
—
Saying goodbye was always the hardest part.
Your seventh and last week in Boeun was spent thanking the people who had made your stay in the little town a wonderful experience.
The first stop was Dr. Lee.
“Time really flies,” Dr. Lee says wistfully as she takes in your words of parting. “I’ll make sure to coordinate with your new OB-GYN. I have to make sure my favorite patient is taken care of, after all.”
“Thank you for everything, Dr. Lee,” You say with a bittersweet smile. “I can’t thank you enough for all the care you’ve shown me.”
“Nonsense, dear. It’s my job,” Dr. Lee waves you off with a sad smile. “Make sure to update me every now and then, okay? I may not be your doctor anymore, but I will always be your friend.”
“Of course,” You reply.
“And you,” Dr. Lee points towards Seungcheol. “You better take care of her after taking her away from us, you got it?”
Seungcheol looks a little embarrassed under the doctor’s scrutiny, but he smiles at her nonetheless. “I will, doc. You have my word.”
“Gosh, I really am going to miss you,” Dr. Lee says as she gives you a warm hug, one that you’re quick to reciprocate. “I know that Seoul is far, but make sure to visit, okay?”
“We will,” You declare it like you’ve never been more sure of anything. “I’ve grown too attached to this place to ever let it go.”
“Well, don’t miss us too much,” Dr. Lee jokes as she releases you from her hug. “Take care, you two.”
The second stop was Mr. Kang.
Honestly speaking, between the two of you, Mr. Kang was closer to Seungcheol than he was to you. After all, it had been them who had bonded greatly, with the older man constantly giving Seungcheol tips on how to become a good father whenever the two of you would drop by to eat.
“Just yesterday, you were eating bibimbap here,” Mr. Kang says in a bittersweet tone as he reminisces. “And now, you’re leaving.”
“Duty calls in the city, unfortunately,” Seungcheol replies sheepishly. “But we’ll make sure to visit, sir.”
“You do what you have to do for your family, boy. I understand,” Mr. Kang says as he claps Seungcheol on the back and sends a smile your way. “Take care of your wife, okay? And your kid too. Remember everything I taught you.”
“Don’t worry, sir, I have it all memorized,” Seungcheol jokes.
“Thank you for everything, Mr. Kang,” You thank the man with a quick hug. “I’m going to miss the food here.”
“Well, let’s eat then,” Mr. Kang says as he pulls the two of you to sit. “It’s your last meal here, so it’s on the house.”
You’re quick to protest, “Oh no, we couldn’t possibly—“
“Aish no, just eat, okay?” Mr. Kang cuts you off. “Consider this a parting gift from me and my wife.”
The last stop was Soonja.
This was the hardest, you think.
With slow steps, you walk towards the door of her house, heart cracking with each step you take. You do everything you can to delay it, to delay the inevitable moment where you’d have to say your goodbye.
When you reach her door, you turn to Seungcheol.
Your husband gives your hand a firm squeeze of support. There was nothing he could do to make this goodbye easier even if he wanted to.
With a deep breath, you knock on the door.
“Coming!” You hear Soonja’s muffled voice from behind the wood separating the two of you, her light footsteps echoing through the silent afternoon.
When the door opens, you have to resist the urge to cry.
“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite neighbors,” Soonja greets, giving the two of you a warm hug that only a grandmother could give. “Today’s the day you leave, right?”
“Yes, halmeoni,” You reply, voice shaking and lip quivering. You had been holding out so well throughout the day, and now, face-to-face with the woman who had taken care of you during your loneliest days, you find yourself falling apart. “We came to say goodb—“
A sob manages to break free from your throat, and Soonja is quick to take you into her arms.
“Aigoo, sweet girl, don’t cry,” Soonja soothes as she rubs your back up and down. “A sad mother is a sad child, so you have to be happy, okay?”
“I—I’m going to—“ Sobs and gasps cut through your words as you clutch the woman tighter. “I’m going t—to m-miss you—“
“I’m going to miss you too, dear,” Soonja smiles, though it’s bittersweet. “Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll visit when the little one is born.”
“You promise?” You ask, pulling away to look Soonja in the eyes. “I—I’ll cry if you’re not there.”
“Aigoo, look at this girl blackmailing me,” Soonja laughs as she smooths out your hair. “I promise, dear.”
“I’ll get someone to pick you up, ma’am,” Seungcheol says with a smile. “Thank you for taking care of my wife when I couldn’t be there.”
“It’s nothing,” Soonja waves your husband off. “Make sure that she’s always happy, okay? I’ll take her away from you if you ever make her sad.”
You laugh at that despite the tears in your eyes, “Hear that, Cheol?”
“That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” Seungcheol says firmly as he turns his gaze to you. “I’m going to make sure that my wife is the happiest woman alive.”
“Aigoo, your husband looks tough but he’s such a sap,” Soonja teases. “Come here, boy. Give this old woman a hug before you go.”
Seungcheol obliges, leaning down to give the old woman a hug.
You think you might cry again.
When they part, Soonja is quick to pull something from her pocket: a tiny notebook.
“A little souvenir,” Soonja smiles as she hands you the notebook. “It has all your favorite recipes in it.”
You’re quick to open the little cookbook. Tears immediately pool back in your eyes when you realize that Soonja had written down all the steps for all the dishes she cooked and brought for you during breakfast.
“Halmeoni, do you want to come with us?” You know the odds of her accepting are low, but you ask it anyway.
Soonja laughs at that, wiping away the tears that have pooled in her own eyes. “Thank you for the offer, dear, but this place is the only thing I’ve known my entire life.”
“Letting go is just as important as holding on,” Soonja adds with a smile. “One should always aim to strike a balance.”
Her words stay with you even after the trees have turned into buildings and stars have been obscured by towering skyscrapers.
“You tired?” Seungcheol asks when the car stops at a red light.
“A little,” You confess, eyes taking in the familiar city that you left behind seven weeks ago. It looks the same, and yet it feels like everything has changed.
“Hang in there,” Seungcheol says with a comforting squeeze to your thigh. “We’ll be home in 15 minutes.”
Home.
You left Solis Mane with an ache in your heart and dread in your stomach, and now you’re leaving Boeun… But it doesn’t feel the same. The ache is there, the longing for a world that had given you peace for even just a moment, but the dread is nowhere to be found. You aren’t dreading the city, you aren’t dreading the idea of home. In the spot that dread used to lurk in now lied hope.
Hope for a better future, hope for a better life.
You sincerely hope that it works out this time.
—
The future looks bright.
After a month of living in the house, Choi Seungcheol likes to think that the two of you are now well-adjusted to the new space and the new routine. Strangely enough, he thinks it was him who took a longer time to adjust to the novelty of it all compared to you.
You had quickly adjusted to the house, and now, there were little trinkets and decorations strewn around that all had your personal touch. Seungcheol considers it his favorite part of the house. The hopeful part of Seungcheol wished he could stay in the house and lounge with you all-day, all-week, however, business calls.
The moment the two of you came back, he had been bombarded with the responsibilities he had set aside. Thankfully, Seungcheol’s father had lessened his workload after finding out that his first grandchild was on the way, so Seungcheol only had to appear in the office every Monday and Friday. The rest of his week was spent working from home and doting on his beloved wife.
Unfortunately for him, it’s a Friday, so he was in the office. The only thing that kept him going was the idea that you’d be greeting him with a smile and a kiss before dragging him to taste whatever diabolical concoction your pregnancy hormones had you craving for the day.
Fuck, he’s so in love with you.
When the clock strikes five, Seungcheol is quick to pack his things. He’s taking long strides towards the door when a knock stops him in his tracks.
Fucking hell.
Annoyed, Seungcheol is quick to open the door. Lo and behold, before him stood Kim Mingyu.
“Hyung, are you leaving?” Mingyu asks, eyes locking onto Seungcheol’s bag.
“Yes, so make it quick,” Seungcheol clicks his tongue. “My wife’s waiting for me.”
“Ah of course, can’t leave a pregnant lady waiting,” Mingyu is quick to understand, having gone through a similar experience just a few months prior. “I’m just here to give you the invitation.”
Mingyu hands Seungcheol an expensive looking invitation bearing the Yoon Corporation’s logo.
“What for?” Seungcheol asks as he slips the invitation into his bag.
“My wife’s birthday,” Mingyu replies, a boastful, loving smile making its way onto his face. “You and Y/N are invited, though I think she’s more interested in talking to your wife.”
“I’ll ask Y/N if she’s okay with going,” Seungcheold nods. It would be good for you to go out and socialize in a smaller circle for now, and knowing Mingyu’s wife, the party would probably be limited to only a few people. “Where is this?”
“At our house, so it’s really just a small get-together,” Mingyu confirms. “We can finally grab a drink together, again.”
“Pass,” Seungcheol thinks of the last time he drank with Mingyu. It did not end well at all.
“Yeah, you’re right. My wife would probably kill me too,” Mingyu laughs. “But I hope to see you guys there, okay? I’ll let you leave now since you seem really eager to get home.”
“Thanks for finally noticing,” Seungcheol snorts, and Mingyu only rolls his eyes.
“Hey, my wife’s waiting for me too,” Mingyu grumbles as he presses the elevator button. “You and I are one and the same.”
Seungcheol only chuckles at that, but he can’t deny Mingyu’s words.
When Seungcheol finally parks into the garage of your house, he’s quick to exit the car, walk to the front door, and kick off his shoes.
On cue, the door swings open, and Seungcheol, like clockwork, pulls you in for a kiss that has his blood humming and his heart beating wildly. Just like the other times, there’s a shy smile on your face the moment you pull away.
“Do you really have to kiss me like that every time?” You complain as you pull Seungcheol in and shut the door.
“Why? You don’t like my kisses?” Seungcheol pouts, hands coming up to your hips as he gives you the most comically sad eyes he can muster.
“I do, but isn’t your kiss a little too… Inappropriate?” You reply, a little flustered as you avoid Seungcheol’s gaze. “What if someone sees?”
“Nothing wrong with a husband loving his wife, no?” Seungcheol teases, leaning down to whisper against your ear as one of his hands drops down to grab a handful of your ass. “I can get more inappropriate than that, really.”
You yelp when Seungcheol gives your butt another firm squeeze, your hand coming up to lightly swat at his chest. “You’re a dog, Choi Seungcheol.”
Seungcheol only laughs when you push him off and walk to the dining room, eyes trained on the way your hips sway and your butt jiggles.
Fuck, he really is winning in life.
You’re in your 18th week, and Seungcheol thinks you need to put him on a leash soon because it was getting harder and harder to resist you. In addition to that glow of yours, your bump was now more visible, and it had Seungcheol becoming this inexplicable mix of horny and overprotective whenever he sees it. Not only that but you were getting softer too, and Seungcheol had to stop himself from gnawing at your chest like a feral dog lest you get pissed and kick him to the couch again.
“What’s for dinner?” Seungcheol asks, already bracing himself for some diabolical combination that would probably make Chef Wen faint.
“Tonkatsu,” You reply, and when you see the shocked look on Seungcheol’s face, you’re quick to giggle. “It’s so normal, right?”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol laughs as he takes a seat beside you. “Are you sure it’s just regular tonkatsu?”
“I swear,” You reply as you draw a cross on your chest. “I woke up craving it so badly. I ate this for breakfast and lunch, and now I’m eating it again. Your kid is already taking after you.”
Seungcheol smiles at that. In a few months, he was finally going to meet your little baby. He was finally going to cradle them—her, the voice in Seungcheol’s head insists—in his arms. He’s going to lose sleep and want to tear his hair out, but it’s all going to be so worth it because he gets to do it all with you.
“My daughter has good taste,” Seungcheol boasts proudly, hand coming up to cradle your little bump. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll let you eat all the tonkatsu you want when you’re out of there.”
“Yah, we don’t even know what the baby is yet,” You pout at Seungcheol. “What if it’s a boy?”
“Then he’s a boy,” Seungcheol shrugs. “But I have a feeling that we’re going to have a daughter.”
“Well, I think we’re having a boy,” You huff out.
“Wanna bet?” Seungcheol grins as he strokes your stomach.
“Be prepared to lose, Choi,” You reply, determination in your eyes.
“I should be saying that to you,” Seungcheol teases before he presses a kiss to your stomach. “But put that aside for now, the tonkatsu might get cold.”
In all honesty, Seungcheol didn’t mind whether the baby would be a girl or a boy. He was going to shower them with so much love either way. However, he sincerely hopes it’s a girl. A cute little girl that takes after her beautiful mother in both looks and wit. A cute little girl he’ll spoil and clothe with the prettiest, frilliest dresses. A cute girl who’d be evidence of everything he’s ever loved and cherished, who’d be evidence of you.
That night Seungcheol makes slow, sweet love to you. You’re on your side, one leg raised, and Seungcheol is right behind you, slowly grinding in and out of you as he whispers words of devotion into your ear.
Seungcheol cradles you in his arms, face buried into the back of your neck as he soothes moans and whines from your soft, sensitive body. He takes his time savoring every drag and clench of your walls around him. Treating every stroke and plunge like it would be his last.
“Cheol, I love you,” You say with a breathy sigh as you clamp down onto his length, and Seungcheol is left with no other choice but to spill himself inside you, worshipping every inch of you with a desperate devotee’s lips who’s only lately found religion, ardor and adoration lacing every heated kiss.
The high isn’t explosive, it crawls, and it creeps until it overtakes all your senses and you have no choice but to surrender to its will. It’s nothing like the rough, passionate, back-breaking sex that you and Seungcheol used to have on that island. It’s raw, it’s passionate, it’s love.
Seungcheol could never imagine himself anywhere else.
—
The Yoon heiress had always kept a small circle.
Attending her birthday party was a privilege, and despite your constant desire to stay at home and nest, you weren’t about to miss out on this opportunity. She had personally invited you, after all, and from your last interaction—your wedding reception—she seemed like a very lovely woman. Thankfully, the Kim’s only lived a few blocks away, so getting there was a breeze.
When you arrive at the Kim family’s garden, the familiar woman is quick to greet you, and cradled in her arms is little Eunho who is the spitting image of his father.
“Happy birthday,” You greet the woman as you hand her your gift, and she takes it from you with thanks and a kind smile.
You don’t miss the way Seungcheol looks at the baby in her arms. Amazed, he speaks, “Wow, it’s like I’m looking at a mini-Mingyu.”
Mingyu’s wife only laughs, cooing at her son, “Eunho-ah, say hello to Uncle Seungcheol and Aunt Y/N.”
The little baby only tucks himself into his mother’s neck, shyly looking at the two of you from the corner of his eyes. You have to resist the urge to squeal and sob at how cute the little boy looked.
“Don’t be fooled you two,” Mingyu walks up to his wife from behind, a hand falling protectively around her waist. “He may look like me, but he acts exactly like her.”
“My genes have to fight somehow,” Mingyu’s wife jokes with a roll of her eyes. “The two of you are expecting right? How many weeks?”
“I’m 21 weeks in,” You reply, hand coming up to cradle your bump. Saying the words out loud makes you realize how far you’ve come, and you have to stop yourself from breaking into tears then and there.
“Only a few weeks left,” Mingyu’s wife smiles with understanding. “Please, do take a seat. I don’t want to tire you out.”
The little garden party is as intimate as you expected it to be. There were only a few people around, and even fewer that you could recognize. Seungcheol isn’t beside you since you insisted he bond with his old friends. Currently, your husband was with Jeonghan and Mingyu, with your husband and the former doing everything they could to gain the favor of little Eunho.
Thankfully, Mingyu’s wife sits with you, chatting with you like the two of you were old friends. It’s the complete opposite of the rumors about her that paint her to be some aloof individual that didn’t engage in polite conversation.
“Are you guys having a girl or a boy?” Mingyu’s wife asks.
“We haven’t checked, but Seungcheol’s betting that it’s a girl,” You reply.
“That would be so cute!” Mingyu’s wife exclaims with a smile. “Who knows, maybe we’ll be in-laws someday.”
You laugh at that, mind flooded with scenes from a future that you have yet to live through. Jokingly, you reply, “You’ll be the first to know if it’s a girl.”
“I’ll be counting on that,” Mingyu’s wife matches your joking tone. “Oh wait, my friend is here. Let me introduce you…”
Mingyu’s wife stands up to greet the woman that just arrived.
She’s not someone you know, and her features, while pretty, are completely foreign to you. That’s why it strikes you as odd when Mingyu’s wife leads her to your table and recognition floods her eyes.
“Y/N, meet my friend.” Mingyu’s wife introduces the woman. “She came here all the way from Paris.”
Paris, huh? You haven’t heard of that place in a while.
In the distance, you hear Mingyu call out for his wife.
“Oh, wait, excuse me for a sec,” Mingyu’s wife says apologetically as she moves to leave. “My husband’s calling me.”
“No worries,” You wave with a smile. “We’ll talk in the meantime.”
“I’ll be back soon, promise,” Mingyu’s wife reassures the two of you before she finally takes her leave.
Only you and the mystery woman remain.
“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You introduce yourself. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Ms…?”
The woman smiles at you, but you don’t miss the sadness in her eyes. Something tells you that there’s more to her than meets the eye.
“You’re right, we haven’t,” The woman speaks, and you note that her voice is just as beautiful as her face. “I’m Sohee.”
That familiar sense of dread spreads throughout your body, and it feels like you’re being pulled deeper and deeper into freezing waters with no way to scream or cry for help.
You don’t know what to say.
You don’t think anyone is ever prepared to suddenly face their greatest fear on a cold autumn day in the middle of a birthday party.
Do you apologize? It doesn’t feel right considering how much you’ve suffered from the memory of her alone. Do you get angry? That doesn’t seem appropriate either considering the fact that she did nothing wrong to you. Do you pretend like you don’t know her? It’s too late for that considering the horror that has settled itself onto your face.
“Well, don’t look at me like that,” Sohee laughs to ease the sudden tension, but it does nothing of the sort. “I’m not here to cause problems. I’m just attending for my friend.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome,” You apologize, but you’re not sure how much of it you mean. You’re only human, and you can’t help but hold a little bit of resentment for the woman who had caused so many problems in your marriage. You were being unreasonable, you know that, but you like to think that’s why reason and emotion are two separate entities.
“It’s okay,” Sohee replies. “You’re handling this a lot better than most people would.”
The two of you are quiet for a while, neither of you knowing how to navigate the delicate situation at hand. You don’t owe her anything, and the same goes for her. You can only hope that Mingyu’s wife comes back soon to ease the tension.
“How many weeks?” Sohee asks all of a sudden, eyes locked onto your stomach.
“21,” You reply politely, but you don’t take the effort to lengthen the conversation.
“Oh, you’re almost there,” Sohee smiles softly. “Stay strong, it only gets tougher the closer you get to your due date.”
It’s silent again, and you have to resist the urge to cringe at the tension that weighs heavily in the air. You thought meeting Sohee would be a bit more eventful. You had envisioned it to have a little more screaming, crying, and arguing, but there’s none of that.
You don’t know which of the two you prefer.
“I called him, you know,” Sohee breaks the silence with something that sounds like a confession as her eyes lock onto your smiling husband in the distance. “When I heard that you sent him divorce papers, I swallowed my pride and called him.”
That familiar fear is back in your system.
“Why are you telling me this?” You ask her, heart pounding with dread as you wait for her next words.
“Closure,” Sohee answers. “It’s a little selfish, but I couldn’t live with the guilt of seeing you and not telling you.”
“What do you mean?” You ask warily, voice faltering despite your efforts to keep it leveled.
“You’re being so nice to me and it’s making me feel so bad,” Sohee replies. “I called Seungcheol because I wanted him back.”
Your heart drops, but the anger is quick to rise.
“Are you here to try again?” You ask, tone taking a bitter edge as you try to gauge the woman in front of you. “I’m sorry if you feel like I stole him from you, but don’t you think it’s time to let go?”
You weren’t about to let this woman ruin your marriage a second time. Choi Seuncheol did not spend the past few months reassuring you and loving you unconditionally only for you to surrender at first sight of a problem. You owed it to him to fight for him as hard as he fought for you.
“Like I said, I’m not here to cause problems,” Sohee says defensively in response to your accusations. “I know you didn’t steal him, and honestly, there’s nothing for me to let go.”
“The last thing I want to do is get in the way of a happy family all because of a misunderstanding, so let’s get one thing straight,” Sohee looks you dead in the eye as she speaks. “I did not let Choi Seungcheol go, he left me of his own accord. He chose to leave me for you, so if anyone should be bitter here, it’s me.”
Your eyes narrow at her words. She didn’t know you or the hell she put you through for merely existing. She doesn’t get the right to play victim while painting you out to be some villain that got in the way of her happy ending.
“I gave him a way to come back,” Sohee continues. “He broke my heart, and I still hoped that he would come back to me, but you know what he did? He told me to lose his number and move on because he was happily married to the love of his life.”
“So I’m sorry if I can’t be that nice to you,” Sohee breathes it out frustratedly. “I loved this man for years, and it only took a few months for him to act like I never existed.”
“I understand,” You try to keep your voice as neutral as possible despite the voices in your head urging you to fling every hurt and anger from the first few months of your marriage back at her. “I hope you find your closure.”
Every bit of that last sentence is sincere.
You really hoped that Sohee finds peace despite the pain her mere memory brought. She had given you the closure you needed, after all.
Neither of you were villains or victims, just people in love.
When you and Seungcheol get home, you can see the fear in his eyes, the dread that the two of you would fall apart the way you did months ago.
“I met Sohee today,” You whisper out in the darkness of your bedroom, and you don’t miss the way that Seungcheol freezes. “We talked.”
“What did you talk about?” Seungcheol asks, his hold on you tightening like he’s preparing for you to run away.
“Nothing important,” You reply, pressing a reassuring kiss to Seungcheol’s cheek. “I love you.”
All the tension leaves Seungcheol’s body at that, “I love you too.”
He didn’t have to ask, prod, or pry. It didn’t matter to him, and it wouldn’t make a difference. All that mattered was that you were still in his arms and not running away. Sohee’s words can remain forever a mystery so long as your love for him has clarity.
Seungcheol had the promise of a lifetime with you ahead of him, and that was more than enough.
—
BONUS:
6 years later…
Choi Seungcheol looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
Hwayoung, your lovely daughter, had come up to him with a flower in hand and said, “Daddy, look! Eunho gave me a flower.”
That singular statement had Seungcheol’s world falling apart, and it had been made worse when Hwayoung added, “I want to marry him! Like you and mommy.”
Unaware of the torment she subjected her father to, Hwayoung happily skips back to Eunho who’s playing with the flowers in your backyard.
“Baby, tell me I’m dreaming,” Seungcheol says, heartbreak in his eyes as he clutches at his hair. “It’s just a nightmare, right?”
“Cheol, you’re overreacting,” You roll your eyes at your husband. You’d think that someone died with how devastated he looked. “They’re just kids. It’s just a harmless crush.”
“My Hwayoungie is too young for crushes,” Seungcheol grumbles, eyes narrowing when he sees Eunho give his daughter, his beloved princess, another flower. “And why did it have to be Mingyu’s son of all the kids out there?”
“Eunho’s a sweet kid, though?” You try to reason out. “I don’t mind having him as my son-in-law someday—“
“Please don’t say that. You might actually give me a heart attack,” Seungcheol says, eyes still glued onto his princess and the little rascal hovering near her. “Mingyu’s a womanizer! Okay, retired womanizer, but still. It took a while before he settled down.”
“Cheol, they’re children,” You sigh. “I’m sure they’ll grow out of this.”
Seungcheol seems to loosen up at your words, shoulders slowly slacking as he leans back on his chair. “You’re right. I’m sure Hwayoung will realize that she’s meant for greater things. Boys should be the last thing on her mind.”
You’re already praying for Seungcheol’s soul. If he was going insane over this, you don’t think he’ll be able to handle it when Hwayoung grows up and actually brings home a boyfriend.
Rest in peace, Choi Seungcheol.
“Exactly, so calm down,” You laugh, pressing a quick kiss to Seungcheol’s cheek.
“How are my future in-laws doing?” Kim Mingyu’s voice suddenly rings from behind you. “Are they almost done? I have to take Eunho home.”
Seungcheol tenses at Mingyu’s words, “Kim Mingyu, you are never going to be my in-law.”
“Aw, why not?”
“My daughter is never marrying.”
“Shame, they seem to like each other.”
“Do you want to die?”
“Is that how you should speak to your future in-laws, hyung?”
“This piece of sh—“
And you’re back to square one.
A/N: And that concludes Imperfect love. Thank you for everyone who stuck to the end! I am finally debt-free (LMAO JK). Ily all and please stay tuned for any future works 🫶✨
i dont think the people get it just how much i love the 2 part series. the angst is so GOOD, it’s crunching my heart in so many ways, and i love the ending, the redemption arc. this is like my go to fic every time i need a good angst. another hit from soyongdorigyu mwah
TAGS: Arranged Marriage, Business AU, Angst, Fluff
WARNINGS: Explicit Language, Smut (18+, MDNI), Mature/Suggestive Themes, Unplanned Pregnancy (LMAO), Angstier than usual (No one dies, at least?)
WC: 20.1k
SUMMARY: There wasn’t a single day in your marriage that Choi Seungcheol wasn’t sincere, even when you wanted him to do the exact opposite, even when it hurt. The most hurtful truth of it all? You’re his wife, but you’ll always be the other woman.
A/N: Set in the same universe as Ready to Love and I Bet You Think About Me.
Choi Seungcheol never lies.
It’s his greatest strength and his greatest flaw all at once.
The clicking of your heels is the only sound that fills the hallway, save for the sound of Seungcheol’s leather soles a few paces behind you. Anyone who passed by would see that you were in a hurry, almost as if you were running from something. From Seungcheol? Or from the freshly broken news of your marriage to the man walking behind you? It would be odd if you were running from either, considering the fact that you’ve harbored romantic feelings for the man for years. Getting married to your first crush, your first love was literally a scenario taken straight out of the movies.
It’s starting to feel like a horror film, really.
Despite the fact that Seungcheol offered to walk you to your car, you can’t help but sense some level of animosity—maybe you’re overthinking it—radiating from him, and that’s what has you on edge. While you were practically jumping for joy in your seat during the meeting between your families, Seungcheol had been completely resigned. It was almost as if he was just nodding along to whatever his father was saying. He was the only one in that room that didn’t seem excited.
The atmosphere gets worse when the two of you enter the elevator.
Seungcheol holds it open for you, only entering when he sees that you’re safely inside. You don’t know if you’re happy at the gentlemanly act or horrified at the idea of walking in like a lamb for slaughter.
“Will you be able to attend the meeting with the wedding coordinator next week?” Comes your question when the silence becomes unbearable. It’s a shy attempt at small talk that seems wholly unnecessary considering the fact that Seungcheol didn’t seem all too interested in whatever you had to say.
Ouch.
“I might not be able to attend the one on Monday,” Seungcheol informs you, polite and composed. “I’m still in Paris by then, but I can make it to the meeting on Thursday.”
“Oh? What are you doing in Paris?” You ask in an attempt to get the conversation going. This was, after all, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with Seungcheol, and you weren’t about to let go of that opportunity. “There’s a really nice chocolaterie there. If you have time, you should drop by.”
Seungcheol smiles politely at your suggestion, but his eyes are trained onto the decreasing numbers on the wall of the elevator. “I need to meet someone there, but I’ll try to drop by.”
“A friend?” You suggest thoughtlessly.
“No,” Seungcheol shakes his head and pauses for a few seconds, uncertainty marring the polite facade on his face. “A lover.”
You can’t help the way your mouth falls open. A lover?
Choi Seungcheol had answered you in such a forward manner that you didn’t even know what to feel. Were you sad at the idea that your first love was in love with someone else? Yes. Were you confused that he was being so normal about it? Also yes. Were you jealous? Yes, but did you really have the right at this point in time? The most you were allowed to feel was offended, but you were too shocked at his bluntness to even feel that.
Seungcheol, taking notice of your reaction, is quick to speak again. “Don’t worry, I’m only going there to sort things with her. I know how much the marriage means to our families.”
Your conscience suddenly gnaws at you. If you had known that Seungcheol was already taken, you wouldn’t have agreed so enthusiastically to your mother’s offer. “Seungcheol we can still go back and decline–”
The elevator dings and the doors open. Seungcheol motions for you to exit, holding a hand out to keep the elevator from shutting. You exit and watch as he follows.
“There’s no need,” Seungcheol smiles at you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You and I both know that we don’t really have a choice.”
Seungcheol is right, but it does nothing to tame the guilt that’s ripping your insides into shreds.
When you reach your car, Seungcheol is quick to open the door for you, and had you not just had the most depressing conversation, you would’ve been giddy and over the moon at his thoughtful gesture.
“Drive safe,” Seungcheol smiles.
There’s only a single thought in your head as you drive home that afternoon:
What have you done?
–
Upon hearing the news that Seungcheol had a lover hidden from his family somewhere in Paris, the guilt had consumed you so greatly that you spent the entire night tossing and turning and wondering how you could keep the wedding from happening.
For your first attempt, you tried to suggest that maybe there were other men that would be a better match for you. That idea was quickly shut down by your mother who had mentioned your feelings for Seungcheo, and she had proceeded to state just how wonderful of a match the two of you would be. Clearly, that first attempt was a failure.
For your second attempt, you told your father that maybe you weren’t ready for marriage, told him that maybe it was too early. Your father, ever the quick-witted man, brings up memories from your childhood where you pretended to be a bride at the cost of your mother’s closet full of designer. To seal the deal, he mentions that he and your mother were never truly prepared, but somehow they made it work. You wanted to argue that your lonely childhood would beg to differ, but you keep your mouth shut in favor of peace.
