first year high schooler ryomen sukuna was starting to think volleyball had ruined his life. but it was not because he disliked it. if anything, the thought was opposite. quite annoyingly, he liked it far too much. much more than he thought he would possible. and frankly, it wouldn’t have been what he expected more than a year and a half ago for himself.
he liked the impact of a perfect spike against his palm. it just felt too good, feeling that satisfying burn in his muscles after practice. he enjoyed watching the ball slam into the floor hard enough to make people flinch.
in some ways, there was something addictive about becoming stronger at something so quickly, about seeing people stare at him with the same mixture of awe and caution they always had. except now it was on a volleyball court instead of outside convenience stores after fights.
volleyball had also introduced him to a very specific problem. that was the unbeatable concept, the most unfathomable concept in the universe. the push and pull of destiny, the endless crash of the waves. the concept of love….the concept of you.
it was something that he would have never thought of years ago, especially a year and a half ago. he wasn’t the type of boy who could have ever been good at being gentle, let alone be willing to let his guard down and be vulnerable for anything, for anyone.
but somehow, ever since he started dating you, the former red eyed devil of the streets, that young delinquent he was, was no longer there. Instead, all that remained is this young man, this ryomen sukuna who had been acting like a complete idiot. a complete, embarrassing, hopeless idiot, who was head over heels in love with you.
and the worst part was that nobody could even believe it. nobody at school would ever imagine the infamous former delinquent ryomen sukuna, the guy teachers kept an eye on out of habit, the guy with tattoos peeking from beneath his uniform collar, the guy who looked mean even while half-asleep, was internally losing his mind because his girlfriend looked too cute holding a pen.
he could not believe it at first, but he quickly realized that he was now that sort of boy he used to think were just fools. he was now constantly looking up, waiting for you to be in his bird’s eye view, hoping to catch a glimpse of you and be relieved.
you sat in the gym almost every afternoon during volleyball practice, student council work spread neatly across your lap while you waited for him to finish. sometimes the manager would offer you a chair closer to the heaters during colder days, but you always stayed near the court because, according to you, “i like watching my boyfriend play” and you repeated that all the time. which was a killer line.
because that sentence alone had nearly gotten him on his knees and made him realize that he couldn’t breathe the first time you said it. then each time you had said it, it had him fighting for his life. he couldn’t believe it. he was a boyfriend, and let alone, your boyfriend.
he couldn’t go without you now.
he just knows that he can’t do things without you.
how could he, when you are everything good in life?
today, practice had run late.the weather outside had shifted colder with the approaching rain, and even inside the gym, the air carried a chill that lingered against sweat-damp skin. the windows had fogged slightly near the corners, sunset light filtering weakly through the gray clouds overhead.
sukuna was exhausted, beyond comprehension. he could feel the way his head was fuzzy and light-headed. he dropped onto the bench beside you with a low exhale, towel hanging around his neck while he rolled one sore shoulder. his practice shirt clung slightly to his back, still damp from drills.
you looked up immediately from your paperwork. “there you are, i couldn’t see you.” you said softly. “i thought you left. its a good thing i saw your bag in here.”
“had to do the drill outside, for terrain practice.”
“you were doing extra spikes there, huh?”
“tch. coach asked, so i don’t panic when if the volleyball floor isn’t even.”
“you scared two first-years, i heard. you kept asking the senpais for help and you kept glaring at them.” you couldn’t help but say in a light tone. “you could have smiled a little you know.”
“they’ll survive without it.” he says as he takes his water bottle. “‘sides they aren’t you. why should they get my smile?”
“i suppose that’s fair enough.” you tell him. “though, you hit one hard enough that he ducked before the ball even crossed the net. be a bit more mindful next time.”
“he should learn instincts then.”
your lips twitched faintly, the one you had been suppressing for a little bit now. sukuna watched the tiny smile form and immediately felt that stupid feeling in his chest again. god, there it was.
that thing. that unbearable tightness whenever you looked amused by him.
he clicked his tongue and grabbed his water bottle instead, trying to ignore the fact he was staring. you noticed anyway, because you always noticed. you blinked your eyes adorably and you tilted your head slightly. “what?” you asked.
“nothing.”
“you’re staring again.”
“no, i’m not.”
“you absolutely are.”
sukuna glared at you weakly before unscrewing his water bottle. unfortunately, the moment his fingers curled around the cold metal, he remembered something. he looked at your hands for a moment. he starts to think for a moment, about the way you hated the cold.
it wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t unreasonable either. and you don’t complain about it often. but he could just feel it, he could just see it. you couldn’t cope. you just got quietly miserable whenever temperatures dropped even slightly.
you tucked your hands into your sleeves. your nose turned pink. you complained under your breath about frozen fingers while trying to maintain your usual composed student-president image.
and sukuna, sukuna thought it was the cutest thing he had ever seen in his entire life. which was a serious problem. because now every time the weather got cold, every time a place felt cold, or when something was too cold to the touch, he couldn’t stop paying attention to you.
a few weeks ago, you’d grabbed his hand while walking home after rain. his muscular fingers had still been freezing from carrying an iced drink, and you’d immediately jerked in surprise before pouting up at him.
“your hands are cold, ‘kuna.” you’d complained quietly. “now mine are cold too.”
you hadn’t even sounded upset. if anything, you’d sounded clingy, almost like you expected him to fix it. sukuna had spent the entire night afterward staring at his ceiling because the memory kept replaying in his head.
now it had permanently altered his behavior, his train of thought, his perspectives. so while you sat beside him in the chilly gym, absentmindedly rubbing your sleeves over your hands for warmth, sukuna’s brain short-circuited instantly.
fuck, there you went again.
you looked too cute.
way too cute for him to handle.
you didn’t even realize you were doing it either, perhaps that was the worst part. your brows furrowed slightly as you tried warming your fingers beneath your sleeves while still reading over council papers, and sukuna physically had to look away for a second because something about it hit him directly in the chest.
how was anyone supposed to survive dating you?
“how are you cold already, babe?” he muttered roughly.
you glanced at him with mild offense. “because it’s freezing.”
“it is not.”
“‘kuna, i can literally see my breath outside.”
“that’s normal.”
“it shouldn’t be.”
you tucked your hands farther into your sleeves stubbornly, shoulders hunching a little against the cold air. and that, that right there nearly killed him. ryomen sukuna stared at you for a long second before dragging a hand down his face.
fuck it all, it was too much.
you were adorable.
actually adorable.
he hated this feeling. hated how soft you made him feel. hated how his chest kept tightening over things as stupid as your cold hands. before you could notice the crisis happening internally, sukuna abruptly started rubbing his palms together.
you blinked. “what are you doing right now?”
“nothing at all.”
“you’re aggressively warming your hands.”
“i said it’s nothing.”
then, dissatisfied, he shoved both hands underneath the collar of his shirt to warm them properly against his skin. your eyes widened slowly as realization hit your face all at once.
and then you smiled. you couldn’t help it, you couldn’t help look at him so fondly.
“oh my god…” you whispered.
“don’t.”
“you’re warming your hands up for me.”
sukuna wanted the floor to open beneath him. “you’re cold, okay?” he muttered defensively, refusing to look directly at you now. “you hate cold stuff.”
your expression softened so visibly it made his stomach flip. “‘kuna…”
“it’s annoying watching you complain.”
“i complained once.”
“you looked miserable.”
“because i was cold.”
“exactly.”
you stared at him for a moment longer, something unbearably affectionate settling in your expression. then you laughed quietly under your breath, so softly, it felt like a feather had landed on his skin, carefully placing its tenderness against him. sukuna felt like his organs were rearranging themselves.
“you’re seriously so sweet, aren’t you, kuna?” you said.
sukuna almost choked. sweet? him? absolutely not. “you’re hallucinating, babe.”
“you’re warming your hands because mine get cold.”
“you act like you’re dying every time the temperature drops below twenty.”
“because cold weather is evil.”
“there’s something wrong with you.”
“you still like me.”
unfortunately, that was true. painfully true. and there was nothing he could do about it. sukuna finally pulled his hands back out from beneath his shirt before awkwardly holding one toward you, still refusing eye contact. “here.”
you looked down at his hand, then back at him. and suddenly your entire expression melted. sukuna immediately knew he was finished. because there it was again. that look. that impossibly soft, affectionate look that made him feel like he’d been punched directly in the chest.
carefully, you slipped your hand into his. the second your fingers touched, your eyes brightened slightly.
“they’re warm.” you said quietly.
the happiness in your voice over something so small genuinely made sukuna’s brain stop functioning. fuck. fuck, you were cute. you held his hand with both of yours now like you were stealing his warmth, shoulders relaxing immediately.
“‘kuna, you’re so good at everything you know?” you murmured, looking absurdly content, “how could you just fix everything so easily? you’re like a healer…..no, no, you’re like my personal heater.”
that did it. that actually did it. sukuna felt his entire face heat instantly as he stared at you in disbelief. you were holding his hand against your cheek now, eyes half-lidded in comfort from the warmth, and sukuna genuinely thought he might die right there in the middle of the gymnasium.
how could someone act like this and not realize what they were doing to him? how could you just cross the boundaries and make the greys turn into a rainbow? his heartbeat was so loud it was annoying. you noticed his silence and blinked up at him innocently. “what?”
you laughed softly again before squeezing his hand tighter, still warming your fingers against his palm. and sukuna, he couldn’t do anything else. sukuna looked at you curled against his warmth like trusting him came naturally, like loving him was easy, and felt something helpless bloom painfully inside his chest.
because nobody had ever needed gentleness from him before. nobody had ever looked this happy just because he remembered something small about them. he stared at your intertwined hands for a moment before muttering under his breath, almost too quietly to hear, he says, “you’re gonna ruin me.”
you blinked. “hm?”
“nothing.”
but you smiled anyway, like maybe you’d heard him after all. and while the gym buzzed faintly around you with distant voices and squeaking shoes, ryomen sukuna sat there completely lovestruck, warming your hands between his own like it was the most important job in the world.
“i really do like you, ‘kuna.” you whispered to him softly, feeling warmth all over your face. “i promise, by next week…i’ll figure out what my nickname is for you….it can’t just be you who has a cute one for me.”
he could feel his blush intensify. he lowers his head. “y–you don’t have to say shit like that—fuck….”
“‘kuna, are you okay?”
“I…i’m fine! just…just keep letting my hands warm you, okay?....i warmed my hands to touch you….just…just let it warm you up.”
"alright, alright....tsundere."
"i am not a tsundere—babe!"
"hm...i believe you."
he blushed even more.
he knew you were right.
he just won't admit it.
".....just keep warm, okay?"
"okay." you smiled.
epilogue
years later, olympic volleyball legend ryomen sukuna still warmed his hands before touching yours. it had become such an ingrained habit that he no longer consciously thought about it anymore. whenever the weather turned cold, whenever rain tapped against the windows or winter air slipped beneath doorframes, his body simply moved on instinct. rub his palms together. warm them against hot water or the fabric of his sweater. then reach for you.
you noticed every single time. this morning, rain drizzled softly outside the apartment while pale gray light filled the kitchen. the heater hummed near the corner, but apparently not enough for you, because you stood near the counter bundled in one of sukuna’s old hoodies with your hands tucked deep into the sleeves.
your nose was pink from the cold. sukuna thought you looked ridiculous. ridiculously cute for your own good. you frowned down at your coffee mug like it had personally betrayed you. “why is the floor cold?”
“because it’s winter, babe.” sukuna answered from the table without looking up. “bound to be cold iike this.”
“well i don't like it.....winter is evil.” you sniffle.
“you say that every year.”
“because every year it’s true.”
he finally glanced toward you then and immediately felt that familiar ache settle warmly in his chest. years later, and you still looked exactly the same whenever you were cold. the tiny pout. the way your shoulders hunched slightly. the way you curled your fingers into your sleeves like a disgruntled cat.
sukuna had once believed he would eventually grow used to loving you. nstead, it seemed to get worse with time. he still is overwhelmed each and every time by how much he feels for you, by how deep the depths get when it comes to you. yet he wouldn't trade this for the world. not one bit.
you sighed dramatically before shuffling toward him across the kitchen. “my hands are freezing.”
“that sounds like a personal problem.”
“you’re so mean to me.”
“do you want some hot cocoa?”
“.....yes, please. thank you.”
“already have it on the kettle, babe.” he says from his seat, smiling. “give it a few minutes, okay?”
“......okay.”
almost instinctively after that, you still moved directly between his legs where he sat at the table, leaning against him automatically. sukuna’s hands settled on your waist without thought.
then, after a brief pause, he clicked his tongue softly and pulled one hand away. you watched silently as he reached toward the sink, running warm water over his palms for several seconds first.
a smile slowly spread across your face. “still doing that, huh?” you asked quietly.
sukuna dried his hands with a towel before looking back at you. “doing what?”
“warming your hands before touching me.”
“your hands get cold.”
“so?”
“so i don’t like when you complain about it.”
you laughed softly beneath your breath, and sukuna immediately felt his heartbeat stutter in the same humiliating way it always had.
he still remembered being sixteen years old and internally panicking in the school gym because your fingers had gotten cold from his.
now, years later, he was married to you, living with you, waking up beside you every morning and somehow he still reacted exactly the same.
you reached for him the second he held his hands out, slipping your smaller freezing ones into his warm palms with an immediate relieved sigh. “there he is.” you murmured happily. “my human heater.”
sukuna rolled his eyes, but his grip tightened automatically around your fingers. then he noticed the tiny pleased smile spreading across your face while you warmed your hands against his.
fucking hell.
still cute.
still unfairly cute.
he leaned down to kiss your forehead, already feeling that familiar helpless warmth blooming in his chest, when tiny footsteps suddenly pattered through the path of the hallway.
both of you turned. ryomen sukumi stood there sleepily in oversized bear-print pajamas, one tiny fist rubbing against her eye while her stuffed rabbit dragged limply behind her.
sukuna froze immediately. because somehow, every single morning, seeing his daughter still caught him off guard. one-year-old sukumi was so much like you it was honestly ridiculous.
your rounded cheeks. the same whimsy in your eyes. your adorable expressions. your habits. especially your habits. she may be his carbon copy but everything she is, all he can see is you and only you.
right now, she stood in the middle of the hallway with her tiny hands shoved deep into her pajama sleeves exactly the same way you did. same pout too. same betrayed expression toward the cold air.
sukuna physically felt something cave in his chest at the sight. you noticed immediately and bit back a smile. “good morning, kumi, my baby.” you said softly. “you're already up?”
sukumi looked at you with watery sleepy eyes before mumbling miserably, “cold…”
and there it was. that same exact tone you used every winter morning. the kettle was sounding but all he could hear was that sound, like back then. that tenderness of his heartbeat at the sight of this wonder. sukuna stared at his daughter in complete silence while realization slowly settled over him all over again.
she was exactly like you, in everything.
sukumi waddled farther into the kitchen before lifting both tiny arms upward dramatically. “mama…'kumi cold.”
you crouched instantly, brushing her messy hair back. “your hands are cold?”
sukumi nodded sadly. “very cold.”
sukuna watched the entire interaction with narrowing eyes as he turned off the kettle. he could not take his sight of you and sukumi. because she even complained like you. this was unbelievable. and yet all he could think was, how wonderful this was. how the two pieces of you two made someone as lovable and tender and cute as you, his beloved wife.
you glanced over your shoulder at him, visibly trying not to laugh. “my love.”
“don’t.”
“you’re making the face again.”
“what face, pray tell?”
“the one where you realize your daughter inherited all my habits.”
“she’s dramatic.”
“you think i’m dramatic too.”
“because you are.”
before you could argue, sukumi suddenly turned toward him instead, tiny hands still hidden inside her sleeves “dada, dada.” she mumbled.
sukuna’s expression softened immediately despite himself. “what, kumibear? what do you need from dada?”
“warm, kumi...kumi want warm.”
goodness gracious.
he was doomed.
completely doomed.
because now she was looking at him with the exact same expression you used whenever asking him to warm your hands. same hopeful eyes. same tiny pout. same complete trust that he would take care of it. sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose before crouching in front of her.
“c’mere, kumibear.”
sukumi toddled forward instantly. and before even touching her, sukuna rubbed his palms together first. almost as if she just knew fully well that this was the best thing she can do to put herself at ease, almost so instinctive that she curls intp his warmth immediately.
he does same thing he’d been doing for years. he puts his warm touch on hers. you watched quietly from nearby while he carefully took sukumi’s tiny hands between his own warm ones.
the second the warmth reached her fingers, sukumi visibly brightened. her little shoulders relaxed. her eyes widened slightly in relief. then she smiled so big, so comfortably.
and sukuna genuinely thought his heart stopped. because it was your smile. exactly your smile. when gratitude was shared, when good moments were experienced, when love was wholeheartedly given without any boundaries. this was you. all that he had loved of you, in your daughter's smile.
“warm, dada.” sukumi whispered happily before immediately pressing his hands closer against her cheeks. "kumi loves."
you made a tiny strangled sound beside him, clearly trying not to laugh at his expression. sukuna glanced up at you flatly. “don’t start.”
“you look emotional.”
“i’m not emotional.”
“you absolutely are.”
because he was.
he really was.
he couldn't help it.
this was everything.
all he wanted then, as a kid.
he had it now, with you.
sukuna looked back down at sukumi happily holding his hands against her face while leaning trustingly into his warmth, and suddenly he was struck with the overwhelming realization that this was his life now.
you. your daughter. these cold hands every winter morning. the tiny domestic moments that somehow felt bigger than anything else. and worst of all, he loved it to bits. he loved all of it so much it honestly made him feel sick sometimes.
you moved beside him then, resting your chin lightly on his shoulder while sukumi continued clinging to his hands. “look at her, my love.” you whispered fondly. “she does the same face i do.”
“yeah, she does.” sukuna muttered quietly, unable to stop staring at her. “i noticed.”
you smiled knowingly. because you understood exactly what was happening to him. years ago, sixteen-year-old sukuna had nearly combusted over you holding his warmed hands in a cold gym after volleyball practice.
now he sat on the kitchen floor with your daughter clinging to his palms the exact same way while you leaned affectionately against his shoulder, and somehow he was even more hopelessly in love than before.
"does kumibear want hot cocoa too? like mama?"
sukumi nodded against him. "cocoa, papa."
"that sounds wonderful." you whispered, pressing a kiss on his shoulder.
thank you for enjoying this little tidbit of lovesick!!! this was something thought of by a reader of lovesick and i decided to make it something to me.
i sat about it for a whole night, thinking about what the warmth of hands meant to me. in those quiet stretches that evening, im reminded of the warm, genuine tenderness my first love always carried my hands with. im reminded of my father stroking my head with his warm hands, in that rare moment in my youth when he was there, caring for me. in some way, this meant a lot to me. reflecting on those imperfect, yet impactful moments where i was loved. and warm hands touched me, reared me, took me into this moment right here. perhaps thats what this meant to me.
in a perfect world, i would have what volleyball sukuna and astrophyscist reader have in these pages. i would have something that endures the way their love does, the way their devotion, their warmth does. and in my own way, as im sure the dear reader who told me about this thought she had, is the magic we spread into the world, to hope everyone has something like this too. something so happy, something so loving, so warm.
𝓱usband!kento who presses a quick kiss to your temple every morning before leaving for work. it’s an unspoken habit, one he never forgets no matter how early he has to leave. if you stir awake while he’s pulling away from you, he’ll murmur a soft “go back to sleep, love” before slipping out the door.
𝓱usband!kento who speaks to you calmly even on his worst days!!! he could never bring himself to raise his voice at you no matter how tired or frustrated he was :( he absolutely refuses to let you become the outlet for his anger.
𝓱usband!kento who only shows his sense of humor around you. his dry, borderline terrible dad jokes that often make you snort are reserved solely for your ears. and when you tease him about how funny he actually is, he’ll only raise an eyebrow before saying, “i’ve got a reputation to maintain. can’t have others knowing i’m actually this amusing.”
𝓱usband!kento who notices when something’s wrong before you mention it. his gaze softening slightly before asking, “do you want to talk about it?” and if you don’t, he doesn’t push— instead he’ll stay patient until you’re ready to open up about whatever’s been bothering you.
𝓱usband!kento who listens to you ramble about anything and everything after a long day. he’ll loosen his tie, roll up his sleeves, and give you his full attention by keeping his eyes on you; nodding along to every word while actively hearing you talk about your day, your coworkers, or even the random documentary you watched the other time. kento loves hearing you speak even when you think you’re talking too much.
𝓱usband!kento who still gets you flowers even when there’s no special occasion. sometimes it’s a small bouquet of roses, while other times it’s just a single stem he saw on his way home from the supermarket. he’ll pass it to you with a faint softness in his expression as he says, “… this is for you, love.” you now have a collection of dried flowers tucked away, each one from a different day he thought of you.
𝓱usband!kento who goes to great lengths to ensure you feel comfortable & fulfilled. he takes care of things without making a big show of it, choosing to ease your burdens wherever he can by helping you with the house chores sometimes, and making sure you don’t overwork yourself too much since he’s more than willing to provide for you both.
⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i actually do miss writing for kento…
credits to im4yeons for the pink cream & star divider, polka dot floral frame found on pinterest ♡
.✦ SUMMARY: Tom has sworn to protect his little brother from women like you—but ends up falling into the trap himself when your punishment becomes his demise ;)
.✦ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. revenge hate sex. slight exhibitionism. Tom is jealous but doesn't want to admit it. rough sex, little to no prep, degradation, slight slut shaming? choking, face slapping (m rec MUHAHA), tearing instead of taking off clothes, unprotected p in v, creampie, orgasm denial, no aftercare, Tommy is obsessed with our pussy us :333
.✦ AUTHOR'S NOTE: yall know the phrase "missionary so we can keep arguing" ??? beccause that's them. lol.
wordcount: 3,1k
This. Exactly this is why you loathe Astronomy lessons.
Your arms hug your chest more tightly, hurrying along the dark and eerily quiet corridors, cursing yourself for not taking a warmer jacket with you. Although spring is slowly but surely starting up here in the far north of the country, you currently find yourself in that strange transitioning phase, where afternoons are pleasantly warm, hot even, while nights are bone-chillingly cold.
Astronomy classes typically start at 21:00 and end two hours later—catching the last few weak sunrays painting the horizon a bright, saturated orange as well as the starry night sky, sometimes accentuated by polar lights.
And while these definitely are the highlights of your lessons, it doesn’t quite change the fact that the walk back, especially in cold, dark weather, is as much unpleasant as terrifying.
The size of the castle does not help, either. Your walk to your dorm takes around 10-15 minutes surely and spans across half the castle. It leads you past the Great Hall, countless portraits of famous witches and wizards, the kitchens, and classrooms.
If you weren’t so caught up in your thoughts and regrets about signing up for Astronomy in the first place, you might’ve noticed the shift in the air around you. How the torches’ flames dim slightly as you turn the corner, how the owls’ hoots from the Owlery a few hundred metres away fade into the tranquillity of the night.
Instead, you shake your head at a comment your professor made this night, eyebrows pinched together in annoyance. He could’ve just cancelled the lesson for bad weather—but instead, he insisted, only to then be a nuisance when students couldn’t make out constellations.
If you weren’t so damn inattentive, you might’ve been able to draw your wand in time when a door to your right flies open, one strong arm circling your waist, the other clamping over your mouth as you’re pulled into a classroom before you can even react properly.
Might’ve been, you think, but when notes of sandalwood and myrrh flood your senses, that small chance dissolves into nothingness.
What could he possibly want from you this late?
He lets go of you when he’s put a sufficient amount of distance between you and the door and spins you around to face him.
Moonlight is drowning in from outside, the only source of light in the classroom besides a few candles—still, the resentment edged into his features is as evident as ever, and your mind races through all scenarios where you may have insulted Slughorn’s favourite boy.
And yet, you cannot recall such a moment. You are smart enough to keep distance between him and yourself, even though you sometimes would do nothing rather than smack him across his stupidly handsome face. There's no word in the whole English language to describe the sheer audacity of this man—starting with the way he treats his friends and ending with his perfect-student act in class.
Sometimes, you wonder if you are the only one seeing right through the facade he puts up. And even if you can’t quite place it, beneath said facade shimmers nothing good. That, you are sure of—and one of the many reasons why you prefer staying away from trouble rather than giving him that deserved slap across his cheek he is practically begging for.
“Mattheo,” he says, lowly. Nothing else. No explanation, just his brother’s name.
What about him? You nearly ask, but then it dawns upon you.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Over the years, Tom Riddle has acquired many titles. Prefect, Head Boy, top student, but most of all, protective older brother.
And you may or may not have gotten involved with the younger of the Riddles. Involved as in... hooked up with.
In your defence, you were quite drunk. More than usual. And those pretty brown curls, those freaking gorgeous doe-eyes—they led straight to your demise. Mattheo asked so sweetly too—how was your drunk self supposed to abstain from that?
It was just a one-time thing. Or, well, if you count the other two times it has happened after that—a three-time thing, perhaps.
You decide not to tell him that. “That’s none of your business, Riddle. He’s an adult and very well capable of making his own decisions.”
He scoffs with his signature condescending tone and shakes his head.
“Perhaps if he didn’t go after someone like you. But he can’t seem to keep his hands off women who are clearly bad for him.”
Bad for him? Someone like you? Who on earth does he think he is?
“Someone like me? What is that supposed to imply?” you ask exasperatedly, crossing your arms over your chest when a breeze sends a shiver down your spine.
Tom’s eyes drop to the now strained buttons of your blouse, a muscle ticking in his jaw before his eyes return to yours.
“You have quite the reputation regarding... that.”
“And you, you, Riddle—” you laugh in disbelief, closing the distance between the both of you, poking his chest with your index finger. “You’ve got quite the reputation for being an absolute asshole, which you’ve just proved right once again—contrary to me, because I don’t have said reputation.”
You don’t miss the flame lighting up behind his guarded eyes when your skin touches the fabric of his shirt. For a long moment, silence falls between you two, and your hand drops to your side again, swallowing the lump which has built in your throat.
You are too close. So close, you see how his jaw clenches and unclenches, how the crease between his brows fades. So close, if you shut your eyes and breathed in, you’d find yourself in a dark forest after rain—intoxicatingly good, but also just as dangerous.
Did he bathe himself in perfume?
Before you get to say anything else, a hand wraps around your throat. Firmly, but not enough to hurt or stop you from gasping. Tom walks you backwards until you’re pressed up against one of the tables, trapped between his body, taller and broader than your own, and the oak currently biting into your skin.
“You’ve quite the mouth on you. Careful, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to do anything I might regret later.”
His thumb brushes along the side of your neck then, his eyes—a darker brown than his brother’s—following. The touch of his bare skin on yours efficiently short-circuits your mind. You shouldn’t let him do this. You should ridicule him and flee to the sanctuary of your dorm—but something in his voice makes you curious. Makes you stay—right there, a breath away from him, your pulse hammering beneath his fingers on your neck.
“Is there anything mighty Tom Riddle could possibly regret? Here I thought you live a regret and carefree life. Guess I was wrong.”
His grip on your throat tightens the slightest bit. “Oh, there are plenty. Though I will make sure I won’t regret staying up late for this.”
You raise a brow at him. “Riddle missing out on his beauty sleep for me? The greatest tragedy of the 21st century, for sure.”
“Quiet,” he snaps, his hand leaving your throat. Tom places them on the back of your thighs instead, lifting you up to sit on the edge of the table. “You’ve said and done enough.”
Enough? You were just getting started. A warm-up, you could say.
You never thought arguing with him could be this much fun—especially when it riles him up to the point he gets fucking hard from it.
Because no, you haven’t quite missed the tent in his trousers, which was poking into your hips until a few seconds ago. How could you have? It was scarily evident. Knowing that you have this effect on him, a guy who you’ve never seen leave a party alongside a girl, is more satisfying than you’d like to admit.
He makes quick work of his belt, and that, on the other hand, is something you did not expect—not from him, at least.
It’s not only the fact he initiated this—but time and place. A classroom, of all places. Anyone could hear you. Prefects on duty, professors walking past. It was dangerous. Reckless. So unlike him, you wonder whether someone slipped him a potion during dinner.
Good that you don’t necessarily mind reckless.
He steps between your thighs, wrenching them apart.
“Someone could walk in, Riddle. You are insane,” you scold, though not entirely sincere, eyes darting between the unlocked door and him.
He flips up your skirt in response.
“Knowing you, you would most definitely enjoy that, slut.”
The retaliatory insult sits on the tip of your tongue but never makes it past your lips. His eyes are focused on the wet spot soaking through the cotton of your panties. His thumb presses down on it, tracing it upwards until he finds your clit, and you moan in response, meeting his touch.
He pulls away. “You get wet from just this? From arguing?”
You grin up at him. “Only when I am winning.”
Instead of asking you to lift your hips so he can slide your panties off, he hooks his fingers beneath the damp fabric, ripping it along the middle with a sharp tearing sound.
Those were expensive, you want to tell him, but his hand clamps over your mouth instead. “I would’ve considered going easy on you. If you weren’t such a goddamn brat who doesn’t know when it’s better to shut up, that is.”
Your eyebrows pinch together, because how could they not? It’s him who pulled you into this classroom just to what? To fuck you because you dared to have sex with his brother? Even if you tried making sense of it, you doubt you’d succeed.
But for now, for now you are curious whether he is bluffing or if he actually knows what he’s doing—and the answer, you find just a moment later.
His trousers are left to pool around his ankles, and he takes one last step forwards—groaning lowly as he coats himself in your slick. Tom doesn’t prepare you any more than a few bumps against your aching clit. Doesn’t use his fingers to work you open and get you to relax your muscles and give in to pleasure.
Instead, he nudges against your entrance and pushes inside. Not slowly, either. With one mean, sharp thrust, he splits you open around him, hands on your hips keeping you in your place. The sting is overwhelming at first, blinding. Your scream is muffled by his hand over your lips, and he stills for a moment—giving you enough time to stop him if you so wished.
When you don’t, your thighs closing around his lower body, he has the answer he needs. And though your vision is blurry with unshed tears, you feel the smirk on his lips. The satisfaction radiating off him is sickening, and thoughts about smacking it away return.
“So fucking tight. If you can’t take it, just say so. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“How considerate of you, Riddle.” you murmur with a fake smile, meeting his gaze. “I am not backing down, though. Now show me what you’ve got before I change my mind.”
He eases your legs apart, keeping them spread wide for him as he sets a rhythm. Fast, deep, unrelenting. His hips slam against your own with a loud smacking sound which echoes off the walls and—you are quite certain—can be heard from outside just as clearly.
God, perhaps that ego of his is rightfully as massive as it is.
His hand leaves your mouth and instead wraps around your throat again, more tightly this time. Your eyes flutter close, losing yourself in the feeling of him so close, so deep. Tomorrow will be soon enough to hate yourself for this. Now, now, you want to feel. Feel as he fucks his hatred into you.
But Tom—Tom isn’t quite happy with that. He wants to see you. Wants to see your eyes roll to the back of your head as he stuffs you full over and over again, wants to see you tear up each time he thrusts deep enough to brush against your cervix. He wants you to focus on him during it all.
“Eyes on me,” he rasps, voice low and thick with resentment. He grasps your chin and tilts your face towards his. “Look at me when I fuck you.”
You obey. And you hate that you do. You hate that he walks around the castle like he owns it. You hate that he’s making you feel like this.
Most of all, you hate that he always gets to have his way.
Your fingertips tickle with want, and what you do next isn't entirely thought through.
“I hate you, Riddle.” you whisper, eyes glaring up at him just as he wanted. And then, in one swift motion, your palm connects with his cheek, a loud SMACK! reverberating between you two.
His head stays turned to the side, and you clench your hand into a fist, dropping it to your side.
Damn, that hurt—but also, fuck, that felt amazing.
Tom stills his movements, buried all the way inside your velvety walls, his tip nudging uncomfortably against your already-sore cervix. You can’t say you’re not scared of what comes next. Did you hurt his ego? Will he stop? Will he—and you much preferred this option—do the same to you?
You could’ve frozen time, thought about every possible outcome for days, perhaps weeks, and what comes next wouldn’t have crossed your mind in that time. It wouldn’t have crossed your mind at all, not in a thousand years.
His head dips, and at the same time he uses his grip around your neck to pull you upwards. Tom breathes in, a mere inch from your lips—once, twice, his dark eyes staring at yours so intensely, the room around you starts spinning—and then, his lips collide with yours.
It’s messy, rough, uncoordinated—as it has been. He steals your breath away, but you don’t complain. His other hand finds your blouse, again, ripping instead of opening, one button after another popping off, leaving your chest bare for him.
Only when his lungs too run out of oxygen does he part from you, a whole new expression written over his face.
I hate you, but I can’t get enough either.
Tom seems to realise what the latter may mean, and God, if he was rough before, he is feral now.
His cock pistons into you at a pace you have a hard time keeping up with, every thrust making the table squeak and sending your hips backwards—so harshly, he has to pull you back multiple times.
“This is what you wanted? Getting fucked like a slut? Don't even bother answering. We both know.”
You shriek when he angles his thrusts just right, gripping his forearm. “Riddle— Tom, I—”
He looks at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. Torn blouse and panties, mascara smeared, whining and moaning so sweetly beneath him. This is so much better than he imagined it to be.
Similar thoughts cross your mind. Beads of sweat on his temples, one dark curl hanging loosely over his forehead. He breathes heavily, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. He looks gorgeous like this—even more so than usual. Human, almost. With real feelings. Fuck.
His thumb finds your swollen clit, briefly—pulling away before it starts feeling good. He scoffs when you whine at the loss.
“You thought I’d allow you to come? Pathetic. Think again.”
You want to argue with him, beg, if you really have to—but he pushes you down onto the surface of the table, leaning over you—an angle which allows him deeper, and that, he uses to his advantage.
Low grunts and groans begin spilling from his kiss-swollen lips, and with a few more deep thrusts, he spills himself inside you, painting your walls white with his release.
Tom stays there while he catches his breath—buried deep, keeping you full of him for a moment longer.
When he does finally withdraw, you hiss at the friction—God, you aren’t looking forward to the walk back to your dorm.
Tom doesn’t speak a word while he dresses himself. Only when he is about to exit the classroom does he turn around one last time, a small, satisfied smirk tugging on the corner of his lips when he realises you haven’t moved, thighs slick with your combined arousal.
“Don’t come near him—us—again,” he says, keeping his tone as strict as he could—though failing. “Trust me, I will know.”
・・・
You are glad it’s the weekend, because for the last two days, after returning to your dorm, you haven’t moved much. Your whole body aches, and a part of you wishes you smacked him twice instead of just once.
With your latest read in your hand, you prepare yourself for bed—though sleeping has been rather difficult when all you can think about is him. How he felt inside you, how pretty he looked when his guard was down.
A few minutes later, a sharp knock on your window startles you. The bed just got warm, and you sigh deeply as you swing your legs over the edge and cross the room to the window.
Who in their right mind sends an owl this late?
You open the window, a chilly breeze greeting you. Taking the letter from your owl, you pet her, and she flies off into the darkness of the night again. You sink onto the chair at your work desk, studying the envelope.
The seal looks familiar, and yet you can’t quite place it—only when you open it do you recognise the handwriting.
It’s Tom’s—and the content makes you huff a laugh.
Tuesday, after Herbology. The classroom I use for tutoring. Don't be late, or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk for another three days.
You cringe at the thought of him seeing you limp to the Great Hall for breakfast and quickly shove that thought away. Most importantly, he reached out to you. After just two days, he’s the one breaking his own rule.
You sensed it was a lie back when he told you to stay away. It didn’t come with the usual authority, with the finality you’d expect from him.
A smirk spreads across your face, slow and sweet realisation dawning on you.
You got both Riddle brothers addicted to you—and your pussy.
A/N pt 2: THREESOME WHEN WHEN WHEN????
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
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masterlist. | oneshots.
SYNOPSIS. When the world falls asleep, a certain radio broadcast goes live—one hosted by none other than you and your best friend Wen Junhui. The two of you host an anonymous love confession segment, where listeners submit their deepest feelings, secrets, and late-night loves they can’t say aloud for you to unravel live on air. However, when a recurring submission starts to feel too familiar, a certain someone finds themselves wondering how long they can stay anonymous… before they are finally heard.
PAIRING. radio host!wen junhui x radio host!fem!reader (ft. soonyoung as a comedic device)
GENRE. fluff, best friends to lovers, crack/humour, comfort, slight angst, smut (minors dni 🔞)
WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of toxic situations in relationships (situationships, cheating, love bombing), yn and jun are dumb asffff no wonder they're besties, jun feeling a lil insecure :(, lots of playful bickering and bullying, terms of endearment, kissing, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, they bully each other even while doing the deed 😭
WORD COUNT. 11.3k
notes: hellooo everyoneee, this is my fic for the @studiosvt First Time Caller collab! please don't forget to support all the amazing authors in the collab!! unfort this was so rushed and lowkey not proud of it SDFDS i completely forgot how to write while writing this since it was all during the stress of finals szn and other matters LMAO, but i love writing abt two stupid oblivious idiot besties who are secretly in love with each other 😔 not rlly proofread so i'm sorry for any mistakes !! there is also a skye @etherealyoungk cameo in here hehe
“No, no, no𑁋Wen Junhui, you’re being way too nice about this!” You exclaim mid-laugh, shaking your head as you lean in towards the mic. “If someone’s been stringing you along for six months with nothing but ‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet’ texts, then that’s just straight up terrorism. Not even a situationship, at this point.”
Jun lets out a laugh of his own and throws his head back, almost making his headphones nearly fall off his head. He readjusts quickly, dark hair messily falling over his forehead. The neon red of the bright ON LIVE sign on the wall behind his head casts an almost villain-like glow across his features, sharpening the curve of his already amused smile.
“Terrorism? Wow, tell us how you really feel, Y/N,” Jun retorts playfully. “But fine. Anon, if they’ve been feeding you breadcrumbs for half a year, that’s basically emotional warfare. Please save yourself and block them on everything𑁋and yes, that includes on Spotify.”
You snort at that, tapping your pen against your script notes that you’ve been barely following anyway. The show had practically devolved from advice to whatever banter you and Jun had cooked up on the spot. “Exactly. Listeners, if your situationship has an expiration date longer than expired milk, it’s time to toss it. Jun is too sweet to say it, so I’ll do it. Run.”
“I𑁋’too sweet’?!” A dramatic gasp tumbles out of Jun as he spins his chair toward you. “I was the one who told last week’s caller to roast her boyfriend’s dick like a marshmallow because he kept forgetting her birthday!”
“But you said it with, like, the sweetest voice ever!”
“That man deserved to get emotionally blue-balled! How can you forget your girlfriend’s own birthday for a second year in a row?”
You roll your eyes so hard it’s basically audible over the mic. “God, Junhui, you have the emotional range of a raccoon.”
“I’ll take it.” Jun grins at that, thrusting his shoulders back as if he’s trying to appear bigger and more intimidating. “At least raccoons are cute, right?”
On your laptop, the chat is going crazy.
user: here we go again with their flirty banter 🙄
user: JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY YOU TWO!!!!!!!!!
user: i swear this radio show is hosted by 2 delusional idiots
user: i think they should kiss idk
“No, we shouldn’t!” You exclaim at the chat like you’re scolding a bunch of twelve-year olds.
Jun nearly hops out of his seat. “Wait, I agree!”
“Wen Junhui!”
“What? I was agreeing with you!”
“That was not you agreeing with me,” You groan. “You agreed to kissing me.”
“Well, the chat started it, so don’t put all the blame on me,” Jun says with a pout, folding his arms together. “Plus, it would be good for research purposes, wouldn’t it?”
Your eyes bulge out of your skull, your mind and face flaming up. “You’re such a𑁋we host a radio show, not a damn lab!”
“Chemistry is still relevant! And chemistry is needed for relationships!”
“We are not in a relationship, oh my, God.”
“Hypothetically, Y/N. Think hypotheticals.” Jun clicks his tongue, letting out playful tsk-tsk-tsk. “I’m telling you our ratings would absolutely skyrocket.”
You fight back the smile threatening to split your face in half, but there’s no point in trying to battle it. After being best friends with Jun for most of your life and witnessing pretty much all the stupid shit he has ever said or done, you’ve long accepted that his brand of chaos is the only thing in this world that can make your chest too tight and too warm at the same time. Especially if it involves the playful flirting you’ve been bouncing on for years.
“Whatever, to answer your question𑁋raccoons are cute, but they’re also known for making stupid life decisions,” You point out with a victorious smirk. “So, maybe not the best comparison to make. It’s accurate, regardless.”
“Harsh,” he whines, but his eyes𑁋those stupid, unfairly expressive eyes of his𑁋sparkle with teasing delight. “Alright, onto the final submission of the night. Anonymous says…”
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air,
I’ve been supporting the show since the very beginning, and now, I think I’m in trouble enough to make a submission.
I’m in love with my best friend. I have been for years and it struck me pretty hard this morning. Is it weird to say when I first met them it felt like love at first sight? We talk every day to the point that everyone assumes we’re together, but we’re not. They’re kind, funny, and sometimes I think they deserve someone better than me. But is it selfish of me to say that I want to keep them in my life forever? Even if that line isn’t crossed?
What should I do???
🐱
The studio falls silent for a few moments after Jun finishes reading. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. When Jun picks his head back up to look at you after reading the confession, his usual smirk is still in place, but fades just a tad when he catches the contemplative expression on your face.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N?”
“Huh?” You blink back up at him. “Oh, shit. Right, uh…”
You can’t tell if it’s the late night hour getting to you or something else entirely. You’ve received so many similar confessions before𑁋a best friend falling in love with their other half, the slow and torturous ache of unspoken feelings, the fear of messing up something that’s already so beautiful itself. And ultimately, your advice has always stayed the same.
But when you meet eyes with Jun, it’s as if the words have completely cut your tongue off. You finally clear your throat.
“First of all, welcome cat anon to the club of people who are all vicariously and collectively screwed together,” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I wish we hadn’t read yours at the very last minute since we’re about in end in five𑁋”
Jun lifts a brow. “Wait, we have about fifteen𑁋”
“𑁋but I’ll just say that you aren’t selfish for wanting to keep them in your life. But you are doing a disservice keeping it locked away forever. This kind of love doesn’t come around twice. So tell them, even if it scares you. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?”