For your last attempt, you say no. No, you wouldn’t be marrying Seungcheol. No, you wouldn’t be giving up your freedom. You had pulled every single theatrical stunt you could to convince your parents, but neither of them were moved. In fact, you think they looked a little frustrated.
There was only so much you could do without revealing the truth, so in the end, the wedding pushes through.
You tried, you really did.
Seungcheol stands at the end of the aisle, tux crisp, hair styled, and smile picture-perfect. It has the butterflies in your stomach violently flapping their wings as you move closer and closer. If you hadn’t known the truth—if Seungcheol didn’t have some odd moral code that forced him to tell you that truth—then you think you would have considered this the happiest day in your otherwise tragic life.
The last thing you wanted was to end up like your parents who were forced into a marriage despite their incompatibilities. While they could have sorted their issues with a little communication and compromise, the two were so stubborn that you ended up paying the price for their dysfunction. There wasn’t a single memory in your childhood that wasn’t filled with heated screams and cold shoulders. You sincerely hoped that Seungcheol and you wouldn’t end up like that, but it honestly seemed like the two of you were doomed from the start. You wouldn’t blame Seungcheol if he resented you for ripping him away from the love of his life.
But it’s difficult to let go of the hope that maybe the two of you could work out when Seungcheol smiles at you like that.
When Seungcheol takes your hand and guides you up the steps with the most dashing smile, you make a promise to yourself: You’re going to make this marriage work. You’re not going to repeat your parents’ mistakes. Seungcheol may not love you now, but you were going to try your best to make this marriage easy on him. It was going to be so easy that he’ll have no choice but to fall in love with you.
You weren’t going to give yourself any other choice.
–
You deserved better.
It’s the only thing running through Seungcheol’s head as he takes your hand, careful to keep his grip in check lest you break like glass underneath his touch. You’re beautiful, breathtakingly so, and from the few interactions Seungcheol has had with you, he has a feeling your personality is just as pleasant. It makes him feel like an asshole, an absolute bastard for being in love with someone else. You were the kind of person that had to be loved with a whole heart, and that wasn’t something Seungcheol could offer anytime soon.
Seungcheol’s heart was stowed away in a little café in Paris, in the clutches of a woman who now probably despised his entire existence.
He could lie to you, he thinks as he watches you shyly steal glances at him from underneath your veil. Seungcheol could tell you he had miraculously moved on overnight and that he had fallen in love with you, just to spare your feelings, but he refuses to. Seungcheol doesn’t lie to the people who are important to him, and as someone who was about to become the woman he would spend the rest of his life with, you were the last person Choi Seungcheol would ever lie to…
Even if telling you the truth would only hurt you.
“You may now kiss the bride,” comes the officiant’s voice, and Seungcheol has to resist letting out a chuckle at the way your eyes go wide and your shoulders jolt. It’s imperceptible to the crowd, but Seungcheol has a front row seat to the way you look so nervous.
It’s when Seungcheol lifts your veil that he’s struck by reality all at once, his breath stolen by the metaphorical weight that’s crashing onto him with no mercy. With the veil out of the way, Seungcheol can no longer pretend that he’s getting married to the love of his life. Your features are clear as day, and though beautiful, are nothing like the ones he’s fallen in love with.
It felt wrong to kiss you with the thought of another woman lingering in his mind, but Seungcheol refuses to embarrass you and your families during an event that had the nation’s eyes on it.
With as much tenderness as he can muster, Seungcheol cups your cheeks and presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss that holds no love, warmth, or affection.
...while I do not love her, I am doing this out of respect for the fact that she will be my wife.
Seungcheol's own words in the letter addressed to his ex haunts him, a grim reminder of what he’s lost and what he’s doing it all for.
The rest of the day passes by in a blur, and the next thing Seungcheol knows he’s lying on your marital bed, freshly showered and absolutely exhausted from the day. He shuts his eyes for a second, lost in the softness of the sheets underneath him. Faintly, he can hear the sound of the hairdryer, a steady white noise that lulls him to a half-asleep state that he only snaps out of when the door to the bathroom opens with a light whoosh and shuts again with a soft click.
Even from his spot on the bed, Seungcheol can already get a soft whiff of your scent. It’s sweet, he thinks, it matches you.
“Seungcheol,” comes your soft voice, and Seungcheol is quick to sit up and give you his full attention.
“Yes?” He asks, watching as you sit on the space beside him on the bed. He notes your distance, notes how it was almost as if there was a boundary on the sheets that Seungcheol was unable to see.
“I want this to work,” You look a little uncertain, but your voice does not waver. “I know we aren’t in the best of circumstances, but I want us to get along.”
Seungcheol lips pull into a frown. Was he not being courteous enough? What could have given you the idea that the two of you wouldn’t get along? Sure, Seungcheol just had to let go of the only woman he ever truly loved to get married to you, but it’s not like you were at fault for that. It would be childish to blame you.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Seungcheol replies as his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out to smooth the crease between your brows. However, he holds himself back. Touching you like that felt too… Close. It felt a little like betrayal. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I dislike you, but I’m really not blaming you for any of this. Believe me.”
“I know,” You smile at him, and that somewhat eases Seungcheol. “You don’t seem like the type of person to lie, but I just want to make sure.”
Seungcheol feels like there’s something deeper to your words, but he doesn’t pry. The two of you weren’t close enough for that.
You’re biting on your lip, fingers fiddling with the hem of your pants, and Seungcheol’s almost about to ask you what’s wrong, but you speak before he gets the chance, “Can I make a request, then?”
“Go ahead,” Seungcheol nods, fully turning his body to mirror you, legs crossed underneath him.
“Well, I have three requests, actually,” You look a little embarrassed as you say it. “You can tell me if it’s too much.”
Once you finish listing your requests, Seungcheol immediately agrees. Your requests were nothing, Seungcheol thinks, and honestly speaking, he wonders what prompted you to even request those things when they seemed like a given.
What made you think that any of it would be too much?
He does not love you, but some part of him wished he did, if only to soothe whatever ache made you like this.
You really did deserve better.
—
Choi Seungcheol is a diligent man.
It’s something you conclude five months into the marriage when you realize that he has never failed to grant your requests.
“My first request is that we should eat dinner together. You can eat every other meal outside, but I would like to eat dinner together, as much as possible.”
As a young child, you had grown up eating alone while one of the maids watched over you from a distance. Every once in a while, your mom or dad would drop by to greet you, but neither of them lingered too long, and they never did it together lest it led to another argument. Some part of you believed that some of their fights could’ve been fixed through a conversation over a warm meal, but you never really voiced it out.
You think that’s why that became your first request.
You’re not a good cook, and it’s something many people around you can attest to. You can do enough to get by, but you had been so used to having other people cook for you that you’ve failed to cultivate any skill whatsoever in the kitchen.
Clearly, cooking dinner for Seungcheol was a terrible idea, but you had to try.
The tonkatsu is half burnt, and in an effort to soothe your nerves, you flip it around to show the more palatable portion. They say that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but you think that your cooking may just very well be Seungcheol’s quickest way to the grave, or at the very least, an upset stomach.
Maybe you should just ask Chef Wen to cook for tonight again—
“I’m home,” comes Seungcheol’s faint voice from the entrance of your home, and immediately, you place the plates onto the dinner table and wipe the sweat on your hand onto the apron you were wearing.
You were left with no other choice but to commit.
“You’re home early,” You greet Seungcheol who somehow found his way to the kitchen.
“It smells nice,” Seungcheol comments, walking in sniffing the air. When his eyes land on the table, his eyes are quick to light up. “Is that tonkatsu?”
He was about to be severely disappointed, and you don’t think you can stomach it. “An attempt…”
Seungcheol smiles at you, “It looks like a successful attempt. Did you make it?”
“Yes,” You reply, a little shy under his gaze. Could anyone blame you? Seungcheol’s dimples were practically winking at you! “It’s a little burnt, though, so don’t expect too much.”
Seungcheol takes a seat, and you do the same, eyes locked onto each of his moves as he grabs a piece. Your heart is pounding like a drum as you watch Seungcheol chew.
He flinches for a second, and you feel like you could pass out right on the spot.
“It’s good,” Seungcheol’s smile is pained as he gives you a thumbs up.
“Since when did you lie?” You huff out with a pout, feeling a little dejected. Was the tonkatsu so bad that he felt the need to lie to spare your feelings? You think it’s such an odd way of prioritizing things if that’s the case. “It’s clearly burnt.”
“It is,” Seungcheol nods in agreement as he gets another piece of tonkatsu. He was going to give himself a stomach ache if he kept this up. “But I’m not lying when I say that it’s good…”
“My wife took the time to cook it,” Seungcheol places a piece of tonkatsu on your plate—one of the less burnt ones, you note. “That makes it good.”
Screw you and your flowery words, Choi Seungcheol.
“My second request is that we should never sleep in separate rooms. Not for a long time, at least. Once or twice every once in a while is okay, but doing that for weeks… Well, I prefer we don’t do that.”
At first, your mother and father slept in separate rooms whenever they would fight. It was one of the ways you could tell that a major conflict had happened. Eventually, sleeping in separate rooms became their normal routine, and with the freedom to ignore their problems until it built up, the start of that normal routine inadvertently became the catalyst for the crumbling of their marriage.
It’s why you requested it despite the fact that you were technically sleeping next to someone who was an acquaintance at best.
Seungcheol slept really well, but you’ve come to realize that he needed to cling on to something before he was actually able to sleep. It didn’t matter if it was a pillow or a person, as long as he could wrap it in his arm and throw a leg over it, it was more than enough.
There are nights where you childishly wish that it had been you in that pillow’s place, safely tucked under Seungcheol’s weight with his buff arms caged around you, but you know it would be too intimate to ask of Seungcheol. You weren’t that close yet. You don’t think you’ll ever get that close at the rate the two of you were going.
Or so you thought.
The first thing you notice when you slip into consciousness is the fact that your back is uncharacteristically warm. The second thing you notice is the arm around your waist and the legs tangled with yours.
A little horrified and already imagining the worst case scenario (a thief sneaking into your bed and cuddling (?) you) you slowly turn your head backwards to investigate only to be met with the sight of—
Choi Seungcheol?
Before you can even process it, Seungcheol’s eyes are already opening and staring straight into yours.
With the most absolutely unbothered, breathtaking smile, he speaks in a low, raspy voice, “Good morning.”
Holyshityouthinkyourpantiesarewet
“Good morning,” You whisper out in reply. Honestly, you’re still trying to process the fact that your fantasy of becoming a stand-in for Seungcheol’s pillow was granted, but if he was going to be completely nonchalant about it, then why shouldn’t you? “Did you sleep well?”
“Mhm,” Seungcheol hums before stretching with a groan, and the arm on you is lifted momentarily before it quickly returns back to your waist like it was magnetized. “Slept better than usual, really.”
“I assume you’re going to keep doing this then?” You’re trying to be nonchalant about it, you really are, but the implication of Seungcheol’s words have you wanting to kick your feet and scream into your pillow like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“I will,” Seungcheol replies coolly before he suddenly gives you an uncertain look. “Unless you’re uncomfortable—“
You’re quick to put Seungcheol’s retreating arms back to what you now deem their rightful place. With the most unbothered tone you can muster, you reply, “I don’t mind.”
Seungcheol never sleeps with an extra pillow after that.
“My last request is that we have to talk to each other if there’s a problem. No matter how big or small it is.”
That request, you have yet to see fulfilled because surprisingly, married life with Choi Seungcheol was generally problem-free.
Except for the biggest problem of all. The one problem that neither of you would be able to solve even with all the communication in the world. The fact that Choi Seungcheol, despite his affectionate actions, was still in love with the woman from Paris. You see traces of her, even when you don’t look for it, even when you want to be blind to it.
It’s Sunday morning when you’re brutally reminded of the fact that despite living in his house, sharing his bed, and receiving his vows, you were the homewrecker.
After failing in your attempt to cook for Seungcheol, you decided to take a different approach: baking. The idea had struck you after you spotted a baking cookbook in Seungcheol’s living room, a fancy looking thing that had all the recipes written in a pretty cursive that you’re sure does not belong to Seungcheol. Briefly, you wonder if it belonged to his mother. You’d have to be careful with it, just in case.
You’re in the middle of whisking eggs when Seungcheol walks into the kitchen.
“What are you making?” Seungcheol asks, sliding into one of the seats before he rests his elbows on the kitchen island.
“Meringue,” You answer, hand still whisking away despite the burn in your forearms. No one told you that making this was akin to an arm workout. “Wanna try whisking this?”
You were honestly a little tired of beating the eggs, and you really didn’t mind if Seungcheol offered you an escape from it. For a second, you think you should’ve used the mixer instead of arrogantly pushing your agenda of doing everything manually to make it more special.
“I might ruin it.” Despite the hesitance in Seungcheol’s words, he takes the bowl and the whisk from you. “I don’t really bake.”
“Oh? Then who uses this?” You hold up the handwritten baking cookbook you found in the living room.
The clinking of the whisk pauses as Seungcheol’s eyes land on the cookbook. You can see the way his eyes glaze, like he’s seeing right through you and the cookbook. For a second, he hesitates.
“It’s Sohee’s,” comes Seungcheol’s soft answer, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve touched upon something you shouldn’t have. “My ex.”
Ah.
So that’s her name.
You can’t help it, the way your face quickly drops at the reminder that before you, there was her, and that without you, it would’ve been her. Seungcheol continues to whisk away, but you wonder if the same thoughts are running through his head. Did he wish it was her standing in front of him instead?
You wouldn’t blame him, if he did.
Hearing her name out loud somehow solidified her existence. Prior to this, she had been an idea, a construct, a memory you could brush off, but now? She’s real now. The cookbook in your hand is proof of her existence and evidence of your crime.
“What’s she like?” You can’t help but ask. You were already hurting to the point of numbness, anyway. What difference would it make if you drove the knife a little deeper?
And Choi Seungcheol…
Choi Seungcheol never lies, and he never withholds the truth from those with the courage to ask.
(Was it courage on your end?)
“Strong, kind,” Seungcheol breathes it out in a way akin to reverence, his words laced with an affection foreign to you. “She’s very beautiful, but… It’s the last thing you’ll notice with her when she has so much to offer.”
And somehow that made it worse.
The universe is mocking you, and Seungcheol is its unknowing vessel.
You came from a family that gained their wealth from exploiting the vanity of people. Beauty was the only thing that mattered in your shallow, perfectly curated circle. After all, a personality cannot impress with a single glance, but an ugly face can destroy an impression for life. Your mother made sure that you took care of your looks, the one thing she actually praises you for.
Maybe that’s why it stung to hear that Sohee’s beauty was the least interesting thing about her.
“Is she doing well?” You ask. It’s a question bearing a high risk and a high reward, and the outcome all depends on Seungcheol’s answer. You hope you get the reward. If only to mend the rip in your heart and dampen the hit to your ego.
“I don’t know,” Seungcheol’s face turns grim as he answers. “I cut all ties with her before the wedding.”
You got the reward.
But why did it feel like you still lost?
—
You made Choi Seungcheol feel things.
He didn’t know what things, but he felt them.
It’s not love, if anyone was going to ask. He knew what love felt like. It was calm, slow, and comfortable. Not that he was an expert on love, but that’s what he felt with Sohee. So surely, that must be it?
Yes, it must be.
With you… It was the opposite. There was nothing calm, slow, and comfortable about the way Seungcheol felt around you. So if that was the case, did Seungcheol hate you? He knew what hatred felt like, and that’s definitely not what he felt for you.
Seungcheol doesn’t feel calm around you. In fact, it’s his first instinct to freeze whenever you walk into a room. He’s paralyzed by the multiple thoughts that run through his head at the sight of you. What should he do? What should he say? Did he brush his teeth? Did you just laugh at his joke? What did he say? Should he try to be funnier next time? When is the next time—
You get the point.
While it’s gotten better over the past few months, Seungcheol still has constant racing thoughts around you. Sure, he was married to you, but part of him was still hellbent on impressing you and making your life as easy as it can be with his intervention. After all, his father didn’t raise him—he could end the sentence there, honestly—to be someone who does things without doing it exceptionally.
So yes, Seungcheol definitely doesn’t feel calm around you.
As for slow? Nothing was ever slow with you, either.
With you, Seungcheol is constantly rushing. He signs and reviews the paperworks on his desk like the hands of the clock are blades at his throat. He had to make sure that the stack on his desk was cleaned by the end of the day so that he could keep fulfilling your request of eating dinner together.
Not only that, but he was also rushing around you! Over the past few months that Seungcheol has been with you, he has come to realize that you had a tendency of running into things, hitting your head, and tripping on air. You made Mingyu look coordinated, and Mingyu was the clumsiest person Seungcheol knew prior to you. His days at home are spent blocking the edges of countertops with his hand, closing cabinets before you can hit your head, and running over to you the moment you trip over your own feet.
And comfortable? Seungcheol was never truly comfortable around you. However, he thinks he’s entirely to blame for this one.
Seungcheol always feels a certain degree of unease in your presence, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. He sees the way your eyes linger on the cookbook that belongs to Sohee, sees the way your eyes fall at the mention of the woman, sees the way you cave in on yourself when anyone even mentions the word Paris.
Every second he’s around you, he’s worried that something related to Sohee will resurface, and he’ll have to see the way your face falls and your eyes go blank. The worst part of it all is that he can’t do anything about it. He can’t soothe your fears by telling you that he was no longer in love with her because if he did then he’d be lying to you.
And Seungcheol refuses to lie to you.
But he knows telling you the truth hurts you too, and he finds that he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and it’s so uncomfortable.
Seungcheol knows you deserve better, but he’s not sure if he can be that. If he showed up for you, he would be abandoning Sohee for good, and if he abandoned Sohee for good, then was everything he told her a lie? Just thinking about it makes his head hurt because how exactly do you choose between the love of your life and your wife when they’re two different people?
Seungcheol’s working solution is to rip himself in two, body and soul, one for you and one for Sohee.
“Are you free next week?” Seungcheol asks, gaze following your form as you clean up the bowl that once held the meringue. It had been a failure, and you had swiftly concluded that baking wasn’t your strong suit.
Seungcheol wonders if there’s more to it than that.
“I’ll have to check with my assistant,” You reply as you dry your hands with the towel. You turn to look at him a little suspiciously. “Why?”
Seungcheol doesn’t really know the answer either. The only thing he knows is that he hates watching the smile fall from your face, and he’ll do what he can to bring it back. “We haven’t had our honeymoon.”
“Is this your subtle way of asking me on a honeymoon trip?” Your tone is playful and your smile reflects it, but Seungcheol can tell it stops at your cheeks. Your eyes were still blank.
Seungcheol can feel the familiar unease sink in.
“Is it bad for a husband to want to spend a week alone with his wife?” Seungcheol returns your playful facade, and he hopes that some of his sincerity will bleed in through your ears and seep into your eyes.
“I guess not,” There’s a spark, but it’s faint, and it flickers, but Seungcheol prefers it over that glassy, faraway look in your gaze. “I’ll update you.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Seungcheol smiles.
Fuck, he hasn’t checked his schedule.
—
If Yoon Jeonghan had 1,000 won for every time a troubled husband spilled his feelings in the middle of lunch with him, he would now have 2,000. It isn’t much in this economy, but it’s odd that he has somehow had the misfortune of becoming Cupid twice. First, Mingyu, and now, Seungcheol.
He ought to start charging these idiots, really.
“So you’re telling me that you’re still in love with your ex, but you feel bad for your wife?” Jeonghan doesn’t know if he wants to be sympathetic or punch Seungcheol straight in the mouth. “The answer is clear, you know that right?”
“If it was, then I wouldn’t be asking you,” Seungcheol grumbles in a tone that Jeonghan knows is a telltale sign that the man is about to sulk.
“Forget Sohee,” Jeonghan knows it’s harsh, but Seungcheol is old enough to know right from wrong. “You’re a married man, Choi Seungcheol. You need to start acting like it.”
“Jeonghan-ah, I’m in love with her,” Seungcheol says with his full chest, and Jeonghan has to bite back the extremely colorful words that are threatening to spill from his mouth. “It’s not that easy–”
“Are you even trying?” Jeonghan can’t help the way he snarks, and honestly, part of him feels a little bad. It’s easy for him to take your side because he doesn’t know Sohee that well, only hearing about her from Mingyu–not even from Seungcheol–who was friends with her. You, on the other hand, were a friend, and he has enough self-awareness to acknowledge that maybe he was being a little biased by taking your side. “Your relationship with Sohee barely lasted a year. It can’t be that hard.”
“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids.” Seungcheol’s voice is leveled, but Jeonghan doesn’t miss the way the man’s jaw clenches. “I can’t let go of her like it’s nothing.”
“Well, sorry. I didn’t know that,” Jeonghan’s voice is sarcastic, but he’s saying nothing but the truth. He was Seungcheol’s closest friend, but somehow it’s only now that he’s hearing about Seungcheol’s history with the woman? “Do you even want to move on from her? It doesn’t sound like you do.”
“I don’t know,” Seungcheol slumps against the chair, defeated. “I really don’t know.”
“But you want to make your wife happy, right?” Jeonghan asks, and when Seungcheol nods, he continues. “Then forget Sohee.”
The way Seungcheol’s gaze sharpens at Jeonghan’s words does nothing to intimidate the latter. Jeonghan’s just saying it as it is, and if Seungcheol couldn’t live with that, then he shouldn’t go to Jeonghan for advice.
“Or at the very least, try.” Jeonghan only says it to partially soothe his friend. He’s an ass, sure, but he still cared for his friends.
“Focus on your wife, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan adds with a sigh. He can’t believe he even has to say that. “Take her on a date, get her flowers. I don’t know, man. Go ask Mingyu how to make women happy or something. He’s the one who’s good at that.”
“We’re going on a trip next week, actually,” Seungcheol replies. “And I’m getting people to clean out Sohee’s things from the house. It might help.”
“You’re only doing that now?” Jeonghan stares at Seungcheol incredulously, and Seungcheol just gives him a tired look. “Ok, sorry, I won’t, but you better make the most of that trip. She’s your wife. Start acting like she is.”
“Yeah,” Seungcheol’s voice is soft, but Jeonghan can see that little spark in his eye, the one that Jeonghan sees when Seungcheol’s stubbornness is confronted with a seemingly unconquerable challenge. “I’ll try–”
“You will,” Jeonghan corrects. “Since when did you do things halfway?”
Something in Seungcheol’s eye tells Jeonghan that Sohee would be buried in the past. However, whether it would be sooner or later, Jeonghan wasn’t sure.
–
Day 1, Solis Mane
This is the closest thing to paradise on earth, you think.
The sunlight that filters through the foliage is warm against your skin, the breeze from the ocean is cool against your face, and the sand sprawling for miles on end is soft underneath your feet.
Seungcheol knew how to pick a vacation spot, alright.
Quietly, you walk along the sparsely populated shore with nothing but the sound of the waves retreating and returning to accompany you. Seungcheol had told you to explore a little while he spoke with Solis Mane’s owner, a friend of his who had flown out to the island as soon as news of Seungcheol’s visit reached the man. Though it seems a little selfish to cut their reunion short, you hope they finish soon, if only to have Seungcheol all to yourself in this shoreline.
It was supposed to be your honeymoon trip after all.
Holy shit, were you guys going to fu—
“Sorry I took a while,” Seungcheol’s voice keeps your thoughts from veering into untouched territory. “Joshua can get talkative. He’s hoping to have breakfast…”
Seungcheol’s words are tuned out the moment you get a good look at him. Somehow, he looked even better underneath the sun, hair tousled by the wind and skin shiny from a light layer of sweat. The man was fully clothed, and you were already going feral. How the hell would you manage when you guys had to go swimming?!
Maybe you’re getting too ahead of yourself, but could you blame a girl when she just got a small view of that broad chest—
Seungcheol calls your name, and immediately, your eyes snap from his chest—it was looking at you, you swear—to his face. His brow is raised in question, and one corner of his mouth is lifted in a smirk that’s nothing short of smug.
Clearly, you’ve been caught.
“Sorry? What were you saying? I was lost in thought,” You’re surprised you’re still speaking straight despite the clawing urge to dig through the sand and bury yourself alive from embarrassment.
“I was saying that Joshua would like to have breakfast with us tomorrow,” Seungcheol’s tone is smug as he takes a step towards you, leaning down until his face is only a few centimeters away from yours. “But I think you were too busy enjoying the view, no?”
You had two options: Option A, flirt back and hope that Seungcheol reciprocates, and Option B, crash like an old computer that can’t seem to run the file named flirting.exe.
Stupidly, your instinct jumps to pick Option B.
“Huh?”
Wow.
Congratulations on your language proficiency score.
Seungcheol laughs, one hand reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t worry, you’re free to look all you want.”
His words and gestures have you flustered, cheeks heating and heart racing. A little embarrassed and eager to take control of the conversation, you muster your most unimpressed look and speak, “There’s nothing to see, though?”
You see the way Seungcheol’s face flickers into confusion before it morphs into something that looks like he’s plotting. There’s a mischievous grin on his face and a fire in his eyes that has you wondering if you just dug your own grave and polished your own casket. Why did Seungcheol look like he was accepting a challenge? No challenge was made!
“We’ll see,” Seungcheol says before pulling at your hand lightly to get you walking. “Let’s go back to the villa for now. I’m a little tired.”
“Okay,” You reply, following him. The flight had been long, and if you were being honest, you were ready to tap out for the day. However, that wasn’t your primary concern, Seungcheol’s cryptic words and determined expression was.
Something tells you that you’re going to regret your words.
—
Day 2, Solis Mane
A soft call of your name pulls you out from the grasp of sleep, your eyes slowly fluttering open only to be met with the sight of Seungcheol’s handsome face.
What a great way to start the day, you think.
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Seungcheol says, flashing you a small smile as you yawn and stretch on the bed. “We’re having breakfast with Joshua today.”
Suddenly, you’re fully awake and sitting straight up. You refused to make a horrible first impression. Embarrassing Seungcheol by being late to the breakfast meeting his friend invited the two of you to was the last thing you wanted to do.
“How long do I have before we meet him?” You ask, jumping out of bed without even sparing Seungcheol a glance as you pull out a dress from the closet. “Please tell me I have 30 minutes, at least.”
“You’ve got an hour, relax,” Seungcheol replies as he watches as you run back and forth in different spots in the bedroom to gather your things. “Joshua’s very laid back. He won’t mind if we’re a few minutes late.”
You frown as you turn to Seungcheol, “Still, I don’t want to give him a bad impression—“
It’s the first time you’re actually looking—like, really looking—at Seungcheol that morning, and you’re realizing that the universe has decided to finally enact its vengeance for your stupidity yesterday. Instead of his usual clothes that leave room for your brain’s creativity, Choi Seungcheol is now wearing a white sleeveless top and shorts, and while appropriate for the setting, it’s completely detrimental to your mental health.
“There’s nothing to see, though?”
Your own words haunt you now.
How the hell were you going to meet Joshua and carry a proper conversation when the only thing you can think of is what it would feel like to sink your teeth into Seungcheol’s biceps?
“I’m going to shower,” You announce quickly, praying that Seungcheol didn’t notice the way you were flustered.
“Is it a cold one?” You hear Seungcheol call out from behind you with a laugh, and you’re quick to glare at him before slamming the bathroom door.
Well, so much for hoping he didn’t notice.
—
Seungcheol finds this newfound dynamic between the two of you entertaining.
In the past few months of your marriage, you never really gave a sign that you found Seungcheol attractive. You were always so polite and composed in how you interacted with him. Of course, there were times that gave Seungcheol an inkling that you may find him a teeny tiny bit attractive, like when you’d get flustered by his words or his casual touch, but to him, that doesn’t really say much.
Yesterday, however, changes things, and now, Seungcheol realizes that you may actually find him more attractive than he thought you did. He sees the way your gaze lingers when you think he isn’t looking, sees the way you get flustered when he flirts here and there, and he definitely sees the way your eyes trail over his form instead of his face. It’s good news to him, and maybe bad news for you because Seungcheol was not going to go easy on you. There was just something about flustering such a pretty woman that got Seungcheol going, really. Plus, no harm in a little playful flirting with his wife, no? It’ll be a great bonding experience for you both.
The two of you were on a honeymoon after all. If anything, the two of you should be doing more than flirting, but Seungcheol is a gentleman; He isn’t going to pounce on you unless you give him a sign.
“Ok, I’m ready.”
At the sound of your voice, Seungcheol shuts his phone off and sits up from the bed. There’s a flirtatious remark on the tip of Seungcheol’s tongue, but it disappears the moment his eyes lock onto you. All of a sudden, Seungcheol’s mouth is dry and the words are stuck in his throat.
You’re in a flowy white dress with a slit that bares one leg. The straps are thin, and the neckline plunges tastefully. The material isn’t that thick, perfect for the weather, and Seungcheol thinks that if he stared hard enough, he can see the faint blue of what he assumes to be your swimsuit underneath it.
(The demon on his shoulder hopes it’s a two-piece.)
“Enjoying the view?” Your teasing tone and the smug look on your face snaps Seungcheol out of his trance. “Don’t worry, you’re free to look all you want.”
You had just thrown his words back at him. With a flip of your hair and a sway of your hips that Seungcheol made sure to engrave to memory, you leave the bedroom. He realizes that you aren’t going down without a fight.
Seungcheol is definitely going to enjoy this new dynamic.
By the time you and Seungcheol arrive at the resort’s main restaurant, Joshua is already there, sipping from a glass of mango juice as he flips through the pages of a book with a pensive look.
“Joshua’s already here,” Seungcheol presses a hand against the small of your back to guide you into his friend's direction.
“Are we late? I didn’t wear a watch.” The worry in your voice is palpable as you get closer and closer to Joshua who’s still engrossed in his book.
“No,” Seungcheol takes a look at the silver watch on his wrist and shakes his head. “Joshua just has a habit of being early.”
“Good to hear,” You sigh out in relief.
Almost as if he could sense Seungcheol’s arrival, Joshua peels his eyes away from the book and immediately stands up with his arms wide open when his eyes make contact with Seungcheol’s. “Long time no see!”
“We saw each other yesterday,” Seungcheol snorts as he pats his friend on the back. When he pulls away, his hand is quick to find your waist and pull you against his side. “Y/N, this is Joshua Hong. He’s the owner of this resort and my longtime friend, and Joshua, this is Y/N L/N, my wife.”
Seungcheol makes sure to note the way you seem to glow at the words ‘my wife’.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. L/N. I apologize for not making it to the wedding.” Joshua bows lightly as he gives your hand a firm shake. “You’re even more beautiful than they say you are. Seungcheol’s a very lucky man.”
Something flares in Seungcheol’s stomach at that, but he’s not really sure what it is. Annoyance? Jealousy? Possessiveness? He’s not sure which, but whatever it was, it had him wanting to pull your hand away from the man’s touch.
“You’re too kind, Mr. Hong, and no worries regarding the wedding, I completely understand.” You smile softly at Joshua, and Seungcheol has to resist the urge to start sulking then and there. Why were you smiling so sweetly at his friend? You should be reserving that kind of smile for him! “You have a very lovely place. I could live here forever, really.”
“Oh, please call me Joshua,” Joshua replies with a smile just as bright as yours. “You’re free to visit Solis Mane any time, and you can stay as long as you want. We’re friends now, after all. But do take a seat, they’ll be serving breakfast soon.”
It only takes a few minutes before breakfast arrives: a bountiful spread of local cuisines mixed in with some familiar dishes from home. You’re chattering away with Joshua, already acting like the best of friends while Seungcheol quietly chews through his food.
How annoying, he thinks. Seungcheol realizes that he isn’t quite used to sharing your attention with other people. It’s even more frustrating that you’re suddenly so casual with Joshua when it took you a few weeks to warm up to him.
Maybe he was jealous.
“So how’s married life treating the two of you?” Joshua asks, eyes flickering between you and Seungcheol. “I’m a bachelor, so I can only live vicariously through my married friends.”
“It’s great,” Seungcheol takes the opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, one hand falling onto your thigh to squeeze it affectionately like a husband who just couldn’t take his hands off his wife. Joshua didn’t need to know that this was the first time Seungcheol was touching you so boldly. “Don’t you think so?”
Seungcheol resists the urge to smirk when he sees you try to discreetly press your thighs together, squirming under the way Seungcheol’s thumb rubs up and down your thigh over the fabric of your dress.
“He can be a handful, but he treats me well,” comes your reply. Your tone is smooth, and only Seungcheol can pick up on the slight waver in it.
If Joshua wasn’t here, Seungcheol would’ve informed you that he was more than just a handful, and he’d prove it to you if you wanted to. However, Seungcheol still had a bit of shame, and out of respect for you, he instead replies, “Happy wife, happy life.”
Joshua laughs, “Wise words to live by.”
“He better live up to it,” You add jokingly.
“Of course,” Seungcheol’s hand parts from the softness of your thigh only to grab your hand and press a kiss on the back of it. “Your happiness is my priority.”
Seungcheol relishes in the way you fluster underneath his gaze.
Joshua, on the other hand, can only laugh, coo, and die a little inside at how sweet the two of you appear to be. The two of you looked like the prime example of a couple in love: playful, smitten, and absolutely handsy.
For the rest of breakfast, Seungcheol’s hand never leaves you, and you never push him away.
–
You think Choi Seungcheol is trying to kill you.
After breakfast with Joshua and a quick tour around the island, Seungcheol decided that he wanted to go for a quick swim in the beach. Tempted by the idea of cooling off in the island’s azure waters, you’re quick to agree. Nothing beats a refreshing swim after a few minutes of walking underneath the tropical sun.
If only you knew how big of a mistake that was.
You’re lying back on one of the sunloungers, feeling the farthest thing from cool and refreshed–despite the pina colada in your hand–as you watch your husband play in the water, shirtless and looking nothing short of sin. Every stroke of his arm against the waves has his muscles flexing underneath the blaze of the sun, but even that heat was nothing compared to the one in the pit of your stomach.
Screw him, really.
(In more ways than one, the little voice in your head adds).
Seungcheol seems to get tired of swimming quickly, because the next thing you know, he’s walking to where you’re perched, practically in slow-motion, looking like he came straight out of Baywatch as he ruffles the remnants of the sea from his hair.
The moment he reaches you, you know you’re doomed. You’re lucky you’re wearing sunglasses because your eyes can’t help the way they follow the droplets rolling down his pecs and the soft curves on his abdomen before it seeps into his trunks.
“Not gonna swim?” Seungcheol asks, sitting on the side of the lounge chair you’re resting on, causing some of the droplets to fall onto your dress.
“Yah, Choi Seungcheol you’re getting me wet,” the words of complaint leave your mouth faster than you can think it through. You only realize the double entendre in your words when your eyes catch sight of the shit-eating grin on Seungcheol’s face.
“Not here, baby,” Seungcheol has the audacity to fake a scandalized look. “There are people watching.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, oh my god.” You groan, moving a hand to cover your face before you point at where the droplets are falling. “You’re dripping all over my dress, look.”
Seungcheol only smirks, hand resting on your thigh as he leans in to whisper against your ear. “Aren’t you the one dripping all over your dress?”
Flustered beyond belief, you push at his shoulder coupled with a string of colorful words. Seungcheol only laughs at your weak attempts to push him off.
“Why do you torment me like this?” You sigh out dramatically, watching as Seungcheol turns the straw of your drink to his direction before he takes a sip.
Seungcheol gulps, and with a light tap on your nose, he replies, “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“Piss me off, and I’ll get even cuter,” You grumble, snatching your drink away. “Now I have to dry this dress off.”
“You can take it off and start drying it now,” Seungcheol shrugs casually before his face morphs into a suggestive expression. “That way the two of us have something to look at.”
“Dream on,” You reply.
“Trust me, I already do.” Seungcheol then leaves to go back into the water like he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb on you.
After that catastrophe on the beach, the rest of the day continues in a similar manner. Seungcheol takes every single opportunity to flex and fluster you. Need something passed to you? Here it is with a side of biceps. Something is out of reach? He’ll get it for you while giving you a peek of what’s underneath his shirt. Don’t know the direction to a place? It’s okay, he’ll walk ahead and give you a perfect view of his ass. The worst part of it is that he does it all with that infuriatingly handsome smile. The one where his dimples look so deep and his eyes practically disappear.
By the end of the day, you’re hot, bothered, and absolutely in need of an exorcism.
It’s after dinner that you find yourself free from Seungcheol’s torment. After a long day of playing in the sun and flexing all his muscles, he must’ve lost all his energy because his first instinct upon arriving at your villa is to crash onto the couch and snore as he prances off in dreamland.
You hope he gets a nightmare, if only to punish him for the torment he put you through all day.
Now left to your own devices, you decided to swim. Maybe the pool water would cool the fire raging in your stomach. Quietly–to avoid waking Seungcheol up–you peel off your dress and sink into the pool.
The water is cool against your skin, and you genuinely have to resist the urge to moan at how refreshing it was. You think you’ll have to try swimming in the beach tomorrow. You finally understand why Seungcheol couldn’t seem to part from the water when he wasn’t busy teasing you.
You swim around for a while, letting the cool water dance around your body as you paddle to keep yourself entertained. Once you start feeling tired, however, you’re quick to sit on the edge of the pool’s baja shelf, feet kicking through the water as you lounge around lazily.
You honestly hope this trip never ends.
–
The gentle sound of footsteps stirs Seungcheol awake from his nap on the couch, his eyes opening only to be met with the sight of you shimmying out of your dress to reveal a light blue two piece. It hugs you well, the tiny triangles clinging to your chest and barely covering the roundness of your behind. Seungcheol feels like a pervert for staring at you from the darkness of the villa, but he likes to think that he has a little leeway considering the show he was putting on for you all day.
It’s not like he was going to act on the filthy thoughts running through his head.
Unless you asked him to, of course. That’s a different story.
For a while he lies on the couch, watching you aimlessly swim around in the pool with a small smile on your face. You’re beautiful, Seungcheol knows that, but he thinks you’re even more beautiful in the moments where you’re smiling when you think nobody’s watching. It’s different from the practiced, polished look you wear daily, and Seungcheol wishes he could freeze time to make sure that your smile remains this way.
It had his heart beating uncharacteristically fast.
When he sees you sitting on the baja shelf’s edge, Seungcheol decides that it’s time to stop staring like a lowlife and actually join you.
Discreetly, he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it onto the couch before silently walking in your direction. You’re oblivious to it all, feet kicking lightly underneath the water as Seungcheol dips into the pool behind you.
“Oh shit, it’s cold,” Seungcheol hisses, and your tranquility is disturbed.
You turn to look back at him, laughing as he struggles to walk towards you.
“I thought you were sleeping?” You ask, watching as Seungcheol slips into the water beside you.
“Couldn’t let you have fun all by yourself, now, could I?” Seungcheol replies. It’s even worse now that he’s up close and right beside you. From here, he has a front row seat to the way you glow from the pool lights, and it has his blood violently pumping through his veins.
He thanks the heavens that the pool is cold, or else this would’ve been an extremely awkward encounter.
“Thank you for planning this,” You whisper out softly as you stare into the waters. “I don’t think I’ve been this relaxed in years.”
Something warm blooms in Seungcheol’s chest at your sincerity, an odd mix of pride and affection. He playfully nudges your shoulder with his and speaks, “It’s only day two. Don’t thank me just yet.”
You turn your head to him, and Seungcheol swears his breath catches in his throat. Seuncheol is thankful that you’re quick to turn away again, gaze shy as you awkwardly cough.
Seungcheol can’t help the smile that makes its way onto his face.
“I can’t believe we’re only here for a week,” You mutter, hand sifting through the water with your eyes trained on the little waves it makes. “I’d stay here forever if I could.”
“Me too,” comes Seungcheol’s reply before he can even stop himself. There was something so peaceful about the island. It’s only been two days but Seungcheol realizes that he hasn’t felt this light in years. There’s something about the place–something about you–that has him feeling like he can finally be at ease. It scares him a little, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t think he can bring himself back to the city after a taste of this paradise here with you. “We can always come back, if you want to.”
“Promise?” You ask, playfully sticking your pinky out to him, but there’s a genuine sliver hope in your eyes that has Seungcheol wanting to wrap you in his arms and shield you from all the disappointments of this world.
“Yeah,” Seungcheol is careful to lock his own pinky around yours. “I promise.”
–
Day 3, Solis Mane
“What’s the plan for today?” You ask Seungcheol as you chew through the pancakes.
“We’re going island hopping for the day,” Seungcheol answers, cutting into his bacon. “Well, just one island, really. It’s ours for the day since Shua said we should enjoy ourselves there, so you can swim all you want. After that, we’ll go back and have dinner. We can have a few drinks if you want.”
“Wow, I’m almost jealous,” You sigh. It’s moments like this that you wish your family had chosen to dabble in the hospitality and tourism industry instead of capitalizing on everybody’s insecurities. “Maybe I’m in the wrong business.”
“Do you want me to build a resort in your honor?” Seungcheol jokes, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you that if you said yes, he actually would build that resort.
“One day, maybe,” you joke. It would be nice, you think. A small piece of paradise that you and Seungcheol could return to every once in a while whenever the city gets too loud.
After breakfast, Seungcheol is quick to grab your bag with one hand and your hand in the other. He doesn’t let go of you. From the walk to the villa to the short boat trip, Seungcheol’s hand remains intertwined with yours even if your hands are already sweaty from the nerves and the island heat. Every once in a while—you think it’s when he’s bored and wants to fluster to you—he presses his lips on the back of your hand, and you’re sure that if the boat man had no restraint, he would’ve already pushed the two of you off the boat from how ridiculously sweet Seungcheol was being.
Before you knew it, you were already on the island, and if you thought Solis Mane’s main island was paradise, then you think you might have just entered a whole new other world in Joshua’s private island.
Save for the small villa tucked in the edge where greenery meets sand, the island is completely in its natural form. There were no footsteps on the white sand, no beachgoers floating in the turquoise waters, and no sound save for the crashing of ocean waves onto the nearby rocks.
You think you could live here forever.
Immediately, once you’ve placed your things in the villa, you’re quick to strip down to your swimsuit, grab your sunscreen, and lay out a beach towel on the soft sand, leaving Seungcheol behind who can only chuckle at your excitement. Not wanting any damage to your skin, you’re quick to sit on the towel and start lathering your face, arms, and legs with sunscreen. Once you finish with your limbs and the front of your body, you move on to the most challenging part: putting sunblock on your back.
“Need help?” Like a knight in shining swim shorts, Seungcheol swoops in and saves the day.
“Yes please,” You sigh in relief as you hand the bottle of sunscreen to Seungcheol. “I just need some on my back.”
“Ok,” Seungcheol says as he squirts the sunscreen onto his palm. “Lie back and turn over.”
You freeze. It’s after hearing Seungcheol’s words that you realise that maybe you didn’t think this through. However, not wanting to make the situation awkward, you’re quick to follow Seungcheol’s orders, back turned to him as you lay your forehead onto the back of your hands.
At the feeling of Seungcheol’s warm hand, you’re quick to jolt.
Seungcheol, noticing this, is quick to chuckle at your response, fingers massaging your upper back as he coats it with sunscreen. He’s skilled with his hands, you think. He could definitely be a masseur if he wanted to.
“Relax, I’m not going to try anything.” Seungcheol assures you, fingers now working their magic under the knot of where your swimsuit is tied. “Unless, you ask me to.”
“Shut up, oh my god.” You whine out in embarrassment, wanting to bury yourself into the sand. Despite Seungcheol’s teasing, you feel that you’re more at ease. It’s just sunscreen, and it’s just Seungcheol. There was nothing to worry about.
“I’m going a little lower, okay?” Seungcheol informs you, and when you nod, his hands move to spread sunscreen on the small of your back.
True to his word, Seungcheol does not try anything at all, and you’re not really sure what to feel. Are you glad that your back has a lower risk of burning under the sun? Yes. Is it cute that Seungcheol was such a gentleman despite the fact that you’re practically half-naked underneath his touch? Also yes. Were you disappointed that he didn’t try anything to turn the situation into something akin to the plot of a cheap porno? A little, but you refused to admit that out loud.
“Thank you,” You say as you take the sunscreen from Seungcheol’s hands.
“No need,” Seungcheol waves you off at first. However, it was almost as if something struck him, and his face quickly morphs into that expression he usually sports when he’s about to do something to mess with you. “Actually, could you put some on my back too?”
You don't know who you’ll bury in the sand first: yourself or Choi Seungcheol.
Unable to decline due to the fact that Seungcheol had helped you, you give him a smile that hopefully masks your nerves. “Sure.”
Seungcheol is quick to assume the position you were in previously on the towel.
You can’t help but feel like a creep as you spread sunscreen over Seungcheol’s broad back. You’re sure that, at one point, you wanted to shut your eyes in hopes of easing your conscience. While you’re aware that Seungcheol has a habit of going to the gym, it’s only now that you’re able to appreciate all the hours of the week that he puts into it. His back is firm underneath your touch, the muscles stretching and curving every once in a while when Seungcheol fails to hold still.
“You should try becoming a masseuse,” Seungcheol’s words are followed by a groan that has you feeling things. “You’ve got potential.”
You flush at his words, and you’re thankful that he can’t see you. Teasingly, you reply, “Sure, as long as you don’t mind me doing this to other men.”
Seungcheol is silent for a few seconds, and you almost think that maybe he didn’t hear you, but then, he replies, “Nevermind.”
You laugh at that, and Seungcheol turns his head back momentarily to pout at you. “Yah, why are you laughing?”
“You’re so childish,” You snort, finishing up Seungcheol’s back with one last swipe of your hand. “There, you’re good to go.”
Seungcheol sits up, still sulking. “Well, sorry for not wanting my wife to touch other men’s sweaty backs. You’re just gonna get your hands dirty.”
You roll your eyes, standing up to brush the sand from your legs. “Like your back’s any better?”
“Wow,” Seungcheol breathes out, feigning offense as he watches you walk to the water. “This is a high-yield, high-quality back, just so you know!”
You continue walking to the shore, calling out to Seungcheol. “What are you? Wagyu?!”
“A5!” Seungcheol answers back, a smile on his face as he watches you dip into the water. He only watches for a while before he’s joining you in the water.
The rest of the day passes by quickly despite having only the water and the villa to entertain yourselves. Conversations with Seungcheol just came so naturally, and you had been so caught up in talking Seungcheol’s ear off that you didn’t realize that it was time for you to go.
Once the two of you arrive back on the island, you’re quick to return to your villa to shower, change, and prepare for the dinner Seungcheol had planned. Feeling a little more bold, you’re quick to pick out a light blue backless dress that cinches at the waist before flowing out beautifully.
“Ready to go?” Seungcheol calls out from behind the door.
“Yes, one second,” You call out to him as you put on lipbalm, a cherry-flavored one that you’ve sworn by throughout the years. Once you finish applying it, you’re quick to grab your purse and open the door. “I’m ready
The first thing you notice is Seungcheol who’s wearing a loose button down that coincidentally matches the color of your dress, and white pants. The two of you looked like you walked straight out of a ‘Mamma Mia!’ filming set, but you honestly find the aesthetic a little cute.
The next thing you notice is the fact that Seungcheol’s staring at you wide-eyed, frozen. Realizing that your gaze is on him, he’s quick to clear his throat and speak, “You look beautiful.”
Suddenly shy, you’re quick to swat at his arm. “How do you say those things with a straight face, oh my god.”
Seungcheol, now more relaxed, is quick to intertwine his fingers with yours as he leads you out of the villa. “It’s easy when I’m saying nothing but the truth.”
When the two of you arrive at the gazebo Seungcheol reserved, the food is already prepared, and the only thing left to do is to eat. The rest of dinner flies by with Seungcheol’s flirtatious jokes and lighthearted conversation. You’re so lost in the atmosphere that you don’t realize just how many glasses of wine you’ve downed until you feel your inhibition starting to slip and your filter starting to fade.
You were going to regret this.
–
“Yaaaaah, Choi Seungcheol,” Your words are slurred as you point your finger at Seungcheol. “You need to stop smiling at me like that.”
Cute, Seungcheol thinks, and quickly, he finds that he’s unable to follow your drunken orders. In a futile attempt to hide the smile on his face, he takes a sip from his drink: an iced tea. One of you needed to be sober, after all.
Wanting to humor your drunken antics, Seungcheol asks, “Why?”
“If you keep smiling like… Like that…I’ll…” Seungcheol feels bad for the way he finds your drunken incoherence funny. You just looked so cute furrowing your brows as you tried to find your next words. “I’ll k-kiss you on the mouth! Yeah… I’ll do that. So stop.”
Seungcheol’s having the time of his fucking life. Some part of him is almost tempted to pull out his phone and start recording just to tease you tomorrow, but he knows you’ll kill him if he does, so he doesn’t. However, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to milk the absolute shit out of this situation.
“What if I want you to kiss me on the mouth, hm?” Seungcheol teases, wiggling his eyebrows at drunken you suggestively.
“I will! Don’t challenge me,” You slur as you wiggle your finger at him from side to side. “I’ll make it French too.”
Seungcheol wants to laugh his ass off so badly, but the fun might end if he does, so he bites his tongue. “Oh? That’s a little scandalous, no?”
You snort at his words, waving him off before you lean forward and rest your chin in your hands. There’s a coy smile on your face as you speak, “That’s the leeeeeast scandalous thing I want to do with you, really. I could– I could get sooo much worse.”
He’s probably opening Pandora’s box with what he’s about to say next, but Seungcheol does it anyway. With a sly smirk on his face, he leans in to mirror you and asks. “Really? What other things do you think about doing with me?”
There’s a pause. You’re leaning on your chin with a furrow in your brows, almost as if you were pondering the meaning of life itself as your poor drunken brain thinks of a response to Seungcheol’s prodding.
“A lot…” You sigh out dreamily, bringing the glass of your wine to your lips as you take another sip. A little parched, Seungcheol takes a sip from his own drink. “Most of them involve you bending me over, really.”
Seungcheol nearly spits out the drink back into his glass at your words, eyes widening as he looks at you. Unbothered by his reaction, you continue, “Honestlyyyyy, when you were rubbing sunscreen on my back… I was hoping you’d rub it… Somewhere else.”
This is what he gets for probing, Seungcheol thinks. He thinks of that moment of the beach, the one where he was rubbing circles into your back and resisting the urge to dip lower. Your drunken fantasies were honestly not that far from what Seungcheol wanted to do, really.
“Why are you so quiet?” You pout at Seungcheol, arms crossing across your chest as you remain completely unaware about the less than appropriate thoughts running through Seungcheol’s head. “You asked me, and I’m just answering.”
“Just shocked,” And a little turned on, Seungcheol adds silently in his head. While he definitely wanted to hear what other depraved fantasies you had about him, he didn’t really want to breach your privacy further. “I think you’ve had enough drinks. Should we go back–”
“Do you not want to fuck me?” You huff out, glaring at Seungcheol from across the table.
Seungcheol does! He really does, but he wasn’t about to make a move on you when you couldn’t properly consent. He’s scrambling in his brain for a reply, thinking of how to reject you without hurting your feelings.
However, you quickly grow impatient at his silence, and before Seungcheol could answer, you’re already walking towards him, perching yourself on his lap, and wrapping your arms around his neck. On instinct, Seungcheol holds you by the waist to keep you from falling.
(He hopes you don’t feel the way he’s half hard in his pants).
“Yahhhh, Choi Seungcheol,” You slur out. “Am I not attractive to you?”
“You are,” Seungcheol answered immediately. He doesn’t lie to you, after all. He needed to get you off his lap quickly before he got any harder, but he couldn’t seem to think straight with the intoxicating mix of your natural scent and your perfume flooding his nostrils.
“Then why haven’t you made a move on meeee?” You whine out, lower lip jutting out in a pout. “All you do is flirt, but you– you never go further.”
“Do you want me to?” Seungcheol asks, smirking when he sees your bravado fade into a shy expression at his words.
“Well… Yeah…” You mumble out, fingers playing with the tips of his hair. “Are you gonna fuck me here?”
Seungcheol internally groans at the idea. He could, he thinks. He could push his pants down, slip your panties to the side, and start bouncing you on his cock for the poor, innocent passersby to see, and he’d enjoy every second of it. He’d put on a fucking show if you wanted him to, but not right now. He wasn’t about to fuck you when you were drunk out of your mind and barely coherent. “No, you’re drunk.”
“I’m not,” You shake your head. “I swear.”
Seungcheol chuckles at your poor attempt, choosing to flick your forehead lightly. “If you ask me tomorrow morning, when you’re sober, I’ll do it. How does that sound?”
“But I am sobeeeer,” You complain, reaching out to rub at your forehead.
What a brat, Seungcheol thinks, just what he likes.
“Take it while I’m still offering,” Seungcheol shrugs, poking at your cheek. How soft, he thinks. He wonders if you’re just as soft everywhere else.
“Fine,” You huff out as you slap his hand away, standing up and pulling at Seungcheol’s arm. “Let’s go back so I can sleep and then I’ll ask you when I wake up.”
Seungcheol grins at that.
You were definitely going to regret this in the morning.
–
Day 4, Solis Mane
When you wake up, you’re alone in bed and your head is pounding. You were never going to drink like that ever again. Last night’s vibe had been so good that you couldn’t help but get strung along into drinking countless glasses of wine and losing all your inhibition–
Oh.
Oh god.
Last night’s memories come at you full speed like a truck with no brakes, and you have to resist the urge to scream into the mattress and rip the pillows apart at the sheer embarrassment that flooded your veins.
“I’ll make it French too.”
“I was hoping you’d rub it… Somewhere else.”
“Are you gonna fuck me here?”
You don’t know how you’re going to face Seungcheol after that catastrophe. In all honesty, you think you might just sneak out of the villa, ask Joshua where the highest cliff on this island is, and proceed to jump off said cliff to become one with the ocean.
Holy shit, you were going to die from embarrassment. What were you going to do? What do you even say after all that? Was Seungcheol mad at you? What if he felt harassed? Where is Seungcheol? Should you pretend like you forgot everything? Would he notice—
“Good morning,” Seungcheol walks into the room, holding a wooden bed tray with a plate full of eggs, fruits, and bread accompanied by a glass of orange juice. “I brought you breakfast.”
Ah, so you’re going down the ‘pretend to forget everything that happened last night’ route, it seems.
You could work with that.
“Thank you,” You hope your voice is stable as you watch Seungcheol set the tray in front of you. The bed dips underneath his weight as he settles down beside you. Unable to handle your own awkwardness, you’re quick to start eating.
“Did you sleep well?” Seungcheol asks, watching the way you stuff your mouth with eggs and bread.
You swallow the food in your mouth and push it back with some juice before speaking, “Yeah, I guess I was really tired last night.”
“Well, you did have a lot of wine, so that probably added to it,” Seungcheol adds, and you have to keep yourself from physically flinching at the memory. “Do you remember anything from last night?”
This is the part where you lie through your teeth and pray that Seungcheol doesn’t call you out on your bullshit.
“Not really,” You lie before stuffing your mouth with fruits, eyes looking at anything and everything that isn’t Seungcheol. “Why?”
Seungcheol’s neutral facade morphs into a grin, and it’s only now that you realize that he was leading you to a trap… And you walked straight into it.
“Really?” Seungcheol tips your chin back with a finger to make you meet his gaze. “Why are you so nervous then?”
“I’m not!”
Wow! You’re so convincing.
“Okay, whatever you say,” Seungcheol pulls his hand away and shrugs casually. Despite his agreement with your words, you’re aware that he knows you remember everything. You weren’t exactly fooling him with your shit acting, after all. However, if he was going to give you a way out, then you were going to gladly take it.
Once you finish eating, Seungcheol takes the tray out of the room and returns to lie down beside you, body turned towards you as he rests his head on his palm. He says nothing, just stares at you like you’re some fascinating exhibit.
In an attempt to clear the awkward silence, you turn to him and ask, “What’s the plan for today?”
“The morning’s just free time so we’re staying on the island until 11:30,” Seungcheol replies. “And then we’ll go to the town on the nearby island to stroll around before the dinner I reserved at seven.”
Wow, Choi Seungcheol would make the perfect lifestyle dom. Not that you’re complaining. In fact, if anyone were to ask you, it turned you on a little to have a man take the lead without being overbearing or patronizing.
“So what are we doing for the next–” You turn to look at the clock on the wall, “four hours?”
“Well, I was expecting someone to take me up on my offer last night,” Seungcheol’s hand twirls a loose strand of your hair absentmindedly–you’d argue that it’s calculated–as he speaks. “But she insists on playing dumb, so we can just lie down for the next four hours.”
“Must not be that good of an offer,” You’re digging your own grave. You know that.
Seungcheol’s eyes sharpen at your words, jaw clenching as he gives you a tight smile. “Want to find out?”
Feeling a little bold, you reach out to trace Seungcheol's chest with the tip of your fingers as you whisper into his ear, “Only if you’re going to stop being such a coward and start being honest about what you want.”
You feel the air shift, and the next thing you know, Seungcheol has pinned your wrists to the bed and is capturing your lips in a rough kiss.
When Seungcheol pulls away, he looks like a completely different person. Gone was the man who took your teasing lightly, and gone was the man who treated you like you would break at any time. The man on top of you looked like he was going to eat you alive.
“You’re such a fucking brat, you know that?” Seungcheol hisses out, and you don’t know if you’re scared or getting wetter. “If I had it my way, I would’ve bent you over on our first day here.”
“You should’ve,” You reply, staring up at him in challenge. “It’s a honeymoon trip, after all.”
“God, you’re so mouthy,” Seungcheol groans as he pulls away from you and nudges you towards the floor. “How about we use that mouth for something else?”
You follow, kneeling onto the floor between Seungcheol’s open legs, but unfortunately for him, you haven’t lost your mouthiness just yet. He’d have to fuck that one out of you. With a mischievous smile, you rest your hands on Seungcheol’s firm thighs. “Are you asking me? Because I thought we agreed on being honest about what you want.”
Seungcheol looks absolutely pissed as he tongues at his cheek, and you’re living for it.
The next thing you know, there’s a burn in your scalp and a pulse in your core as Seungcheol grips your hair to bare your throat to him. It’s tight enough to have you dripping in your panties but loose enough to keep you from hurting.
“You think you can handle me? Fine.” Seungcheol releases his hold on you, pushing his shorts and underwear down to free his cock. “Open up.”
Ok, maybe you were punching above your weight.
“Did you not hear me?” Seungcheols taunts as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip.
At his touch, you part your lips and stick your tongue out. Satisfied, Seungcheol groans, “Good girl.”
A moan leaves your throat at his words, eyes practically rolling back when Seungcheol uses one hand to tap the tip of his cock repeatedly on your tongue. “You’re gonna have to open your mouth wider if you want me to fit in that tiny mouth.”