You can feel Jun’s heavy gaze linger on the side of your face.
“Exactly, anon,” he jumps in like the professional he is. “Ripping the band-aid off would only hurt temporarily, right? And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here next week with some ice cream recommendations to help you cope.”
“Keep in mind what Jun said, guys,” You say, forcing a small laugh. “Thank you all for turning into Love On Air. Stay honest, stay unhinged, and send that one person a risky text. If you want to submit a confession, please send one to our email. We are live every Saturday on FM 98.7! Goodnight, everyone!”
You kill your microphone first as the ON LIVE sign on the wall blinks out with a soft click. Jun switches off his microphone right after, and the silence that washes over the studio is louder than anything else.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You still feel the ghost of Jun’s gaze warm on your cheek from when you were giving advice just a minute ago. It’s silly, really𑁋how one singular anonymous confession is enough to make you think and contemplate so hard. You’ve given advice to more people than you can count on your hands and toes, but this specific one feels as if it grew limbs, crawled out of the screen, and sat itself between you and him.
“You rushed that ending,” Jun interrupts your thoughts as he swings his coat over his shoulders.
You scoff lightly. “I did not.”
“Did too.”
“I literally answered the question,” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “That’s our job.”
“Exactly,” he hums in response, leaning his elbow on the desk and resting his chin lazily in his palm. “You answered it like it was your first time ever hearing it.”
A pause.
“When it’s not.”
It’s not. But why𑁋out of all goddamn times you’ve read the same exact fear𑁋did this one feel like someone jabbed a finger at your chest and said: here, this is yours?
You force a laugh at that, letting out a deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental at my big age.”
“You’re literally younger than me.”
“Only by a few months. Your argument is irrelevant, grandpa.”
Jun tilts his head at your words, pushing himself off the table and invading your personal space as always. He stands only a step away from you, observing the way you’re speedily packing your belongings like some kind of punishment. When you face back up at him, he gives a light flick to your forehead. His touch lingers for a few seconds, before he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s playful and casual, but the way your skin tingles after isn’t.
Your heart does a stupid little flip in your chest.
“Come on, youngling, I’ll drive you home,” he says with a cheesy smile, dangling his car keys off his finger.
A groan leaves you as you allow him to drag you by the wrist and out of the studio.
To be honest, the radio show started off as one big fat joke.
It started in sophomore year of college, where you and Jun were nothing but a pair of dumb, broke college kids. Then you both decided to sign a quick gig for the campus radio station because you thought it would look good on your resumes. The two of you were supposed to do the boring music hour𑁋basically play whatever indie crap the station manager liked and read weather updates every morning.
But that didn’t exactly go as planned, as the majority of those sessions were spent with you both roasting each other’s music tastes live on air, and for some reason, the listeners seemed to eat that dynamic up.
In one particular session, Jun opened up the radio station email box live on air. You both expected for another complaint, which wasn’t uncommon knowing how immature the two of you act sometimes. However, it wasn’t a complaint this time.
It was a confession.
A girl had written about how she’d been in love with her roommate for the past two years and didn’t know how to voice it without ruining their lease together. Jun read it when his microphone was supposed to be switched off, and something in the studio shifted that night.
“Do… we answer it?” Jun had asked you warily.
You had hesitated for once, before a sudden surge of determination filled you. Perhaps it’s the delirium of two idiots who believed they could wing it, or the thought that a random person decided to reach out to both of you𑁋out of anyone else𑁋was the reason for the determination. Either way, you looked across at Jun that night and said, “Yeah. Let’s answer it.”
And that was that.
The rest of the semester became an absolute rollercoaster of love confessions, messy breakups, love bombers, situationships that made you want to pull your hair out, and the two of you slowly carving a name for yourselves as the unfiltered chaotic duo who gave sarcastic advice that came straight from the heart. The campus station extended their time slot, then the local radio station in the city picked the two of you up.
Somewhere along the way, and four years later, Love On Air stopped being a joke and became a real thing you and Jun committed together every Saturday at midnight𑁋your own little pocket of chaos in an otherwise normal adult life. For the most part, at least, because pining for your best friend is totally counted as normal.
Wen Junhui came into your life like a stray cat who decided that your doorstep looked comfortable enough to stay forever. Uninvited and unpredictable, way too pretty for his own good, yet somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. He randomly plopped down right next to you during freshman orientation, snatched the last macaron on your plate, and gave you a look that said you’d be fun to annoy for the next four years before introducing his name.
You’d never admit how absolutely starstruck you were the first time he smiled at you. Or laughed. You told yourself you were just sleep deprived and lonely being in the city all by yourself, but deep down, the voice in your head at that moment said that you wanted to keep him.
You should have been annoyed. But instead you laughed and nearly choked on your water, and that was it. Game over. And you became each other’s favourite person without either of you having to put a label on it. Best friend felt too small, and soulmate felt too big and scary for two broke college kids who couldn’t dedicate themselves to a single major.
So you just… existed together. Thrived together. Grew together through the most stupidest decisions known to mankind.
And at some point down the road, that stray cat curled up into your chest and refused to leave.
“Listeners, let’s give a full round of applause to user derangedcarat for cutting off their cheating ex-partner,” You announce into the microphone, clapping your hands like a proud mom at a recital. The chat explodes immediately.
user: 👏👏👏👏
user: FINALLY i’m so proud of u user derangedcarat queen
user: anyone who cheats on their partner needs to be put on death row
user: ^^^ preach!!!
“And you did the hard part, user derangedcarat,” Jun adds in. “We love growth in this household. Maybe email us a screenshot of the block so we can frame it in the studio here.”
“Exactly, and please don’t forget to take care of yourself,” You reassure into the microphone. “Block, delete, go touch some grass if you need to. You deserve someone who actually respects you.”
The next confessions run by in a blur over the next hour. Someone sends in a confession asking if it’s weird to still be hung on their high school ex, another person confesses that they’ve been naming their house plants after people who ghosted them, which the two of you undoubtedly praise for creativity.
To top off the chaos, there’s one submission an anonymous user submits with screenshots of cringe-worthy flirty text messages from a man they’re talking to, with the sender begging for the two of you to rate the messages on a scale of “smooth operator” to “immediate block”.
Jun narrows his eyes toward the screen. “Y/N, listen to this: ‘hey babygirl, how’s your night been? mine was spent thinking about u 😏’. Sent at 2:19 in the morning, left on read for three days.”
You burst out laughing, cheeks puffing out to the point it hurts. “Oh, my God. Solid negative five. That’s a biohazard right there.”
“That’s way too generous,” Jun snorts while spinning in his chair. “Anon, this man is serving nothing but expired milk. Please save yourself a headache and block his number.”
Heartbreak, confessions, and ridiculous stories𑁋you and Jun tag-team them over the next hour like strong duo you are, with the chatting eating up every particularly brutal line that leaves either of your mouths. This is what seems to happen when you give two nocturnal people a cup of bitter tar coffee and the free will to say whatever they please.
By the time the final minutes of the session comes, you and Jun decide to read out one last confession.
“...Cat anon is back with a follow-up confession.”
You perk up curiously at that. “Really? What does it say?”
Jun hesitates briefly, before clearing his throat.
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air,
Hi, it’s me again. The one who wrote the other week. Thank you both so much for responding to me. I listened to every word you guys said, and I think you’re right. I was almost brave the other night𑁋had this whole stupid mental speech planned to tell them when we were hanging out together. But I… chickened out. Again. Really dumb of me, I know.
And I know that I look like a coward who needs a weekly pep talk, but this show feels like the only safe space I’m able to confess this. I do have a question for the two of you to answer and discuss.
Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘perfect love’?
I think that’s my dilemma right now. I want to be perfect for them. I want to give them that perfect love that they deserve. But how can I do that, knowing who I am?
🐱
The studio falls into a gentle kind of quiet after Jun finishes reading. The words are still processing deeply through your mind when he warily lifts his eyes back up at you, lingering on your concentrated expression. Then his heart stutters in his chest when you meet his eyes as if he got caught doing something wrong.
“Jun, why don’t you answer it first?”
Jun blinks, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear away fog. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long arms up with a thoughtful sigh, enough for his hoodie to ride up just slightly for you to catch a sliver of skin. You try (and fail) not to notice, muting your microphone briefly to let out a cough into your hand.
“I mean, ‘perfect’ love is that type of stuff you read about in books or watch in movies, right?” He shrugs, letting his arms fall back down as his chair creaks softly beneath him. “Like no miscommunication, no timing issues, no one being stupid… which already disqualifies most of humanity, honestly.”
You lean back in to unmute your microphone. “Are you saying you’re part of that disqualification?”
“Absolutely, I’m the poster child for it,” he claims with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I constantly forget shit, I’m nocturnal as hell, and sometimes I make objectively terrible decisions. Who would want to date me?”
The question lands a little too easily, maybe even familiar, sending an uncomfortable ripple you feel all the way down to your toes. Something about the way it left his mouth without any hesitation sends a painful grip to your heartstrings. Jun has always had this kind of self-deprecating humour, tossing it out like it was nothing at times. It makes you want to one: shake reality into him, or two: kiss him to prove him wrong.
You force out an awkward laugh, higher than it needs to be.
“Someone with terrible taste, clearly,” You answer, keeping your voice teasing despite the heaviness in your chest. “But luckily for you, the world is full of people with terrible taste.”
Jun chuckles, spinning his chair so he could study you properly.
“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “You think so?”
The chat is moving so fast now it’s basically a complete blur.
user: bro really asked who would date him while staring at his wife
user: why is he so boyfriend coded still tho
user: y/n should answer the question too!!!
user: PERFECT LOVE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER STOPPP RNN
“Chat is right,” Jun quips. “What’s your answer to the question too, Y/N?”
The second the question leaves him, you can feel every pair of invisible eyes staring at you through the screen and your pulse kicking up loudly in your ears. Jun is still leaning back in his chair, relaxed as ever, his curious gaze fixed solely on you.
Finally, you clear your throat.
“Well, I’ve seen couples break up because their relationship isn’t ‘perfect’,” You begin. “But the ones that last? They’re the ones where both sides are a little flawed, a little messy, and a little scared, but they choose each other anyway. That’s what you would call an imperfect love, and… I think that’s the most beautiful kind of love that can exist.”
Suddenly, the tiny studio feels almost suffocating to sit in. Your eyes flick up to Jun. He isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. He’s just staring at you with an expression so open𑁋almost surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be so serious𑁋it steals the rest of your answer out of your throat.
You refuse to look at the chat; you already know what they’re saying.
“You really thought about it a lot, huh?” Jun asks, scratching at the back of his neck.
You could only manage a small, somewhat self-conscious nod, bringing your eyes down to the ground. “Yeah. Guess I have.”
A wave of silence washes over the studio for a minute.
“...it’s a really good answer,” he murmurs.
A pleased smile crosses over your face. “Well, I am kinda a professional at this.”
“Mm,” he hums absentmindedly in response.
You pretend to busy yourself with your laptop, trying to read over the chat that has now morphed into just meaningless spams of screaming text and heart emojis. Your cursor lingers over nothing, while your heartbeat is running a full blown marathon of panic.
But when you glance back at Jun, the panic seems to strengthen even more.
“Cat anon, we really appreciate your trust in us,” You finish softly. “And I really hope that our advice tonight resonates with you. At the end of day, we’re all just a bunch of flawed humans looking for love, right? Don’t drive yourself to be perfect, because you’re already perfectly imperfect just as you are. And if your best friend reciprocates these feelings…”
Your eyes flit back up to Jun.
“...then take the leap, because they’re probably already waiting for you.”
After a pause, you lightly kick Jun’s foot underneath the table. He jolts in his seat like you shocked him, before recovering with a nervous, boyish chuckle, sounding not even close to his usual, bright and effortless laugh. For once, he appears almost rattled, with his pupils wide and his ears pink that even the dim studio lights can hardly hide.
On the wall, the ON LIVE sign flickers in and out of its glow.
“She’s, um… Y/N is right, cat anon,” Jun agrees quietly. “You don’t have to become someone else to prove yourself worthy for someone. If they’re your person, then… who you are already is why they stayed this long.”
From that, the chat practically combusts.
user: WEN JUNHUI???? IS THERE SOMETHING U WANNA SHARE W THE CLASS???
user: why did this suddenly get so intense lmao is it hot in here or is it just me?
user: i’ve been on this ship since the beginning of the show!!!!
“Alright, that’s all the time we have for tonight,” You interrupt quickly, instinctively switching back to host mode. “Thank you to everyone who sent in your confessions tonight. Stay safe, stay honest, and please don’t respond to someone who sends you a babygirl text at ungodly hours.”
Jun reaches for the switch. “Goodnight, everyone!”
Click. The ON LIVE sign dies.
Jun slides the headphones off his head and shuts down his laptop. You do the same. The two of you pack up belongings in that familiar and companionable silence that always spills into the room after a session. When you swing your bag over your shoulder, Jun glances up in your direction worriedly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod, offering him a small, sleepy smile. “Take me home?”
Jun swallows down the lump in his throat.
“Yeah.” He’s already opening the door for you. “Always.”
Jun remembers one of the first discussions the two of you had on the show together.
Love at first sight.
Back then, the studio was smaller, scrappier, and the chairs squeaked each time either of you moved even a centimetre. The world had fallen asleep long enough that honesty slipped through the cracks of your voices so easily. You both were running on nothing but instant noodles and caffeine, way different than the semi-functional adult routine you have established now.
He remembers the beautiful laugh that left you when the question came in halfway through a song neither of you remembered choosing.
He laughed with you too. Rolled his eyes and called it nonsense, all while pretending to not notice how your smile had gone a little soft when you answered it with that amused lilt to your voice.
“I think it exists,” You had said. “Not like movie magic, though. But… you just meet someone and your brain clicks into place, you know? Like it says, ‘Oh. It’s you.’”
“That sounds like you’re trying to make shit up to justify bad decisions,” Jun argued back with a smirk.
You gasped at that and slapped his wrist, causing him to laugh. “Excuse me? That was uncalled for.”
And the segment moved on after that.
But Jun continues to carry that sentence with him like a permanent scar.
Oh. It’s you.
“What are the chances that a confession we’ve read out is from someone we know?” Jun asks while plopping a chip in his mouth, adjusting his body from where he had been sprawled across your couch for the past few hours.
You don’t bother to spare a glance up from your laptop, but a grin crosses your features. “Pretty high, to be honest. Soonyoung once told me he submitted something to the show one time.”
Jun nearly chokes on the chip scratching at his throat. “Soonyoung? As in Kwon Soonyoung? Never shuts up, Soonyoung?” He sits up so fast he accidentally knicks his socked foot under the coffee table. “Ow! I𑁋What the hell did he confess? Was it about that girl in his dance class that was drooling over him?”
You finally look over at him, chuckling at the way his eyes have grown comically wide. “He didn’t say. Just that he sent it under a funny username and almost died when we read it out. Apparently, we just straight up told him to stop being a coward and talk to her. They went on one date together. He found out she was allergic to cats and broke her heart by saying they were incompatible. End of story.”
Jun stares at you for a full blown three seconds, before he throws his head back into the couch with a laugh so genuine you would think his soul left his body completely.
“That’s insane,” he says breathlessly. “Literally the most Soonyoung thing to do. No wonder he’s still single.”
“Actually, he’s not,” You chime back in. “I think he’s dating this new girl named… Skye, I think?”
“Sky?”
“Skye, but with an e at the end.”
“Wow,” Jun mutters, crunching down on another chip and sarcastically adds, “Character development. We love to see it.”
You roll your eyes, shutting down your laptop with a click and leaning back into the couch with Jun right next to you. You curl your knees up to your chest. “People change, Jun. Miracles happen.”
Jun offers you the bag of chips. You take one, crunching absentmindedly as your gaze travels somewhere past the TV, past the wall, past everything. He notices. Of course he does. A nudge to your leg awakens you quickly.
“Where’d you go just now?” he asks.
“Nowhere.”
Jun huffs. “Liar.”
You flick a crumb at him. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” he retorts with a lazy grin, sticking his tongue out.
You shoot a glare at him and snatch the bag of chips from his hand before he can react. A scandalised look splits his face as he lunges to grab it back from your grasp, but you manage to twist your body away and dodge his reach.
“Hey!” he exclaims, attempting to grab the back once more but you clutch it tightly to your chest. “Give that back to me!”
You yelp and scramble further into the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter as you hug the back tight enough to crush some of the chips inside. “You stole this from my pantry!”
When his fingers brush the corner of the bag, you only yank it away again. Jun narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching upwards like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Y/N.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“Junhui.”
“You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“And you love me for it,” You remark, sticking your tongue at him back mockingly.
That does it.
As he makes a dive for it again, you twist a little too far. The next thing you know, you’re collapsing back against the couch cushions with a soft oof, and Jun is falling down with you. Very much ungracefully.
Because one second he’s reaching, the next he finds himself tumbling down over you in a tangle of limbs and laughter, somehow managing to catch himself just beside your head before he can actually crush you into the couch. And he’s way too close.
His knee presses into the cushion in between your legs, while his hand is planted by the side of your head. His dark hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, and his breath comes out unevenly from the laughing.
Your own breathing isn’t exactly steady either.
Jun looks down at you. You look back up at him. Your apartment suddenly feels fifty times smaller, and the laughter dies instantly, replaced by a familiar heaviness in the air whenever the two of you are alone together. His eyes drop down to your lips for a singular second before flicking back up to your face, and you catch the way his ears redden in slight guilt.
You swallow down a lump in your throat. “Jun…”
And from that split second of vulnerability, he uses that opportunity to snatch the bag of chips right off your hands, catching you completely off-guard. The warmth in the air still lingers even as he pulls away from you and flops back down on the couch.
“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly. “Victory is mine!”
You stare at him in disbelief before letting out the loudest, most offended noise imaginable as you smack his shoulder.
“Wen Junhui!”
“Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the savoury taste of victory,” he quips with a grin, face beaming with pride.
“You’re such a little thief𑁋”
“You hesitated!” he argues smugly. “So that’s on you!”
“Because you were staring at me all weird!”
That makes him shut up, the smugness fading off his face so abruptly as if you accidentally powered something in his system off. The apartment goes quiet enough for you to only hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the honk of a car outside. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe you did, you don’t know.
“I…” You utter weakly, trying to brush it away with a nervous chuckle. “Can we just pretend I spontaneously combusted instead?”
A soft, disbelieving laugh leaves him. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“For… looking at you all weird.”
“Jun𑁋”
“I think I’ll get going. It’s getting late,” he mutters, immediately standing up a little too fast. He grabs the bag of chips instinctively, realises it’s still in his hands, and sets it back down on your coffee table awkwardly.
He doesn’t look at you as he grabs his hoodie and keys, moving with a surprising speed that even your own brain can barely process what to say. When he’s scrambling to the door, you move before you think, and you grab him by the wrist before he can unlock your door.
Jun feels his pulse jump harder under your fingertips. Twisting himself back around, he’s met with your soft yet worried gaze, before flicking down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You release him immediately like you accidentally touched fire.
“Sorry,” You murmur, taking a small step back. “Just… text me when you get home, okay?”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Of course.” A sheepish smile graces his lips for a moment. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Jun.”
You close the door with a quiet click that somehow is louder than it should be. Now, you’re all alone in your apartment, yet the warmth of his presence still lingers through every part of your place. He’s been in here a thousand times𑁋hell, you both have slept in the same bed together a plentiful amount during all the times he’s trespassed in your space𑁋but tonight it feels like there’s a literal dent in the air itself.
The two of you have shared many awkward moments together. He’s accidentally walked in on you changing a few times; you’ve seen him stress-eat an entire family-sized bag of shrimp chips at four in the morning. You both have seen each other at some of your lowest points, but why, out of all nights, does it hit harder than anything else?
You sink back into the couch with a groan. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then𑁋
Buzz.
[12:55am | menace (affectionate)]
i just got home
you okay?
You stare at his message for a long moment.
[12:57am | y/n]
good
and yeah, i’m fine. you?
[12:58am | menace (affectionate)]
splendid! and … tired
[12:58am | y/n]
go sleep then dumbass
[12:59am | menace (affectionate)]
alright mother calm down i’m brushing my teeth
A low giggle leaves you at his response. A few minutes pass before a new text from him lights up your phone.
[01:05am | menace (affectionate)]
can i ask you something really random?
[01:05am | y/n]
of course
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again.
[01:07am | menace (affectionate)]
do you think cat anon is okay?
A sinking feeling opens a pit in your stomach, thumb frozen over your keyboard. You stare at the screen until the words begin to blur. God, of all the questions he had to ask tonight…
[01:10am | y/n]
i don’t know
i hope so
and that they learn it’s okay to be brave
[01:12am | menace (affectionate)]
yeah. me too
You’re hardly able to think when his next text comes in quicker than you expected.
[01:12am | menace (affectionate)]
goodnight y/n
don’t overthink in your sleep
You smile faintly.
[01:13am | y/n]
no promises
goodnight jun
You lock your phone after that with a tired sigh, tossing it onto the couch cushion besides you like it might bite you back if you hold it for too long. And somewhere on the other side of the city, another phone is tossed away like a shameful piece of evidence.