Your mouth falls open wider, tongue sticking out to lick under the tip of Seungcheol’s cock.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Seungcheol groans, hands bracing himself on the bed as he watches you take his cock into your mouth.
Fueled by the deep noises Seungcheol releases, you take more of his cock into your mouth until you feel like you’re on the verge of gagging, your hand pumping away at the parts that your throat can’t reach.
The taste and weight of Seungcheol on your tongue has your mind blanking, and the grunts and moans falling from his parted lips only has you doubling your efforts. There’s nothing in your head but the sheer desire to get this man to come undone from your mouth and your touch. You wonder how much better it’s all going to feel when he’s finally fucking you with it—
Your little moment is cut short when Seungcheol pulls you off his cock.
“See? You can be good, after all,” Seungcheol praises as he gently pushes the hair away from your face and wipes the drool off your chin. “Now let me show you what I have to offer.”
It’s the only thing Seungcheol says before he’s manhandling you onto the bed and positioning you on all fours, hips raised high and shoulders pressed onto the sheets. Swiftly, Seungcheol pulls your shorts off followed by your panties, the heat of his breath against your core sending shivers down your spine.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Seungcheol breathes out, spreading you open with his thumbs to get a closer look at the slick dripping from you. If you weren’t so turned on, you probably would’ve shied away from Seungcheol’s burning gaze.
Without wasting a second, Seungcheol dives in. He’s relentless, licking and sucking your core like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you on his tongue. It’s warm, wet, and sloppy, and each obscene slurp of his tongue against your folds leaves you with nothing else to do but moan and whimper as you get closer and closer to your high.
“Cheol–” You sigh out his name shakily, one hand reaching behind you to tangle your fingers into Seungcheol’s hair as he dips his tongue into your entrance. He was fucking his tongue into you so deeply and so messily that you think he’s trying to replace your slick with his spit.
“Feeling good, hm?” Seungcheol’s voice muffled by your pussy has you jolting, the vibrations sending sparks up your spine. Without warning, he sticks two fingers inside your heat, scissoring you open with loud squelches as you moan into the sheets.
“Fuck, right there!” You cry out when Seungcheol rubs a particularly rough patch of nerves that has your eyes rolling. “Please, I wanna cum!”
“Relax, pretty girl. I’ll get you there,” Seungcheol accompanies the skillful strokes of his fingers with featherlight kisses against your thigh. “You’re going to be cumming over and over until you’re begging me to stop.”
The filth of his words coupled by the drag of his fingers has you seizing, body going taut in a deep arch against the bed as shrieks of pleasure leave your throat, “Seungcheol, cumming!”
“That’s it, cum for me,” Seungcheol rasps against your skin, fingers not once faltering as they fuck in and out of you. “Show me how filthy you can get, fuck–”
With a soundless scream, you hit your peak, vision going white and body tingling so violently with pleasure that you can feel it all the way to your toes. If it weren’t for Seungcheol’s steady grip on your hips, you’re sure you would’ve crashed onto the bed like a boneless, formless mess.
Slowly, Seungcheol eases his fingers out of you, giving your folds one final lick before he starts trailing kisses up your spine.
“Cheol, wait a sec,” You whine out, collapsing onto the bed as Seungcheol hovers over your form. “I think you just sucked my soul out.”
Seungcheol chuckles, brushing your hair away with one hand to press an affectionate kiss onto your shoulder. “We can stop here if it’s too much.”
“No!” You say a little too eagerly, your cheeks warming when you realize how desperate you sounded. “Just give a minute.”
“Don’t push yourself,” Seungcheol teases, hand rubbing up and down your sides as he presses kisses all over your back. If you weren’t still so fucking horny, you probably would’ve fallen asleep like that: half naked with your slick and Seungcheol’s spit all over your thighs.
Once you regain your senses, Seungcheol moves to lay you on your back. He slips a pillow under your hips, and while comfortable, feels like a threat to your pussy that has barely recovered from Seungcheol’s tongue.
“Is the pillow necessary?” You nervously ask, your head a hazy mix of concern and pleasure as Seungcheol rubs his dick through your folds.
“Don’t you want to feel me deeper?” Seungcheol teases, moving his cock to lay over your stomach to show you just how deep he was going to bury himself inside you.
“With a dick like that, I don’t think you need the pillow,” You mumble out incoherently, ridiculously turned on at the sight of Seungcheol’s thick, heavy cock resting on top of your mound.
Despite your mumbling, Seungcheol catches your words. As he presses the tip of his cock on your hole, he speaks, “Then just think of it as back support. You’ll need it.”
An inhuman sound leaves your throat the moment Seungcheol slips in, cock stretching your folds so wide around his cock that you already feel like you’re on the verge of cumming. It’s only halfway in, but his dick was already rubbing all the right spots.
Judging by Seungcheol’s reaction, he isn’t faring any better than you.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Seungcheol hisses, fingers digging into your hips as he pushes through your slick and heat. “So fucking wet too, shit!”
Seungcheol chokes out a groan when he buries himself to the hilt, thick brows furrowed and mouth gaping as he throws his head back at the feeling, The sight of him looking so lost in you has you whining, your walls clenching tighter around him involuntarily.
“Fuck me, Cheol,” You whine out desperately, your pride found dead in a ditch. Only the universe knows how many nights you’ve spent cumming to the thought of Seungcheol, how many men you’ve dated wondering what it would be like if it had been Seungcheol there instead. “Please…”
“So beautiful even when you’re begging me to fuck you, huh?” Seungcheol pulls his hands away from your hips to brace himself on either side of your head, cock stroking in and out of you deliciously as he watches your face contort in pleasure. “Don’t worry, you’re going to cum until you’re crying.”
Suddenly, Seungcheol’s thrusts pick up their pace, cock bullying itself in and out of your tight heat so well that it has you clawing at the sheets and screaming Seungcheol’s name with no regard for the rest of the world.
“Yeah, take it, take it,” Seungcheol rasps through gritted teeth, eyes locked on to the way your wet hole sucks his cock in every time he pulls out. “This cute pussy doesn’t want to let go of me, huh? Doesn’t want me to stop?”
“No, fuck!” You answer with a cry, nails digging into Seungcheol’s shoulders as he presses his forehead against yours. “Want you to fuck me over and over, Cheol. Please, it’s so good!”
“Shh, I know, baby, I know,” Seungcheol coos, his soft lips pressing wet kisses against your throat as he ravages your cunt with his thick cock. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you? Taking this thick cock with that tight cunt, fuck. Do you think you deserve another round after this?”
“Yes!” You whine out, nails scratching down Seungcheol’s back as you feel yourself approaching your high. You haven’t even cum yet but fuck if you’re not going to take the opportunity for another round with this beast of a man. “I’ll be good, please–”
You choke on your words when Seungcheol gives you a brutal thrust, that has your toes curling and you breath hitching
“What a good girl,” Seungcheol grins darkly, thrusts picking up pace. “Don’t worry, you’re not leaving this bed until we have to go.”
Seungcheol catches your mouth in a sloppy kiss that has you reeling. His kiss is rough, but it’s methodic. Each lick, suck, and breath is done with the intent of making you come undone. Both his cock and his tongue are inside you, and the idea of being ravaged from both ends by this man has your eyes crossing and the knot in your stomach coming undone.
With a gasp against Seungcheol’s hot mouth and tears pricking at your lashes, you breathe, “Fuck, Cheol, I’m cumming!”
At your cry, Seungcheol is swearing, thrusts getting brutal as he lays his weight onto you and rasps filthy words in your ear, “Fuck that’s it, cum for me.”
Seungcheol doesn’t stop even when you come undone, thrusts unyielding as he clutches your body close to his. “I’m gonna cum, fuck–”
“Cum inside, Cheol,” You cry out weakly, arms wrapped around his neck as you let pants and moans against his ear. “Please.”
“Inside?” Seungcheol asks, but you can tell he’s only doing it to be considerate. “Are you sure, pretty girl?”
You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.
“Cheol if you don’t cum inside, this will be the last time you fuck me.” Your threat is empty. You don’t think you’ll be able to cum happily if it isn’t Seungcheol making you cum. Choi Seungcheol has ruined all your future orgasms for you like a drug disrupting all your body’s pathways.
“Fuck, you’ve got a pretty face, but you’re such a fucking cumslut,” Seungcheol’s words are degrading as he pauses to throw your legs over his shoulders. “You really want it inside? Want me to fill every inch of that tiny pussy til it’s dripping out of you, is that it?”
“Yes!” You nod desperately. Nevermind the fact that you just came, you think you’re about to cum again. The new position burned your legs, but all it did was add to the mind-numbing sensation Seungcheol had you feeling.
“Fuck, you asked for this,” Seungcheol growls, hips driving into you over and over in a cacophony of slick and sex. “Cumming, fuck, I’m cumming–”
Seungcheol’s rasps cut into a deep moan that rumbles through his chest, the sound so hot and primal that it had you clamping down hard on his cock as you got your third orgasm of the day.
This man was going to fuck you dry, you think.
For a second, neither of you speak, your ragged breaths being the only sounds to fill the room. Seungcheol stares at you with half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling as he presses a tender kiss against your knee.
“Think you can give me one more?”
—
By the time 11:00 comes around, no surface of the bedroom was left untainted by your slick and sweat. Seungcheol made sure to do well on his promise of fucking you until you couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to disappoint you after all.
The weight of you is grounding, your head on his shoulder, your hand on his chest, and your leg entangled with his. If he hadn’t planned out a short trip to the town, he probably would’ve just spent the rest of the day dozing away in your hold and filling you up before dozing off again. Why bother going to the city when the best part of the trip was in his arms?
“Aren’t we supposed to leave by 11:30?” You ask, looking up at Seungcheol.
“We can push it back if you need more time,” Seungcheol replies, hand carding through your hair absentmindedly.
“I’m good to go,” You sit up, and Seungcheol already misses the way you drape yourself all over him. “Let me shower first.”
Seungcheol perks up at that, lips curling into a suggestive smile as he asks, “Can I join?”
“No,” You say firmly as you get out of bed. “Bathe on your own.”
“Aw,” Seungcheol pouts, but the rejection is quickly soothed by the sight of your hips swaying as you walk into the bathroom. “Next time?”
Damn right, he did that.
“When we get back,” is the only thing you say before shutting the door.
Seungcheol couldn’t wait to get back.
Once the two of you are dressed and done cleaning away the remnants of debauchery on your skins, the two of you take the boat to the island housing the town a few kilometers away from Solis Mane. The moment the two of you arrive, you don’t waste any time before dragging Seungcheol to all the shops and establishments spread throughout the town.
There’s a bright wonder in your eyes that Seungcheol finds endearing, a youthful glow in the way you seem to be fascinated by even the most mundane of things. He watches as you enter shop after shop, looking at all their little trinkets and souvenirs. The pressure on his shoulders lifts immediately when he realizes that you’re actually enjoying the entire experience.
“Cheol, look. They have ice cream.” You point towards a tiny stall that had a man scooping colorful spheres onto waffle cones.
“Do you want some?” Seungcheol asks.
“Yeah, it’s kind of hot,” You reply, and Seungcheol doesn’t miss the way your eyes are locked onto the stall.
“Let’s get some, then,” Seungcheol says as he walks with you to the stall, fingers intertwined around yours.
Seungcheol buys two cones: one for you and one for him. The look in your eyes is so bright as you lick at the cream, and Seungcheol’s almost tempted to call up his secretary and ask how local business regulations worked so that he could buy the damned stall. He’d buy you all the ice cream in the world as long as you kept smiling like that.
Not wanting to forget this moment, Seungcheol takes out his phone and takes a quick picture of you.
Your ears don’t miss the sound of his shutter, and with a glare that lacks heat, you call Seungcheol out, “Yah, why did you take a picture? I look so messy right now.”
Not wanting to miss your cute, frustrated face, Seungcheol snaps another picture, grinning.
“Yah!” You complain.
“You’re still pretty. Don’t worry,” Seungcheol says, rubbing his thumb on the crease between your brows. “I just wanted a memory from this trip.”
Your eyes soften at Seungcheol’s words, “Let’s take tons of pictures then.”
“Okay,” Seungcheol nods in agreement.
The rest of the day is spent looking for cute streets and breathtaking views where you and Seungcheol could take pictures. By the time you were finished, Seungcheol’s camera roll was filled with pictures of your face, with him appearing in some of them. His favorite picture out of all of them was a picture taken by one of the shopkeepers who had found the two of you to be such a cute couple that she wanted to take a picture for the two of you. In the picture, Seungcheol is sitting on a bench with the view of the sea as a picturesque background. You’re standing behind him, arms wrapped around his neck as you press a kiss on his cheek.
Seungcheol thinks he’s never smiled that brightly in his entire life.
(Immediately, he sets it as his homescreen.)
With time left to kill, the two of you walk into a little cafe and rest there, scrolling through the pictures you took throughout the entire day.
“Oh my god, delete that,” You groan out as you bury your face in Seungcheol’s shoulder. “I look so ugly there!”
Seungcheol thinks the two of you are looking at different things. You’re making a weird expression, sure, but Seungcheol thinks you look so cute and comfortable that he can’t find it in himself to delete it. “It’s cute though.”
“It’s not,” You pout. “Fine, keep it, but don’t show it to anyone else.”
You didn’t have to tell him twice. He refused to let anyone else have the privilege of seeing you this happy and carefree. That was for his eyes only.
“This one’s nice,” Seungcheol says as he swipes to a candid picture of you staring into the ocean, hair and dress lightly swept by the wind.
He’s definitely keeping that one.
–
The rest of your vacation passes by in a blur of sand, sex, and sea, and part of you almost wants to never leave that island. However, duty calls, and the moment your last day arrives, you and Seungcheol pack your things and board the plane back to Incheon with the promise of coming back.
The sight of Seoul’s towering buildings fills you with a sense of dread, and Solis Mane feels like a distant dream you can’t return to.
Would things go back to the way they were before the honeymoon? Would you have to go back to polite conversations and casual touches that never became anything more? Would you have to live every single day of your life in that house wondering what it would be like if you had never left the island?
Would you have to live in Sohee’s shadow again?
It was easy to forget her during the trip. There were no cookbooks, no mementos, and no memories of her on that island to torment you, to haunt Seungcheol. That island was yours. You weren’t walking to cover someone else’s footsteps, you were creating your own trail. Unlike the house, where every corner is haunted by the touch of a woman that came before you.
Some part of you stupidly hopes that seven days is enough to rip Seungcheol from Sohee’s hold, but you’re sure that’s not the case.
The moment Seungcheol enters that house, he’ll remember her, and those seven days will be forgotten like a figment of his imagination.
“Are you okay?” Seungcheol’s voice accompanied by his hand slipping into yours jolts you from your thoughts. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”
“Just missing the island,” You smile at him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. It’s half of the truth, the half that matters less.
“We can always come back,” Seungcheol gives you a soft smile, and it has your treacherous heart hoping that maybe things will start looking better after this. “Joshua already designated that villa as ours.”
Ours. It’s one word, but it means the world to you.
“Next year, let’s come back.” You reply, hopeful.
“We can go back every year,” Seungcheol replies without a second thought. “All you have to do is ask.”
If you asked him to give you his entire heart…
Could he also do that without a second thought?
–
It’s been five days since you arrived back at Seoul, and it’s only now that you realize…
The house is different.
The colors are the same, the layout is the same, and honestly, if you hadn’t spent numerous days tormenting yourself with the objects in that house, you wouldn’t have realized that anything has changed… But it has.
The old paintings depicting the streets of Paris are gone, the cookbook in the living room is gone, the tiny little macaron trinket attached to keys Seungcheol hangs on the wall is gone–
Every single object that had you silently sobbing in the bathroom every night was gone.
Was it deliberate? Was that the reason why you haven’t heard Sohee’s name echo through the walls of this house at least once since arriving?
What the hell was going on?
You were tempted to ask Seungcheol, tempted to knock on the door of his study and ask him if he’s finally buried his past, but things were going so well. Contrary to your initial belief, nothing about the way Seungcheol treated you had changed despite coming back to this house. The only difference between then and now is that you and Seungcheol had to work during the day with the nights and early mornings being the only time you spent together. Time you made sure to savor.
You’re about to hit the sixth-month mark. Six months more and your marriage would have lasted as long as Seungcheol’s relationship with her. It’ll take time, you know that, but that was better than Seungcheol never moving on. You had started this marriage thinking that he would never even glance your way, but now you’re having conversations late into the night and having morning sex, so really, you’ll take what you can get.
Maybe things were getting better.
–
Kim Mingyu thinks he’s getting old.
He realizes this when Seungcheol picks up his phone to text away for the sixth time in 15 minutes, and Mingyu finds himself wanting to say ‘No phones on the dinner table!’ like a boomer. In his defense, it had been Seungcheol who had insisted on having this monthly meeting to discuss life and partnership updates, and Mingyu, despite wanting nothing more than to stay at home and dote on his wife and newborn son, had to go to this accursed meeting or he had to pay a hefty fine and face a sulking Seungcheol.
The only upside was the booze.
(God his wife is gonna kill him if he comes home wasted.)
“Hyung, who are you texting?” Mingyu is unable to resist anymore. “You’re giggling so much. It’s weird, and creepy, and concerning.”
There were more words lying around somewhere in Mingyu’s head, but Seungcheol might put him in a headlock if he continued.
“My wife,” Seungcheol says in a dreamy tone, and Mingyu has to resist the urge to cringe at how lovesick his friend sounded.
Mingyu isn’t sure about how he should tread regarding the topic. On one hand, he was feeling a little angry at the fact that Seungcheol was being so weirdly in love with another woman after dumping his ex–one of Mingyu’s closest friends–in the most asshole-y way possible. On the other hand, he could relate. He, too, was absolutely smitten with his wife, and he couldn’t blame Seungcheol for giggling like a schoolgirl while texting his wife.
Mingyu decides to be polite. He needed to respect the fact that Sohee was a part of the past, and he needed to accept that he was partially at fault for even reuniting the two only for the relationship to end in the worst way possible. In his defense, Seungcheol is a stubborn man, and Mingyu had honestly thought that the man would fight for Sohee against all odds.
That didn’t happen.
“How’s Y/N doing?” Mingyu asks politely, if only to keep the conversation going.
“She’s doing well,” Seungcheol is suddenly 100% into the conversation, and Mingyu doesn’t know if he’s going to be happy that Seungcheol is finally participating in the conversation or offended that Seungcheol is only talking because the topic is his wife. His friend was fucking gone. “But for some reason she’s more tired these days. I’ve told her to just work from home, but she insists on going to the office anyway.”
“I can’t blame her for being tired. I’d be tired if I was married to you,” Mingyu snorts, and Seungcheol sends a glare his way. “Not that I’d ever marry you.”
“I won’t fucking marry you either, dude,” Seungcheol gives him a look of disgust.
“Excuse you, I’m a great husband,” Mingyu argues back. Suddenly, his pride and husband skills were being questioned. He couldn’t have that. “My wife’s my witness, go call her.”
“Sure, I’ll call her,” Seungcheol smirks. “Then I’ll tell her how many bottles you’ve finished.”
“Hyung, I was kidding,” Mingyu loses all his fire at the mention of his wife. “Please don’t call her. She’s going to kill me.”
“Wow, you’re whipped,” Seungcheol laughs, downing the beer in his glass.
“Like you’re any better,” Mingyu rolls his eyes. “You were literally texting like a high schooler.”
Seungcheol only smiles, and despite the slight anger Mingyu harbors, he finds that he’s somewhat happy for his friend. It may not have worked out with Sohee, but at least it’s working out with you.
“You seem happier,” Mingyu says, a thoughtless comment to keep the conversation going.
“I am,” Seungcheol says with a smile. However, for some reason, it turns a little somber, almost as if Seungcheol was remembering something. “Just a little guilty for feeling that way.”
Ah.
So they were finally having this talk.
Mingyu knows both sides to the story when it all fell apart, but for everything after that, he’s only known Sohee’s side. Today was the day he learned Seungcheol’s side, it seems.
It’s a little fitting, Mingyu thinks, given the location. Two businessmen drunk off their asses on a Friday night discussing each other’s first love with either love or regret in their eyes wasn’t totally uncommon in this bar. In fact, Mingyu thinks the other table was in the same situation as him and Seungcheol.
Fuck, Mingyu needed another bottle if he was going to listen to all of this.
–
“Is it because of Sohee?” Mingyu asks.
Seungcheol braces himself for the longing, the desperation, but the only thing that fills him is guilt. An insurmountable, unfathomable amount of guilt that claws at his chest and stirs his stomach violently.
“Yeah,” Seungcheol nods. He can’t lie to Mingyu even if he wanted to. “You know what happened.”
“It already happened,” Mingyu shrugs casually, but Seungcheol can see the flicker of anger in the man's eyes. Sohee was like family to Mingyu after all, and Seungcheol was the bastard that broke her heart after Mingyu had entrusted her to him. “There’s no use in bringing up the past.”
“How is she?” Seungcheol asks. For some sick reason, some part of him still wanted to know, some part of him still cared, still… Loved.
And it was a horrible feeling because when he thinks about the idea of being in love with Sohee, he’s suddenly haunted by the sight of your face and the nights you spent sobbing when you thought he was asleep.
“Good,” Mingyu says, but it does nothing to ease the ache in Seungcheol’s chest. “Or at least as good as she can be, given the situation.”
“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol has said it many times, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it enough. “I’m really sorry, I hope you know that.”
“I know,” Mingyu smiles at him but his lips are tight and his eyes are solemn. “It doesn’t change the fact that you broke her.”
“I love her,” Seungcheol finds that saying the words feels like someone’s dragging a barbed wire out of his throat. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”
Mingyu’s eyes grow sharp at his words. “You love her? Hyung, you’ve been married for months. What do you mean?”
Seungcheol pauses at that, your face flashing in his eyes.
However, Mingyu doesn’t give Seungcheol enough time to think because he continues speaking, “You’re kidding, right? You’re not seriously still in love with Sohee when you have a wife waiting for you at home.”
Seungcheol stays silent, jaw clenching and hands wrapping tighter around the glass. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s being put face-to-face with his problems like this, the first time he’s being forced to ponder about Sohee and what she meant to him now that he finds himself growing closer to you.
“You’re unbelievable,” Mingyu laughs in disbelief. “Hyung, seriously—“
“I don’t know, okay?!” Seungcheol can’t help the way his voice raises, and part of him is thankful that the people around him are too wasted to care about his conversation with Mingyu. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”
“Well, you better know it soon” Mingyu spits out. “If you keep this up, you might end up ruining your marriage.”
“I won’t,” Seungcheol hisses, the thought making him uneasy. “I just need time.”
Mingyu stares at him, gaze hard and jaw clenched. Seungcheol wishes he could hear the hundreds of thoughts he knows is running through Mingyu’s head, wishes that the answer to his problem is somehow lost in that sea of thoughts.
Seungcheol doesn’t get that. Mingyu’s next words only add to his problems, “Hyung, did you ever even love Sohee?”
What?
“You’ve known her since we were kids, and even claimed to like her for that long,” Mingyu continues. “But not once did you look for her.”
Seungcheol is quick to defend himself, “I didn’t have the time—“
“Don’t give me that bullshit. We both know how stubborn you can be.” Mingyu’s dead serious about having this conversation, and Seungcheol can tell that he isn’t escaping this anytime soon. “If you wanted to fight for her, you would’ve done it. You hate being told what to do.”
Mingyu’s right, Seungcheol thinks, but he doesn’t understand why the man is suddenly questioning the depths of his affection for the woman whose heart he broke.
“You know it’s not that easy,” Seungcheol replies before taking another swig of his beer. Fuck, he didn’t want to be having this conversation right now or ever. “I love Sohee, but—“
“Then do you love Y/N?”
Seungcheol’s blood goes cold at what he hears; Mingyu’s words acting like an anchor dragging him under, into ice cold waters.
It has him thinking of Paris, of the little café tucked away in a quiet street that felt so nostalgic, of the woman that baked him treats from his childhood and loved him wholly.
It has him thinking of an island, of the little one-bedroom villa that feels like the promise of a better future, of the woman that makes his heart race and—-
Did you love him?
Did he love you?
“I don’t know,” Seungcheol breathes out.
“Then leave her,” Mingyu says with certainty despite the alcohol in his veins. “You said you love Sohee, but you don’t know if you love Y/N. The answer is right in front of you—“
“I’m not doing that,” Seungcheol looks at Mingyu like the man just went insane. The idea of leaving you fills him with a fear he’s never once felt in his life. It fills him with a dread that digs and claws into the crevices of his bones. “I’m not leaving her.”
“Then fix this,” Mingyu says firmly. “Unless you’re prepared to have her leave you.”
—
It’s 10:00 PM, and Seungcheol isn’t home yet.
You had expected it, considering the fact that he was out on a little boys’ night with Mingyu, but he had stopped answering your texts a few hours ago. You couldn’t help but get a little worried.
The sleep that threatens to take over you is a little difficult to fight, especially when you’ve been quick to tire these days. Only the lights and sounds coming from the variety show playing on the television was keeping you awake. Some part of you wonders if you should just stop being stubborn and follow Seungcheol’s suggestion of working from home until you regain your strength.
“I’m hoooome,” Seungcheol drawls out as he hands his things over to the staff before walking to where you’re seated.
At the sight of him staggering over to you, you’re quick to giggle.
Seungcheol’s a mess. His cheeks are flushed, his tie is askew, and his hair’s sticking out like he’s run his head through it multiple times. When he reaches you, he’s quick to kneel on the floor and lay his head on your lap.
He reeks of alcohol, and while it usually doesn’t bother you, something about the scent this time has you wanting to run to the closest toilet to empty your guts.
“Cheol, why haven’t you eaten? It’s late,” You cup Seungcheol’s cheek to make him look up at you. He looked so cute, but the scent was seriously bothering you.
Seungcheol smiles at you, leaning into your hand as he speaks, “You requested that we— we eat dinner together. Remember?”
This idiot.
“Cheol, I already ate,” You say cautiously, already preparing for a sulky Seungcheol to make his appearance. “Chef Wen already went home so I can just cook for you if you want.”
As expected, Seungcheol pouts at you. “Traitor.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” You laugh a little. “What do you want to eat?”
“Are youuu on the menu?” Seungcheol wiggles his eyebrow suggestively, and you have to resist the urge to pull out your phone and start recording this.
Oh, how the tables have turned, Choi Seungcheol.
“Not for dinner, but maybe for breakfast tomorrow,” You reply. You need to end this conversation quickly before you puked all over Seungcheol. The urge was so strong that it was almost as if you had been the one drinking. “Now go take a shower, you smell like alcohol.”
“Fineeee,” Seungcheol huffs out before walking towards the stairs.
You stay a few paces behind him, far enough to not offend your nose with the scent of alcohol, but close enough to catch him in case he tripped or fell.
When Seungcheol finishes showering, you’re already curled up under the sheets waiting for him.
The bed dips behind you underneath his weight, the blanket shifting and rustling as he covers himself from the coldness of the room. Once Seungcheol settles under the blanket, his arms are quick to wrap around you.
“Don’t leave me,” Seungcheol mumbles out, the alcohol clearly still in his veins.
Your eyes are quick to flutter open at his words, softly, you hum, “Hm?”
“I love you,” Seungcheol whispers, nose burying itself into your hair.
Your heart is suddenly beating faster, anticipation filling your veins at his words. You know you shouldn’t trust the words of a drunken man, but was it so foolish for you to hope that it was true—
“Sohee.”
You world comes crashing down that night.
—
Seungcheol wonders if he did anything wrong.
It’s been a week since the night he came home drunk beyond comprehension, and you’ve switched back to that polite persona you had at the start of your marriage. It’s subtle, but every time Seungcheol reaches out to touch you or kiss you, you flinch for a second before something akin to defeat takes over you.
What could he have done to make you act that way?
“Here’s the flowers,” The old woman hands Seungcheol an arrangement of her freshest, prettiest flowers with a kind smile. “Your wife’s a very lucky woman.”
“I like to think I’m the lucky one, Ma’am,” Seungcheol smiles as he takes the bouquet and hands the old woman his payment (with a little extra to show his appreciation).
Briefly, he wonders if he should drop by your favorite chocolate shop, but he decides against it immediately. Seungcheol had woken up to the sight of you doubled over the toilet, vomiting so much that he was so close to rushing you to the hospital. Only your dismissal had held him back. He’ll buy you the chocolates another time, he thinks, when you’re feeling better. For now, the bouquet would have to do.
Seungcheol knows the bouquet won’t magically undo whatever offense he did, but he hopes it’ll—at the very least—put a smile on your face.
But whatever he did, he needed to find out soon.
—
This was the longest three minutes of your life.
You think the wood underneath you will start smoking soon with how long you’ve been pacing over the same wooden panels for the last minute.
You had woken up this morning feeling a violent stir in your stomach. It had been so bad that you immediately shot out of bed and rushed to the toilet to empty your guts. You remember Seungcheol rushing over to hold your hair and rub your back up and down as you vomited into the toilet until your eyes were teary and your throat was scratchy.
Seungcheol had forced you to stay at home, even going as far as threatening you with the idea of him staying at home to watch over you to make sure that you don’t sneak off into work.
Having Seungcheol around was the last thing you wanted, so you complied.
There’s one minute left on the clock, and you’re sitting down on the floor, back against the wall of your bedroom as you tuck your knees to your chest.
You loved Seungcheol, and you still do. Even when the only thing you’ve been feeling around him these past few days is an inexplicable pain that rips your heart into shreds. Every single time you’re reminded of that night, you feel yourself die, a slow, painful death that you can’t seem to see the end of.
It’s a pain you wouldn’t wish on anyone in this world, not even on the people who’ve wronged you.
A minute passes, and on shaky legs, you stand.
Your heart is pounding, blood rushing through your ears and pumping through your veins as you take slow steps towards the bathroom sink. With trembling hands, you pick up the cassette.
It’s futile to delay when all the signs point towards it, you think. The sensitivity, the nausea, the vomiting, the missed period, and the calendar showing the date six weeks from your honeymoon trip.
Two lines.
Positive.
The entirety of your body goes cold, and you’re quick to clutch onto the edges of the bathroom counter to stabilize yourself as your knees go weak.
At that moment, you don’t think of Seungcheol.
Memories from your childhood flash through your mind like a storm. The dinners spent alone, the heated arguments bleeding from the crack of your parents’ bedroom door, the slow deterioration of their marriage, and their insistence of staying in that dysfunctional relationship for your sake.
You would’ve been better off if they had divorced.
The decision comes to you quicker than you thought it would. Your child wasn’t going to suffer the way you did. That child wasn’t going to grow up watching their father pine after another woman while their mother cried herself to exhaustion in the bathroom every night. That child won’t have the complete family everyone else had, but that child would be loved.
You could spend the rest of your life being second best to the memories of a woman who was halfway across the globe, but your child didn’t deserve to be damned to a fate like yours just because their mother was stupidly in love with a man that would never love her back.
Quickly, you wipe your face dry and stuff the pregnancy test into the trash can, covering it with toilet paper from the dispenser. Once you’ve hidden all the evidence, you sit on the edge of the bed and text your lawyer to prepare all the necessary paperwork.
That night, when Seungcheol gets home, you only ask him one question. One last attempt to save your marriage that was on the verge of collapse.
“Seungcheol,” You whisper shakily, tears pricking at your lashes as your eyes lock onto the bouquet in Seungcheol’s hand.
“Is everything okay?” Seungcheol asks. The worry is evident in his eyes as he reaches out for you, but you step back, putting a hand out in front of you to stop him.
The worry in his eyes is quick to turn into hurt, but you’re sure it’s nothing compared to the one in your heart.
“Are you still in love with Sohee?” Her name leaves your mouth like a curse, your throat seizing like the words were physically killing you as you say them. “Tell me the truth, please.”
Choi Seungcheol never lies, but you still find yourself pleading with him to not do it anyway.
He looks at you like there’s a loaded gun in his hand, lips trembling and eyes flooded with fear. You can see the plea in his eyes, the desperation, but that’s not what you want.
What you want is the truth.
“I’m sorry,” It’s all Seungcheol says.
It’s all you need to hear.
A/N: I am so sorry. I’m just here to tell a story, really 🙂↕️ Feel free to scream at me in my askbox LMAO (NO BUT ACTUALLY I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS ONE 😭). Mingyu’s story was too happy so I’m just balancing it out with this one 😄 Part 2 will be hopefully be out by the end of the year because I still need to finish my thesis and get my degree 🥹
oh how this one hits the spot bad… an angst that makes me regret reading it in the morning because now i have no energy to go through the day without knowing how the 2nd part will go…
Pairing: Wonwoo x reader
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au!
Words Count: 23k
Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.
The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.
A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.
There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.
The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.
You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.
Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.
Who was the stranger at the funeral?
Why was there no hint about what came next?
And most importantly — where were you now?
Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.
No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.
But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.
Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.
So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.
At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.
Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day
When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.
Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.
Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.
The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.
But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.
Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.
“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.
Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.
Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.
“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.
Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?
*
He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.
That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.
He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.
Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.
And then — he met you.
One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.
He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.
A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.
You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.
You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.
There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.
A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.
He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.
“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.
“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”
You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.
Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.
You knew this face better than your own.
You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.
“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.
His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.
“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.
“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”
He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.
“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.
The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.
“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.
“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”
You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.
His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.
“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”
Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.
You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.
You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.
“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.
You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.
Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.
“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”
He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.
You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.
Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.
He blinked once. Twice.
The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.
His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.
His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.
Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.
Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.
“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.
He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.
He didn’t know at all.
*
It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.
You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.
Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.
The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.
He was too human to ignore.
You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.
They asked if you heard voices.
You said yes — his.
They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.
They gave you pills.
This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.
But sleep didn’t save you.
Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.
He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.
“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”
You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.
It drove you mad.
He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.
So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.
Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.
So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.
Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.
You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.
And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.
You had finally killed him.
You were free.
*
You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.
But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.
At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.
Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.
And then you saw him.
Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.
His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.
Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.
“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.
He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.
“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”
And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.
Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.
“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”
Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.
“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.
You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.
So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”
His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.
You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.
“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”
Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.
“...please.”
It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.
You remembered.
The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.
The Margin.
Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.
Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.
With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.
You clicked The Margin.
The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.
You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:
“Help me… please, help me save him…”
Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.
And then — the cursor froze.
The screen dimmed.
A hiss of static crawled up your spine.
The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.
Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.
And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.
*
You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.
At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.
You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.
Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.
And the people—
Your breath hitches.
Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.
They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.
And then you remember —
You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.
You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.
When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.
Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.
“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.
“You’ve brought him.”
He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.
Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.
The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.
Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.
Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.
Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.
“Joshua…”
He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.
Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.
Kim Mingyu.
The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.
And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.
The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.
You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.
The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.
You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.
“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”
Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.
“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”
Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.
Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.
“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”
The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.
“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.
“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”
Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.
His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.
“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.
“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.
“Do I… even deserve it?”
Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.
So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.
Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.
And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.
*
You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.
For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.
Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.
Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?
You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.
And then —
“Excuse me…”
The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.
“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”
Jeon’s…
The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.
Park… Hyungrim.
Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.
Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.
You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.
“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.
She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”
You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.
You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”
Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”
And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.
“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.
Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”
Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?
“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.
“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”
You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.
Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”
Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”
You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.
And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.
And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.
Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”
You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.
You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.
“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.
Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.
You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.
Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.
His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.
“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.
Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.
“Come here. Before you get lost again.”
*
You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.
He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.
Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.
Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.
Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.
“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”
You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.
“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.
Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.
He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.
“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”
His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.
“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.
But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.
“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.
“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.
“What was the goal? Writing me.”
Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.
In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.
Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.
“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.
Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.
“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.
“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”
You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”
Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.
“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”
He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.
“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.
“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”
“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”
Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.
“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”
His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”
There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.
“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”
A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.
Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.
“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back.
You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.
*
You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.
“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.
On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.
And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.
“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”
You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.
Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.
A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.
You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.
“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.
You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.
“Okay. I’ll get ready.”
And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:
He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.
Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.
Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.
Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.
Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.
Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness.
You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.
“Miss?”
You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.
“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”
Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.
“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”
You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”
Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.
“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”
And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.
After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?
*
Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.
Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.
“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”
Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.
A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.
“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?
Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.
“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”
Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.
“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.
The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.
He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.
He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.
But then there was that cop.
A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.
Yet he didn’t.
Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.
Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.
Instead, he played.
He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.
And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”
So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.
He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.
VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.
Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.
“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”
Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.
“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”
Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.
“Drive to the station. Now.”
He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.
Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.
Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.
He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.
Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.
“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”
Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.
“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”
Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.
“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”
Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:
“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”
You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.
Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.
Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.
But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.
“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”
Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.
“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.
You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.
Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.
“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”
At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.
“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”
He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.
Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:
“I see she's yours, Jeon.”
Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.
He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.
“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”
His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”
You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.
“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”
You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.
“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”
You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”
A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.
And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”
He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.
Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.
But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.
Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.
In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.
“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”
He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.
“Fuck!”
He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.
Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.
“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”
His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.
“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”
When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.
Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.
“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.
He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.
“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.
“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”
You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.
You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.
You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.
Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.
Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.
Something good.
Then you found it.
*
You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.
Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.
Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.
You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”
A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.
Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.
Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.
You knew this feeling.
The pull — not of this library, but the Library.
A door to the Margin within the real world.
You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.
And now it opened for you again.
The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.
You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.
You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”
And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.
You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.
Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”
A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.
Isn’t that what you did to him?
Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.
Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.
And then you were falling through it.
The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.
Your old apartment unit.
Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.
Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.
This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.
You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.
Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.
Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.
He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.
Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”
He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.
He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.
“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.
Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.
“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.
His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.
“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.
“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.
You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.
“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”
Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.
“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.
His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.
“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”
And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.
And he was just as scared as you.
You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.
“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”
Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.
“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.
Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.
“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”
He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.
Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.
His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.
“What did you do, Y/n?”
You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.
“I— I didn’t mean to—”
He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.
“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.
“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”
You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.
“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.
“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.
“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.
“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”
His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.
“Save me? Or save yourself?”
His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.
“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.
And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.
*
You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.
His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.
“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.
You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.
“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.
Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.
You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.
When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.
You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.
Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:
“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”
You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:
10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.
Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.
“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.
He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.
Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.
“Y/n.”
His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.
He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.
“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.
Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.
“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”
Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.
“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”
Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.
“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.
“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.
“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”
Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.
“But if I could—”
He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.
“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”
And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.
You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.
You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.
You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.
Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.
He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.
He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”
You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”
He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.
*
Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.
You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.
Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.
“She’s in my world.”
His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.
“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.
“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.
“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”
Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.
He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.
“Murder.”
You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.
For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.
Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:
Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?
His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:
What was he really for?
*
You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.
Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.
You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”
You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.
Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.
He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”
You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”
He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”
Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”
Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.
Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.
And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.
“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”
Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”
For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.
Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”
Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.
*
You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.
Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.
He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”
Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.
You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.
Back. You were back.
You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.
Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.
You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.
Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.
Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.
She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.
“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”
You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”
Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.
“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”
Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.
You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.
“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”
“Yes, Miss?”
You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.
“Thank you for… looking after him..”
You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.
Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.
Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.
He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.
“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.
Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.
“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”
You blinked. “Passed out?”
Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”
You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.
You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”
At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.
“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”
You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”
Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.
His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?
But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.
The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.
She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.
“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.
Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”
Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.
“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”
You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.
Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.
Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.
“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”
He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.
*
The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.
“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”
Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”
Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.
“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”
Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”
The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.
“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.
“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”
Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.
“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”
Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.
Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”
“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.
Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.
You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.
Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.
But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.
“So you have a vulnerability?”
Attached below, a single photo loaded.
He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.
“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”
Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.
The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.
Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.
“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.
A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:
“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”
Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.
Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.
“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”
Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.
*
In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.
You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.
“Hey.”
You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.
He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.
“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”
Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.
“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”
He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.
“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”
Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.
Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.
“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”
You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.
“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”
Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.
“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”
He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.
The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.
Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.
Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.
Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.
You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.
You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.
Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.
Keep going.
Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.
You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.
A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.
Free. Half-free.
Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.
Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.
You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.
Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.
A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.
One breath. One thought: Run.
You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.
Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.
A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.
You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.
Then the car's door slammed open.
“Y/n!”
Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.
He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.
“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.
Hansol.
He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.
Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.
Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.
“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”
The word dripped with mockery, a dare.
Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.
You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.
Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.
But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.
“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.
Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.
“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.
“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”
“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.
“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.
Your breath caught.
“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”
Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.
“Too late.”
The gunshot cracked the night open.
Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.
Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.
“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”
Time fractured.
Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.
Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.
For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.
But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.
“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”
A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.
“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”
You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.
“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.
“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”
Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.
In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.
And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.
*
When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.
“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.
You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.
“...S-Soonyoung…?”
He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.
“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”
A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.
When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.
“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”
You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.
A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.
“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”
You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.
“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”
The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.
“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”
When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.
“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.
You only shook your head.
Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.
“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”
He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.
“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”
You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”
He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”
Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.
“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”
Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.
Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.
“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”
His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.
Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.
The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.
Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.
You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.
Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.
It wasn’t your ending.
In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.
Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.
And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.
You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.
Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”
“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”
Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.
“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”
“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”
Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.
Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.
He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.
“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.
“But, Soon—”
“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.
“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”
His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.
Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”
Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.
*
You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:
Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n
No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.
By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.
The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.
Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.
When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.
No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.
Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.
You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.
Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.
Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.
In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.
By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.
You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.
No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.
For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.
You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.
You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.
“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.
“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”
You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.
“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”
He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”
You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”
He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.
“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”
You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.
“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”
You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.
“Promise.”
*
You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.
Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.
Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.
You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.
The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.
The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.
He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.
Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”
He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.
It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.
Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.
You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.
“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”
Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.
“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”
You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel.
“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”
Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.
“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”
He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.
“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”
Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.
“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.
Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.
“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”
You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.
“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”
He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”
Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.
His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.
It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.
Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.
When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.
Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.
“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”
Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.
You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.
Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.
When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.
“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”
You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.
“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”
And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.
*
Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.
“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”
You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.
“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”
Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.
“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”
Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.
“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”
Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.
“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”
Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”
Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”
i. fucking. love this. as a villain enthusiast, this was everything to MEEE. i love when story author leaves room of mercy and humanity in villain and this storyline is everything to me. god i want a wonwoo of my own too
SYNOPSIS. Kim Mingyu lives a double life. On one end, he’s the perfectly charming yet clumsy coworker at the Daily Planet. On the other, he’s saving the world. But when you–a guarded yet sharp-witted journalist–are paired up with him on solving a mysterious case of kryptonite trafficking, Mingyu finds it harder and harder to keep his secret at bay. And falling for you only makes it worse, when he’s only given two choices: protect his identity, or risk everything by letting you in.
PAIRING. superman!kim mingyu x journalist!fem!reader (ft. editor-in-chief!seungcheol, photojournalist!wonwoo, editor!minghao, barista!seulgi)
GENRE. superman au, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, humour, slow burn, suggestive
WARNINGS. cursing, suggestive themes (kissing, making out, lil grinding, vague nudity, implied sex, shirtless mingyu ofc), violence, blood, illegal crimes (kryptonite trafficking, robbery, theft, hijacking, bombing, kidnapping), drinking, mention of tobacco, mingyu has hella plot armour, idk how to write a whole crime case for the life of me i was struggling w that whole part so it prob makes no sense lol
WORD COUNT. 18.2k (for part two); 43k (in total)
notes: welcome to the final part of off the record!! honestly after rereading this fic a million times i swear there are plot holes and parts i could do better on. but hey, i've never written an action-crime fic like this before so i had fun writing with all the knowledge i had and wtv my pea brain could handle heh. if you've read this far, i hope you've enjoyed 🫶 once again, pls do reblog or comment/send an ask i would love to know your thoughts!
part one | part two
Mingyu finds himself clumsily stumbling through the doors of the Daily Planet. He’s ten minutes late than he was supposed to clock in. One of the buttons on his shirt is unknowingly misaligned, though he covers it up with his jacket. He brushes through his windswept hair, adjusts his crooked tie, and itches a tiny spot at his nose before fixing the glasses on his face while speed-walking through the lobby.
There was an attempted robbery at one of the local laundromats this morning. Luckily, it wasn’t too bad𑁋just a bunch of high school teenagers attempting to snoop through the laundry machines and steal the coins. Mingyu had handled it quickly, gently scolding the teenagers then reprimanding them, and flying them straight to the nearest police station. But it still cost him precious time, as he barely was able to finish his breakfast before being called in.
Mingyu sighs under his breath, muttering an apology as he dodges a passing janitor and an intern jogging towards the ground floor coffee shop. His mind races ahead of him, knowing he was going to see you today. You’re probably already here, sipping on your cup of coffee that he should’ve probably gotten for you if he wasn’t late.
Warmth blooms in his chest at the thought of you briefly, but the fondness is quickly shoved away by guilt. He can’t help but think about your conversation with him the other night as he adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
Your words keep replaying over and over in his mind. You make it hard, you know, to stay detached.
God, he wanted to tell you everything. Wanted to stand in front of you𑁋not as Superman, but as Mingyu. As your dazed, cowardice coworker and science journalist who has always wanted to ask you out on a proper date but doesn’t have the guts to.
It’s an odd situation, really. When he’s Superman, he has the confidence to kiss you, but when he’s Mingyu, he can barely look at you in the eyes for more than five seconds before feeling like he’ll spontaneously combust.
He exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as he nears the elevators. His steps quicken with determination. He dashes around the corner of the lobby𑁋
𑁋and crashes straight into another man.
“Ah, sorry, sir!” Mingyu blurts out in apology, already reaching out a hand to steady the man before stumbling back himself.
The man barely looks up from where he stands, clutching a sleek black briefcase at his side as he brushes off his dark coat, muttering something under his breath. He’s tall, seemingly close to Mingyu’s height, and his face is half-hidden by a black fedora.
The familiarity of the man hits Mingyu all at once.
Mingyu feigns a guilty look. “Sorry again, sir. Is there anything I can𑁋”
And then it hits him. A wave of nausea slams into Mingyu’s gut.
He falters for a second, trying to control the way his knees nearly buckle beneath him. His vision swims for a second, his skin burning underneath his clothes, sweat beginning to bead at his forehead despite being in a completely air-conditioned lobby.
“You good, kid?” the man asks lowly, voice rough and gravelly; it even sends an uncomfortable shiver up Mingyu’s spine.
No.
He is not good.
“Yeah, just…” He lets out a few fake coughs, clenching his jaw. “Skipped breakfast, little stomachache. Happens more often than you think.”
“Mm,” the man hums, and Mingyu swears he sees his lips curl underneath the shadow from his fedora. His stomach twists violently as his attention flits to the man’s briefcase momentarily, and there’s a faint, sickly green glow pulsing from its seams, so subtle no ordinary human eye could possibly notice. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
Before Mingyu can say anything more, he watches as the man disappears within the bustling, crowded lobby. Then he finds himself leaning against the wall for support, breathing unsteady, feeling the poison dissipating from his bloodstream the farther the man walks away.
Kryptonite. The word echoes through his mind as if he was cursed, leaving his limbs heavy and his thoughts spiraling. The pain is faint now𑁋whatever the hell was in that briefcase is out of proximity𑁋but that encounter was close. Too close. This wasn’t just some low level crook or common thief. It wasn’t an accident. It was intentional.
And if it’s in the Daily Planet, it was meant for him.
Mingyu forces himself upright, brushes away invisible dust on his clothes, and readjusts his crooked glasses. He can’t afford to make a scene. Not here. Not now.
Especially not when you’re here.
He pastes on a smile when the elevator dings and he steps out onto the floor, yet it’s swift to fade as he breezes past passing colleagues trying to greet him and cubicles, scanning the room to find you. But he doesn’t see you, not even at your desk.
Panicking, he strides towards around the corner to where the conference room is, heart thudding, vision narrowed.
Finally, he spots you through the glass of one of them. You’re seated near the end of the table surrounded by other journalists in your field, dressed in some semi-formal attire, jotting down notes on your notepad as a woman speaks at the front. You’re so focused, so in your element, completely unaware of the possible danger lingering inside the building.
A wave of relief washes over him for a fleeting moment as he nears the door. He hesitates. He shouldn’t disturb you. You’d probably even try to kill him for interrupting a meeting like this.
But he can’t shake the feeling crawling up his spine𑁋the warning courses through his veins, the way every nerve in his body is rigid with apprehension. The image of that briefcase and its poisonous glow flashes through his eyes.
Without thinking, he knocks on the door, and it’s firm enough to turn a few heads in his direction. The woman at the front pauses mid-sentence. You look up as well, eyes widening and brows furrowing to the sight of Mingyu in the doorway. He gestures toward you with a subtle tilt of his head, mouthing something you can’t quite decipher from where you’re sitting.
“Hi, um… Sorry to interrupt.” Mingyu pushes the door open a little more, trying to contain the urgency in his voice, shooting apologetic looks to everyone in the room. “Can I borrow Y/N for a second?”
You frown at him, glancing briefly at your other colleagues who are all mumbling amongst each other. “I𑁋Mingyu, can it wait? I’m in the middle of a𑁋”
“Please.” His lips part; for a brief second, his façade falters, and you catch something like worry in his eyes. “It won’t take long. I promise.”
Your shoulders tense instinctively, but you cover it up with a polite smile to the people beside you, mumbling apologies under your breath. You tuck your notepad under your arm and stuff your pen inside the pocket of your suit jacket and quietly excuse yourself from the meeting.
Mingyu opens the door a little farther for you to step out, before closing it behind and reaching for your hand without a second thought.
His fingers wrap around your hands with a kind of urgency you’ve never felt from him before, struggling to keep up with his fast pace. He drags you through the crowded newsroom and towards the entrance to the stairwell, the buzz of nearby conversations fading away.
“Mingyu,” You breathe out the second the two of you stop. “You can’t just take me out of my meeting𑁋what’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer at first. His hand still hasn’t let go of yours, and you catch the way his eyes seem to be darting around as if expecting someone𑁋or someone𑁋to appear around the corner any moment. His jaw tightens, and you swear if you listen hard enough, you might be able to hear his teeth grind.
Mingyu swallows hard before looking down at you, his firm grip on your hand loosening slightly.
“I… I just needed to see you,” he confesses, though you can tell he’s holding something back.
Your breath hitches at his words. “What’s𑁋”
“You trust me, right?” he asks quietly, words fragile as if it’s going to break.
Your lips part to speak, but the words take a few seconds to form. “I… Of course, I do.”
He exhales shakily at your words, something flickering over his eyes𑁋relief, perhaps. Or guilt. Or regret. But before you can dwell on it, before you can ask him what’s wrong, a shrill, piercing sound cuts thunderously through the air.
The alarm.
It blares overhead, bouncing off the walls, swallowing every other sound in its wake. Flashing red lights cloud your vision and illuminate the halls. You could only freeze in place, stomach sinking down to the ground, unable to move.
“Attention, all personnel,” a calm, but firm voice speaks through the intercom system. “We have received a breach in security. Please remain calm and await further instruction. There has been a potential bomb threat reported in the building. All personnel are ordered to evacuate immediately. Emergency services are on their way. This is not a drill. I repeat: this is not a drill.”
You feel your blood run cold. Gasps and shouts erupt all across the newsroom. Chairs scrape against the floor. People around you are scrambling for their belongings and pouring out into the hallway.
You whip your head back around to Mingyu. He’s grown paler, yet his grip on your hand only tightens, like he’s trying to anchor himself to you𑁋and maybe he is. Maybe you’re the only thing holding him together right now.
“Mingyu,” You utter, panic creeping into your voice. “A bomb? Is this𑁋should we𑁋”
“We need to get out of here,” he interrupts, already pulling you toward the stairwell door. “Come on.”
You hastily stumble after him as he pushes the door open and leads you down the flights of stairs. You can hear the stampede of steps right behind you of people flooding their way through the stairwell, trying to get out as well. His steps are faster, more purposeful, but every few seconds he glances over his shoulder to check on you, making sure you’re keeping up.
At the bottom of the stairs, the doors are wide open, people from all directions rushing outside, some shouting into phones, others helping each other along. The sirens of the emergency services grow deafening the second you and him burst outside.
Mingyu pulls you a little farther away from the growing crowd, his hand still clasped around yours like he’s terrified to let go. His chest heaves unsteadily, gaze flicking wildly over the scene𑁋police cars, reporters scrambling to get footage, people crying or calling their loved ones on the phone.
When he comes to a halt, he turns back to look at you. “Don’t move from here. Don’t follow me. Do you understand?”
“What?” You gasp, trying to catch your breath. “No𑁋Mingyu, you are not fucking going back, I am not letting you𑁋”
“Promise me.” One of his hands finds your shoulder, gripping tight but not too harshly. The other reaches up to hesitantly cup your face, and for a brief moment, the chaos seems to fade away. “Please.”
Your throat constricts, and you barely manage a nod. With that, you feel him pull away from you. There’s a small hint of hesitation as he doesn’t let his eyes leave yours. But then he purses his lips together and turns on his heel, running back into the crowd and disappearing behind all the rows of screaming police cars.
Every instinct in you is fighting to follow him, a wobble in your step as you place one foot forward.
But you promised him to stay, and so you do.
Mingyu rounds a corner and ducks into a nearby alleyway. He fumbles with the buttons to his shirt, tearing it open to reveal the unmistakable emblem hidden underneath. He kicks off his shoes and throws his glasses aside, shrugging off the rest of his clothes as his red cape flares out behind him like a banner.
The building of the Daily Planet shrinks beneath him as he launches himself up into the air, letting his mind focus to narrow in on the threat. His eyes glow as he scans through the building’s interior, and then𑁋there.
A soft, beep-beep-beep reverberates in his ear, coming from beneath the layers of concrete and steel. He forces himself to focus even more, his vision lasering through the walls of the building, until he sees it.
17th floor. Administrative area. Armed men surrounding the bomb like vultures.
With a singular breath, he dives down, merely a blur of red and blue to witnesses below as he crashes through the window, shattering glass exploding like diamonds. The force is enough to send a few of the armed men crashing down the ground before even realising what hit them.
In an instant, he feels the white-hot searing pain of kryptonite nearby enter his body, but he has to push through. He has to.
Alarms wail in his ears as he lands on the floor with a thunderous impact. But he tunes them out, eyes narrowing to the sounds of weapons being drawn and commands being shouted from all kinds of directions𑁋but he’s faster, way too fast.
Mingyu moves before any of them can properly aim. A sharp whoosh penetrates through the air with every punch, every tackle, every bullet that harmlessly ricochets off his chest and into the walls. He lifts one man into the air and flings him into a nearby desk with enough restraint to incapacitate, but not to kill. Another one tries to foolishly sprint at him with a knife, but fails miserably as Mingyu grabs him by the wrist, twisting hard enough to make the man yelp and the knife crumpling down to the floor. With a clean punch, he sends the man flying across the room.
The click of a gun heightens Mingyu’s senses, and he turns around to lunge forward into another armed man aiming directly at him, grabbing the barrel of the gun and bending it like it’s made of tinfoil. A swift punch to the gut is enough to send the man buckling down to the ground before having any time to react.
At the corner of his eye, Mingyu spots another one of the men attempting to escape through the stairwell. He dashes forward, slamming the man straight into the wall, watching as his unconscious body slumps down the stairs.
When the last attacker is down and the room finally stills, Mingyu turns his attention back to the bomb. It sits perched on a standing desk, ominous and pulsing faintly with a green glow.
Kryptonite.
A wave of nausea claws up his throat as he nears it. It’s still ticking down.
00:00:40.
00:00:39.
00:00:38…
He has no time.
As a groan bubbles deep in his chest, Mingyu reaches out and encases the bomb in his arms, sweltering pain crawling up his arm as he tightens a grip around the cold metal, but he doesn’t let go.
“Shit, come on, come on…” he hisses through his teeth, his cape dragging against the floor below.
He bends his knees and tries to push off the ground, but he barely lifts off.
The kryptonite’s grip tightens around his chest like a suffocating weight. His flight sputters like a broken engine, lifting him only a few feet off the ground before his strength falters. He slams back onto the floor with a harsh grunt, sweat beading over his forehead.
The clock keeps ticking down. He squeezes his eyes shut. Focus, focus, focus.
He won’t fail. He can’t.
Mingyu forces himself upright again, wrapping both arms around the bomb. His muscles turns into knots under the strain, but he wills his body to rise, fighting to cover every agonising inch off the ground.
Then with a sudden burst of energy, he rockets through the ceiling, debris exploding through the air as his cape snaps behind him through the wind. He flies higher and higher, struggling to not succumb to the kryptonite’s poison crawling through his veins.
00:00:17.
00:00:16.
00:00:15…
He breaks through the clouds and rears close to the stratosphere, the city below him stretching like a blanket. The bomb feels heavier than the entire world itself. His chest tightens even more; black spots dancing through his vision.
00:00:06.
00:00:05.
00:00:04…
With one final roar, Mingyu hurls the bomb out of his grasp and straight up into the sky with every last ounce of his strength he could muster. It sails upwards like a shooting star, and as the seconds dial to zero, it explodes in a brilliant, blinding supernova of green light far above the Earth that sends him barreling back to the ground, though he manages to catch himself mid-air, hovering for a few seconds to catch his breath.
Back on the ground, a sudden shockwave nearly has you slipping on your feet, rumbling the ground like distant thunder. Gasps ripple through the air as you and everyone else’s eyes peer up to the skies, the explosion illuminating the heavens above before being swallowed by the clouds.
And then… silence. Peace. But it isn’t as comforting as you hoped for.
You scan the crowd desperately, spotting coworkers hugging each other, cameras aimed at the skies with reporters frantically speaking. But there’s no sign of the face you’re looking for𑁋where the hell is Mingyu?
He promised you. He promised.
Your feet take a few staggering steps forward, continuing to skim every face in your peripheral vision, yet you still don’t see any sight of him. Worry swarms through every limb in your body as you clench your fists at your side, ready to defy his word if it means finding him.
But then, suddenly, a cloth clamps over your mouth from behind.
Your scream is muffled as your body jerks backward, and whatever the hell is laced in the cloth immediately burns down your throat the second you inhale its bitter, chemical smell. You try to thrash your legs, wildly flail your arms, but then an arm grips around your torso, leaving your efforts to no avail.
Your vision spins. The world starts to tilt. Your limbs begin to grow weak, sluggish, your strength slipping away.
“Shh, shh,” a low voice whispers eerily in your ear. “Don’t make this harder, sweetheart.”
The last thing you see and hear before the darkness consumes you is the blurry outline of the crowd cheering and the streaking colour of red and blue crossing the sky.
The first thing you feel is a pulsating throb against your skull. Your eyelids flutter open slowly, vision swimming in and out of focus, but the world around you is completely disorientating.
Harsh fluorescent lights glare down on you from above, and the sharp smell of something faintly chemical, acrid, metallic fill your lungs. It feels like weights are holding down all your limbs, only for you to realise you’re completely bound up𑁋both legs and wrists.
You tug helplessly at the bindings, but they don’t budge. Cold metal cuffs bite uncomfortably into your skin, anchoring you to the chair you’re sitting on. Your heart pounds anxiously against your ribcage as your vision starts to finally sharpen𑁋and that’s when you realise where you are. Or where you think you are.