As you stare blankly at your dark television and feel the exhaustion of the day weighing between your bones, you know that sleep won’t come easy tonight. It becomes even more challenging even after you brush your teeth, wash your face, doomscroll on your phone for a while, and face plant onto the bed like you just came home from a wounded battle.
“Pathetic,” You mumble into your pillow to absolutely nobody. “I’m so pathetic.”
On the other hand, Jun is… doing the exact same thing.
His ceiling fan spins lazily overhead while his phone screen dims beside him. The last text message you sent to him spirals through the air around him. He doesn’t even know what to do but let out a muffled incredulous laugh into his pillow, sighs, before abruptly sitting up in bed and realising how much of a loser he’s acting right now.
“I should’ve…” Jun groans, running a hand over his face. “I should’ve just told her… I’m such a coward.”
Because the thing about running a late-night show where love is the main topic and advice is given, is that it’s painfully easy to tell strangers to be brave when your own heart isn’t on the line, when you’re not the aforementioned person in the story who is being pined over. It’s easy to take the leap when you aren’t standing at the edge yourself. Yet for some reason, it’s only harder to take the leap when you don’t even follow the advice you give to others.
The irony is quite laughable, to be honest.
Jun grabs his laptop and forces it open, the bright screen nearly blinding him in the darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t care. He finds himself navigating to his email, switching to his second account, and gets greeted by a particular message that had already been forwarded to the radio show. A message that had already been read, answered, and sent under a certain pseudonym.
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air…
Biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up a fresh draft and begins typing.
“Take the leap, cat anon,” he repeats to himself over and over again. “Take the leap, Wen Junhui.”
Jun texted you two hours before the show that he was sick along with a selfie of him buried in a hoodie he threw on, somehow contracting a stomach bug which he blamed on some expired convenience store gimbap. He insisted that he could still come in, yet you reassured him with a string of sobbing emojis that it’s probably in his best interest to stay home to rest, and that you could handle hosting the show on your own, even if… you’ve never really done it before.
The show must go on, after all.
So when you find yourself sitting alone within the quiet studio just mere minutes from going live, you definitely sense both the physical and mental emptiness of his presence in the room a little too sharply. His headphones are still left the way he always leaves them, and his chair is facing the wrong wrong because he spins in it so much that he never bothers to put it back properly.
A small, fond chuckle leaves you at the thought of him, and you have to chase those thoughts away the second the clock strikes midnight. From there, you roll your shoulders back to shake away any residual nerves, clear your throat, and reach over to the switch.
Taking one last deep breath, you flip it on. The ON LIVE sign sparks to life on the wall.
“Good evening to all our fellow lonely and emotionally volatile listeners,” You greet warmly into the microphone. “Welcome back to everyone’s favourite unhinged radio show, Love On Air, live at midnight every Saturday on FM 98.7.”
Your eyes can barely keep track of the live chat box being spammed with incoming messages. You read a couple of messages out of people describing their day, but it isn’t long until the elephant in the room is acknowledged.
You snort lightly. “I regret to inform you all that Jun has passed away due to… alleged food poisoning.” Some comments following your words make you laugh. “Yes, yes, you’re all invited to the funeral, don’t worry.”
user: i commence a ritual to bring him back or we riot 🙏🙏
user: bro probably slept through his alarm honestly
user: WAIT BUT THIS FEELS SO WRONG W/O HIM 😭😭
user: rip… guess no husband and wife arguments for now… 😔
“He offered to join while sick, by the way,” You add in quickly. “But I personally vetoed it. I’m not letting a man who ate expired gimbap shit his way into a session. He’s probably listening in right now, so hi, Jun. Hope you’re still intact, buddy.”
After a few minutes of more interactions, you finally pull up the radio show’s inbox and begin to organise through the confessions that were received recently. That weird feeling creeps back up your spine once again as you scroll𑁋not about the confessions specifically, just the thought about doing this alone. Your eyes flick to the empty chair right next to you once more.
You read a few confessions and answer two callers𑁋there’s one from someone who felt bad for ghosting someone they actually liked, another person confesses they’re having a hard time with their partner wanting to open up their relationship, and one with expressing their fears of having their first time with the wrong person. You offer your own thoughtful answers and advice as best as you can, yet it feels so lackluster and flat without Jun’s playful interjections whenever you get too sappy on air.
“Your first time should be with someone who makes you feel safe, not just wanted,” You say gently into the microphone. “You deserve that. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s okay to wait until that safety feels undeniable.”
The chat floods with hearts and supportive messages. A few people send their thank yous for the advice. Some latecomers ask questions about Jun’s whereabouts.You smile gratefully, but it feels a little fragile tonight, not quite reaching up to your eyes.
As the final music break of the session ends, you unmute your microphone to speak.
“Alright, listeners, we’ve reached the final thirty minutes of tonight’s session. I want to thank you as always for staying up and listening into the show,” You announce confidently. “We’ve got time for… maybe a few more confessions and a possible lucky caller, so let’s see what we have left.”
Scrolling silently through the inbox, it isn’t long until your cursor hovers a familiar username once again. Your heart spikes at the sight, hesitating for a slow second.”
“Everyone, let’s welcome cat anon back to the stage with another follow-up confession.” You click the confession, take in a deep breath you’re sure the viewers can hear, and start to read it aloud.
Dear Y/N of Love On Air…
Hi, it’s me again. To be honest, I don’t really know why I keep sending these, but somehow I always end up back here again. You truly have a way of words, and I really want to thank you for that.
I thought about what you said about imperfect love. I used to think that if I fix every flaw about myself, then maybe I’ll be worthy of them, but now I know that love is someone seeing every fractured version of you, and staying anyway.
There’s something else I want to confess too. I think I’ve been waiting so long for the “perfect” moment that I accidentally passed a thousand “imperfect” ones. It makes me terrified that they’ll meet someone more braver than me, so I’ll use this chance now to be brave for once.
I’ll be ready on the line for this session and use this chance to finally face whatever happens next. I hope you’re able to answer my call whenever that may be. I have an important message to send.
🐱
Your voice comes out almost too quiet by the end you finish reading. You flit a quick glance to the ever-exploding live chat box.
user: HOLY SHITTT CAT ANON VOICE REVEAL???
user: answer the call! answer the call!
user: IM GONNA THROW UP WHY AM I SO NERVOUS
user: we’re witnessing a cinematic moment in history wtff
Suddenly, the blink of the call line makes your throat tighten. Your fingers hover over the console as if it might suddenly jump out and bite you. God, you don’t understand why you’re unexpectedly so nervous𑁋you’ve talked to many callers, and yet, speaking with cat anon has you on complete edge.
“Okay,” You stammer shakily into the microphone, covering up your nerves with a faint smile. “Let’s… let’s take this final call of the night, everyone.”
When you answer the line, it’s as if the world goes entirely mute, except for the intense pounding your chest. Nothing but static fills your headphones as the line struggles to connect for a few torturous moments.
Then, a quiet breath reverberates into your ears. The kind of breath that sounded like it had to claw its way out of someone’s chest.
“...hello?”
The voice is slightly distorted through the line, unmistakably low𑁋clearly a male voice𑁋and trembling slightly around the edges. It’s more of a whisper, if anything. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as you.
“Hi,” You greet warmly, slipping back into your professional radio voice. “You’re live on air with Love On Air. Is this… the one and only cat anon?”
A small, embarrassed huff of air crosses the line. He sounds a bit closer this time as he replies, “...yeah, it’s me.”
“Well, I’m giving you the floor now,” You assure firmly. “Whatever you need to say… we’re listening.”
Another shaky breath crackles through the line. You can practically touch the contemplation that’s buzzing through the call with your fingertips if that’s even possible, and even within the studio itself.
When the seconds of silence turn into a full-blown minute of consideration, the line crackles once more.
“I’m in love with you, Y/N.”
Your heart stops. Your mind draws a complete and utter blank. The abrupt clarity of his voice cuts through any lingering distortion and static and hits you like a wave. The world itself feels as if it’s tilted on its axis.
“Jun𑁋?”
“I love you,” he repeats more firmly this time, voice raw and full of everything he’s been holding back. “and I told you I was sick tonight because I couldn’t sit right next to you while you gave advice I was too scared to take. I just𑁋holy shit, I love you…”
Your mouth parts open in shock, then closes. The chat is going absolutely feral right now and you can barely read through all the comments without having this unusual urge to just slam your hand onto the console and pretend that you’re suffering from pure delirium.
On the wall, the ON AIR still glows stubbornly.
user: I FREAKING KNEW THAT CAT ANON WAS JUN
user: may i find this kind of love one day what the helly 🙏
user: Y/N ARE YOU BREATHING RIGHT NOW ????
user: our stupid oblivious hosts are in love. I CALLED it
You feel as if you almost have to squeeze your voice just to get it out. “Jun…”
On the other hand, he inhales sharply.
“...yeah?”
“You’re such an idiot,” You sputter out. “Do you have any idea how… how insane this is? Confessing on our show… using a pseudonym I gave advice to𑁋”
“I know.”
“𑁋after lying about being sick𑁋”
“I know.”
“𑁋and letting me sit here and talk about love like you weren’t the one I was talking to the whole time?” You ramble on out of a sheer mix of pure disbelief and relief, tightening your grip on the microphone. “Like all the advice I said wasn’t about… us?”
You hear some rapid shuffling on the other side, and you could almost imagine Jun sitting up in bed as if he’s received the most shocking news of his entire life. Then you hear his dazed laugh flowing into your ears.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”
Your breath catches embarrassingly hard and your face is completely on fire. The chat combusts once again, and you have to keep mentally reminding yourself that this entire interaction is live and half the city is probably listening in at this very second.
“From the first moment I saw you back in college,” Jun continues softly. “My heart and brain did the thing, you know? That you said before𑁋where you meet someone and all you can think is: Oh, it’s you. The second I saw you, I just… I knew I wanted to keep seeing you.”
You feel your eyes start to burn.
“I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m… I’m a coward. I know I am,” he mutters helplessly. “I know it’s stupid pretending to be cat anon because it was safer than telling my best friend I’m in love with her. Stupid that I… used to remind myself that I never deserved someone as bright as you. But anytime you told someone to suck it up and take the leap, I had to do it now or else I’d lose the chance and probably explode.”
He lets out a soft, breathless, disbelieving laugh of relief at the very end. Tears are streaming down your face at this point, but you don’t care.
user: IM PASSING TISSUES DOES ANYONE ELSE NEED ONE???
user: jun confessing his undying devoted love to y/n life is worth living again!!!!
user: i feel like a successful marriage counselor WTF
user: the solomon paradox is REAL
“Gosh, you’re…” You wipe a tear from your eye, murmuring weakly, “Your timing really needs to be studied, Jun.”
“Wait, wait, are you crying?” Jun asks worriedly in a fit of panic. “I didn’t mean to make you cry on air𑁋oh, my God, I can take it back, I can𑁋”
“You cannot ‘take this back’, you idiot!” You cut in immediately. “I’m crying because I’m in love with your stupid ass too! And if you don’t get here and finish the show with me, I’m absolutely going to lose the rest of my dignity.”
There’s a very long, suspicious beat of silence that passes. It’s enough to have you feel like you’re going through all the stages of grief in just a matter of seconds. And you swear on Jun’s life that if he doesn’t say something in the next minute, you might actually crash out and let the world witness your breakdown.
But reality snaps back in when you hear the sound of him nearly tripping on the other end of the line.
“I’m coming,” he reassures you. “I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Stay there for me, okay? Don’t finish the show without me.”
The line goes dead.
The night is quietly young as you and Jun step back into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind to finally cut out the rest of the world.
You still can barely process what just happened. First, Jun had texted you that he was quite literally shitting bricks for the entire day (which was a lie, thank goodness), then you somehow managed to host an entire segment all on your own without losing your sanity, and now the man you’ve been secretly in love for years had confessed to you𑁋live on air, alongside an entire audience of fellow love drunk listeners𑁋and is currently standing directly in front of you, wearing a hoodie he probably put on right before sprinting to the studio and a pair of pyjama sweatpants.
Jun doesn’t waste a single second. He steps up close to you and carefully wraps his long arms around you, the comforting scent of him quickly filling all your senses. He lets his forehead rest against yours, the two of you shutting your eyes together as you simply bask in each other’s presence.
“You’re real,” he murmurs, his hands trembling where they rest on your back. “I swear I thought I hallucinated the entire night. I need someone to pinch me if𑁋hey!”
You giggle at the way his face dramatically contorts with a pout, soothing his side with a gentle squeeze. You tilt your head enough to brush your nose against his.
“Then kiss me like I’m real, you idiot.”
For a moment, he just blinks like you spoke complete gibberish. Then he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, sending immediate shivers that make your knees weak. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth as the kiss deepens ever so slightly, your hands slowly sliding up his chest. You feel him chuckle against your lips.
As you kiss, you find yourself backing up in the direction of the couch. Jun follows without breaking contact with your mouth. When the backs of his knees hit the cushions, you both tumble down together in a clumsy, giggly heap with you on top of him, straddling him.
You brace your hands on his shoulders, and Jun’s arms lock around your waist instantly, holding you flush against him. And for a second, you both just… stare at each other.
Jun is the first to break, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and lips as he doesn’t know where to look. “What?”
You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide at how ridiculously cute and disheveled he looks right now, tilting your head at him like you’re pretending to study him. You lean in a little just to tease, and instinctively, he puckers his lips together, chasing after yours when you pull back away.
“I can’t believe how stupid we are,” You whisper, brushing his lips briefly in a feather-light peck. “Giving advice to everyone but ourselves. We wasted literal years.”
Jun chases after your mouth again, capturing it properly this time and pulling away with a satisfied hum. “Mhm. Absolute morons.” His hands find their way under your shirt, tenderly mapping the bare skin of your waist. “But I’m done wasting time now.”
You chuckle into the next kiss, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as he tries to deepen it. God, his lips are so eagerly soft, but he’s smiling so hard you momentarily knock your teeth against his.
“Mm, wait,” You mumble against his mouth as you draw back to readjust your position, causing him to suck in a breath. “Are you trying to eat my face? Where’s the technique?”
He blinks up at you dazedly, mouth parted in playful offense. His hands tighten around your waist. “I𑁋excuse me?”
“Zero finesse. One star. I expected more from cat anon.”
Jun sits up suddenly so that you’re basically pressed chest-to-chest with each other.
“You’re too cute, that’s the problem,” he says, voice deep yet still a little rough around the edges. “How am I supposed to kiss you if I short-circuit and all I could think, holy shit, she’s mine?”
Your heart does a stupid little flip from his words. “Flattery won’t save your shitty technique.”
“Oh, yeah?” He cups your face with both hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Watch this.”
The next kiss is messier𑁋heated, giggly, and clumsy because you both can’t stop smiling. You feel your toes curl as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. You sigh into it, threading your hands through his hair, the heat of it enough to make you rock your hips against his growing hardness.
You feel the heat dancing up your skin and pooling into your belly as you continue your lazy grinding against him, swallowing down the broken sigh and groans that fall out of his mouth. When his mouth begins its descent down your jaw and to a particular sensitive spot behind your ear, he smirks against your warm skin.
“Fuck𑁋you like that?” he breathes out, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast underneath your shirt.
A shaky laugh leaves you, but it melts quickly into a soft moan when his thumb brushes your already-hardened nipple. “Don’t get cocky. Still𑁋mmh𑁋mediocre at best.”
Jun lifts his brow, mouth curved into a stupidly fond grin. “Mediocrity, huh?” He pinches your nipple gently, causing you to jerk your hips into his. “Your body is saying something different, baby.”
“Ignore her. She’s… a traitor,” You croak out, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweatpants.
Jun merely chuckles, tugging your shirt up enough to expose your chest. He unclips your bra without any hesitation, pushing the straps off your shoulders then letting it fall uselessly to the floor. His eyes widen as he takes a few seconds to drink you in completely.
“God, you’re so beautiful…”
Then his mouth is back on you. He sucks one nipple between his lips while his hand affectionately palms the other. A crude moan slips out of you this time; it heightens his confidence even more.
As his mouth lavishes attention to your other breast, he drags his hand down your side, teasingly sliding under the waistband of your pants to cup you over your pants. He can feel how warm you are already.
“Rating?” he requests with a firm suck.
“Like a solid𑁋shit𑁋two-point-five out of five…”
Jun pulls off your breast with a wet pop, grin turning wicked. “But you’re soaked, and you’re still calling me below average? I think your pussy disagrees.”
You open your mouth to retort, but then he slides his hand into your panties, fingers circling over your slick folds, and nothing but a breathy gasp escapes you. Your hips roll down to meet his hand as he inserts a finger inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your back arch and he has to use his other hand to hold you in place.
“What’s the rating now?” he asks, watching the way your face is beautifully twisting with pleasure as a second finger slides inside.
You shoot him a death glare as you clench around his hand. “Three𑁋fuck, right there𑁋three-point-eight𑁋”
“Getting better already,” he hums in approval, leaning back down to worship your breasts once more. The dual sensation has your head falling down into the crook of his neck, your moans caressing his skin.
“Four𑁋Jun, you asshole𑁋four-point-five𑁋”
He pulls his fingers out of you unexpectedly, making you whine at the loss. Before you can complain, you find yourself being flipped on the couch as he settles in between your thighs, looking up at you with that mischievous, hungry, adoring look. He gives another tug to the waistband of your pants.
“Final rating before I eat you out?”
Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your tone light and teasing. “Four-point-seven. Don’t get lazy down there or I’m docking points, smartass.”
Jun’s eyes sparkle with challenge as he helps you out of the rest of your clothes. When you’re fully bare in front of him, he spreads your thighs even further, letting his mouth hover tantalisingly where you need him most.
“Four-point-seven,” he repeats to himself, pressing a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. “I can work with that. Watch me get that perfect five.”
Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your soaked pussy in one long stripe, a groan leaving him as he tastes you for the first time. Your hips jolt against his face, a sharp moan tumbling out of you and bouncing off the walls of your quiet apartment.
“Oh𑁋Jun𑁋”
“Hmm?” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth, eyes flicking up to watch your face. Two fingers slide back inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your vision glassy. “God, you taste even better than I imagined…”
You slap a hand over your mouth as the pleasure starts to bloom its way out of you, but he reaches up and pulls it away, lacing your fingers together.
“Don’t do that, please,” he murmurs against your pussy. “Let me hear you, baby…”
The way he eats you out has your head spinning. It’s dizzying, a little messy, and entirely devoted to you. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers echo and your moans and gasps travel throughout the room, only making him double down even harder to bring you over the edge.
“Five𑁋five stars𑁋ah, please𑁋”
You cum with a cry of his name, the pleasure crashing into you in waves. He continues to lazily lap at you before you start trying to push his head away, the two of you giggling breathlessly in the aftermath.
When he pulls away, his lips are shiny and he looks foolishly pleased with himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls his way back up your body, meeting you for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the thought that this absolute klutz of a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life sends another shaky giggle rolling out of you.
“You okay?” he breathes against your mouth, chuckling softly of you barely controlling your laughter.
You run a hand over down your warm face. “I… what the hell just happened?”
“That was me letting go after holding back for years,” he answers without diffidence, tracing soothing circles over your bare thigh. “Do I get a final rating now?”
“Hmm, solid five-point-five. An extra half point for your enthusiasm and those cute noises you made down there.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, making him lean into your touch like a baby kitten. “But I’ll let you try for a six if you fuck me right now.”
Jun’s eyes darken instantly. “Say less.”
The two of you battle over taking off the rest of his clothes. Jun attempts to smoothly yank his hoodie off in one go, but it gets snug on something, causing him to laugh when it gets caught on his shoulders.
“Oh, my God𑁋stay still so I can take it off, you dummy!” You exclaim in frustration.
“Help me then, smartass!” His laughter is muffled into the fabric.
When you finally unsnag the hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, you both immediately reach for his pants at the same time, elbows bumping into each other. Rolling your eyes, you lightly smack his hand away so you can push it down his hips with borderline desperation. He kicks it off the rest of the way, his boxers following quickly.
The second he’s fully bare in front of you for the first time, he cages you into the couch right above you, littering soft kisses over your flushed cheeks. His cock rests heavily against your stomach as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.
“Hi,” he whispers stupidly, like he’s just remembered how to speak.
“Hi,” You reply with a bashful smile, reaching up to cradle his face, pinching his cheeks together. “Still waiting for my six-star performance.”
“Give me a break, I’m nervous!” he gasps defensively, grinding the underside of his dick along your slickness unconsciously. “I’ve only pictured this every single night for, like, the past four years!”
“Poor baby,” You coo impishly, reaching down to stroke him softly. “You’ve been jerking off to the thought of me for four years?”
Jun whines needily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Stop bullying me when I’m trying hard not to embarrass myself right now.”
“Then embarrass yourself. I’ve waited just as long, you idiot,” You urge, bringing him closer until there’s physically no more space between your bodies.
With a sly smirk, he reaches down, lines himself up with you, and slowly pushes inside. He groans lowly as he sinks inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, only trembling with his forehead leaning onto yours.
“Oh fuck𑁋I think I died a little,” he grunts pitifully into your neck. “You’re so warm. And tight. Think I-I short-circuited again.”
You give his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Move, Jun. Please.”
He obeys right away, thrusting into you experimentally and drawing a collective moan out from both of you. When he snaps himself into you again, again, and again, he sets a slow, deep rhythm that has the couch creaking softly beneath you.
“Shit, Jun𑁋” Your nails rake down his back as he hits that spot perfectly inside you again and again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You… You feel so good.”
“Yeah? You look so pretty falling apart on my cock, baby,” he praises heavily, voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Still rating me? Am I passing?”
Your laugh dissolves into a moan when a particular thrust punches the air out of your lungs.
“You’re at…” You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, glancing down to where you’re joined together. “Five-point… seven𑁋shit, keep going like that, I’m so close…”
“I’m so close too, not gonna last,” he pants, his breath molten on your neck. “God, I love you, I love you, I love you…”
You grab him by the nape of his neck to collapse his mouth back onto yours, swallowing all his desperate little grunts and sighs as the kiss turns heated fast. His rhythm stutters for the briefest second before he regains himself swiftly, the wet slap of your bodies meeting over and over again flooding the room, with your own hips rolling to meet with each of his thrusts.
The heat of it all invades through all your nerves, that familiar coil tightening in your belly. The rating game is completely out of the window now. There’s only nothing but the drag of his cock kissing your walls and this thumb dipping in between your legs to caress your clit, encouraging you to let go.
When your orgasm finally crashes, it’s much more intense than the last. Your nails imprint sharp crescents down his back as one final broken cry rips out from your throat, stars bursting behind your ears. Your walls squeeze around him so tightly he curses, the drive of his hips faltering sloppily.
“Baby, I can’t𑁋I’m gonna𑁋where𑁋?”
“Inside,” You beg gravelly, wrapping your arms around him even tighter. “Lose yourself in me, Jun, please.”
That’s all it takes for his own orgasm to hit him. With one final thrust, he spills inside of you with a deep, guttural groan. His face drops into the crook of your sweaty neck as shaky little whimpers continue to leave him𑁋your name, I love you, fuck I love you𑁋repeatedly until he’s completely spent and melted into your arms.
For a few moments of stillness, the only sounds travelling throughout the room is your ragged breathing and the sudden hum of your refrigerator. Eventually, Jun lifts his head from where it’s been resting comfortably on your chest. His dark hair is sticking out in all sorts of places, a few strands even matted to his forehead. And his eyes are half-lidded, yet so soft and full of love that you almost want to sob.
“So…” he starts hoarsely, kissing the tip of your nose. “Final rating?”
You let out a tired, contented laugh, brushing damp strands of his hair off his face.
“Mmmh… six-point-five,” You decide sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
A bright, boyish grin unleashes across his face. “I’ll take it. Room for improvement for the next round.”
“I𑁋next round?!”
“I aim to achieve ten stars. Or maybe more than that.”
“God, you’re so insatiable,” You groan, shaking your head despite the smile breaking through your expression. “Later on, maybe… for now, I just want to hold you.”
Jun swears he feels himself literally melt into a puddle at that, because how could he ever deny a request like that from you? Despite the little space on your creaky couch, he pulls out of you with a wince, grabs the throw blanket that has unknowingly dropped to the floor before shifting himself more deeper into your arms. The soft fabric wraps around your bare bodies together in a warm, messy nest, one of his legs slotting in between your legs.
“Better?” he mumbles hopefully, letting his eyes fall to a close so he could listen to your heartbeat.
“Mhm. Much,” You hum in response, nosing through his hair. “I love you, you menace.”
You feel his lips meet the soft skin above your breast, right over your heartbeat.
“I love you too, dummy.”
Remember that stray cat that landed on your doorstep at the very beginning and refused to leave?
wonwoo has quiet ways to show his love for his loved ones, and you got that pretty early on in the relationship.
the way he shyly holds your hand as you're talking to jihoon about something shows you that, once again. he doesn't need to say much, he doesn't need to scream at the top of his lungs - just his presence, alone, makes you feel loved.
as jihoon replies to you, wonwoo notices the way you frown a bit, eyes trying to focus on your mutual friend. he cocks his head, chuckling to himself once he gets it the reason of your frown.
"but i do think it's important to try that, at least once", jihoon says as you nod. wonwoo isn't actually paying attention to the conversation.
he reaches for your glasses, taking it off your face in a soft, sweet motion. you answer jihoon, but the corner of your lips lifts up in a grin when you notice how he's not looking at you now, but at wonwoo - wonwoo, who is cleaning your glasses on the fabric of his shirt.
it takes just a few seconds for him to turn back to you, ready to put your glasses back on your face. your hand stops him mid-action, grabbing your glasses yourself.
"thank you", you say to him.
"no problem", wonwoo smiles, his features softening as you look back at jihoon, seeing him crystal clear now.
jihoon didn’t put much thought into this lead, but it was catchy enough to turn into a whole song. eventually, matching lyrics and flows were added.
seungcheol, mingyu, and vernon spent less than 40 minutes in the recording booth. they had complimented the beat while chatting with jihoon who had turned towards them, while you had focused on working on the equaliser, lost in your own world and your headphones cancelling out any convo behind you.
wonwoo took his time. not only was his verse not as good as it sounded in his head, it felt that every time he started with his lyrics, the only thoughts that lingered were the way your eyes were pressed onto the keyboard in front of you, perfecting something while missing the shy yet frustrated looks wonwoo shot at you, while jihoons sharp eyes guided wonwoo to their best ability.
wonwoo was getting frustrated, shedding layer after layer after each and every failed attempt at recording.
“hey, you’re okay.” you had finally looked at him, pressing onto the button that relayed your calm voice into his ears directly.
he gave you and jihoon and firm nod.
another trial, and yet nothing seemed to be working. the lyrics were jumbling into one another and nothing seemed to be making sense. it was as if he was just rapping for the sake of getting the song to three minutes.
“wonwoo. pretend you’re on a boat and that the waves are unpredictable. your voice works like the wind, above the waves.” your voice seemed sure and steady. strict even, if he prodded more into you.
suddenly, he’s on a yacht, sun nearing the horizon, and he sees you, fixing him a drink with a loving smile while he hears the rest of his friends in the background.
his voice starts producing a direction of its own, lyrics not following the scratched out paper in front of him, but earnest and steady nonetheless.
he looks up, sunny goosebumps under his sweating shirt, suddenly breathless.
jihoon gives him a thumbs up, while your eyes meet his to give him a proud smile.
wonwoo walks out of the recording booth, sea salt in his hair and a newfound weightlessness on his shoulders.
٠࣪⭑ pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem reader
٠࣪⭑ summary: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say.
٠࣪⭑ genre: coworkers au. smut, angst, enemies to lovers
٠࣪⭑ rating: explicit. minors do not interact, i’ll block you.
٠࣪⭑ chapter warnings: smut, drinking, swearing, smoking, reader and wonwoo won't admit they like each other, mentions of revenge p*rn (stranger vs wonwoo), annoying characters (i cannot stress this enough). UNBETA'D because this is so long and so late and i'm impatient to post
٠࣪⭑ smut contents: fingering, protected sex, unprotected sex, oral (both receiving), outercourse, cum eating, nipple play, pet name (baby)
if you think i’ve forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post!
٠࣪⭑ wc: 31k 😑😑😑 NO ONE LOOK AT ME
٠࣪⭑ a/n: well fellas, this is it. i thought this was finished at 18k but i asked 2 days ago if you'd mind if i wrote 2k more- and then i guess i blacked out lmao.
thank you to @starlightkyeom and @100vern in particular, who have listened to me complain about this fic for too long and are always kind, and everyone in C&E who sprinted with me. you're the best.
٠࣪⭑ written for: the Lights Out collab hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me join in! please look out for the rest of the fics 💕
Even after a long, cold shower, sleep is proving impossible. The air conditioning hums too loud, doing nothing to cool the embarrassment that has taken over Wonwoo’s body. Every time he closes his eyes, the moment in the elevator replays– how close he got, how your eyes flickered down to his lips as he spoke, the way water beaded down the long line of your neck. How badly he wanted to touch you.He spends too long trying to convince himself it was just the wine that brought down your defenses, but your last glass was emptied over an hour before you almost let him kiss you. God. You almost let him kiss you. He lets out a bitter laugh as he imagines you talking about what a PR disaster that would be, had the moment played out.
Unable to sleep, he reaches for his phone and pulls up Instagram. He doesn’t follow you, never thought you’d want him to, but lately he’s found himself looking up your profile all the same. Your posts are all books he wants to ask you about, views from hotel rooms, occasional pictures with friends at dinner– half of the group mid-sentence with drinks in their hands, a stray cat you’re attempting to stroke in Rome, an occasional selfie in front of somewhere beautiful, mussed sheets bathed in sunlight captioned “home”. Try as he might, he can’t imagine where you live. An apartment in the city? A villa in the hills?
There’s one photo of you he particularly likes he found in a carousel of someone else's wedding– you’re a bridesmaid in a lilac dress, sitting on a wall, feet resting on the thighs of a man (a friend? Someone more?) cropped out of the picture, heels abandoned on the floor. You have a cigarette in your hand, and your eyes are scrunched shut, and you’re blowing a kiss to the camera. He thinks about that photo a lot, and how he hasn’t truly seen that side of you in person. The closest he got was all those years ago, when he talked with you in a bar and your smile almost ruined him with the lightness of it. His crush on you was too obvious back then. Embarrassing. If he scrolls further down, Wonwoo would find photos nameless people have taken of you, candid and laughing at the person behind the camera, and he wonders if they were taken by friends, or given their replacement with selfies, an old partner.
But he’s not scrolling tonight. Wonwoo is frozen, thumb hovering over the highlighted ring around your profile picture. He hasn’t seen you post a story yet and he’s so, so tempted to see what you won’t immortalise on your grid. He glances at your follower account. Small enough that you’d notice his name amongst the viewers.
Fuck it.
His breath catches in his throat. A brief video of you posted an hour ago, in the mirror of your bathroom with the patter of the shower running in the background. You’re still wearing that red bikini and looking like an image conjured from his teenage wet dreams, angling your hip to the side so he can just see the curve of your ass. He swallows hard, entranced in the way your manicured fingernails brush across your collarbone, palm conveniently covering the chain that sits at the base of your throat. Is his ring still on it? Is this meant for him? Should he message you? Did you touch yourself in the shower? Wonwoo’s head buzzes with questions, not knowing that just a floor away, you’re sliding your nightdress up over your hips.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You’re desperately fighting away the image your mind conjures of him, careful and meticulous, doing it for you. And as you brush your hand over your thigh, you try not to think of his doing the same. And when you circle your fingers over your clit, you suck in a small breath, and give up trying not to remember that dream you once had of him making you come with long fingers buried deep in your wet cunt. Can still feel his fingers on your cheeks, thumb angling your chin up just to– your mouth waters. God. God, you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this.
Your phone buzzes under your pillow, and you drag your hand from between your legs, flip the skirt of your nightdress back down and turn on your side. You pull out your phone– two notifications.
The first is your friend.
Bridget [22:19] who is THAT thirst trap for
Bridget [22:19] nvm I can guess
You [22:20] Bitch <3
Bridget [22:20] slut <3
The second is him. A like left on the same story you’d hoped he would see. It’s stupid, you think, the way this small thing makes you feel. Stupid, because him liking you (or your body, who’s to know, really?) should have no bearing on how you feel about him. How do you feel about him, besides irritated most of the time? Sure, he’s attractive. Anyone with eyes would admit it. And sure, years ago you liked the way his eyes lit up when he talked with you over drinks. But there’s been an entire lifetime between then and now.
He said he hated you too, so what’s changed? Nothing, as far as you can tell. All that’s different is the proximity, working in close quarters, and you knowing things about him that you probably shouldn’t. A shameful memory of that video brings heat over your body, because you know the way he groans when he–
You shake the thought. The Wonwoo you know in 2025 is cold, closed off, and distrustful. Nothing in the past few hours has given new insight into his personality, just that he’s not immune to finding you attractive on some basic level. You release a heavy sigh, toying with his ring, still sitting heavy on the chain around your neck.
Nothing has changed.
Wonwoo will behave how Wonwoo does. You close your eyes in the hope that sleep will finally come, and take this night away from you.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You’re late getting ready for dinner. A call with Rolex and the potential for a brand ambassadorship ran over, but a meeting is finally booked for Tuesday. You call Inès while doing your make-up in the bathroom, and ask her to rearrange yours and Wonwoo’s flights for Zurich, first thing Monday morning.
The restaurant Bridget has booked means a dress and heels, neither of which you had packed since you don’t have any sponsor dinners this week in Miami, so you have to send out for a personal shopper while you’re tied up with the press. Out of three options, two have necklines that can only be considered appropriate for the club, and one isn’t ideal for dinner with friends, but it’ll do. Soft, pale yellow. The back is lower than you’d like for tonight, dipping elegantly at the small of your back. At least your areolas won’t be visible in this one.
At six-fifty five, you slip on your heels and rush out the door down the hall to call for the elevator. The wait for it to reach your floor takes an age, and you’re checking your watch when it dings to announce its arrival. The doors slide open, and there’s a small intake of breath. You look up to see Wonwoo straightening his spine, his eyes flitting up at you, down at the phone in his hand, and up again. He’s in a white buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled halfway, black trousers that make his legs look so long, and a long black coat folded over his arm. Looks like something from an old movie, so handsome when he wears his glasses. Your breaths go shallow as you will your fickle heartbeat to relax. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were in this same lift and he almost– you almost–
“Are you getting in or what?” he mutters.
“Sorry.” You shake your head a little and step inside, tucking yourself into the opposite corner.
The lift rumbles into motion, and the two of you stand in silence. You know his eyes are on you occasionally, lingering glances caught in your peripherals. If he’s not going to mention your almost kiss, your Instagram story, then neither will you. Leaves you feeling off-centre. Unbalanced. But you refuse to be the first to lose your cool.
“You didn’t bring a jacket,” he says suddenly. An observation, not a question. “It’s cold outside.”
“It’s Miami,” you retort. “How cold can it get?”
There’s a brief moment where it looks like he’s about to argue with you, but it seems he changes his mind when his eyes drop to your neck. “Where’s my ring?”
You slipped it off the chain this morning. Thought it best you stopped carrying it around everywhere you go.
“In the safe in my room,” you say flatly. “I’ll fetch it for you tomorrow.”
“Good,” he says, folding his arms. “I missed it.”
Ever since you’ve been tasked with taking care of it, you’ve wanted to ask what it means to him, why he’s so attached, but the two of you fall into uncomfortable silence once again. Finally, finally, the doors slide open to the lobby, where Carlos is already waiting for you. He lifts his hand in a friendly wave, and when you walk over to meet him, Wonwoo falls into step beside you.
“You look nice,” Carlos says as you greet him. And to Wonwoo– “Doesn’t she look lovely?”
Wonwoo stiffens. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Good… uh– good dress.”
Hardly looks at you as he says it, and you feel the prickle of annoyance rising up your spine again. Can’t mean it, surely, but he’s hardly going to insult you to your face, not in front of Carlos.
Carlos slips an arm around your waist. “When was the last time you wore a dress, huh? I didn’t even know you owned one.”
You catch it, the way Wonwoo sneaks a sideways glance, then trains his narrowed eyes forward to focus on the elevators. “Liar, how many times have we had sponsor dinners?” You laugh, shoving Carlos off. “Anyway, what’s this?” you ask, plucking at his Williams puffer jacket over a light blue shirt. “You know we’re going somewhere grossly expensive, right?”
His smile splits his face as he laughs. “I need to rep the team, so I’ve been told.”
“Ah–” you say knowingly. “Can’t fault you for that, I suppose.”
Wonwoo clears his throat, and while you pointedly ignore the interruption, Carlos turns his attention on him. “What are your plans tonight?”
“Me?” says Wonwoo, distracted, scanning the faces exiting the elevator into the lobby. “I don’t know. Mingyu mentioned dinner with someone he knows.”
Your phone buzzes. You fish it out, and see that your driver is pulling up. “Uber’s close by,” you say to Carlos. “We should head outside.”
“Sure,” he says to you with a smile, and to Wonwoo– “Have a good night, mate.”
You don’t wait for Wonwoo’s reply. Just link arms with Carlos and walk out into the night. Unfortunately, Wonwoo is right. It’s cold.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Bridget is positively giddy as enter the restaurant. You put it down to her new boyfriend, Eric, who is very sweet and completely enamoured with both her and Carlos. As you’re shown to your table and settle into your seat, you look at her questioningly.
“Do we have two more coming?” you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs– one beside you, and the other on the other side of the table, beside Bridget.
“Oh, just a couple of friends!” she says, a tiny smile playing on her lips, focusing very hard on her menu. “Very last minute, hope you understand.”
You narrow your eyes. “Well, who is it?”
Bridget doesn’t need to answer, because you catch the movement of the hostess behind you, showing an equally blindsided Wonwoo, and a smiling (like a cat who got the canary) Mingyu, who winks at your horrible, evil, sneaky friend. You’re cutting them both off your Christmas card list.
Mingyu slips into the seat beside Bridget before Wonwoo has a chance to react, leaving him with no other option than to sink into the chair next to yours. It’s crowded, the table is meant for five instead of six, too small for this many people. Wonwoo’s arm brushes yours.
“They couldn’t sit two celebrities at a bigger table?” you grumble.
Bridget grins devilishly. “I prefer it like this,” she says (in your head you’re calling her a liar). “Very cosy, don’t you think?” She touches Mingyu’s arm gently. “Thanks for coming, darling,” she says.
Carlos leans over you to ask– “Wonwoo, why didn’t you tell us you were coming earlier?”
Wonwoo looks at him, then slides earnest eyes over to you. “I didn’t know.” And then quieter– “Honestly.”
Bridget claps her hands together, grinning wide at you, daring you to say something. “We couldn’t have it looking like a double date, now, could we?” You hide your burning face in your menu. “No offence, Carlos, but wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”
“No FIA rules about who dates who,” teases Carlos, raising an eyebrow at you.
You roll your eyes. “You all know fine well that I don’t date my colleagues.” You feel Wonwoo shift next to you, but you won’t pay him any attention. “Too messy.”
Carlos waves his hand dismissively. “It’s only messy if your last name is Horner.”
There’s stunned laughter around the table, even Wonwoo covers his mouth with his hand to stop his laugh escaping.
“Or if you’re accused of sharing information,” you say, smiling. “PR disaster.”
Bridget tilts her head to the side, like an innocent puppy you know she isn't. “Maybe you should date someone from Ferrari instead.”
You try to press sharp on her toe under the table but you get Eric instead, who yelps. Bridget grins. You feign innocence. “Maybe I shouldn’t date at all.”
Time moves like molasses. Bridget and Mingyu seem to take extra time choosing their drinks (she has the same gimlet she always has. Mingyu has a beer), ordering their meals (Mingyu asks for a few more minutes twice) and when your espresso martini is placed in front of you, everyone (including the waiter) turns to look at you bemused, as you knock it back and order another.
“What?” you say, wiping the foam from the corner of your mouth with your ring finger. “It’s been a long week.”
Dinner moves slower, if at all possible. By the time Bridget finishes picking at her starter, you’ve finished your second drink and you’re signaling to the waiter for a third. You sneak subtle glances at Wonwoo when you think he’s not looking. He’s only half listening to the animated conversation playing out in front of you, going between looking down at his plate and staring off into space. Every time either of you move, your skin brushes his, and it’s just enough to drive you crazy.
You pick at your food. Truth be told, you shouldn’t let Bridget’s meddling get the better of your mood, since there’s no possibility of anything between you and Wonwoo anyway, because–
You work together
He hated you for years
What happened last night was the result of too many drinks on your part, and him mistaking frustration and friction for sexual tension, or something
He’s only a man, after all. Don’t they all think with their dicks?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Whatever Bridget and Mingyu were pulling hasn’t worked, because the night ends with you outside waiting for your uber, tipsy and shivering in the wind. The others are still inside, trying to decide which bar they want to try next, and you said your goodbyes early on account of an early start tomorrow morning. Carlos is staying put, sitting at the bar and flirting with a model who turns out to be a friend of a friend of a friend. He’s given you his jacket though, and you’ve pulled it around your body tight to keep the chill of the wind out.
There’s the noise of the door behind you and you turn to see Wonwoo watching you, and you almost snap your neck turning back to face the road again. Wonwoo comes to stand at your side. Too close. Close enough that you can catch his cologne on the wind.
“You need to take this off.”
You nearly choke on air as you whip your head around to look at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”
“Carlos’ jacket,” he says, raising an eyebrow and casting his eyes down over your form. “You’re wearing a competitor's merchandise.”
He’s right. It looks questionable if twisted a certain way, but it’s easily explained. “I’m cold,” you say simply, looking back out to the road again, looking for any sign of your uber.
“Well, I warned you,” he chides.
“I didn’t bring anything warm that’d go with this anyway.”
“Here,” he starts. You catch movement in the corner of your eye. He shrugs off his jacket, turns to you, and tugs on the sleeve of yours, and moves into your space. You swallow thick. “Have mine. Can’t have our Head of Communications caught up in a dating scandal, can we?”