A warehouse. Or something like that. Grey, windowless walls surround you on every side, illuminated by the few flickering light bulbs above. Stacks of crates line the walls containing serial numbers you don’t recognise, but you could only guess the one thing that may be housed in there.
Kryptonite.
Dread gnaws at your core.
Somewhere, a low snicker taunts you from the shadows.
“Sleeping Beauty is finally awake.”
You flinch as footsteps start to approach, a pair of heavy boots pounding against the concrete. Slowly, a man steps into your view𑁋middle-aged, a black fedora on his head, a jagged scar running from his temple and down to his jaw. A pistol is grasped in his hand, but what chills you more is the cutthroat glint to his eyes. Behind him stood a few men, rifles casually slung over their shoulders, their faces covered with masks.
“Comfortable?” He crouches down to your level, close enough you literally taste the pungent smell of tobacco off him. “Apologies for the rude awakening, darling. Was concerned they put too much chloroform in you.”
You spit at the ground near his boot. “Go to hell, prick.”
A dark grin spreads across the man’s scarred face. “Oh, honey, I’ve been living there for years.” The gun in his hand clicks loudly, raising the hairs on the back of your neck, pointing the barrel of the gun at your knee. “But don’t worry. You’ll be joining me soon enough.”
A ripple of chuckles dance around you mockingly. Scarface eventually stands up, pacing around you tauntingly.
“Let’s cut to the chase, yeah?” he starts. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here, aren’t you?”
He stops directly behind you, and you feel the barrel of his gun knock against the back of your head.
“Here’s the thing,” Scarface continues coldly. “This ain’t personal, sweetheart. Though, between you and me, it’s a hell of a bonus that you happen to be his plaything.”
Your blood runs cold. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He simply laughs, a bitter bark that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. “Come on, princess, don’t play dumb. You and Superman. Or whatever the hell he calls himself these days. We’ve seen you two.”
You swallow hard, lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re delusional.”
His grin widens, teeth yellow in the dim light. “Am I? Or did you think no one else would notice? Cameras are everywhere in this shithole city, darling. Tell me, doll𑁋does he fly straight to your apartment after a rescue? Whisper sweet nothings in your ear? Fuck you silly in the sky?”
You jerk frantically against the cuffs, wincing as the metal digs deeper into your skin. “You’re sick, you𑁋”
The sound of the gun cocking immediately makes you zip your mouth.
“You wrote that little article, huh? Though you were some big hero exposing our kryptonite trade, eh?” He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve pissed off the wrong people with that one, princess. It almost makes me feel bad for you, honestly. But alas, you’ve signed your own death warrant with that.”
“If you want to kill me so badly, just do it,” You urge lowly.
“Now, where would be the fun in that?” Scarface spits hoarsely. “As much as it would be fun to put a bullet through your head, there are far more important things than that. Superman.”
“He’s not your enemy,” You attempt to reason, even though deep down you know it’s useless. “He’s saved this city more times than𑁋”
“I’ve heard all the PR bullshit,” he cuts you off sharply. “He’s a threat. A freak. An alien bastard. A ticking time bomb. You think this world is safe with him flying around? He can lift mountains and destroy an entire city with a fucking sneeze. And threats like that need to be neutralised.”
Scarface looms above you once again, pointing the gun right between your eyes.
“And what better way to lure him out by using the thing he loves most?”
You battle the fear grappling at your chest, forcing your defiant gaze to shoot a dagger right through him.
“Fuck you.”
What comes next is a loud slap that echoes across the room. Pain immediately burns through your cheek from the force, your vision momentarily blurring, the taste of copper falling on your tongue. Your teeth scrape against each other in your mouth as you hold back the heat sprouting in the corners of your eyes.
“Tough girl, huh?” Scarface sneers amusedly, pulling away from you. “Makes things more fun.”
Before you can retort, you hear shots ringing out in the distance𑁋somewhere outside from wherever you are. It stuns the room in a brief, rigid silence, making the armed men in the room hoister their rifles. There’s a momentary wave of relief that hits you, a beat of hope that reverberates in your heart.
Scarface curses lowly under his breath, his grip hardening around his pistol, signaling to the men in the room. You watch as they all give a nod before marching out the door, before Scarface flickers his gaze back to you.
“You stay right here, yeah?” He gives you a forceful flick on the forehead. “Enjoy the show, princess.”
The rattling sound of keys jerks your attention upright. You watch with hazy eyes as two armed men stroll inside the room with heavy footsteps. Both of their faces are obscured and hidden by hats and masks, rifles slung across their shoulders as they approach you. They come to either side of you𑁋the man on the right reaches for a tight grip around your waist.
“Get up,” he orders gruffly. “Orders changed. We’re taking you outside.”
The man on the left is noticeably silent as you’re yanked off your chair and onto your feet. Your knees wobble from having been sitting for God knows how long, blood and adrenaline rushing throughout your body.
You find yourself being forced towards the exit, entering into a shallow hallway. Exposed pipes and the heavy, unappealing scent of oil and gunpowder fill your lungs. You stumble against the uneven floor as you’re guided forward, their grips firm on your wrists.
The silence of the hallway feels deafening, seemingly endless before your eyes with no visible signs of escape. You overhear the man on the right mumbling something over what you assume to be a radio, then you allow your gaze to flit over to the man on the left.
He’s stoic, composed, the low brim of his cap hiding his eyes. His grip on your wrist is not as bruising as the other man; in fact, it’s almost gentle, somewhat hesitant. It doesn’t feel like the kind of grip of someone dragging you down to your execution. Or maybe you’re just holding onto the end of some fragile thread of hope, because at this point, it’s slipping from your grasp way faster than you’re able to catch up with.
“Get moving.” The man on the right shoves you with the barrel of his gun.
You stumble forward with a sharp hiss, and you hardly realise that the grip on your left wrist tightens ever so slightly, preventing you from falling down to the ground.
“Watch it,” the man on the left grumbles.
“Shut your mouth.” The other man gives you another harsher push.
And then, suddenly, the air shifts.
It happens like the blink of an eye𑁋a blur of movement catches you off-guard and before your brain could fully process what’s happening, the man on the left snaps into action.
With one fluid, impossible movement, he lets go of your wrist before swinging a hand directly into the other man’s gut. A sickening crunch echoes through the empty hallway as you watch the armed guard crumple down to the ground. Before he has any chance to recover, the man on your left knocks the rifle clean out of his hands, and in another flash of motion, slams him hard into the wall.
The impact leaves a deep dent in the drywall.
You instinctively shield yourself with your cuffed hands, fear slithering up your shaky legs as the man turns directly towards you. For a moment, your heart nearly stops.
And then, you see it.
Though his face is still obscured, you catch a glimpse𑁋just a tiny glimpse𑁋of his eyes.
There’s no anger in them.
Or rage.
But warmth.
Your lips part in disbelief as you scan him from head to toe. The brim of his hat is slightly askew from earlier, dark hair peeking out from underneath. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his frame sending an unmistakable spark of recognition through your mind, and it takes everything in you not to cry or collapse from relief.
Superman is here. He found you.
He steps up to you carefully while removing his mask, reaching an arm behind to snap the cuffs off your wrists like they’re made of tinfoil. They fall down the ground with a clank, and you find yourself instinctively leaning into him, feeling his arms immediately catch you. His warmth is enough to wash away more of the fear and adrenaline coursing within you.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low, almost hoarse𑁋like it physically hurts to see you like this.
You give a subtle, vulnerable shake of your head. He doesn’t press you more about it.
“There’s kryptonite here,” You tell him worriedly. “They talked about it𑁋said they were going to use it on you. To trap you. Kill you.”
You feel his body stiffen for a moment. Not out of fear, though. He’s not afraid, you think.
“I know,” he says quietly.
He releases you a little, giving him room to slide one of his gloves off. Your eyes widen at the sight of blood on his knuckles. The imminent danger of kryptonite is fully shown right in front of you. Just like the heist at the National Bank, it’s enough to even make the Man of Steel bleed.
You take his hand in yours. It tremors from your touch. “No, you can’t𑁋” You purse your lips together urgently. “They want you to walk into their trap. Into their goddamn execution chamber.”
He doesn’t pull his hand away. He lets you hold it, allowing your gaze to wash over the blooming scrape as if it’ll be enough to make it fade away. You feel the restraint in his body, as if he’s trying to hold in the imperceptible signs of pain he may be feeling. He’s breathing harder than he should, and still holding your hand like he doesn’t want to let go.
Then he looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time since stepping into this hellhole. And it nearly destroys him to see worry carved in your features. He’s never seen this look on you before, never seen you𑁋the Daily Planet’s most passionate and sharp-witted journalist𑁋this scared before. For him.
His jaw tics.
“I have to stop them,” he mutters. “It’s what I have to do.”
He’s about to move. You can feel it in the way his body shifts. You still refuse to let him go.
“There’s a vent, northside of the building,” he informs you softly. “It’s a tight squeeze, but it’ll take you outside. Reinforcements are already on their way. I’ll hold them off so you can get out.”
“No,” You insist desperately, clinging to his sleeve. “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding. They’ll𑁋”
“Please.”
His voice cracks from the singular word alone. God, you want to argue. To cry. To kiss him hoping that this entire thing was just a figment of your imagination. But you can’t. This nightmare is real.
The realisation settles in your bones like ice.
He bends down a little to press his forehead against yours. You relish the closeness, allowing your eyes to fall to a close. While the world has gone mad outside, there’s a brief period of stillness that makes standing in this quiet, grimy hallway less suffocating. Slowly, your fingers release his sleeve, one-by-one.
“If you die in there, I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.” You whisper shakily, trying to summon any semblance of strength in your voice𑁋yet, it wavers anyway.
The barest twitch of his lips is the closest thing to a smile you get. “Deal.”
You open your eyes to look at him again𑁋just in case. Just in case this is the last time you get to. He doesn’t say anything, only leaning in to press the gentlest of kisses to your forehead which makes your heart squeeze tightly. It burns. Not from heat, but from the pain of goodbye disguised as tenderness.
“Go. Run,” he demands. “Don’t look back.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. And then you turn on your heel and bolt.
Your footsteps echo down the corridor, fading faster than he’s ready for. You don’t look back. You can’t. Because you know that if you do, you’ll turn around and never leave. And he needs you to leave. Staying might only hurt him even more.
Maybe that’s what love is sometimes: letting go of something, even when one piece of you is begging to stay.
Superman𑁋no, Mingyu𑁋watches as your figure disappears around the corner. The softness in his gaze hardens back to steel. He brings his eyes down to the unconscious guard slumped down the wall, stepping over to crouch down.
He begins to rifle through the man’s pockets swiftly. There’s no time to waste. At the corner of his eye, he spots one of the kryptonite pendants hidden underneath the man’s jacket. Other things that he finds are pretty standard: extra rounds of ammo, a pistol, a radio muttering purely static, a tactical knife. All of it is completely useless to him. But then, his hand brushes against something cold and metallic in one of the inner pockets.
He pulls it out𑁋a small, lead-lined case, which alone is already a red flag, and an access card.
Mingyu pockets the card before flipping open the tiny hatch, bracing for what he already suspects. Inside, there’s kryptonite, but it seems to be purposely melted into a liquid, metallic state, pulsing green like a heartbeat. The buzz from the radiation itches at the edges of his strength. He digs a little deeper into the man’s pockets, and he flinches when something sharp caresses his skin.
A syringe. It’s sleek, probably custom-made, the kind you don’t find in a standard military-grade medical kit. No, this was made for a purpose. They’d planned to get close to him, inject him. That’s why they needed you. You were the bait𑁋the knife they’d twist into his gut the moment his guard drops.
And it nearly worked.
Mingyu crushes the syringe in his hand without a second thought, the material melting inwardly before crumpling to the ground like a pile of dust. They used you. They took you from him. Toyed with your life and hurt you, left bruises on your wrists that he can still feel under his fingers.
It’s not rage that powers him now.
It’s you.
A bullet barely grazes his cheek, flying past him and hitting the wall right behind him.
He doesn’t flinch. He’s bleeding, but he hardly lets it phase him.
Mingyu’s body moves before he could even think, instincts sharpened by fury. He lunges forward, grabbing the armed man by the collar and slamming him into the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. The rifle clatters uselessly to the floor, and Mingyu crushes it with his foot.
Another soldier comes up at Mingyu from behind𑁋the soft click of the safety being released heightens his senses𑁋and he spins, sweeping the attacker’s legs out from under him. Before the man could hit the ground, a loud crack bounces off the walls as Mingyu’s fists meets his jaw with a forceful punch.
Pain rattles through his bones. He’s getting weaker by the minute, as if there’s some invisible noose tightening with every breath he takes. But he has to keep going. He has to.
He limps past the carnage of unconscious bodies, his breath ragged, shoulders rising and falling heavily with the effort to stay upright. The hallway ahead of him stretches before his eyes, flickering lights buzzing overhead. He makes one turn. Then another. And another.
He stops in his path.
A dead end, but it doesn’t forgo any sort of hope; in fact, quite the opposite. A steel, reforged door looms in front of him. Unlike the other doors in the place, there’s no handle for this one. A keypad glows faintly on the side𑁋red, locked tight. But he remembers the access card he pocketed earlier from the guard.
Taking it out of his pocket, he swipes it.
A soft beep. Then a hiss.
A gust of cold air meets his face as the door slides open slowly. For a moment, he doesn’t move𑁋his instincts scream at him that something is off, that something is wrong. But he steps forward anyway, walking inside the room as another wave of nausea courses through him.
His eyes squeeze shut, and he takes a minute to labour his breathing. One exhale. Two exhales. Three exhales. It’s relieving, even for a little while.
Then he opens his eyes.
And his heart drops.
The room is vast and eerily silent. The walls are lined with what appear to be glass chambers, some sort of stasis pods. They’re large, cylindrical-shaped, condensation brewing through them so he’s unable to fully see inside. He makes his way over to one of the pods, running a bloodied hand over its icy surface.
Mingyu nearly collapses down on his knees.
There’s a body inside. A woman, probably around his age. Her eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, her skin pale. Yet as he gazes over her still form, his mind suddenly racks with memories, recognition. This woman was on the list of people who were reported as a missing cold case at the very beginning. She was here all along, and the thought makes frustration blaze through him.
Then, another feeling slithers up his spine. He can feel it right down to his core, and it makes him stagger a few steps backwards. The same physiology. The same dormant power thrumming beneath her skin𑁋except, it’s lifeless now. Pulseless.
The people who were reported missing weren’t humans.
They’re Kryptonians.
Kryptonians who had survived the fallout of the planet, just like him. Mingyu thought he was the only survivor, but he wasn’t. They were here this entire time, and he couldn’t save them.
God, he had hoped. Somewhere, deep down, he had hoped that he wasn’t entirely alone, even if the loneliness was a fact he’d come to accept over the years. He had hoped that maybe one day, he’d find another Kryptonian out there who could tell him stories, or even what the stars looked like from his home planet because he was way too young to even remember.
He anguishly dashes from one pod to another, spotting more familiar faces from the missing person photos. Faces that look like his𑁋that feel like home. Some older, some younger. All stolen from the world and stripped of the chance to live like him. They all contain the same lifeless visage as the others, the same fading look of longing that there was freedom out there, but he was too late.
What had happened to them? Were they tortured? Experimented and researched on? Anger courses through him, and he shrugs off the disguise that had kept him alive this far. His cape unfurls behind him, and the crest on his suit is no longer hidden by grime and blood.
The symbol of hope.
He stands in the middle of the room, surrounded by the shattered remains of his people. He feels the guilt eat away at his resolve as he kneels down to the ground. There’s a dreadful stillness in the room that follows, before he clenches his bare fists and slams harshly into the ground, the floor cracking slightly beneath him.
It fucking hurts.
The rage that rises in his chest is no longer a flame. It’s blazing, devouring.
“It’s about time you showed up,” a voice says from behind, low and coiling around his nerves like the poison it is. “I was starting to think you’d turn on your tail and run away like your little girlfriend.”
Mingyu doesn’t turn around right away. His jaw tightens as he forces himself to rise to full height, pulling through the pain with gritted teeth. He doesn’t need strength to recognise the bastard standing behind him.
He spins his head slowly, red-rimmed eyes meeting the smug, scarred face grinning at him from across the room.
Scarface is leaning against the doorframe, twirling a pistol between his fingertips. That ugly scar draws down his features like someone had tried to carve the smugness off his face and failed. Mingyu watches as he approaches him at a leisure pace, walking into the room like he’s the goddamn messiah of this butcher’s cathedral.
“You piece of shit,” Mingyu rasps, chest heaving. “You killed them. You killed my people.”
Scarface clicks his tongue. “Killed? No, no.” He shakes his head amusedly. “We liberated them, sunshine. Gave them a purpose before their little brains shut down. You wouldn’t believe how much their bones would go for on the black market. Oh, you should’ve seen them, Kryptonian. Some of them lit up like fucking fireworks the second they got poked.”
Mingyu surges forward.
Or, he tries to.
But his knees buckle the moment he shifts his weight, a strangled noise escaping out of his throat as his legs give out beneath him. The green haze he’s been fighting since he stepped foot in this hellhole is suffocating him in. The very air is probably saturated in it. As he tries to lift himself again, it’s no use. His strength is barely there. The fire is there𑁋God, it’s there𑁋but his body is failing him.
“Kryptonite’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Scarface squats down just a few feet away. “You know what’s really funny? I didn’t even need to do much. All I had to do was grab your girl, and you folded like a fucking piece of paper.”
Mingyu jerks his head up from that. “Don’t fucking talk about her.”
Scarface slams the butt of his pistol into Mingyu’s ribs, causing him to crumple down on the floor with a groan.
“Struck a nerve, huh?” he sneers. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? So feisty too. All that attitude. It’s a shame, though. I can’t wait to see the sparkle leave her eyes when I’m finally done with you.”
That makes Mingyu snap again.
Mustering whatever strength he has, he manages to land a punch right at Scarface’s jaw. It catches the man off-guard, and Scarface stumbles back, momentarily stunned. But Mingyu watches as he recovers quickly, wiping the blood off his lips with a mocking smile.
“That’s all you can do, eh?” Scarface spits angrily. “What a pity.”
“Why?” Mingyu pants heavily. “Why did you do this? To my people?”
Scarface straightens his stance, letting out a dark, low chuckle. “Because you freaks don’t belong here.”
He gestures broadly to all the pods in the room, to all the still, frozen remnants of what Mingyu had once hoped were kin.
“We let one of you walk among us𑁋fly above us𑁋and what do we get in return?” Scarface motions back to Mingyu. “We get broken cities, dead citizens, and a god playing dress-up in a cape thinking he knows what’s best for us.”
“You slaughtered them,” Mingyu growls in frustration. God, he wants nothing more than to rip this man apart. “They were just trying to live. Trying to survive.”
Scarface cocks his head to the side in amusement. “And look where that got them. Look where that got you. We took care of them before they had the chance to get power and control. You don’t get it, do you, alien? You think just because you can bleed and cry and kiss like the rest of us makes you human?”
The man steps closer to Mingyu, looming over him now, his footsteps brooding with each step. Scarface whistles annoyingly as he lowers his gun away, before pulling something out from his vest. Heat boils through Mingyu’s as another familiar syringe is summoned, the sickly glowing green of kryptonite reflecting on his skin. It’s almost as if the kryptonite itself is alive, hungry.
Mingyu doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. The veins in his neck pop from the pressure, but his eyes are made of steel. Unyielding.
Scarface’s cracked lips twitch up into a smirk, taunting the fang of the needle closer and closer to his neck.
“Finally! I can use this. Saved it for a special occasion, you see,” the man croons goadingly, letting the emerald fire of the kryptonite inside the syringe swirl. “Bullets and bombs are messy, but this? You’ll feel every second of it. And when it’s done, well… maybe I’ll put your corpse on display for the world to see that the perfect Superman can bleed. Can die. Can be humiliated.”
The tip of the syringe caresses over Mingyu’s carotid artery, just a whisper away from being injected into his body. If Scarface pressed a little harder, it would all be over.
And then𑁋
A loud BOOM bursts through the room like thunder.
A gun fires.
But it doesn’t come from Scarface.
It comes from behind him, echoing like thunder across the room, the bullet lodging into the wall behind Mingyu.
“Get away from him,” a voice rings out shakily𑁋your voice. “Now.”
Scarface freezes, his entire body jerking as the bullet whooshes past him. His expression contorts from surprise to disbelieving amusement, the scar on his face contorting into a smirk.
He turns his head slowly and spots you. You’re standing by the threshold, trembling hands gripping tightly onto a pistol that you snatched from one of his fallen minions. There’s a bruise to your cheek and your clothes and ID badge are covered with dirt, dried blood, and grime. Your chest is heaving with a mix of horror and fury, your body braced like the hells have cracked open beneath your feet and you’re struggling to stay above the surface.
You’re terrified out of your mind, but you’re here.
And Superman𑁋no, Mingyu𑁋feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, because damn, he’s never seen anything more braver in his life.
Scarface’s eyes rake over you incredulously. “Well, look who decided to come and play the hero, hm?”
He places a singular foot in front of the other, and you aim your gun again.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” You threaten, trying to power through your sweaty palms and unsteady grip.
Scarface raises his hands mockingly. “Sweetheart, I’m so scared. Look at you𑁋you’re trembling like a leaf.” He raises his gun back to you, which makes you stagger slightly. “Aren’t you just a journalist? Thinking you can play in the big leagues ‘cause you got a piece on the Daily Planet front page?”
He stalks a little closer to you like a vulture, testing your nerves.
“Aliens like him don’t belong on this planet,” Scarface hisses. “And you? You think someone like him could ever really love someone like you? Come on, darling. Be honest with yourself. He’s a walking extinction event. One wrong move, and he burns you. He’s a threat to humanity.”
The pistol in your grasp wavers. You feel it𑁋hesitation creeping through you like a dense, thick fog. The words prickle like the heat of a hot poker getting jabbed into your skin.
Scarface sees it.
That tiny flicker of doubt. It’s all he needs to latch onto like a leech. His words seep through your body like venom. One wrong move, and he burns you. He’s a threat to humanity.
And on the side, Superman sees it as well.
The gun lowers in your hand. For a fraction of a second, you allow your thoughts to believe his words.
You’ve heard the rumours, watched the news, read the bylines that were initially published when Superman first came to light. The public loved him. Then feared him. Then loved him again. You always tried to remain neutral, like a good journalist always does. But somewhere between the time he had rescued your bag and to the kiss he gave you in the sky after the interview, your objectivity crumpled along with your heart.
Wait. A bell rings in your head. The interview.
“I’ve found my home here with people I care about,” he had said. “There’s something about this city that makes it hard not to love, you know?”
“Is that what you consider yourself?” You had asked him. “A symbol of hope?”
“Not exactly,” he had responded. “I think people deserve hope. I just want to remind them it’s still there.”
You remember it all𑁋the look of quiet sincerity in his eyes when he said it. The ache behind his words like he was carrying a galaxy of burdens, yet still managed to smile at you.
“But here’s what I believe,” he had told you. “Even though I can’t save everyone, I know I saved someone. And maybe that person goes on to save others, and those others save more. That’s how hope survives𑁋it spreads, even in the places I can’t reach. And that… that’s worth the burden.”
Your gaze falls towards Superman, who is crumpled on the floor, veins bulging out of his neck, blood dripping at the corners of his mouth. He’s clutching his side with gritted teeth, practically at the verge of passing out; yet despite everything, despite how close death is wrapped around his ribs, his eyes𑁋God, his eyes𑁋are watching you like you’re the only other person in the room, like you’re the only goddamn star left in the sky. There’s no fear there. No regret.
He’s still there. He’s still fighting.
“He’ll outlive you, sweetheart,” Scarface says with a chuckle. “He’ll outlive all of us. This stupid world is going to grow old and die, and he’ll be floating above the ashes looking down on us. And when you’re gone𑁋just another speck of dust in the wind𑁋he won’t even remember your name.”
You falter again. Just a blink. The words scratch at old insecurities like fingernails on scars.
Your vision clouds, not from tears, but from uncertainty.
Scarface sees it like it’s his golden ticket.
But then, there’s a cough. A weak one, yet it’s enough to break through the fog clouding your mind. Your gaze whips towards the source, and you’re met with an expression so heartbreakingly soft.
“Don’t listen to him,” Superman groans out, coughing hoarsely, and the utter familiarity of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “Please. Don’t… let him in your head. I lo𑁋”
A gun fires. It happens in a blur: one second you’re frozen in place, the next your ears are ringing from the force of the shot, and there’s a pool of blood forming at your feet. The pistol clatters to the floor from your shaky hands as your steps stagger back slightly𑁋you don’t even recall pulling the trigger.
Scarface blinks.
He doesn’t fall. Not at first.
He just stares at you, stunned, as if you’ve grown a pair of wings or another head he hadn’t reckoned with before. Then there’s a twitch to his bloody mouth𑁋somewhere along the lines between a smirk or like he’s about to say one last vile, witty remark𑁋but his knees buckle beneath him, the kryptonite syringe falling from his hands and clattering to the ground. You watch in horror as his body collapses to the ground with a sickening thud. You’ve never seen blood pool faster than now, spreading throughout the steer floor below.
You’re still holding your breath. You can’t even move, even breathe, your arms trembling at your sides
The silence that follows is deafening.
You stare at Scarface’s body, your mind completely blank, as if trying to reject the impossible deed you just committed. You just shot him. You killed someone. With the hands you used to type articles until dusk𑁋you used it to end a life.
For some uneasy reason, you don’t feel heroic. You don’t feel strong. Gosh, you feel like you’re going to be sick.
Then a low, pained grunt startles you out of your head. Superman.
“You saved me.”
Your legs act before you could even catch up with it, finding yourself kneeling down to the ground, scrambling to pick him up on his feet, but you struggle. He’s heavier than he looks𑁋well, of course he is𑁋so you let your arms wrap around him instinctively, attempting to hoist him upright again.
His body lurches in your hold as you’re barely able to drag him by a few feet to the door. It doesn’t take long for your effort to fail as he slumps back down to the floor again, dragging you down with him. Somewhere down the corridor, you can hear the rapid sounds of footsteps and radio chatter of emergency responders that you met when you escaped initially. You just need to hold him tighter for another minute.
“Hey, hey, don’t do that𑁋shit, don’t close your eyes,” You plead desperately when you notice his eyes falling, brushing away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “Backup is coming. Stay with me. Please.”
“Fuck…” he croaks out weakly, and you feel his hand lace into yours. A weak grasp, but it’s there. It’s something. “Y/N, I…”
“Don’t talk,” You tell him softly, letting your free hand cradle his face to bring him into your chest. “You’re okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you, Superman, you hear me?”
Superman breathes raggedly against your chest. You feel the way he’s burning up, see the way his eyelids are fluttering as he tries so goddamn hard to focus on your presence around him, hear the way he’s literally struggling to get his lungs to fucking work. But you still don’t let go.
“He killed my… my people…” he rasps, a few dry coughs jolting out of him. “The missing people… they’re…”
If it was possible for your heart to physically break, you swear it does now. He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence for you to know exactly what he’s talking about. The room was entirely a blur when you stepped in initially, but with the quietness now and Scarface’s lifeless body on the floor, you can see it all.
You remember all the photos in the files, all the reports about the missing people whose cases all went cold, unsolved, and discarded. They were never just missing people. They were survivors. And the two of you were too late to realise that.
“I’m sorry.” You shelter him even closer to you, because you know there’s not much you can do except to hold him together as tightly as you can, even if he’s completely falling apart on the inside. “I’m so, so sorry…”
You know that apologising could never bring his people back, yet Superman inhales your words even if it’s painful to do so, holding onto you even tighter, his warmth seeping into your skin. Blood and grime stains your shirt as he leans into you through the pain, his quiet sobs muffled as he buries his face in your chest.
You press a warm, trembling kiss to the temple of his head. He doesn’t speak; no, he closes his eyes, dipping in and out of consciousness, and lets himself be held.
“You’re safe now, Superman, okay? You’re safe with me.”
Above the two of you, the crest on Superman’s chest catches the overhead light, flickering weakly, but it never dims. Hope had barely survived.
Beneath your feet, the city is peaceful.
It’s been two weeks since the ordeal. Two weeks since Scarface’s body hit the floor. Two weeks since the sounds of gunfire etched itself permanently into your bones. Two weeks since the awful stench of sweat, blood, and gunpowder had stuck to your clothes no matter how many showers you took.
Two weeks since you saw Superman’s near-lifeless body being hauled through the hospital as the doctors and medical experts struggled to make sense of his alien biology𑁋every needle they poked through him broke on impact from his skin, but still, they didn’t give up on him. Refused to give up on him.
Two weeks, and the city has begun to breathe again mostly.
You haven’t slept much since.
The DOD have been working on reprimanding other criminals who had access to the kryptonite trade, and the kryptonite shipments that were found within the sketchy warehouses in Pier 13 had been confiscated as well. Details were still being poured in, but all you know is that the kryptonite is finally out of harm’s way. At least, for now.
People have been calling you a hero, a survivor. Some of your colleagues have written a little tribute column in you and Superman’s honour. You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t exactly want it. The attention has been overwhelming, to say the least.
You had just gotten through your first day back after requesting some time off to recalibrate. Now, you find yourself sitting near the edge of the rooftop at the Daily Planet. You pull your cardigan tighter around you as the evening breeze rustles through your hair. You take a sip from a can of beer𑁋a second one at your feet for good measure.
“Y/N?”