“I think I’m safe, with Carlos inside chasing models.” You laugh, though you let him slide the Williams jacket down your arms. The wind makes you shiver, but he’s got you. He slips his (still warm from his own body) coat over your shoulders. It shrouds you. He shrouds you, still up in your personal space, still not stepping back to give you room to breathe.
“What about you?” you ask, and the concern evident in your voice surprises you. “Aren’t you cold now?”
Wonwoo huffs a gentle laugh. “I’m okay.”
“Did you get the feeling we’re being set up?” he asks quietly.
“Hmm,” you agree, keeping your eyes trained on the road. “Bridget’s as subtle as a brick through a window.”
“Mingyu too.” Wonwoo chuckles. He sounds fond for once. “I’m sorry, you know?”
You shake your head. “You didn’t kn–”
“No–” he interrupts. There’s a long pause. You can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him. You’ve had a little too much to drink and you know yourself. Know you’ll lean into a moment if he lays it out for you. Best not to look at all. “I mean about last night. I shouldn’t have tried to–”
“Right–” you cut him off back. He must regret it, and the decision on how to handle these brewing feelings has been snatched from your hands. “No. No, it's fine.” Your voice is too tight to feign feeling normal about the direction this conversation went. “Let’s forget about it.”
As soon as you say that you have the urge to take it back, but God, it’s too embarrassing. It feels like you’ve lost a game you didn’t know you were playing, and fuck, do you hate to lose.
Until quietly, he says, “I’m gonna go and give this back to Carlos.”
The sound of the door leaves you alone with your swirling thoughts and the lump in your throat. It doesn’t matter. In fact, this is good, right? Because nothing actually happened and he’s not even interested. It was just… you don’t know what it was. Your uber pulls up, and before you close the car door you look through the window to see Wonwoo being clapped on the shoulder by Carlos, and being introduced to the model, and the model’s equally beautiful friend. Wonwoo smiles wide at her, brilliant and blinding.
He’s not interested in you. He’s got no reason to be. This is– this is good, right? So why does the scene unfolding before your very eyes make you crave a cigarette, and another drink?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Wonwoo’s laying in bed reading his book when there’s a noise outside his door– not a knock, sounds like someone trying to get in. He stands, wary, watches the handle jiggle, and moves over to look through the peephole. It’s you, except you’re moving away, trying the door across the hall.
Wonwoo pulls the door open, calls your name questioningly. When you turn you almost topple over, so you brace yourself backwards on the opposite wall. You look at him with slow surprise and a loll of your head, and he wonders if you’ve been drinking alone this whole time. He’d intended to hitch a ride back to the hotel with you, but in the few minutes it took to give Carlos back his jacket and sign an autograph for his new ‘friends’, you had disappeared. “What are you doing?” he asks.
You rush toward him, stumble over your own feet as you clamp your hand over his mouth. “Shhhhh,” you whisper. Wonwoo freezes, save for his deepening frown, because you don’t seem the slightest bit disconcerted by the fact he’s having to hold you steady. “I lo– lost m’room. Everythin’ looks the same.”
“Jesus– how much did you drink?”
Your hand slips from his mouth, dragging clumsily along his jaw, before you let it fall against his chest. He catches your wrist gently before you can lose your footing again.
“En-enough,” you say, interrupted by hiccups, eyes slipping shut for a second too long. “Needed to cl–clear my head. M’all muddled.”
He exhales, long and tight, and glances down the corridor– empty, thank God. “Come on. You’ll wake up the whole floor.”
“Ugh.” You shake your head, stubborn even like this. “M– my room’s right here, ‘swear.” You slip out of his grip, try swiping your keycard on the door across the hall. The light blinks red.
“Not yours,” Wonwoo mutters, catching your elbow before you smack it into the wall. “Just come in, we’ll call reception and figure out where you’re supposed to be.”
You blink up at him, lashes heavy. “With you?”
“Yes, with me.” His voice grits low. “Unless you want to roam the halls all night?”
Something about that makes you laugh– too loud, and you slap your own hand over your mouth to muffle it. He drags you inside quickly, kicks the door shut with his heel, and for the first time tonight you look flustered. It’s somewhat reminiscent of the night before in the elevator, and Wonwoo isn’t sure how to take it. Your disregard for him today showed Wonwoo you clearly don’t think of him in the same way he thinks of you. But the way you’re looking at him now, with the tension positively tangible, radiating from your body– it has him at a loss.
And then you shrug out of his touch again and the moment is dissolved. You sway once, twice, before letting yourself collapse onto the end of his bed, dumping your clutch on the floor, and struggling with the strap on your heel. He stands there for a moment watching your usual grace reduced to clumsiness, and he pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses before kneeling to the floor in front of you. He takes your heel onto his thigh to help unbuckle the strap, pointedly ignoring the way you stiffen under his touch, the sharp intake of your breath. He can’t let himself read into it.
“Why’re you being s’nice to me?” you ask, softer now. He slips the heel from your foot, then repeats the action with the other. Your breath shudders.
He runs a hand through his hair, lets your bare foot slip from his thigh to the floor, exhales soft. “I’m always nice.”
“No you’re not.” Your lips twitch, the faintest smile, and you lean back on your elbows, head tipping back and exposing the long line of skin that Wonwoo has thought too much about. His eyes fall back to his knees, your ankles either side. Being between your legs like this isn’t what he imagined. “You snap at me. And when you’re not snapping you ignore me.”
There have been certain moments in Wonwoo’s life when he has remained silent when he shouldn’t have. He knows, in hindsight, that what he regrets most are only actions not taken, words left unsaid. So–
“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried.”
“But you don’t wanna kiss me?” You say, and the words come soured.
Wonwoo’s breath hitches in his throat, but when he glances up, your head is falling back into the sheets, body too heavy to prop up any longer, pretty eyes fluttering shut as you finally surrender to exhaustion.
He’s not sure how to handle this. At first he tries to wake you, but you’re dead to the world. He calls Mingyu to ask if he’s still with Bridget (he isn’t). He calls reception to try and figure out your room number (they won’t give it). He thinks better of asking the staff to help you to your room because (a) leaving you drunk and in the care of strangers doesn’t sit right with him, and (b) you’d pull out the pear of anguish for him if this out of character behaviour brought any bad press on either of you.
Wonwoo settles for pulling the blanket over you gently, letting you sleep it off as long as you need. He switches off the lamp, sets himself stiffly in the armchair by the window, and resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. At least tomorrow is only free practice.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Deft hands skate across your skin, slipping down your leg, and massaging his fingers into the arch of your foot. He brings it up, presses his lips to your sole, circles long fingers around your ankle and drags his nose up your calf, mouths at the skin as he goes. He hooks your knee over his shoulder, nudges your thighs apart, wants easy access, wants you pliant, wants you open, wants you bear. Nips at your inner thigh on one side and slides his hand up the other, and works his way up in little circles, slow slow slow. He starts to lick, gathers spit on his tongue and laves it over your skin, blows cool air across the warmth he brings. Casts his eyes up as he gets ever closer to where you need him, takes in the way your chest rises quick quick quick with each shallow breath, smirks soft as your breath hitches when he just barely brushes his fingers over your cotton clad cunt. Smiles wide when you shudder as he does it again, and again. Makes a low, appreciative sound when you get needy, grind against his fingers and chase the little friction he allows you. Frustrated, you whine his name–
“Wonwoo–”
You startle yourself awake to the bed smelling both unfamiliar and not, still wearing the dress from the night before. You blink the sleep from your eyes, push yourself up to sit and freeze when you spot him sitting in the armchair, straightening his spine and blinking slowly, the early morning sun filtering through the gap in the curtains lays a slice of light across his face. He looks as dazed as you feel.
“Did you–” he starts, voice rasped with sleep. “Do you dream of me?”
You suck in a sharp breath. Bite your lip to stop them from betraying you further.
“What did you dream about?” he asks, firm and insistent.
“Nothing,” you blurt out. “Work. Why am I here, Wonwoo?”
The question is both feigned and pointless because although your memories swirl, you can piece it together. You remember his touch, his polite concern, the disappointment you felt when he didn’t touch you the way you truly wanted in your drunken stupor.
“You’re lying,” he breathes, watching you with the sort of look you’ve only seen on him just before he pulls on his helmet– entirely focused. “I heard you. I hear you all the time.”
Embarrassment crawls up your neck. You want to laugh, to deny, to point out how ridiculous this is, but words only fail you. The memory of the dream, of being teased and drawn out and brought to the edge, sits heavy and slick behind your ribs. Your mind spins. He hears you? Heard what? God, it’s just a dream. They’re just dreams! They have no bearing on reality and they certainly don’t change whatever the fuck is happening here.
“Wonwoo– I– I can’t,” you start desperately, and you watch his face sag. “I don’t know–”
There is no strategy for this. No neat line to cross with a chequered flag. You fall back down, dragging the duvet up over your face, and he remains where he is.
“You don’t know what?” he asks, voice thick.
“What to think, I guess?” you admit, voice muffled beneath the duvet. A pause. “You’re– you’re confusing me.”
He huffs a begrudging laugh, and quietly, he replies– “You’ve confused me for ages.”
You fall into a wooden silence yet again, your face growing warmer and warmer beneath the sheets, until you push them down and take in a cooling, heavy breath.
“What time is it?” you ask.
“Too early,” he murmurs, settling back into his chair. He must be so uncomfortable. “Sleep a bit more.”
What you want:
Invite him in. (The bed is big enough for the two of you to lay side by side with a gap to rival the size of the Grand Canyon between you.) Slip a hand into his and lay there, figure out if this is a good idea or not. If it’s smart. If it could work. Whatever it is.
What you really want is to kiss. Deep and languid and slow. What you want is to know how he’d really touch you, if it’s the same as it is deep in your subconscious. What you want is him. Exactly as he is.
What you do:
Slip out of bed, find your shoes and your clutch neatly placed next to the nightstand, offer quiet apologies for taking up his time, his bed, for dreaming of him (you don’t say that last part), insist you go when he protests, because he’s got practice later today and it’s more important he’s well rested than you. You rush out the door without looking back, and once it clicks closed you scarper down the hall into the elevator and jab the button for the ground floor, and press your burning forehead against the mirror on the back wall.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Avoiding Wonwoo proves difficult. On Friday, you task your team with recording his every move for social media, you wrangle more time with Netflix so they’re following him everywhere but the toilet, even find that guy who asks nonsensical questions for YouTube and all but physically push him in Wonwoo’s direction. As for yourself, you throw yourself into work and keep company everywhere you go, so even when Wonwoo falls into step beside you as you rush through the paddock, there’s no gap in the conversation for him to occupy. When you’re seeking out Edoardo in the garage, it’s Wonwoo who helps you find him, even while cameras are on him. If he notices the way you’re doing your best to cut him out, he doesn’t mention it, he’s just ever present, always in the corner of your eye.
The trouble is, even if you avoid his actual presence, he takes up every crevice of your mind anyway. If you’re not working on his campaigns, or his interviews, or talking about him (and Charles) with the team, then your recent dreams swim back into your vision and you forget what you’re supposed to be doing entirely. This is exactly why you don’t mess around with someone at work. Too much mess for what it’s worth.
On Saturday, qualifying goes so badly Wonwoo places P13 on the grid, and Charles places P9. There’s an issue with Charles’ car, and Wonwoo’s is perfectly fine. Not the worst, but certainly not living up to his track record. Edoardo is all foul language and irritation, and while he’s in this mood every member of the team that can slip away does so, moving slow to remain unnoticed. You hold your ground, because dealing with men in power and their tempers is nothing new– your dad, your old boss, your current boss. They’re all the same. Overgrown babies throwing their toys out of the pram. You usher him into the backroom and close the door to keep away prying eyes while Edoardo rants at the air in four different languages. You spend the time going through your emails as you wait for Edoardo to run out of steam, and eventually while he’s catching his breath, you casually ask if he’d like a cup of tea. Edoardo sighs. He would, thank you.
Outside the garage is where you bump into Wonwoo, closely followed by a couple of social media admins with cameras.
“Give it five minutes before you go in,” you say.
Wonwoo looks over your head at the garage. “He’s upset?”
“Upset is a euphemism,” you mutter. “But if you go in now he’ll lose a lung. Go take a break,” you say gently to the admins. Nothing Edoardo has to say to Wonwoo should be caught on film anyway. They say polite goodbyes as they scarper the other way, but Wonwoo doesn’t linger by the garage as you head in the direction of the hospitality unit. No, he falls into step beside you.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says, after you look at him with pointed disdain.
“I’m working.” You walk faster, but Wonwoo and his ridiculous long legs can easily match your pace.
“Haven’t you delegated everything by now?” He scoffs. “Weren’t you supposed to be covering my interviews while Jeonghan’s with Gabriella, why’s Carmen doing it?”
“I’m busy.”
“And you’ve got these kids following me around with cameras all day asking me to be their performing monkey.”
“So perform,” you mutter under your breath.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap. “This is part of your job whether you like it or not, and we need to catch up with our competitors on social media. We’re falling behind.”
“Hold on– can we just–” In one swift motion he moves in front of you, brings you to a sudden halt with his hands on your arms and you jolt back out of his touch. “I wanted to ask you something.”
You glare at him because God, you’re not having this conversation here. “It had better be about work,” you hiss. “Because I’ll kill you if you make another scene like you did in the e–”
“No– no, I–” he pauses and sucks in a breath. He drags his gaze away from your face then, fixing on something over your head. Pink creeps over his cheeks, there’s sweat drying on his neck, the under-suit turtleneck hardly hiding the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. It’s almost endearing, but Christ, you want to shake the words out of him.
“Could you wear my ring again?”
Your lips part, but no words come out at first. Of all the things he could’ve said, this wasn’t what you would ever have expected. “Uh–”
“I was doing better when you had it on.”
Your eyes narrow. “I never had you down as the superstitious type.”
“I’m not, really. But I’ll take any good luck charm if it helps me win.”
You blink.
“I’m not your talisman,” you laugh, incredulous. “You think I’m the problem with your qualifying? That you dropped so far on the grid because I wasn’t wearing your fucking ring?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not the problem. Just– when you wore it, I was doing so well, and I liked knowing you had it safe with you.” His hands twitch uselessly at his sides. “And when I asked you to take it off– I didn’t even want it back. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
The admission sits between you, heavy, sticky. All these years he’s made excuses to do the exact opposite and you can’t pinpoint when it changed. Heat crawls up your throat. For a moment you forget where you are, the sharp smell of rubber and petrol, the low rumble of engines starting up somewhere nearby. All you see is him– sweat still drying at his temple, pink at his ears, eyes shining in a way that’s too close to an admission of feeling.
You glance over his shoulder, subtly checking to make sure no cameras are near enough to catch this conversation. “I’ll wear it on one condition.”
He exhales, almost sounding relieved. “What?”
“You’ll do everything I ask.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I already do that.”
“You do not. The admins have been telling me you’re being uncooperative when they’re trying to make content.”
Wonwoo crosses his arms. “Well you’re not the one asking.”
You roll your eyes. “It comes from me and you know it.” Wonwoo doesn’t answer, just scrunches up his nose in that way he does. “Come on, Wonwoo,” you say, voice low. “Perform for me.”
A barely there flicker of a smile, a small nod, and he’s moving out of your space. Wonwoo jogs back towards the garage and Edoardo, race-suit slung low around his hips. You wonder if this is what it feels like when you both win.
Later when you’re laying in bed, Wonwoo’s ring back on the chain around your neck, you check Tiktok. There’s a new video with over a million views since it was posted this afternoon, captioned ‘Outtakes with Jeon Wonwoo.’
It’s silly. Just spliced together clips of him sighing dramatically, more of him being told to pose for the camera and his lovely natural smile goes all wooden as he holds up his thumb, hugging Charles with a confused “–no idea what you’re telling me to do? Put my hands where? On his butt?” and Charles desperately trying to contain his laughter. Cut to another clip captioned ‘break time’– Wonwoo sitting on a high stool, staring absentmindedly, kicking his legs and eating a banana. When he catches sight of the camera on him he swallows the rest of the banana whole, and almost chokes on it.
It’s so silly, but it has over a million views since it was posted earlier today, and the comments are awash with fangirls saying he’s effortlessly funny and his english is soooooo cute and TIL THE DENTIST KNOWS ITS HIM– which is a little odd considering the whole thing gave you the most sickening cuteness aggression. How mortifying.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
On Sunday night, when you’re working from your hotel bed in your pyjamas, you get a text.
Wonwoo [21:14] I’m assuming you wore it?
Despite yourself, a half smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You lean back against the headboard and snap a quick photo of his ring, resting perfectly between your collarbones, grainy in the dim light from your laptop screen.
You [21:15] Congratulations on P2. Still can’t say I had much to do with it
You [21:15] IMG_4286
Wonwoo [21:15] I appreciate it anyway
Wonwoo [21:15] Why don’t you come celebrate with us?
Wonwoo [21:15] IMG_1938
It’s a dimly lit photo of his own, him and Max (who took P1) and George (P3) in a bar, and they’re all smiling wide at the camera. There are others at the table with them– you recognise a strategist from Red Bull, some staff from Mercedes. No one but Wonwoo from Ferrari. Wonwoo’s glasses are slipping down his nose, and he’s in a baggy white t-shirt rolled at the sleeves, with his hair pushed back like he’s walked straight out of a shampoo commercial. His glass halfway to his mouth.
You [21:15] Can’t. Got an early flight. We both do
Wonwoo [21:16] Maybe Inès has us next to each other again
You laugh. Nearly text back ‘God forbid’ before something has you deleting it.
You [21:16] Maybe cool it with the beer
You [21:16] I couldn’t bear it if you smelled of alcohol right next to me so early in the morning
You [21:16] And we don’t want a repeat of the last couple of times either of us got drunk
The reply is almost instantaneous.
Wonwoo [21:16] Who’s we? I was gonna ask if I could come see you
Your breath sticks in your throat. Images of your recent dreams flashing through your imagination that you shake away. You lock your phone and unlock it within seconds. Read the message a third, a fourth, a fifth time, and you still can’t think of a reason why he’d want to leave his friends to seek out your company if it’s not for–
Another text vibrates you out of the fog.
Wonwoo [21:18] What's your name? Why’s Wonwoo got you saved as Taskmaster? Is he dumping us to go hang out with you?
You [21:18] Who’s this?
Wonwoo [21:18] George. Your turn
You [21:18] Do me a favour, would you George?
Wonwoo [21:18] Anything for the woman he’s been agonising over texting for the last hour
Wonwoo [21:18] Or man. I’m an ally 🫶
Your heart hammers in your chest. You’re being reckless, you know, but you just want to see if he’ll live up to his word. If he’ll do as you say.
You [21:18] Tell Wonwoo if he wants my room number he’s going to have to work for it
Wonwoo [21:18] Saucy
Across town, Wonwoo is wrestling with George to get his phone back. The others look on, laughing and jeering, but with a sharp twist to George’s nipple through his shirt, Wonwoo’s phone finally slips from his grip. Wonwoo takes off to the bar to collect himself.
Wonwoo [21:20] They took my phone out of my pocket. Ignore them
Wonwoo [21:20] Wait. Work for it how?
You [21:20] Your fangirls on TikTok are saying it’s been forever since you posted a selfie. They’re desperate for one. They need food for their edits of you
Three little dots appear and disappear in quick succession. A full five minutes goes by before you get a notification from Wonwoo on Instagram– he’s sent you his story.
There is safety in the privacy of your room, but still you feel the need to slip down and hide your shamefully heated face under the duvet. You click the story, and it’s just a mirror selfie. Pretty face half obscured by his phone, but his sleeves are rolled just high enough that you can see the definition in his arms, the veins in his hands, and how broad his shoulders are. Caption in the corner, a simple ‘only got podium because of you’ and it’s not for you since he’s posted for all his 9.4 million followers to see, but it’s got your gross smile widening anyway.
Wonwoo [21:26] Well?
You [21:26] Good job
You [21:26] 8/10
Wonwoo [21:27] Your turn
You blink stupidly at your screen.
You [21:28] My turn to what?
Wonwoo [21:28] Post a selfie on instagram
You [21:28] I hardly think my measly 214 followers are interested in me bare faced in my pyjamas
Wonwoo [21:28] At least one is
You [21:28] You don’t follow me
Wonwoo [21:28] Who said I meant me
Your face flames, but the everyone_woo started following you notification comes through only seconds later, and it’s ridiculous the way it makes your pulse skip. You glance at the mirror on the wardrobe across the room, at the mess of your hair, your soft pink pyjama shorts, the matching tank top sans bra. He couldn’t have messaged you an hour ago?
You grab your phone and slip into the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. It isn’t forgiving, so you switch on the mirror light instead. Better. You fix your hair, tilt your chin, let the strap of your pyjama top slide off your shoulder, and lean a little forward on the counter. Not too posed, but obvious. One quick snap, and the reflection of the flash across your collarbones makes his ring gleam.
You deliberate for a good thirty seconds before posting it to your story. Caption: early flight club ✈️
It’s out there. Your stomach twists in anticipation of his response, and you lock your phone, slide across the counter lest you seem too eager to read any reply he might send. You splash water on your face, take longer than necessary to brush your teeth (for the second time tonight) just for something to occupy you for a moment longer.
When you’re back in bed, you finally dare to look at your phone again, and there it is, amongst a few likes and a reply from Bridget with a bunch of aubergine and squirt emojis.
Wonwoo [21:31] Cute
You bite the inside of your cheek, thumbs still damp as you type.
You [21:33] Not what I was going for
Wonwoo [21:34] Well I didn’t want to be too forward
You stare at that for too long, the simple weight of it pressing down on your chest. You can’t imagine what he’d say if there wasn’t this strange tension between you. What he’d tell you if neither of you were inclined to hold back.
You [21:34] Tell me
Wonwoo [21:34] Rather tell you in person
Your breath stutters. You almost ask him to come to you, tell you anything he wants, but instead you chicken out and send–
You [21:36] Shouldn’t you be celebrating instead of texting me?
Wonwoo [21:39] Like you said, got an early flight. On my way back to the hotel
Another pause. Your throat goes dry as you stare at yourself in the mirror of the vanity and wonder if you can really do this.
Wonwoo [21:41] I’ll be back in twenty minutes
Wonwoo [21:41] If you want to come up
You can feel yourself teetering recklessly on the edge. You could. There’s nothing but your own arbitrary rules to stop you. You’ve been telling yourself you’re only curious to experience it, you just want to see what it’s like, just to try him on for size. It’s not like you like him. And it feels beyond reason, the way want drives you to type ‘yes, I’ll be there’ only for the message to remain unsent. Still– there’s the unsettling anxiety rolling in the pit of your stomach. You delete the message. Type it again. End up sending nothing at all.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The plane is mercifully quiet at dawn since most of the team have a later flight out but even through your haze of too-little sleep and too-much coffee, you spot him immediately. Brim of his bucket hat tugged low, hoodie zipped up, mask over his face. Inès has done it again. Two seats, side by side.
You stow your bag in the overhead locker and settle into your seat, pull your book from your bag just for something to do. Wonwoo doesn’t even say hello. He keeps his eyes down, thumbs busy with his phone. You tell yourself you don’t care. If he’s disappointed about last night he can sulk if he wants to. But the silence feels all wrong now.
By the time you're in the air and the seatbelt light clicks off, you can’t take it anymore. “You don’t have to sit next to me, you know,” you mutter, eyes still on the same page. “If I’ve pissed you off that much.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“You could swap seats. The plane’s half empty.” You set your book in your lap and turn to look at him. He’s pulled his mask down over his chin, watching you with a cautious expression. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. So let’s just pretend we didn’t–” Flirt you almost say, but the word lodges in your throat. “–talk. We made a mistake.”
Something flickers across his face, too quick to catch. He leans back in his seat, finding sudden fascination with the buttons on the side of his armrest.
“You’d been drinking, I shouldn’t have–” you start, but falter in lieu of words you can’t find to accurately describe the shift in tension the last few days have brought about. “I shouldn’t have encouraged whatever we were doing.”
“I see,” he seethes, red creeping over his ears.
You bristle. “You’re angry with me?”
His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “What? Jesus Christ, I’m embarrassed that I–” He breaks off, lowering his voice to a hiss. “You think I’m annoyed because you didn’t show up?”
Your pulse hammers. “Aren’t you?”
“God, you’re impossible,” he whispers, sharp enough to make you flinch, then pinches the bridge of his nose.
“For fucks sake, Wonwoo.” You lean just far enough toward him that your shoulders brush. “I’m soooo sorry for not throwing myself at you just because you were horny and drunk,” you hiss in his ear, ignoring the heat radiating off him.
His jaw tightens. “That’s not– I had two dri– you were the one who–” He exhales hard, shaking his head. “Forget it. You’re determined to misunderstand me anyway.”
“Fine.” You slam your book shut, shove it into the seat pocket with more force than necessary. “Consider me misunderstood.”
The silence after that is brutal. He angles his body away, arms crossed, staring out the window at nothing but ocean. You turn on your side to face the aisle as best you can, scrunch your eyes shut and pretend to sleep, but every minute of his quiet only tightens the knots in your stomach. Only twelve hours to go.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Forty minutes in and the aircon cuts out. The cabin heats fast without it. Wonwoo shrugs off his hoodie, and you do the same– wishing you’d worn a day-old t-shirt rather than the only clean thing you had left in your suitcase, a satin camisole with a too-low neckline. You’ve got to find a new assistant who cares about your professional reputation.
Fifteen minutes later, when the cabin is already sweltering and your skin is going slick with sweat, the announcement comes. You have to make an emergency landing in the Bahamas, and they’ll either fix the plane or rebook your flight.
It’s fine. It’s okay. This happens all the time. Doesn’t stop your nerves from spiking because fuck do you hate when plans go awry. Beside you, Wonwoo is unperturbed. Of course he doesn’t give a shit if you have to cancel a six-million euro meeting with Rolex if it gives him an easy out.
The descent is bumpy. You keep your hands folded tight in your lap, nails pressing crescent moons into your palms. Wonwoo notices– and out of the corner of your eye you think you see his hand almost reach for you. You blink. Must be the heat fucking with you, because when you sneak a sideways glance again, his hand is resting as it was before on the armrest.
On the tarmac, the captain’s apology is drowned out by the sound of the ground crew and the complaints of your increasingly stressed fellow passengers. The press of heat makes you feel sick. They keep you confined to your seats while they work, handing out bottles of water that do little to cool your sweat slick bodies. Wonwoo’s hat and mask have long been shed, and he sits with his head tipped back, neck long and lovely and wet, eyes closed so his pretty eyelashes fan over pinked cheeks.
After an hour on the ground, you’re starting to feel dizzy. You focus on a bead of sweat that’s sliding slowly down his temple and over the curve of his jaw. You hitch your breath as it catches in the hollow of his neck before disappearing into the collar of his wet shirt. You stare longer than you mean to. Takes a little longer for you to realise he’s caught you looking.
Doesn’t say anything, but he holds your gaze for a moment too long, and the look on his face sucks the air from your lungs faster than the heat.
Wonwoo clears his throat. “You look terrible.”
“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice is ragged with heat and exhaustion.
“You’re sweating through your clothes.”
“So don’t look.” Pervert.
“Here, have some of my water.”
You lazily shove the bottle in his outstretched hand away. “I said I’m fine,” you insist through gritted teeth.
Wonwoo swears under his breath. “Would you stop being so fucking stubborn for once?”
Your mouth opens, ready to berate him for pushing your buttons for no good reason, but nothing comes out. Just caught by the way his heavy lidded eyes flicker to your lips, and further, to your camisole sticking to your dampened skin, and the way your chest rises faster, harder than you’d like. The way he looks at you in this moment is a beautiful knife, cutting right through you. He swallows, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. You both look away at the same time.
It’s clear the plane isn’t going anywhere within another twenty agonising minutes. The captain breaks the news: the flight’s canceled, the next direct to Zurich isn’t until tomorrow night. Unless you’d like to take three connections and spend the next thirty-six hours pinging around North America and Europe, this is it. When the announcement lands, your stomach flips. Wonwoo just leans back, unreadable, while you call Inès and ask her to make sure you’re on the flight out of here, and find you both somewhere to stay for a night.
Another twenty minutes and they’re finally bringing the plane up to the gate. Your vision swims when you stand and reach up to open the overhead locker, and you stumble against the seat across the aisle from yours. Wonwoo makes a soft sound of admonishment before standing to guide you back to your seat with gentle hands on your arms. Everything feels foggy, the way he whispers your name, the way he holds a water bottle against your neck, the way his hands aren’t cold at all, right now. He must be suffering in this heat too, but you can hardly speak. All you can do is nod vacantly, when he says it’s okay, it’s okay, they’re letting us off soon. Let me go talk to someone– don’t move, okay? Okay?
You can’t tell if it’s been seconds or thirty minutes by the time you hear Wonwoo calling your name again. He sounds far away, underwater almost, but he’s touching your arm. Slowly blinking your eyes open, he’s right there with a stewardess and a wheelchair, and he’s leaning down, saying something like c’mon, can you put your arms around me? And when you do, when you circle your arms around his neck, his cheek presses against yours and he’s lifting you out of your seat and into the chair and it’s hard to let go– you don’t want to let go, you cling and sob and he’s saying it’s okay, you’re okay, I promise. It’s the closest you’ve ever been. And God, how utterly mortifying this whole ordeal has become.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The Bahamas
The airport passes by in a blur. The staff help you through passport control while Wonwoo follows closely behind with your bags, and with another twenty minutes of the sweet luxury of air conditioning in baggage claim, you slowly come back to your senses. Wonwoo floats the idea of going to hospital but you’ve got enough strength back to firmly refuse any notion of that. Even so, Wonwoo won’t let you out of the wheelchair while he waits to collect your suitcases. Without the worry you’re going to pass out, the two of you are back to a terse silence, but you catch him watching you once, then twice, like he wants to talk but doesn’t know what to say. You don’t know what to say either. Just want to wash the humiliation and the drying sweat from your skin.
Inès calls you back while Wonwoo is pushing you toward the cafe and a member of airport staff follows behind with your bags, he sits you at a table and rushes off to the counter to buy something, anything, with ice. Your freedom will be brief, so you take the opportunity to stand and stretch your legs, albeit bracing yourself on the table for support. You’ll do much better once Wonwoo stops treating you like you’re made of glass.
“Rolex said they’ll get back to me later today to reschedule,” Inès says. “I’ve found you both a hotel thirty minutes away from the airport. Will that do? Would you like one room or two?”
You briefly wonder if you’re still out of it. “What?” you ask, sliding into a chair and pushing the wheelchair away from your table with your foot. “Two, Inès. Two rooms, please.”
“Two rooms, got it,” she says, and you can hear the clacking of keys under her long nails. “Are you okay? You sound–”
“I’m fine–” you say, sharply cutting her off. “You’ll send me the details?”
“You’ll have the email in a few minutes,” she says. And then she apologises for the travel delay as if it were her fault, and clicks off. True to her word, the email confirmation comes through by the time Wonwoo is back with several bottles of water in a bag and a huge to-go cup filled with ice in his hand.
“Where’s your wheelchair?”
“Wonwoo, seriously, I’m fine now. Let’s leave it for someone who really needs it, yeah?
Wonwoo appraises you quietly. You sigh, stand (carefully) and pluck an ice cube from the top of the cup, hold it against your chest and let it melt over your skin. “Come on, let’s find a taxi.”
Even still, Wonwoo won’t let you take the luggage trolley from the staff. He takes it, balances the bag of water bottles precariously on top, pointedly ignoring your rolled eyes and ‘for God’s sake, I can carry ONE bag!’ and heads in the direction of the taxi rank, back outside in the heat. You act like you don’t care for the way he’s looking out for you, but he’s making it so difficult.
The torture of still, hot air is thankfully brief, but the next agony is the crawling traffic. A thirty minute drive stretches into forty, then fifty, then an hour. Wonwoo keeps his eyes fixed on the window, but his knee bounces, a quiet tell. You scroll your phone, feigning disinterest, though your pulse ratchets every time his thigh shifts closer to yours on the cramped backseat.
The hotel is pristine. Floors so perfect you could do your make-up in the reflection, and you make a mental note to buy Inès the prettiest flowers for booking you into luxury after the morning you’ve had. Check-in takes forever and all you can think about is the shower you’re going to have as soon as you’re in the room. The receptionist smiles brightly as you give her both your names, says of course without qualm when you ask for an afternoon check out, and she hands over your keys– 207 and 208. Of course. Whatever. Doesn’t mean you have to see each other again tonight. You send off some of your clothes to be laundered, Wonwoo too, and make your way to the elevator.
“Are you feeling better?” Wonwoo asks once inside, as he presses the button for your floor.
“Yes, thanks,” you say. Embarrassing the way he took care of you. Not that you’re not grateful, but that he had to at all. “I’ll be right as rain as soon as I’m clean.”
Upstairs, you swipe into your room, drop your bag by the door, and cross to the curtains to find the balcony. Wide, white stone, overlooking the pool below, and ocean a little behind the line of trees. And when you slide open the glass doors to catch your breath, you see him. Standing exactly where the gap should be. For a moment, he doesn’t notice you. His hair is damp at the nape, clinging to his neck. The line of his back is taut, his t-shirt wrinkled from hours in the heat. Then he glances sideways. Catches you there, frozen, one hand still on the doorframe.
You turn, an inconceivable thought taking over, and make your way over to the bathroom, yank the door open and gasp when you see Wonwoo in a mirror image of you, having had exactly the same notion. He meets your eyes across the room, a crooked, incredulous smile spreading on his beautiful face, and says “Do you want to shower first or should I?”
A laugh falls out of you before you can stop it. Fuck Inès’ flowers because at this point she has to be pranking you. Her and Bridget and the universe have joined forces to shove you and Wonwoo together at every opportunity. Wonwoo’s laughing in disbelief too, and he looks so lovely and light like that, you can hardly breathe.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The shower is heaven– steam curling under the soft lights, high-pressured water washing away the stickiness of the day. You take your time, working the soaped cloth into your skin, towel off, massage your skin lotion until the scent of jasmine sits heavy in the air and your skin feels softer than ever. You wipe away the condensation in the mirror, do your skincare in the mirror, tug on last night's pyjamas, and knock on Wonwoo’s door to let him know the bathroom is all his, before crawling beneath the covers of what feels like the comfiest bed you’ve ever laid on. Sleep takes you quickly.
When you wake, the light is fading, the sky outside a soft pink. Your phone buzzes twice on the nightstand:
Wonwoo [19:14] Are you feeling better?
Wonwoo [19:14] Should we get dinner? You didn’t eat all day
You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard, and then you lock the screen. You roll over, bury your face in the cool side of the pillow, and will yourself not to think about him laying on the other side of this wall, waiting for your answer. You push away the thought, grab your book instead just to find something to lose yourself in.
Another buzz from your phone comes a little later, and for a fleeting moment you hope he’s trying to persuade you, but it’s just Bridget, with a link to an Instagram post. You bolt upright in bed so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.
[DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE] JEON WONWOO’S NEW BEAU? A FORBIDDEN WORKPLACE ROMANCE, STEAMY MOMENTS, AND A CONFUSING TIMELINE
It’s a fan-submitted post– four images on a carousel. The first being a shot of the two of you outside the restaurant, he’s standing close, wrapping his coat around your shoulders. Easily explained, you think, no matter what your pounding heart says.
The second is less so: you and Wonwoo in the pool last week, bodies suspiciously close, both of you staring intensely at one another. It’s grainy, poorly lit, but it’s obviously you.
Next: paparazzi shots from Saturday, his hands on your arms as he stopped you from walking. You remember the taut conversation, but in this snapshot it looks like he’s looking directly at your cleavage.
And last: a black and white still from the CCTV camera in the hotel elevator– your hands clasping the bare skin of his waist, his cradling your face, and worse still, the unmistakable look of desire in your eyes.
Formula One star Jeon Wonwoo spotted getting cozy with Ferrari’s Head of Communications– timeline of their new relationship? Read more on the Deuxmoi website… link in bio.
Your blood goes ice cold. Before you can stop to think, you’re out of bed, book falling loudly to the floor, phone in hand, padding across the carpet and into the shared bathroom. A few quick strides and you’re hammering on his door. He answers quickly, barefoot, shirtless (of course. Any other time you’d roll your eyes but this time you shoulder past him into the room), hair still damp from the shower, grey sweats low on his hips. His eyes widen when he sees the wild look on your face.
You shove your phone at him. “Look at this.”
He takes it, flicks back and forth through the photos, jaw tightening. Then he looks back at you, expression unreadable. “It’s nothing, isn’t it? You’ve dealt with worse.”
“Nothing? I’m not the celebrity here, scandal doesn’t usually involve me.” Your voice spikes, and you sink down to sit on the edge of his bed, holding your head in your hands. “Wonwoo, this is Deuxmoi. Deuxmoi! They think we’re in a relationship. That’s crazy.”
There’s a flash of something like hurt on his face, but it’s gone before you can register it. He exhales, long and steady, and tosses your phone back. “Look, we’ll handle it, okay? We’ll handle it however you want.”
You blink. “What does that even mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed now, calm in the face of your panic. “If you want me to deny it, I will. If you want me to say nothing, I’ll keep quiet. If you want me to–” He stops, runs his tongue over his bottom lip, thinking better of the words he was about to say. “Whatever you want.”
You groan frustrated, falling back on the bed, throwing your arms over your face. Your stomach rumbles, and Wonwoo sighs, grabs a t-shirt from the back of the chair and shrugs it on, before coming to sit next to you on the edge of the bed. Quietly, you say, “I guess dinner’s off the table now.”
“Funny,” he scoffs. “I figured you weren’t interested when you left me on read.”
“That’s not funny at all.” You swallow hard, trying to mask the crack in your voice.
“Notice how I’m not laughing?”
He isn’t. And somehow, that’s worse. There’s a brief silence, punctuated only by the sound of another embarrassing rumble of your stomach. “We could order room service?” you offer, voice coming out more pathetic than you’d like. Wonwoo huffs a small, rueful laugh and stretches across the bed for the phone on the nightstand.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You’re on the balcony when the food comes, two bowls of risotto, a coconut panna cotta for you, a strawberry mousse for him, and a bottle of champagne you didn’t order. Someone probably recognised Wonwoo’s name. The server barely has time to roll in the cart before you hear Wonwoo ushering him out again, large tip pressed into his palm.
He brings the cart out to you on the balcony, the humid night air soft against your skin, the pool below lit turquoise, the sound of birds settling in for the night in the trees. Wonwoo settles into the chair next to you at the little white table.
For a while, it’s quiet, only punctuated by the pop of the champagne cork and the scrape of cutlery. Your stomach eases with the first real meal of the day, and you’re glad for the dim light– grateful he doesn’t seem to notice how often your eyes flick up to him, to the slope of his throat, the perfect shape of his mouth, the way his hair falls into his eyes when he bends over his plate.
Your phone buzzes just before you start your dessert, and Wonwoo fills your empty glass while you check it. It’s Jeonghan, nothing but the same link Bridget sent and a series of question marks. You sigh, and lock your phone again, pulling your plate toward you.
“It’s not just me you ignore then?” Wonwoo asks, tone deceptively mild, toying with his half-eaten dessert. That’s rich of him to ask, given your history.
“Excuse me?”
He rolls his head to the side with a hesitant sigh, an endearing pink blooming on his skin. “I keep wanting to talk to you,” he says. “But I can’t figure out if you’d rather I leave you alone.”
Your heartbeat suddenly feels so loud in your ears, but you keep your face composed. It’s hard to know, lately. If you fed into this, you can guess where it’ll lead, but your reputation at work is more important than whatever this might be. “I don’t know, Wonwoo,” you say quietly, honestly. “You confuse me.”
He glances up, eyes wide and a little surprised. “I’m the one who’s confused.”
“I think about you all the time,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, before you let yourself consider the consequences, and those few little words silence you both. You set down your spoon and fiddle restlessly with the napkin on the table, but Wonwoo’s reaching over to still your hand with his.
Your breath stutters. “Your hands are cold,” you say.
Time moves like honey, and the air between you hums with electricity. You can feel his eyes on you but you can’t look because if you do– instead you push your plate aside and stand, moving over to lean on the balcony wall, taking in slow, steadying breaths in a desperate bid for the night air to cool you, palms flat against the stone.
Wonwoo joins you after a beat. Stands close behind and cages you against the wall with his arms. Rests his hands on top of yours and you let him twine your fingers together. Your eyes flutter shut as he leans closer, bodies mere millimetres apart, ghosts his lips across the shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
You don’t. You can’t. “This is stupid,” you mutter, as his breath warms your neck, tip of his nose feather light over your skin. Desire licks up your spine. “We’re being stupid.”
The problem with kissing is that it’s your downfall. Just one and everything comes tumbling down, so when he says ‘yeah, I know’ voice low and ragged as he breathes the word into your skin, and presses a soft, lingering kiss onto your shoulder, you know you’re fucked. What Wonwoo does with his lips should be none of your concern.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
“This has to stay here, okay?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Just once.”
“Uh huh,” he says, lying through his teeth. Wonwoo has a taste of the feeling now and can’t give you up. He already knows he’s going to want this again and again, but he’ll agree to anything you say right now. You could ask him to capture the moonlight and he’d find a way to bottle it.
Wonwoo had wanted to start careful. Knows you frighten easily and he doesn’t want to cut this night short on account of his haste to touch you, but God, he can feel the desperation on you because it matches his. Your tiny exhale when he drags his lips over your neck tells him it’s okay to keep going, and he leaves another gentle kiss there, almost verging on tender. You angle your head toward him, cheek against his temple and he slides a hand up your arm, warming the skin. Your now free hand reaches back to twist into his t-shirt and drag him flush against your body.