You turn around to the voice, a faint smile when you catch Mingyu walking up to you. The glasses on his face catch the faintest sparkle from the moonlight. He’s clad in his usual attire𑁋a denim jacket, a white shirt, and a pair of baggy denim jeans𑁋and his hands in his pockets as if he’s unsure of his own presence right now. You had sent him an email a few hours again telling him that you’d be staying late tonight.
It seems that showing up is his response.
“Hey,” You greet him quietly.
Mingyu slowly saunters over to where you are. He doesn’t sit down at first, but then you nudge towards the second can of beer by your feet.
“Peace offering,” You say with a light chuckle. “It’s probably warm now, but whatever.”
A small laugh escapes him as he sits down beside you, the tip of his knee touching yours when he crosses his legs together. He takes the can of beer and opens it with a sharp click, taking a quick sip of his own.
Mingyu shoots a quick glance at you, watching the way your gaze is lingering out to the mellow, peaceful, blissfully unaware city. He allows himself to look out to the world as well, with the stars hanging low in the sky as if they’re curiously eavesdropping on this strange little moment. The two of you take another sip from your cans, letting the silence stretch in the air. It’s not uncomfortable𑁋not entirely, anyway. It’s quiet, calm, like the city has exhaled for the first time in a long while.
“Did you know I spent the night in juvie once?” You suddenly pop in.
Mingyu’s brow furrows in surprise. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” You confirm, shaking your head to the memory. “I was fourteen. Dumb, broke, and angry at the world like any other teenager. Stole some makeup from the local pharmacy. Got caught before I even stepped through the door.”
Mingyu huffs a soft laugh beside you. It wasn’t mocking, just simple disbelief about this little detail of your life. “That’s hard to imagine.”
“Well, I also had purple hair. Oh, and a lip piercing. Did it with a safety pen,” You add in with a dry laugh. “Wouldn’t recommend it at all.”
He grins softly at that. He tries to imagine it𑁋he really does𑁋but all he can see is you. Even with your past little rebel phase, you’re still the same person with a fire-lit soul he first saw when you were tackling this entire case, scribbling away in the depths of your cubicle and rummaging through endless files in the archive room with a sharp tongue and a guarded heart.
You haven’t changed, not really. Just a little older, a little stronger. Maybe a little more tired.
“I grew up in a place that never really felt like home,” You continue, cradling the can of beer in your hands. “Parents were always busy trying to keep the lights on. I bounced between schools and hardly stuck around enough to make proper friends.”
You feel Mingyu’s eyes on you. He’s listening, steady and patient as always.
“Then I started writing to keep myself sane,” You confess. “Started with dumb teenage poetry, angsty blog posts, then… it sort of turned into something more real. I stole a newspaper from the library, read this piece about corruption with the mayor at the time. Something about it just clicked for me.”
Mingyu notices the way your features soften with relief.
“So, I cleaned myself up,” You continue with a smile. “Wrote shit for the newsletter in high school, got a few internships in college. One thing led to another and well… Here I am. I don’t know if Seungcheol even looked at my resume.”
“He did,” Mingyu chimes in playfully. “Well, not exactly. More like flaunted about you.”
You snort at that, clearly amused. “That so?”
“Clearly you’re good at what you do, or else he would’ve been accused of nepotism by now,” Mingyu says with a teasing grin, before it eases into something more bashful. “And… you are, um, good. Amazing, even. I admire you. I’m sure the rest of the world would agree, too.”
Your chest tightens at his words. It’s crazy how he’s able to disarm you just like that. Kim Mingyu, the guy who spilled coffee on your shirt the first day you met. Kim Mingyu, who brings you over sweetened coffee when he knows you’ve had a rough morning. Kim Mingyu, who caught you in his arms in the archive room when you nearly slipped on some fallen files.
Kim Mingyu, who tried to protect you from publishing the exposé on the kryptonite trade. Who stupidly ran back into the Daily Planet even with the bomb threatening the entire building. Who promised to come back, but he didn’t, and then he did𑁋
Kim Mingyu, who… may or may not be Superman.
And Superman, who you’ve kissed.
“What were you like?” You suddenly ask, turning to Mingyu slightly. “Growing up?”
Mingyu takes another sip of his beer, and you catch the way his shoulders stiffen before relaxing quickly. His eyes flicker𑁋not toward you, not toward the city𑁋to somewhere far away. There’s the faintest hint of hesitation when the can leaves his mouth. You don’t rush him. You know how to wait.
“I grew up on a farm,” he finally answers, a wistful look to his face. “I was, um… adopted when I was younger. It was just me, my parents, my sister, and our dog. They were good people. And it was nice living out in the countryside. Peaceful, even.”
“You? On a farm?”
Mingyu turns to you. “What? You don’t believe me?”
“No, of course I do. It’s just…” Your voice trails off, fondness glazing over your features. “Just trying to imagine it, you know. Little Kim Mingyu running around in the cornfields with mud on his knees and a head too big for his body.”
A genuine laugh bubbles out of him. “Well, you aren’t that far off, I guess. Used to trip over my own feet all the time.”
You hum against the rim of the can. “Explains the permanent clumsiness.”
Mingyu huffs in mock offense at that, wearing that familiar, warm, boyish grin to his lips.
“And science journalism?” You question curiously. “What made you want to get into that?”
“Always had this sort of… curiosity about the world.” He gives a small shrug, fingers tapping against the can. “I was, uh… really into astronomy too. I used to stay up all night looking through this janky telescope my dad snagged from a yard sale. Guess I just wanted to know what’s out there, how things worked and whatnot.”
What Mingyu doesn’t tell you is that he used to look through the telescope in the hopes of finding any remnants of his origins, of his home. Not the little farmhouse with the creaky porch swing or the kind faces who raised him with warm hands and warmer hearts. No, he means the kind of home that stretched light years away, a place that echoed in his bones with a certain ache he couldn’t name. A home he had never truly seen, but felt nonetheless.
He doesn’t say any of it; instead, he tucks it away with a remorseful sip of beer. When he glances back to you, you seem almost lost in thought again.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
You can’t tell if it’s the alcohol buzzing through your veins or something else. “Yeah. Just… rough couple of weeks.”
Mingyu lets his eyes trail over you. The bruise to your cheek has almost entirely faded𑁋a clear reminder of the hell you’ve been through𑁋but the memory of everything hasn’t. Though to him, you still look stronger and more beautiful than ever.
“We survived a bombing, I got fucking kidnapped, then I shot a horrible man in cold blood and it just𑁋” Your lips form a tight line. “And yet, despite all of that, I… The only thing that’s been making me stay up these nights is the fact that I fell in love with two different men.”
Mingyu freezes beside you. You don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s panicking. The breezes seem to pick up a little harder, tucking and sending strands of your hair flying that you don’t bother to fix.
“God, I-I sound like an absolute homewrecker,” You mutter in disbelief, clicking your tongue, before fully turning to face him. “Because how is it possible that I’m able to fall for you, and him𑁋Superman𑁋at the same time?”
The words hang in the air like lightning preparing to strike. And suddenly, Mingyu forgets how to breathe.
“I kissed him𑁋he kissed me after the interview.” Your voice grows louder now, more certain. “It wasn’t just a quick peck. It was real. Then I looked at him, and maybe it was the adrenaline, or that I’ve gone insane. But for a split second, I swear to God, I saw you, Mingyu.”
Mingyu’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. You watch the way his fingers tighten around the can, the soft crinkle of aluminum breaking under his grip. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. His gaze only lingers straight ahead.
You keep going.
“I thought I was going crazy,” You go on, powering through your shaky voice. “That maybe this stupid crush I’ve had on you since the day we met was getting to me. But then I thought more𑁋how you showed up late for meetings, how you disappeared after the heist, how you caught me in the archive room, how you tried to stop me from publishing the exposé… how you look at me.”
The silence between you both is probably more deafening and terrifying then when you shot Scarface, but this silence is filled with revelation. It means everything.
“You’re him, aren’t you?”
He still doesn’t say anything. The only sound you hear is the crumple of the beer can from his tight grip.
“Mingyu.” The way his name rolls out of your mouth hits Mingyu more painful than anything else. “Say something, please. Tell me I’m just projecting, or that I’m drunk or delusional or traumatised𑁋just something.”
Mingyu’s throat bobs. His jaw clenches. His eyes close and reopen slowly, and he exhales a breath as if it hurts.
“I’m not him, Y/N,” he admits finally, voice careful𑁋too careful.
But it doesn’t sound convincing. Not even a little.
And he knows it.
You know it, too.
A part of you wants to laugh, or cry. Or to shake him, kiss him, and hold him all at once. You barely even register standing up, your near-empty beer can forgotten on the floor.
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” You retort back bitterly.
He stands up as well. “I’m not lying.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not𑁋”
“I’m a goddamn journalist, Mingyu.” You throw your arms out dramatically. “I live off of facts, off truths. I know when I’m being lied to.”
You hate how your voice cracks at the end. You’re not even mad, not in the way you thought you’d be. You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. And still, you love him. Even if you can’t provide definitive proof that the guy you kissed in the sky felt exactly like the man you love on the ground, your heart knows. It knows, and it’s pounding so damn hard it may as well crack through your ribs and scream it all out.
Mingyu feels so torn, like he’s standing between two burning buildings collapsing in on him. This awful lump is lodged in his throat, his fists clenched at his side, but his feet won’t move, even if his own heart is telling him to. He’s still trying to protect something𑁋maybe you, maybe himself, maybe from this paper-thin illusion that he can still tape up, even with the tears showing.
Then, he watches in shock when you take a step backwards, near the edge of the rooftop. The rush of air from being thirty stories up teases up and down your back.
“Y/N,” he warns in panic, his body tensing. “Don’t you dare.”
You don’t know what kind of madness is possessing you right now. Perhaps it’s from the lack of sleep the past two weeks, the fact you drank an entire can of warm beer, or from the sheer desperation of needing him to tell you the truth. The real truth that has been digging in the crevices of your bones ever since you looked into Superman’s eyes and saw Kim Mingyu staring back at you.
Your heel bumps the ledge.
“I trust you, Mingyu,” You mutter shakily. “I always have.”
You take a breath.
And then you do the most stupidest, bravest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life: you fall.
The world tilts before your eyes, the rush of wind overpowering the scream of your name that Mingyu yells out.
The city below rushes up to meet you, the air roaring like a wind turbine through your ears, the gravity tearing your stomach inside out. You can’t breathe and can hardly think; hell, you don’t even scream. Time slows just enough for a single thought to push through: This is how I die. This is how I find out I’m wrong.
The windows of the Daily Planet all become a kaleidoscope of blurred lights as you plummet past them. The rooftop disappears into the tiniest speck in your vision, the ledge you just stood on now impossibly far away. You’re starting to feel the inevitable cold claw of death latching around you.
You feel weightless and heavy all at once.
Your heart clenches in your chest, your eyelids fluttering to a close. Your limbs are flailing around on instinct to reach for something, anything. Then, you brace yourself to hit the ground because you’re falling, fuck, you’re actually falling, and there’s no going back now𑁋that maybe this was all just delusion disguised as hope, that maybe𑁋
The world suddenly halts.
A gasp flies out of your mouth, ripping out of your lungs like they’ve just remembered how to function. You find your chest pressed against another body. Firm. Familiar. Powerful. Your eyes fly open as your entire form jolts against the abrupt stop, the wind rushing around you more calmly as you realise you’re ascending, not descending.
Then you finally look at him. His glasses are still on somehow, dark hair messed up from the force of the wind, his eyes wide with fear and panic𑁋but unmistakably Kim Mingyu. Superman.
Warmth radiates off his skin as he clings onto you, his arms tightened like a lock around your waist. You feel the way his chest rises and falls with each panicked, shallow breath he takes. There’s a tremble to his body𑁋not from exertion or the flight𑁋but from the sheer terror that he nearly lost you.
You let your arms circle around his neck, pressing closer to him.
“Are you insane?!” Mingyu chokes out, the clouds around the two of you billowing as he slows to a hover, away from the city, the noise, the doubt. “What the hell was that?!”
You don’t answer at first. You simply just stare up at him, the high from your adrenaline receding into something more softer, tender, raw. The city is practically swallowed by the clouds underneath you as the two of you hover in the air, existing in this space between heaven and earth, between truth and lie.
“You caught me,” You whisper.
“Of course, I did𑁋Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Mingyu rasps breathlessly. “If I was just a second too late, you could’ve𑁋fuck𑁋”
“But I didn’t,” You cut him off gently. “Because I was right. I knew you’d catch me.”
Mingyu swallows hard. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to find some other outcome, still hoping that in some way, you don’t see the truth and that he can walk away from all of this. But it’s over. You know, and he knows you know. You’ve always dug deeper, looked harder than anyone else𑁋hell, it’s your job.
And maybe in some twisted, beautiful way, you were meant to find him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “I… I wanted to tell you so many times, but I couldn’t. Because if I told you, you’d see me differently. I would’ve put you in danger. God, I just wanted to be normal for you. To be Mingyu for you. Not the guy who can fly or lift buildings for a living.”
“We already lived through the danger, and survived,” You tell him desperately, your fingers digging into the fabric of his clothes. “And I’m still here. I never left and I don’t plan to. You don’t have to be so brave around me, you know.”
His body goes rigid from your words as if someone had punched him in the gut with a force that could rival a hundred bullets being shot at him. His grip on you never eases; if anything, he holds you even tighter, fingers tracing aimlessly circles at your waist as if trying to remind himself that you’re here. You’re real.
Mingyu hears your heartbeat thundering your chest, and he swears to himself it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
“You terrify me.” His lips twitch upwards. “And dammit, I love you for it.”
Your breath hitches at that. The air around you grows silent, like the world itself is holding its breath as well. You reach up to trail a finger down his cheek, before tenderly cupping his face in your hand. Mingyu leans into your warmth as if he’s waited a hundred lifetimes to be allowed this.
His eyes fall to a close before reopening again to look at you. But it isn’t just a glance𑁋no, he’s looking like he’s trying to memorise you, like he’s afraid to even blink.
“I love you too,” You confess quietly.
Then you kiss him.
It’s soft, almost uncertain at first𑁋just a tentative brush of your mouth against his. Mingyu’s breath catches the second your lips meet his, his eyes widening for a split moment as he peers down at you with nothing but longing.
Then he simply just chuckles, low and breathless. His hands slowly trail their way up your spine, his other hand wrapping around more protectively around your waist. He tilts his head adoringly, pauses to blink, before leaning to press his mouth back to yours. This time, the kiss is deeper. Slower. And so impossibly gentle it nearly breaks you.
He’s kissing you like Kim Mingyu, and holding you like Superman.
Your hand reaches up to cradle the nape of his neck, fingers lightly threading through his hair. A sigh leaves him from your touch𑁋a breath of surrender, of relief, of finally, sending trembles all the way down to your toes. His nose barely brushes against yours as the angle shifts slightly, his chapped lips molding more fully into yours, coaxing your mouth open with a sweetness that sets your skin ablaze in the softest, most devastating way.
The clouds hug dreamily around the two of you as you part away for air. You find your foreheads pressed against one another, your hand drifting to rest on his chest. You feel the way his heart is pounding, as if it’s overfilled to the brim with nothing but love. He’s holding you like you’re something fragile, precious, his.
“You make me feel human,” Mingyu whispers shakily. “Like I belong somewhere.”
You tenderly brush the tip of your finger over his cheekbone.
“You are human, Mingyu,” You tell him reassuringly. “Because only someone truly human would love the way you do.”
He stares at you like he doesn’t deserve to be looked this way. All his life he’s always been… different. He was the third grader who’d run away into the janitor’s closet crying because he accidentally broke the swing set at recess. The teenager who couldn’t join any sports due to the fear he’d break someone’s ribs. The adult who could save the world but never fully belong in it.
But here, in your arms and under your gaze, he’s never felt more safe, wanted, and loved.
Mingyu leans in again, littering tiny kisses over your skin𑁋from your forehead, to your nose, your cheek, a lingering one to your lips, each one eliciting a low giggle out of you. The sound makes his heart swell.
When he pulls back, there’s a breath of hesitation in the air. His gaze silently flickers between your eyes, to your mouth, and back up to your eyes again.
“Can I, uh…” He swallows thickly. “Can I… take you home?”
You blink dazedly at that, but as the words register, the corners of your lips twitch upwards.
“Take me home?” You echo teasingly. “Is this your way of seducing me?”
Mingyu’s ears instantly grow red.
“What? No𑁋I mean, yes𑁋wait, shit, that’s not what I𑁋” He fumbles over his words like he’s completely short-circuiting. And honestly, he really is. “I didn’t mean it like that𑁋okay, maybe I did, but𑁋fuck.”
You can’t help but laugh. Like really laugh. The kind of laugh that bubbles from deep within your chest and makes you throw your head back at his sheer adorableness. He’s literally stammering like a teenage boy trying to ask out his crush to prom. The sound of your laughter curls around Mingyu like sunlight, the tips of ears growing warmer from embarrassment.
“Mingyu,” You call his name after taking a minute to recover. “Relax. I’m just teasing.”
A sheepish pout crosses his features. “You’re evil, you know that? You’re gonna kill me one day.”
“You’re literally invincible.”
“Not to you.”
His words make your smile falter𑁋just for a second, your heartbeat thudding unevenly in your chest.
“I just… I want to be real with you,” Mingyu continues bashfully. “I want to hold you when I fall asleep and wake up to you in the morning. I want to take you on a thousand dates and argue about who left the dishes in the sink. I want… more than just saving the world. I want to do everything with you.”
Then his voice dips just slightly lower, still plagued with that certain shyness.
“And yeah, I want to kiss you. A lot. Probably for the rest of my life,” he adds in with a smile, before it softens. “And maybe more than that. If… if you want that, too.”
Your lips part slowly, warmth blooming throughout your body. You simply stare at him. Not because you’re surprised𑁋as you literally fell off a building just to prove your stupid heart right𑁋but because of how goddamn earnestly, nervously, hopefully he says it. Like the thought of having you is still something he doesn’t deserve.
You want it all with him, too.
“Okay,” is all you say.
His eyes widen. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” You cup his face again, caressing a finger over the corner of his lip. “Take me home, Superman.”
Mingyu’s arms only tighten around you, and he presses one last kiss to your temple.
“Hold on tight.”
And then, the two of you are soaring through the skies.
Mingyu lands you back at your apartment.
It’s quiet inside. Your feet brush against the old wooden flooring, which is scruffed and faded in some spots. The walls are pretty much bare of any childhood relics except for an old photograph or two. Mingyu spots shelves of old case files, stacked notebooks, and a tiny little succulent plant. The couch appears second-hand, a little sunken in the middle, with a blanket on the arm that’s seen better days.
There’s a kind of loneliness in the walls that Mingyu picks up immediately. It’s lived in, but barely. You’ve never really let anyone in here.
Still, Mingyu doesn’t say a word.
You watch the way his gaze trails over every crevice of your apartment, as if he’s stepping into a secret, into your own heart. And in a way, he is. He’s been to the edges of space and seen the worst humanity has to offer𑁋yet being in your little half-empty apartment is what feels the most real.
You find yourself pouring a glass of water in the kitchen as Mingyu’s fingers curiously trail over some of your old investigative journalism textbooks on the shelf.
“I’m sorry, I know it’s not much,” You mutter, placing the glass back on the counter. “Never really felt the need to decorate, honestly.”
The emptiness of your apartment doesn’t bother him𑁋it never could. Mingyu crosses the room without a word, and you hardly have time to process his presence as his arms wrap around you from behind. You melt into him naturally, his warmth seeping through the layers of your clothes and caressing over your skin.
As his breath hits the shell of your ear, tingles run up and down your spine.
“It’s perfect,” he mutters. “You let me in. That’s more than enough.”
Before you have a chance to respond, he kisses you.
Not on the lips, not yet𑁋he presses his mouth to the nape of your neck, then another one to your shoulder, tracing his little constellations on your skin along the way. You shudder from his touch, knees almost buckling, and you feel the smile on his face as he chuckles into your neck.
“Mingyu…”
Mingyu hums against your skin. “Mhm?”
You nearly combust when his kiss lands near your collarbone.
“Do you, uh…” You start, already breathless. “...want to go to my bedroom?”
Mingyu lifts his head at your question. You don’t even have to turn to know he’s already smiling.
Before you can say anything more, he’s spinning you around and scooping you up in his arms effortlessly like you weigh literally nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around his torso, a surprised yelp leaving your lips.
“Jeez! Warn a girl first!” You gasp, half-panicked, half-excited.
“Sorry, baby,” he mutters with a grin, arms wrapped securely around your thighs. “Perks of the job.”
He carries you through your little apartment with confidence. Your head rests on his shoulder, your giggles mingling in the heavy air together as he strides down a small hallway. When he arrives in front of a door, he nudges it open with his foot𑁋before realising it’s your bathroom.
“Mingyu! That’s the bathroom!”
“Shit, sorry!” He backtracks quickly, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as he tightens his hold on you. “My glasses don’t let me use my x-ray vision here! I’m working with human eyes right now.”
You practically die of laughter in his arms, hearing him grumble something under his breath before arriving at the correct door. He gives the door a little poke with his shoulder, and as he steps over the threshold into your bedroom, the air seems to thicken even more.
Just like the rest of your apartment, there’s nothing much here either. Just a bed, with disheveled mismatched sheets that you didn’t bother to fix in the morning, and a singular lamp flickering right next to it. Under the window, moonlight pours all over a small desk that has a bunch of scattered papers and an unopened laptop. A few pieces of clothing are sprawled out on the floor, and you silently curse at yourself for not being more prepared for this.
Even then, Mingyu treats it as if it’s your palace, and that you’re the queen within it.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, bringing you snugly into his lap. His arms don’t let go of your waist, and his eyes never leave your face.
You’re straddling him now, knees pressing into the bed on either side of his thighs. Your hands rest lightly on his shadows, and he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes as if he’s in complete awe of you. As if he can’t believe you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re his.
“You’re shaking.”
“I know,” he breathes out. “I just… don’t want to hurt you.”
You shake your head at that. “You won’t. I trust you.”
That makes Mingyu pause for a moment, as if your words hit him square in the goddamn chest. Mingyu hardly trusts his own strength, and especially in a situation like this, he would never forgive himself if he were to hurt you. Whether it’s intimately, emotionally, anything, he’s never been more afraid of breaking something so precious as you.
But you said you trust him, and that makes him want to be better, softer, stronger all at once. Just for you.
He leans in to kiss you again. This time, it’s a lot less playful, less teasing. Just slow, deliberate, and so goddamn soft you might as well spontaneously combust. Your hands instinctively wrap around him, his denim jacket falling off his shoulders and landing somewhere on the floor. You barely even register it coming off𑁋too lost in the way his lips mold sweetly and perfectly against yours.
When he pulls back, his eyes remain peering up at you through those dorky glasses, at the way your lips are kiss-swollen and body heaving with shallow breaths. You don’t even have to hear him say anything, but you understand what he’s trying to convey: I want this, but only if you want it too. There’s a flicker of hesitation, before he reaches down to grab the hem of his white shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.
You immediately freeze up.
Because holy shit.
He’s sculpted like a statue. Like Michelangelo said fuck this, let’s sculpt Mingyu. Even in your shitty apartment lighting, his golden skin radiates. You know that he’s strong𑁋you’ve seen the way his suit hugs his figure and how he walks around at work not realising he’s built like a Calvin Klein supermodel𑁋but nothing could’ve prepared you for this.
Your eyes trace over the smooth lines of muscle over his body, over his chiseled torso and abs that look as if they’re carved from literal stone, over his stupidly kissable collarbones. You’re not even sure what to do with your hands. Or your lungs, at this point.
When Mingyu notices how stunned you are, he blushes. Blushes.
“I𑁋was that too fast?” he questions bashfully. “Sorry, I just thought𑁋”
“No,” You respond too quickly, still practically gawking at him like a Victorian woman seeing an ankle for the first time. “It’s okay. You’re just… a lot to take in.”
“Do you want me to put it back on?” he asks sheepishly.
A scandalised look crosses your face. “No. God, no. Don’t you dare.” You lean in to press a kiss over the skin covering his heart, one of your hands caressing down his stomach. You hear the sharp inhale that escapes him, and you smirk against his skin. “I love seeing you like this.”
You meet him back eye-level, reaching to grab the frames of his glasses, pausing for a moment to ask permission with your eyes. When he gives you the faintest of nods, you slide the glasses off his face and set them aside, and you’re met with the most beautiful, warmest, honey-brown eyes ever.
You’ve seen his eyes before, obviously. But without the glasses, without the disguise, they’re more piercing than ever. You feel as if you’re staring into a pair of galaxies, and you could pinpoint all the stars within them. He isn’t just Superman. He’s also Mingyu. Your Mingyu.
“Hi,” You whisper.
He smiles bashfully. “Hi.”
You almost want to laugh. You’re both ridiculous. Because here you are, nervous like two hormonal teenagers and blushing like you weren’t close to dying not that long ago.
“Are you okay?” You ask him, thumb brushing over his cheekbone.
Mingyu kisses the inside of your palm. “I think I’m freaking out. In a good way, of course.”
You smile at that, leaning in to press your forehead against his. You hear the shaky exhale that leaves him, before his head tilts to meet your lips again. You feel his fingers trail up your waist, pushing off the cardigan you’re wearing off your shoulders, as his mouth moves down even further.
Your breath hitches when you feel his lips meet the corner of your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, his fingertips hesitantly slipping underneath the hem of your top like he’s asking for permission to keep going. He’s giving you time to stop this if you want, but you don’t. You don’t want him to stop.
You answer by lifting your arms up, letting him pull your shirt off to join the other clothes on the floor. You’re left in just your bra now, and Mingyu just stares.
He doesn’t pounce on you𑁋just lets his gaze roam over your form like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. His jaw tightens with restraint as he drinks you in, taking in even the tiniest imperfections that dot all over you, his hands adoring every sight of new skin being revealed to him. You barely have any sort of chance to feel self-conscious when he kisses you again.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles against your neck, pressing a line of kisses over your collarbone, the curve above your breast, and one above your heart. “Every part of you.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m half-naked on top of you,” You retort playfully.
His brows draw together at that as he glances up at you mischievously. “I’m saying it because it’s true, sweetheart. The half-naked part is just a bonus.”
Your laughter dissolves into a breathy sigh as his thumbs tread tenderly over your ribcage. You move your hips again𑁋just a subtle, completely unintentional grind on his lap, enough to have a sound that nearly resembles a whimper tumbling out of his throat, and his hands gripping onto your hips a little more tighter.
“Sorry,” You murmur breathlessly, though there’s a sparkle of mischief in your eyes. “Didn’t mean to do that.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he breathes out, voice low and wrecked. “Never be sorry𑁋fuck, angel, you’re driving me crazy…”
It’s so hard to take in the fact that someone so powerful𑁋someone who literally has the power to lift up a tank on his shoulders as if it’s light as a feather𑁋is trying so hard to be so gentle with you. Like he’s terrified that one wrong move shatters you, when all you want him to do is pull you closer.
Your fingers comb through his hair as he nuzzles his face in your shoulder, taking in the way you feel, smell, and taste.
“Superman always takes care of everybody,” You start when it’s your turn to be littering kisses at the skin of his neck. “Saves the world, the city, strangers, me𑁋but… who takes care of you?”
He stills. Just for a second. His grip on your waist loosens imperceptibly, before tightening back. You see the way the question runs around his head as if it’s his first time ever being asked something so vulnerable.
“I… I don’t know,” he answers unsurely.
Your heart breaks and comes back together all at once.
“Then let me,” You insist softly. “From now on, from however long you want me, let me.”
Mingyu looks up at you with hopeful, puppy eyes.
“And if I want forever?”
You give him a smile.
“I can do forever.”
You don’t know who leans in first. You don’t exactly know how the straps of your bra have fallen over your shoulder either. All you do know is that you’re suddenly underneath him this time, and he’s still kissing you. Hungrier. Needier.
The bed dips slightly as Mingyu fully climbs on top now, one leg slotted between yours as you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. His body is the personification of a living furnace as his chest presses against yours, skin against skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
You roll your hips against him once more to chase that particular friction over the hardness of his jeans, and he has to muffle away a groan into your shoulder. He rocks himself up to meet you halfway with a low sigh into your neck, the two of you finding a rhythm that has heat spiraling down both of your bodies and for your brains to grow foggy.
“You’re so𑁋shit, you’re so perfect,” he rasps, voice barely audible from the needy sighs spilling out of your mouth. “You feel so good, baby.”
The muscles on his back tense when he feels your hands explore themselves over them, breath hitching against your throat. Your fingertips caress over the ridges of his spine, tracing the slope of his shoulder blades, curling into the soft messiness of his hair. Mingyu swears that perhaps you have your own kind of superpower𑁋of making him so undeniably, fondly, helpless for you.
Bullets break in half when they hit him, he’s prevented literal buildings from falling over, and could bend steel with the singular twirl of his fingers. But when you’re here, underneath him, kissing him and making noises he’ll replay in his mind for the rest of his days, he turns into literal mush. Kryptonite isn’t the only thing that weakens him.
It’s you.
“I think I understand it now,” he mutters against your skin.
Your body buzzes with heat as you look at him. “What?”
Mingyu pulls back to look at you, a lump bobbing in his throat.
“Desire.”
He says the word like it’s some otherworldly discovery. As if he’s heard it from somewhere, maybe read about it, seen it when lovers skip down the streets with their hands clasped together. But he’s never felt it like this. Not until now. Not until you.
“I never knew it could feel like this,” he says quietly. “This need to… touch you. Be close with you. Not just physically, but gosh, hearing your heartbeat makes me go insane.”
You giggle at that, and it sends a cheeky, silly smile crawling over Mingyu’s face. He watches the way your face lights up when you laugh. You’re always so scarily serious all the time when you’re in your zone, but now? Now you’re all soft and radiant and so unfairly sexy in a way that makes him ache to know what other things he can make you feel.
“Mingyu?”
Mingyu hovers above you, one hand propping him up beside your head and the other drawing circles near the waistband of your pants. “Yeah?”
“I want you,” You confess. It doesn’t come off shy, not anymore. “You… don’t have to hold back with me, okay? You can let go𑁋I want you to.”
That’s what undoes him right there. He gives you the most affectionate grin known to mankind.
“Okay,” Mingyu breathes, a singular breath away from your lips. “Okay. Letting go. I… I can do that.”
This time, when he kisses you, it feels like you’re flying again.
Mingyu makes love to you just like how he fights𑁋with the same passionate fire in his veins and the protectiveness of someone willing to break himself before he ever lets harm touch you. And it isn’t just about pleasure; no, it’s about safety. It’s about surrender. Vulnerability.
It’s about loving you with the same unrelenting force he uses to save the world𑁋this time, only softer. Sweeter. And only a certain type of love that belongs to you.
The second you check the time on your watch, the elevator dings in front of you.
Your heels clack against the floor as you step inside with a sigh, pressing a button to your desired floor. Your bag is slung loosely over your shoulder, the strap threatening to fall off from the weight of your laptop and whatever the hell you have inside is. You’re too busy scrolling through your upcoming meeting agenda on your phone. The Daily Planet is as alive as ever for a Monday morning, but here, you’re lucky you can breathe for once.
You catch sight of your reflection on the mirrored walls on the elevator before leaning back against the cold metal with a sigh, letting your eyes flicker close for a moment as the door starts to close.
But before the doors are able to seal shut, there’s a sudden clang, and the metal shudders as if it’s been crushed with some kind of forceful pressure.
You jolt in surprise as the elevator doors groan back open, revealing none other than Kim Mingyu clambering clumsily inside wearing an extremely apologetic expression on his face. He takes his hand off the elevator door, where you notice a visible dent had formed from what you assume to be how hard he grabbed the damn thing.
“Shit,” Mingyu mutters, staring at the dent like a guilty puppy as the elevators struggle to close back again. “I didn’t mean to do that, I swear.”
You roll your eyes. “Gyu, that is literally government property.”
He winces at that. “I got too excited!”
“For what?”
“...seeing you.”
Your expression softens despite yourself, struggling to bite back a smile as Mingyu places himself right next to you, your shoulders momentarily brushing. His hair is a tad bit windswept from probably flying here, and his glasses slightly askew on his nose. Half of his dress shirt is tucked into a pair of dark slacks, his tie half-done, and yet, he still looks like the most kissable man on Earth right now.
As the elevator begins to rise slowly, Mingyu glances over at you too.
“You look nice today,” he points out casually.
You blink, peering down at your own outfit. It wasn’t too much out of the ordinary𑁋just a more structured blazer, a formal blouse, a bit more effort in your makeup, and your hair styled in a way when you actually want to appear like you have your shit together.
“Thank you.” You clear your throat, warmth sprouting in your cheeks. “Got a meeting later in the afternoon with out-of-town journalists. Thought looking intimidating would make it go by faster.”
A grin crosses Mingyu’s face as his eyes roam over you once more. “Well, you do look intimidatingly hot, if I do say so myself.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Mingyu.”
“What?” His grin only widens. “Is flirting with my girlfriend a crime now?”
You try to glare at him, but it’s not effective at all with the way you’re suppressing a stupidly fond smile. “Flattery won’t fix this elevator door.”
“That’s totally unrelated.”
“It looks like a rhino charged head first into it.”
Mingyu chuckles sheepishly. “I’ll… fix it tomorrow, maybe. After hours. No one will know. Or I can bribe maintenance with cookies again.”
You could only scoff. He’s such a dork.
The elevator hums as it continues its ascent into the upper floors of the building. Right next to you, Mingyu’s hand brushes against yours. First by complete accident, second on purpose. You don’t pull away when his pinky nudges against yours. Instead, you allow your fingers to lace around his, and you immediately feel the way he relaxes.
It’s quiet in the moments that follow, yet your heart is completely betraying you and you know he can hear it.
The two of you have been together for almost five months at this point, and yet, it feels like it’s only ever been day one. The hardest part was keeping your relationship a secret at first, especially from the newsroom, but then Minghao told you that you both have been fairly obvious ever since the kryptonite case. You didn’t even try to deny it because there was no point.
Especially not when Mingyu would sometimes hover outside your bedroom window, tapping gently on the glass to say hi before flying off on another rescue mission. Or when your coworkers always noticed the two of you walking in and out of the building together. Or when you’d randomly go missing for lunch and return all flushed, hair tousled, and somehow in a better mood.
You turn to face him, letting go of his hand momentarily to fix his tie, tugging gently at the silk resting at the base of his throat. You feel his hands trail down your waist as he stands still while you tighten it. When your fingers brush over his collarbones, he tenses naturally, though he still wears that boyish smile to his face.
“Still meeting me for dinner tonight?” he asks.
You smooth out his dress shirt over his chest. “Depends. Are you flying me to Paris or Italy this time?”
Mingyu hums contemplatively, his fingers tightening a little more around your waist. “Hm, I was thinking more like Greece. Or Japan, maybe. I know you’ve always wanted to go there. Heard it’s cherry blossom season over there.”
You tilt your head as you pretend to think. “Tough choice. Greek sunsets or Japanese cherry blossoms?”
“Baby, I could take you to both, you know.”
You snort, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Clearly you forgot we have actual jobs that require us to, I don’t know, show up.”
Mingyu sighs dramatically, pushing back some loose strands of hair behind your ear. “Right. Damn capitalism.” He lets his eyes roam over you adoringly. “Okay, how about just my place tonight?”
“Isn’t Wonwoo going to be there?”
“Don’t worry. He’s grown into the art of minding his own business.”
You grin at that.
The ding of the elevator interrupts your banter, the doors𑁋still dented from his overly enthusiastic entrance𑁋sliding open to reveal the classic chaotic routines of the bullpen. Mingyu retracts his hand from your waist, straightening his posture in the hopes of masking away his besotted features. You flip back into your professional stance too, fixing your blazer and flicking a glance to the time on your watch.
The two of you step out onto the floor together. The frantic morning bustle of the newsroom quickly fills your senses: interns rushing by, the clattering of keyboards, a printer breaking down somewhere in the corner, and people yelling out deadlines in your ears. When you stop at your desk, you watch for a few seconds as Mingyu sidles past you to head to his own cubicle just a few steps down.
However, just as you’re about to sit, a loud voice booms through the newsroom: Seungcheol.
“Mingyu! Y/N! Office now!”
You freeze halfway in the seat, meeting Mingyu’s equally startled gaze across the room, his hand gripped around his rolling chair. Letting out an exhale, you set your bag down on your desk with Mingyu following behind you over to Seungcheol’s office.
The blinds of Seungcheol’s office are halfway drawn as the two of you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Seungcheol is sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pragmatic look to his face. He doesn’t even have to glance up as he cracks a manila folder open on the desk.
“Alright, Bonnie and Clyde,” he starts as you and Mingyu sit down. “I’m pairing you up again.”
You raise a suspicious eyebrow, shooting a side-glance toward Mingyu, who looks just as curious and baffled as you are. It hasn’t even been long since the two of you were paired up on the kryptonite trafficking and Scarface incident, where near-death was just a slip away from your fingers.
Seungcheol opens the folder, revealing a cluster of surveillance photos from what look to be press conferences, a particular figure standing out in every single one.
“Recently, the President-elect has been appearing in places he shouldn’t be,” Seungcheol states, sliding the photos over the two of you.
“The President-elect?” You repeat, staring down at the images. “As in, President-elect Yoon Jeonghan?”
“Precisely,” Seungcheol responds eagerly. “He’s been spotted here in Seoul, then Metropolis, Gotham, Beijing, nearly everywhere.”
You lean in closer to photos, feeling Mingyu beside you do the same. Sure enough, there he is𑁋President-elect Yoon Jeonghan wearing his signature dark suit, waving gracefully at crowds, shaking hands with sick children in a hospital, all with that perfect charming smile on his face. He appears undeniably poised, pristine, and politically untouchable. There’s something quite eerie about it.
However, there are also some photos taken from security cameras in the middle of inconspicuous dark alleyways, military divisions, and unregistered facilities. All the photos were taken in different locations around the world. But what catches your eyes are the timestamps on the photos.
They’re all merely hours or even minutes apart.
“That’s not humanly possible,” You remark incredulously. “Any information on travel records?”
Seungcheol shakes his head grimly. “Nope. His press team claims he’s been prepping for his inauguration in Seoul and only travelled three times the past five months. The intelligence team is pretty divided on digging even more about this. But I know when something isn’t right, and clearly this𑁋” He motions over the photos. “𑁋isn’t just normal presidential shenanigans. I need to know if the man who is about to lead this country is actually who he says he is.”
You and Mingyu exchange another look. He’s frowning now, jaw tense. You can practically see the gears turning in your head. It’s clear he’s thinking the same thing you are.
This isn’t just a scandal, or a simple case of political corruption. It’s a threat waiting to detonate.
“Alright,” You say, clasping your hands together. “We’ll take it.”
“Good.” Seungcheol leans back in his chair. “But keep this off the record for now. We don’t want to cause a nationwide panic. Whatever you plan to write, take it up with me first. He’s still the goddamn President-elect, so watch your backs. Both of you.”
“Yes, sir,” Mingyu states solemnly, already gathering back the photos in the folder.
“And look, I don’t care what the hell is going on between the two of you,” Seungcheol starts, eyes flitting between the two of you. “But I do know the last time I partnered you two, we broke the damn site’s traffic record and scored a Pulizter nomination in the process. So don’t disappoint me, alright? Meeting’s over.”
The two of you start to saunter your way out of Seungcheol’s office with materials gathered under both of your arms. However, just as Mingyu is about to close the door, Seungcheol calls out to him again.
“Kim! One more thing.”
Mingyu pauses with his hand still on the doorframe, poking a head back in the office. “Yes, sir?”
Seungcheol doesn’t look up from his papers he’s scavenging through, but his voice cuts through the room like a knife.
“Try not to die this time, yeah?”
It comes off way too casual for Mingyu’s liking, laced with that familiar gruff Seungcheol charm that’s gotten him through years of leading the newsroom and dealing with incorrigible employees. The man basically implied that he knows in some way, somehow. Mingyu’s jaw twitches from nerves, before easing into a tight-lipped smile.
“Noted… uh, sir.”
Seungcheol waves him off curtly. “Amazing. Now get back to work.”
And so he does. Mingyu quietly shuts the door before sheepishly meandering his way over to where you’re already perched at your desk and setting the files down. You smile when you catch him coming up to you, and the look on your pretty face is quick to dissolve any lingering nerves he has.
“So, partner.” You place a hand on your hip. “Guess we’re working together again.”
“That seems to be the case, Cronkite,” Mingyu retorts teasingly.
You tilt your head fondly at the nickname, peering up at him curiously.
“Are you ready for this?”
Mingyu glances down at you. He doesn’t answer, not at first𑁋just takes you in with warm eyes as if you’re the centre of the damn universe, noticing every flicker of excitement and hint of worry that paints your features. He may be Superman, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel scared sometimes.
Especially when it comes to you𑁋someone who he doesn’t just love, but someone who he would quite literally move through heaven and hell for. Someone who makes every mission worth surviving. Someone who he chooses again and again every damn day.
You’re standing there in front of him with your lips pressed in that determined line he knows all too well. Brave. Brilliant. Unafraid to chase the truth even if it kills you. And God, he swears he falls in love with you all over again.
“With you by my side?” Mingyu starts, lips quirked up as he steps up closer to you. “I’m ready to take on anything, my love.”
im too invested in gyuperman universe now, this was so beautifully written, not even superhero screenwriter could come close to this i dare say, and the nonchalant way seungcheol cares and knows?? im so into this
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.
• a/n: 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.
this is so beautifully written. i could feel each pain and agony, mental and physical. it’s almost like you breath soul into this piece. on side note, god i want to protect heeseung with all my being and soul
in a world that expected silence, joshua gave his son softness.
pairing: joshua hong x reader warnings: boy dad!joshua, parents au, teeth rotting fluff, domestic asf word count: 1.2k a/n: i seem to only be able to write about joshua lately so here u go 🤓 + im actually sobbing at this baby shua pic im crying
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most people say joshua would be the perfect girl dad.
the quiet warmth in his eyes, the softness in his voice, he just looked like someone meant to raise a daughter. you could just picture him tying pink ribbons into pigtails, learning how to braid hair through youtube tutorials, walking around with sparkly stickers on his cheeks because “my daughter said I’m a unicorn today.”
and you understood why. he’d be wonderful at that — raising a little girl with tender care, the kind so many women grew up needing but never quite received.
however, you thought otherwise. in your heart, he was a boy dad. it was like he was made to raise a son, your son.
you could see it in how he held him close like a secret he’d waited his whole life to be told. how he loved him in a way that rewrote everything the world ever said about what fathers and sons should be.
because while the world expected fathers to be stern and boys to be strong, joshua gave your son something else entirely — the space to be soft. to feel deeply. to cry without shame, to reach for comfort without apology, to be both gentle and enough.
you saw it the moment your son was born.
they placed him on your chest first, and you watched joshua’s hand shake as he reached out, touched the tiniest part of your baby’s arm, and whispered, “hi, buddy.”
he was crying before the baby was.
not from fear. not from shock. not from the weight of it. but from the kind of overwhelming love that settles into your bones.
“he’s perfect,” he said, voice trembling. “i’m gonna love him so well.”
and he did.
joshua carried your son everywhere those first few months. in wraps, in slings, tucked against his chest like he never wanted to let go. he hummed lullabies into his hair, traced soft circles on his back, and spoke to him even when he couldn’t understand the words yet.
“you’re safe,” he’d whisper. “always safe with me.”
the baby didn’t know what those words meant yet. but he felt it. and you did, too.
your son’s first real tantrum happened over a broken crayon.
he was three. overtired and overstimulated. crumpled on the floor in tears, fists balled up, face red and frustrated.
you were about to kneel beside him when joshua gently touched your arm.
“i’ve got him,” he said.
then he sat down the floor sitting across his son, letting him cry. he didn’t flinch, didn’t correct. he just waited. letting him express his feelings while also letting him know that he was there.
“hey. that was your favorite crayon, huh?” he asks softly.
he receives a tiny nod through hiccups.
“it’s okay to be sad about that. i get sad about things too.”
the crying didn’t stop right away. but your son crawled into joshua’s lap minutes later. not because he was told to, but because he wanted to. and joshua wrapped his arms around him like he had all the time in the world.
that was the moment your son learned he never had to be alone in his feelings.
sometimes, the world got louder than joshua could control.
like the day your son came home from daycare with red-rimmed eyes and stiff shoulders. he wasn’t crying anymore, not visibly, but you could see it in the way he avoided joshua’s gaze, how his small hands stayed balled in his lap during dinner, barely touching his food.
joshua knelt in front of him, “did something happen today, bud?”
your son hesitated, “i cried when i missed you. and some of the boys saw.”
joshua’s hands stilled.
“they all laughed at me,” your son continued. “said boys don’t cry. that i was acting like a baby. like a girl.”
each word came with less confidence than the last, like he wasn’t sure anymore what was okay to feel. like he was repeating a rule he didn’t understand but was suddenly supposed to follow.
joshua didn’t scold. nor did he try to explain it away. he just opened his arms and asked gently, “can i show you something?”
he climbed into joshua’s lap, pressing his face into the curve of his shoulder.
and there in the middle of the playroom, he let a single tear fall.
your son pulled back, wide-eyed. “daddy… are you crying?”
joshua nodded. “yeah, i am.”
“why?”
“i cry when i feel big things. like love. or sadness. or when i hear you say something that makes my heart heavy.”
your son looked at him with sad eyes.
“and today, hearing that they laughed at you, that made my heart hurt a lot.”
your son looked confused for a second. then his little arms went around joshua’s neck.
“sorry, daddy.”
“no need to be sorry,” joshua whispered. “it’s good to feel things. you’re allowed.”
and that was the moment your son learned his softness would never make him less.
they had a language all their own.
not in words, but in the way your son instinctively reached for joshua’s hand when he was unsure. how he laid his head on his dad’s shoulder when he was sleepy. how he never hesitated to say, “i love you, dad,” because he heard it so often, it just lived in his chest.
joshua was the kind of father who kissed his son’s forehead when he dropped him off at school. who packed handwritten notes in his lunchbox.
he wore matching pajamas with him on movie nights. let him fall asleep against his side during bedtime stories. held him during fevers, nightmares, scraped knees, never once rushing the hug.
people still said joshua gave girl dad energy.
but if they could see what you saw, if they witnessed the way joshua raised your son with open hands and open arms, they’d understand.
this wasn’t about pink or blue, softness or strength.
this was about a boy who grew up knowing he never had to earn his father’s affection.
that love wasn’t conditional. that tenderness wasn’t weakness. that he could be everything he felt and still be whole.
joshua didn’t just raise a son.
he gave him the gift of belonging in every hug, in every gentle word, in every time he held him a little longer than the world said was “necessary.”
and one day, when your son is grown, you hope he remembers all of it.
the warmth. the softness. the safety.
that his father never made him feel like love had to be tough to be true.
summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.
warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,
wc: 19,1k
notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣
hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶
everything begins the day you turn twenty.
you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.
the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.
in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.
love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.
you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.
and yet—there is no other choice.
the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.
“please return home and prepare for assignment.”
you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.
sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.
three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.
you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.
your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:
assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.
a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.
you stare.
he’s... beautiful.
cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.
your throat feels dry.
beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.
you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.
it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—
yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.
a boy you’ve never met.
friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.
you’re early.
your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.
the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.
you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.
and then the door opens.
you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—
it’s hard to breathe.
he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.
choi yeonjun.
his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.
you feel like you’re being auctioned off.
“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.
you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.
“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”
it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.
you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.
the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.
you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.
then, the mediator clears her throat.
“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”
your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.
and just like that, you are alone with him.
just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.
yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.
“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”
you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.
“you don’t talk much, huh?”
you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.
“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”
he smiles. “that’s fair.”
a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.
“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”
you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.
“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”
your brows knit together, surprised.
he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.
“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”
and you look at him then, really look.
his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.
"you’re used to this,” you murmur.
his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”
there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.
you swallow, throat tight.
“i didn’t want this,” you admit.
he nods. “me neither.”
silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.
“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”
your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.
“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”
you blink.
he waits.
slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.
and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it—
you speak.
you tell him a little. not much. just enough.
and he listens. attentively. sincerely.
maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.
two weeks later.
the wedding is on a thursday.
you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.
you wear beige.
yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.
the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.
your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”
and that’s when you finally cry.
not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.
they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.
you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.
yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.
“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”
you don’t answer.
he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.
your boxes are already inside. so are his.
the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.
you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.
and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.
but now, days pass like fog.
there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.
you go to the hospital together a week later.
the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.
yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.
you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history—
you flinch.
yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.
“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”
his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.
on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.
“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.
“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”
and again—there it is.
that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.
nights are the hardest.
you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.
sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.
you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.
now, there’s only silence.
until one night, a knock.
not loud. not urgent. just... present.
“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”
you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.
“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”
you swallow. your throat feels raw.
after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”
you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.
you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.
you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.
that’s a first.
the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.
he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.
a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.
from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.
you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.
one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.
you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.
in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”
you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.
that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.
“so you don’t catch a cold.”
you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.
the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.
one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.
you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.
the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.
you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.
he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”
the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.
“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”
he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.
“i did,” he says finally.
your heart stirs.
“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”
you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.
“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”
you don’t say anything. you let him speak.
“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”
you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.
you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.
but you hate her a little.
you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.
and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”
he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”
the silence after that is heavy, electric.
you don’t answer.
but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.
the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.
you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.
you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.
“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”
you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.
“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”
you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.
you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.
and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.
you hate that it lingers.
you hate that it hurts.
that night, the rain starts late.
it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.
the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.
your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.
you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.
now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.
you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.
you don’t think. you just move.
barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.
he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.
“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.
you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”
there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.
his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.
he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.
“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.
yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.
you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.
“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”
you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.
“nothing’s going to break tonight.”
those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.
you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.
you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.
and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.
you slept like a baby.
it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.
it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.
you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.
and now you realize why.
yeonjun’s arms are around you.
not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.
your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.
you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.
but instead you stay.
you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.
his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.
you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.
he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.
“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.
“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.
neither of you moves.
there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.
“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”
you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”
he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”
you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.
“i felt safe.”
his eyes soften.
you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.
but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.
yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”
you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.
because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.
the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.
he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.
the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.
“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”
you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.
you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.
“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”
you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.
“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”
“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”
you shift in your seat. trials.
“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.
your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.
yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”
ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”
your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.
you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.
“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.
the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.
you don’t speak on the way home.
you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.
because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.
you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.
you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.
you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.
but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.
and now you can’t not think about it.
when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.
but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.
you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.
an hour passes. maybe two.
you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.
a soft knock at your door.
you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”
yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.
“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”
you nod. “it’s okay.”
he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.
“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”
your breath catches.
he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.
you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.
his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.
“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”
you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat.
and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.
but this time, it’s not outside.
it’s you. it’s him.
and it’s not fear anymore.
it’s something else entirely.
you don’t kiss that night.
you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.
he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.
after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.
in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.
you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.
when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.
it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.
“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”
you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”
he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.
but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.
and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.
you think about it too much. think about him too much.
and you think about her.
the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.
you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.
how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.
and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.
but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.
you’re not in love.
you’re not supposed to fall in love.
yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.
one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.
you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.
“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”
you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.
“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”
he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”
“yeah.”
there’s a pause.
“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”
you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”
the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.
“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.
you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.
“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”
his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.
your heart stumbles.
neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.
the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.
you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.
you don’t move. you can’t move.
it feels too good. too right.
his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.
you stay there until the sun begins to rise.
you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.
but he doesn’t move either.
and neither do you.
because something’s changing. you both feel it.
you just don’t say it. not yet.
not until it’s too loud to ignore.
and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.
you try not to overthink the moments.
you try.
the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.
you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.
he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.
you nod, throat dry. “morning.”
neither of you moves.
and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.
whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.
but things are still complicated.
you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.
“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”
your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.
“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.
and then yeonjun.
his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.
“not yet.”
not yet.
those words echoed for hours after.
the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.
“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”
you had never wanted to disappear more.
the walk home was silent.
yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.
but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.
you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.
he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.
the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.
his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.
you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.
“is that mine?”
you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.
“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”
“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”
you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.
and things only build from there.
he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.
“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”
he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.
but your heart stutters anyway.
one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.
yeonjun finds you there.
he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.
“can’t sleep?” he asks.
you shake your head. “not really.”
“you okay?”
you nod, even though you’re not sure.
the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.
you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.
his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.
“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”
he’s quiet for a moment.
“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”
“like what?”
he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”
you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.
you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.
this is the moment where maybe everything could change.
but you don’t kiss. not yet.
you breathe in together.
and for now, that’s enough.
the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.
you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.
then the soft sound of rain begins again.
but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.
yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.
he joins you without asking.
“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.
you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”
“don’t tempt me,” he grins.
the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.
your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.
you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.
“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.
yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”
“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”
he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”
“the girl you were in love with.”
his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”
that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”
you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”
“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”
but you don’t smile back.
you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”
yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.
“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”
you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.
“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”
he leans closer.
“you make me forget her name.”
you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.
“yeonjun…”
“can i kiss you?” he breathes.
you nod.
slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.
you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.
it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.
when you finally part, you’re breathless.
he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper.
“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”
you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”
“me too.”
you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.
you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.
you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.
and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.
you feel chosen.
the next morning, something has changed.
it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.
you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.
when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.
“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.
he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.
and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.
at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.
you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”
“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”
“you asked first.”
“still counts.”
the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.
the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.
until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.
you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.
he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.
you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.
a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.
it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.
the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.
he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.
“so, are you pregnant yet?”
you freeze.
your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.
“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”
“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”
your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.
yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.
“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.
he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”
“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.
“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.
you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.
and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.
the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.
and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.
the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.
you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.
and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.
you break the silence first.
“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”
he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”
you turn to him, a little surprised.
“really?”
he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”
you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.
“thanks,” you whisper.
you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.
“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”
you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”
“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”
“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.
his eyes flick down to your lips.
“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.
your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.
you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.
and then he pulls over.
not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.
you feel your pulse in your throat.
“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”
you nod, heart racing.
“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”
you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.
“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”
he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.
“do you think i’m not happy?”
your throat dries.
“are you?” you whisper.
he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.
“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”
and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.
it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.
you melt into it.
your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.
“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”
you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.
and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.
you’re not lovers. not yet.
but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.
you fall asleep like that.
and neither of you says a word.
you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.
“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.
walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.
“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.
he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”
you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.
the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.
at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.
he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.
your breath hitched.
you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.
he said nothing.
neither did you.
but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.
the light turned green.
he drove on.
his hand didn’t move.
the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.
you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.
by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.
inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.
you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.
“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.
you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.
his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.
and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.
“thanks,” he said, voice still low.
you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.
that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.
your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.
later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.
you thought he’d say something.
he didn’t.
he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.
“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.
you turned your head toward him. “about what?”
he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”
you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”
silence again.
and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.
it felt dangerous.
he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.
your pulse roared in your ears.
his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.
you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.
his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.
his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”
his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.
and then—
his phone rang.
the sound shattered the moment like glass.
you both froze.
you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.
you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.
after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.
“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.
you blinked. “oh.”
he didn’t explain.
he just walked away.
and something cold settled in your chest.
you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.
you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?
you couldn’t take it anymore.
you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.
but then you froze.
because you heard it.
soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.
a low groan, deep and drawn out.
then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.
your breath caught.
you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.
then, you heard it.
“y/n...”
your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.
your knees weakened.
another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.
and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.
he was close.
he was touching himself.
thinking of you.
you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.
you didn’t know what this meant.
but you knew one thing.
he wanted you.
and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.
you didn’t mean to lean closer.
you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.
but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.
and then—thud.
a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.
then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.
“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.
before you could react, the door swung open.
and there he was.
yeonjun.
bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.
on the floor.
his shirt up around your waist.
your bare thighs. your panties exposed.
your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
time froze.
he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.
you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.
“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”
“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.
you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.
“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.
your breath hitched.
“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”
you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.
he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”
you couldn’t speak.
“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”
“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”
his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”
your lips trembled. “me too.”
something inside him snapped.
he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.
you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.
“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.
“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”
“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”
his eyes burned into yours.
his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.
“maybe i want you to.”
his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—
a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.
you both froze.
his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
another knock. then a voice from outside.
“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”
“fuck,” he hissed.
he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.
you looked at each other.
your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.
you wanted to scream.
but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered.
you didn’t respond.
because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.
you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.
his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.
you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.
every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.
"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.
he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.
you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.
just him. just you.
and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.
his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.
"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"
"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.
he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.
and then.
he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"
you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."
every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.
his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.
“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.
“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.
the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.
it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.
the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”
you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”
your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”
you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”
when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.
"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.
"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.
and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.
his.
yours.
the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.
the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”
your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.
“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”
you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.
“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”
you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”
“perfect. when was your last period?”
you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”
you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”
“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”
you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.
the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.
finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”
his hands stilled on the steering wheel.
“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.
“oh.”
another silence.
“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”
“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”
but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.
and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.
“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.
yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”
“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.
he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.
you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.
“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”
his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”
your breath caught.
the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.
this wasn’t just about reproduction.
not anymore.
and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?
set your blood on fire.
you didn’t even make it past the front door.
as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.
your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.
you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.
"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.
"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.
he didn't need more encouragement.
he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.
you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”
you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.
“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”
he didn’t make you ask twice.
he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.
"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.
you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.
“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”
he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.
“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”
“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”
he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.
"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.
“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”
you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.
“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”
“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”
but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”
he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.
his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.
neither of you said anything for a long time.
but you both knew.
there was no going back.
the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.
the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.
and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.
sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.
it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.
you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.
“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”
you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.
later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.
and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”
the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.
he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.
“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”
your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.
back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.
he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.
and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.
“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”
the world stilled.
you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.
the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”
you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.
the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.
a baby.
your baby.
with him.
“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”
“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”
you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.
he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.
and it did.
you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”
the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.
when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”
you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”
he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”
you’d never felt more seen. more loved.
later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.
and now it had shifted again.
you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.
you were parents.
you were a beginning.
and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.
of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.
but now, it was here.
growing inside you.
growing between you.
and it was love.
the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.
she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.
your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.
it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.
now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.
“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.
you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”
he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”
“barely.”
you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.
you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.
“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.
“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”
“or jumping each other.”
he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”
you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”
“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”
“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”
he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”
“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.
he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”
“then take me,” you breathed.
you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.
“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”
you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”
he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.
“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”
he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”
you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.
“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.
“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”
“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”
your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.
“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”
you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.
he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”
you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.
and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.
because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.
and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.
love this fic, i’ve been thinking about it for days, love the slow build up, how you can feel that yeonjun is actually fond of the reader but as we’re reading it through the mind of the reader, you too get unsure if he’s actually fond or it’s all in our head. in a way, i can relate to reader’s insecurity as well, a somewhat expertise field of mine (rip 🥀).