Your ass against his crotch leaves nothing for your imagination, and your soft pleased noise pleased only has him reaching down your body, slipping his hand under your pyjama top and splaying it wide over your stomach, rubs a calloused thumb over the expanse of soft, pretty skin. Catches the hitch of your breath as you cant your hips against his hard cock and presses his whimper into the crook of your neck. “Kiss me,” you whisper. He looks up at you, twisted at the waist to watch him, lips full and slightly parted, heavy lidded eyes clouded with hunger. “Before we change our minds.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. Not likely for him, he thinks about saying, but you’re reaching up to catch his chin in curled fingers, tug him up just to let him chase your lips. Fuck. The tentative caution unravels into something hungry, desperate. His hand comes to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he draws you closer. When you finally kiss him deep and open, tongue sliding across his own something dirty, he’s too desperate and too obvious but he can’t find it in him to care. You whine into his mouth when he nips at your bottom lip, and he wonders if you’ll make the same noises when you come.
The strap of your pyjama top slips from your shoulder, and he uses the opportunity. Slips his hand from yours and peels your top down on one side over your breast, breaks the kiss just to watch your nipple pebble in the cooling night air. “You’re so pretty,” he coos, cupping the swell of your tit, leaning back down to lave another wet kiss on your shoulder. His other hand ventures lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pink pyjama shorts, dips low enough just to tease at your folds. “Thought about taking this off you last night,” he admits. “Why didn’t you come?”
“Wanted to,” you whisper, angling your hips forward, chasing more of his touch. “S’bad idea.”
He laughs against your skin, low and derisive. “God, you’re so fucking annoying.”
You hum, wiggle torturously against his aching cock. “Aren’t you one to t–” you’re cut off by your own choked exhale when he slides a long finger over your clit.
“Oh?” he whispers coyly against your neck. “Are you sensitive?”
“Shut up,” you manage, but you’re tipping your head back against his shoulder and your pretty eyelashes fan over the apples of your cheeks as you lose yourself in the feeling of him circling your sensitive bud, gasp as he gathers wetness from your entrance and smoothes it back over your clit. He presses his lips, soft, against your temple. “Fuck.”
God, he wants to hear you say that while deep inside your cunt. His pets grow frenzied, slipping his finger over in tight circles drawing pretty little noises from your perfect lips, and he loves the way you claw at his arm when he dips two fingers shallow inside, out, then deep. His vision goes clouded when you get so wet it coats his knuckles, likes the way you admonish him when he draws his fingers out of your pussy to bring them to your mouth. Feels like he’s losing his mind when he watches you open up for him, slide your wet, pink tongue over his fingers and moan at the taste of yourself on his skin. Finds it so obscenely hot that he buries his head in the crook of his neck just to hide his face, sucks a purple bruise over your pulse point before you drag your fingers from his mouth and twist to face him. Below, the quiet is punctuated with someone’s laugh in the pool, the sound faint and distant. His hands fall to your waist, your palms flat against his chest, and though he can see you’re about to speak he cuts you off– leans in to capture your lips with his, slides his tongue over yours, wet and heated, until you’re breaking off with a gasp.
“Wait–” you say, but he’s chasing your lips. “Wonwoo, stop.” He swallows uneasily as you slip out of his grip, chest heaving, and he’s taken aback for a second until you’re tugging at the crook of his arm. “Can’t get caught with your dick in my mouth out here.”
“Oh.” He blinks stupidly, and you laugh at him, sending sparks through his veins.
“C’mon,” you say, pulling him by the wrist into your room. Once inside you don’t look back at him as you ask, “Close the curtains?”
While he draws the curtains, you rush over to your suitcase, dig through it as he takes his place on your bed, leaning back against the headboard, and tries to decide what he should do with his clothes (he leaves them on) until you come up triumphant with a little box of condoms.
“Might keep this assistant after all,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing,” you say, glancing up at him. “Why are you still dressed?”
“I thought you could help me,” he tries in some stupid attempt to sound sexy. You laugh again, that lovely sound. You don’t laugh around him enough, he thinks, and he’s swallowing his embarrassment down because you’re gonna fuck him anyway. You climb into his lap, smooth bare legs straddled over his hips, damp crotch of your shorts against the thick bulge in his sweats, giving an experimental grind that draws small gasps from both of you.
And then you’re tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, saying “Off.” He helps you drag it over his head, plucks off his glasses and casts them to the side, uncaring that they clatter to the floor. You leave a trail of soft kisses over his jaw and down his neck, a tentative suck over his collarbone leaving a barely there bruise, and harsher over his chest. You scratch lightly over the tattoo on his ribs and he shudders. “I think I hate this,” you say into his skin.
He nods, dumbstruck. Yeah. Yeah, he’s been hating it for a while too. “Getting rid of it,” he pants.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “First laser appointment is next week.”
“Ah,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I hope it doesn’t hurt too bad.” He loves the way you look at him, eyes big and earnest, and (dare he say?) pleased to hear it’ll soon be gone.
You kneel above him to give him enough room to shed his sweats and boxers at the same time– thick, hard cock bobs against the hard line of his stomach. Feels a little fucked up when you settle on his thighs, hand sliding down his body, electric over his skin, fingers curling around his cock and he watches, enraptured, as you gather spit on your tongue and lean over to let it pool onto the head of his cock. He sucks in a ragged breath, hands flying to your hips when you work it over him, twisting tight over the head. Humiliating, the way he fucks up into your circled fingers. Humbling, when he surges forward to kiss you desperate just for you to dodge him, sweet, evil smile playing on your lips. Ever since he’s known you he’s always felt a step behind, and this is no different.
You move down down down, and meet your glassy eyes with his as you lick a thick, wet stripe up his length. Shudders as you take him in the slick heat of your pretty mouth, cheeks hollowed out, pulling back just to lave your tongue over the head and lap away the precum beading there. He’s always loved the way your mouth moves, when you speak languages he doesn’t understand, when you’re subconsciously worrying your bottom lip as you pour over your book, the occasional times you wear that deep red lipstick (he wants to ruin it), and especially now– lips pink and kiss swollen and wet with spit and his pre-cum, with his cock slipping between your lips.
He’s giving himself away, the way he groans, but it’s only got you more eager, and you’re humming self-satisfied around his cock. Nearly loses his mind as he catches your hand slipping between your legs, pushing your shorts to the side to play with your clit, view hidden from him under the bunched cotton. Infuriation flares inside his chest. Wants to see. Needs that pleasure for himself, really, because he can’t have you taking control of this too. He reaches over, hand slipping flat past the waistband of those shorts and onto the flesh of the ass he’s been desperate to touch, and he echoes your order from earlier. “Off. Wanna see you.”
You’re still stubborn. Watch him with half-lidded, fucked out eyes as you sink your mouth further over him, feels you sigh out through your nose as you push past your gag reflex and he groans so pornographic. You hold there for a moment, eyes flutter closed, and Wonwoo’s brow pinches in pleasure, feels the tightness all over his skin. “Off,” he insists, pulling you off him with a dirty pop. “Don’t wanna cum yet.”
He almost gives in when you pout, look up at him with those big beautiful eyes just to make him weak. “I wanted you to cum,” you complain, but he’s ignoring you, rolling you off him to the side and dragging your shorts down your legs just to slot between them.
Nudges your thighs apart with his knees and he groans again at the sight of your wetness making your flesh shine. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin. “Always thought that.” Mouths rough at your thigh, swipes your wetness away with his tongue and revels in the way your breath hitches when he rolls the pad of his thumb over your clit. “Fuck,” he coos, between gentle nips at your skin, using his other hand to slide up your body and push up your top over your breasts, and you tug it off over your head. Feels a little breathless seeing his ring sit gleaming at your throat, while you’re exposed beneath him. In nothing but your jewellery and his. Dips his head and drags his tongue over your core, and watches your hands find purchase in the stark white sheets. Wants them in his hair, in his mouth, back around his cock while he drowns himself in the taste of you and your sweet little sounds. “You taste so good, baby.”
Your brow furrows. “Don’t call me that,” you complain, but you’re reaching over to touch his face so gently. “M’not yours to call baby.”
He holds in his frustration, buries it deep in his bones, channels the feeling into a harsh suck over your clit and takes pleasure in your resulting needy whine. Not yet is what he’d say if he were braver. Soon is what he’d say if he were a few drinks deep. Be my baby is what he’d say if he were sure. Instead he settles on pressing your whispered name into your skin as he slips his fingers into your tight, blinding heat and rolls his tongue over your clit. Reclaims his confidence in the pretty noises he draws from your lips. If you’re not gonna be his then he’ll settle for occupying your thoughts for as long as he can.
Wonwoo laps at the juncture of his fingers in your cunt, peppers feather light kisses over your clit, teases his tongue in tiny, slow, circles until your fingers find purchase in his hair and he moans loud as you drag his face harder against your body, grinding his nose over your clit, your patience with him wearing thin yet again. Makes him feral– fucks eager fingers into you, makes a little o with his mouth and hums over your clit, sucks gently, drawing desperate, panted breaths from your lungs. Knows how he must look to you, watching him with lust clouded eyes over the expanse of your body, lets his eyes close as he loses himself in the taste of you. He moans with you as he crooks his fingers at that perfect spot to make your legs shake, and fucks his aching cock against the mattress when his mind fogs over as you soak his chin. With a choked sob your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands twist in his hair and he groans, self-satisfied, at the sharp pain. He keeps fucking his fingers into you, working you through it, keeps licking at your clit until you shove him off with a broken cry.
He sits back on his calves, running soothing hands over your thighs while you come down from your high, wants to kiss you through it so badly but you’re already turning onto your side, fumbling clumsily for the condom box and tossing it toward him. Wonwoo makes quick work of it while you turn onto your front, rest your forehead on your crossed arms– he finds one his size and rolls it on, and you raise your ass into the air, giving him a mind-numbing view of your pulsing, sopping core. Feels as though he’s had the air knocked out of him. “Please, Wonwoo,” you beg, head falling to the side so you can watch him line himself up against your core. “Give it to me.”
Wonwoo knows this is the most perfect moment. Tries to feel wholly present as he sinks his length deep into your tight, hot cunt, and knows that this night will come back to haunt him if it only happens once. If he can only piece together the memory of your touch, and not live it over and over again, it’ll be his undoing. Pushes your body down with his hands on your hips, flush against the mattress and you tilt up your hips, and he lays over you, both moaning loud and unabashed in tandem, feeling that delicious pressure take over. “Feels good, Wonwoo,” you murmur. You sound drunk on it. On him. Shit.
“M’not gonna last,” Wonwoo says, the heat of equal measures embarrassment and desire on his face.
“S’okay,” you say gently. “Just wanna feel you.”
Wonwoo trails his lips over your shoulder as he fucks into you slow and hard and desperate, breathes fractured moans into the shell of your ear and the wetness seeping out of your soaked cunt coats the back of your thighs and the front of his, makes obscene noises that only drives him to fuck you harder. Pushes the air out of your lungs until you’re gasping, anguished, and he’s kissing over your neck, your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth and you’re twisted at what must be a torturous angle just to kiss him lazy and messy but it’s perfect. You’re perfect.
You’re sliding out a hand from beneath your head, grasping at his hip as he fucks into you, nails digging crescent moons into his skin. Wonwoo covers it with his own, twines your fingers together and pants your name into your cheek. Nearly whites out as your cunt clenches exquisitely around him and you’re crying out again, sharp and punctured. Chases his own end as you babble, catches his name on your lips and comes hard, rolling his hips deep deep deep and empties into the condom.
Already knows he can’t let this be the end as he sags his sweat slick body against yours. Can’t carry on working alongside you, without burying his cock to the hilt in your body when you’re alone. Can’t sit next to you on yet another long haul flight without taking your hand in his. He already can’t win a race without searching for your face in the sea of people crowding him. How could he do it now, knowing this was how good you were together?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
“Wonwoo,” you say, once your voice comes back to you. “You’re heavy.”
He nods, sated, against your back, pulls his cock from your body and the emptiness makes the ache evident. Rolls off you to the side, and already you miss the weight of him, but he keeps his palm flat over the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the flesh. You keep your head turned the other way. Know if you look at him like this it’ll make you delirious, so you won’t. He’s trailing his fingers along your spine, leaving gentle kisses across the bruising sucks he’d already bloomed on your skin.
“Be right back,” you say, shifting away from his touch.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently, concern obvious in his tone.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just wanna clean off.”
You slip away barefoot to the bathroom, where you collect yourself against the door for a moment, before moving to the skin to splash water on your face to cool the burn. God. God.
The mirror is still fogged from his shower earlier, the faint trace of his soap clinging to the steam-slick tiles. You brace your hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging. Your body is buzzing– every nerve still alight, every inch of you aching in the most devastating way.
It was supposed to be once. A release of pent up energy, an inevitability you’d both been circling. So good that even now, your thighs tremble and your skin prickles at the memory of his mouth on your throat, the way your name burned on his lips while he was buried inside you.
You splash more cold water over your face, over your chest, try to scrub away the heat. You can’t walk into the paddock with this in your head. You can’t look at him across a conference table and pretend you don’t know how he sounds when he loses control, how his hands mould perfectly desperate around your hips, or how he looks so fucked out when he’s got you close to the edge.
“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, pressing the towel hard against your face. What were you thinking?
The trouble is you’re not thinking at all. You haven’t been. For weeks, you’ve been trying to push the feeling away, trying not to want, and now you’ve gone and done the worst possible thing by giving in to him.
There’s a soft knock at the door. “You okay?” Wonwoo’s voice, low and quiet, like he knows you’re freaking out. Like he feels it too.
Your heart lurches, traitorous. You grip the counter tighter, force your voice steady. “I’m fine.”
“Can I come inside?” he asks, and you’re taken aback that you want to let him in. Your imagination races– flashes of him fucking you in the fogged up mirror, washing away your sins in the shower, sharing the stream and more of those torturously languid kisses. You can’t. Once was a bad idea to begin with, it has to end here.
“No. I’ll be out in a minute,” you say, trying to keep your voice level. “Wait– can you bring my pyjamas please?”
“Sure,” he says, and you can hear his retreating footsteps.
You busy yourself with soaking a washcloth in warm water, slipping it between your legs and rinsing away the evidence of your need for him. There’s another knock at the door, and Wonwoo says through it, “Your shorts are kind of– they’re–” he falters, but you get it. “I got you this instead.” And he’s opening the door just a crack to slot his arm through– the t-shirt he was wearing, a pair of his shorts, and a pair of white cotton briefs from your suitcase.
You pad over to take them from him. “What about you?”
“I don’t wear anything to sleep anyway.”
You close your eyes, inhale a steadying slow breath, because tomorrow you’ll have to go back to normal, somehow pretending this never happened. How, you don’t know. And then he’s pulling the door closed again with a soft click, so you shrug on his clothes, appraise yourself in the mirror. Everything in it is his.
You slip back into the bedroom, his shirt brushing mid-thigh, the cotton carrying the faint warmth of his skin. Wonwoo’s pulled on his sweats again, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows propped on his knees, head bowed in his hands. When he glances up at you, his expression is unreadable.
“Thanks,” you murmur, sliding beneath the covers on your side, pulling the duvet over your lap. The sheets are warm from his body. Yours too.
“No problem,” he says. Gets to his feet, slow and deliberate.
For a beat you stare, heart caught in your throat. The sight of him standing there– broad shoulders, hair mussed from your touch, the waistband of his sweats hanging low on his hips– sends your stomach tumbling. Panic prickles under your skin.
“Oh. You’re– heading back to your room?”
He looks at you with something akin to dull surprise. Blinks it away in a moment. “I suppose so,” he says, voice clipped. And then he’s making his way into the shared bathroom, door pulled sharply closed behind him, and you hear the running water of the tap, and after a minute, the soft click of the door on the other side.
You sink down into the sheets, stare at the ceiling, wringing your hands under the covers. Regret floods hot and fast, tangling with frustration. Why didn’t you just tell him to stay? Why didn’t you admit that you wanted the heat of his chest pressed to your back again, with his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin until you fell asleep?
Instead, you lie awake, replaying every second in torturous detail. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. And now– the silence is too loud.
On the other side of the wall, Wonwoo lies flat on his back, one arm slung over his eyes. He can still smell you on him, can still hear the soft gasp you made when he pushed into you, can still feel the trembling in your thighs when you broke apart under him. You didn’t want him to stay. He pushed too far, too soon, and now he’s ruined the fragile thing between you.
Neither of you sleep. You, chest tight with words you can’t bring yourself to say. Him, staring at the ceiling in the dark, mind spinning with the same question on loop: how the fuck can we go back to normal?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The vibration of your phone drags you out of a shallow, fractured sleep. It’s still dark, just a smear of light starting to edge over the horizon. You fumble for it on the nightstand, eyes squinting against the too-bright glow at the notifications on your screen.
Edoardo [05:32] Are you already handling this or do I need to be concerned?
Your chest tightens, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Before you can fully process it, another buzz–
Bridget [05:34] How’re you doing darling?
And as if the universe has decided that sleeping in is not in the cards today– an email notification from Inès pings through.
Rolex has offered to reschedule for Thursday, 11:00. Your flight should get in at 06:35, but let me know if you’d like to push for later.
PS - you should know everyone in the office is talking about you and Wonwoo.
You toss the phone to the side and drag both hands over your face. Sunrise isn’t even here yet and already you’re cornered on all sides.
Room service answers on the first ring, your voice hoarse when you order a pot of tea and nothing else. You set your laptop under your arm and slip outside barefoot. The balcony stones are cool, damp with morning air. You fold yourself into the corner chair, prop your feet on the wall, and watch the sky soften from violet to peach while birds chatter in the trees below.
For a few blessed minutes, it’s just you, the smell of Wonwoo’s soap still clinging faintly to your skin, the promise of hot tea on its way. You tell yourself you’ll figure it out. That you’ve handled worse fires than this.
The door beside you slides open, and Wonwoo steps out, hair a mess, glasses lopsided on his nose, eyes shadowed from the same restless night, he scrunches his eyes together in the dim morning light and he’s so sweet that you’re hit with a pang of longing. He leans one hand against the balcony rail, phone in the other. His voice is flat when he says, “Mingyu woke me up. Said my face is everywhere.”
You worry your bottom lip with your teeth, glance back at your screen. “Edoardo’s already on me too.”
He hums, too tired to talk it out, sinks down into the chair beside you. For a moment you both just sit there, brittle in the hush of this early hour. You steal a sideways glance at Wonwoo, who’s looking out over the water. The way he shines in the morning is something worthy of poetry.
“Last night was a mistake,” you say finally, staring at the way the rising sun casts amber light over the ocean.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t agree either. Just exhales and rubs a hand over his neck. “But you don’t regret it?”
Your head snaps toward him, heart stumbling. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something raw there, a glimmer that leaves your throat dry.
“I regret how complicated it is,” you murmur.
That earns the faintest twist of his mouth, not quite a smile. “I can live with complicated.”
The words hit you like a strike to the sternum. Live with complicated. You tell yourself not to read into it, not to let your brain chase down every possible meaning hiding under his quiet delivery, but your pulse betrays you. A part of you wants to laugh, because complicated is such an absurd understatement for the mess you’ve just made together. Another part aches– sharp and insistent– because if he can live with it, maybe you could too. Maybe it isn’t just the gravity of last night that’s keeping you tethered here beside him. The silence stretches again. The sky blushes gold, the air turns warmer, and for the first time since yesterday you don’t feel like you’re on the verge of breaking, every which way.
Room service arrives, a quiet knock at your door. You regret not having ordered enough for two but after your first few warming sips, you offer him some from your mug, and he takes it gratefully, fingers brushing yours over the handle.
“Rolex meeting’s not for two days,” you say. “But we’ll have to call into the office today once we figure out how we’re going to play it.”
“Are you going to tell them?” he asks.
“That we had sex?” you laugh bitterly around a yawn. “God no.” He nods sagely, takes a long gulp of tea and it makes you wonder if he’s just doing it to hide his face. “The worst one is from the CCTV in the elevator. Anything else can be easily explained as friendship.” You sigh heavy.
“We could tell them I liked you,” he offers, still staring into the mug. “And that you rejected me. Ask them to release the rest of the footage.”
Your breath hitches. Liked. Again. “I suppose,” you agree, voice flat.
“It’s close enough to the truth,” he says, and you suddenly can’t speak. What was last night if the like is past tense? And it’s almost like he can sense it, the way your pulse spikes and the tension knotting your spine, because he tacks on, “They don’t need to know I still do. Like you– I mean.”
“Oh.”
The word feels too small and stupid in the quiet between you. You want to reach for something clever, something equal, but your mind is a blank page except for the echo of I still do.
It loops over and over, burrowing under your ribs, muddling every careful line you’ve drawn between want and work, need and denial. Last night was supposed to be once. A mistake you could compartmentalise, shove into the dark corner of your brain labelled things we don’t think about at the office. But now– now he’s cracked the door wider, and you don’t know how to walk through it without leaving behind what you’ve built.
Your chest feels hot, your throat tight. You take the mug back from him just so you have something to hold, fingers wrapping hard around the ceramic, grounding yourself in the warmth. He doesn’t press, doesn’t even look at you, and somehow that only makes the confession feel heavier.
You tilt your face toward the sunrise, blinking hard against the tears pricking at the corners of your tired eyes, and tell yourself the heaviness in your body is just lack of sleep.
Your laptop pings with another email– but you can barely read the subject line from Gabriella before Wonwoo is pushing your laptop closed. “Hey!” you admonish. “That could be important, I need to–”
“Sleep,” he interrupts. His tone is soft, persuasive. “Come on. They can handle things without us for a little longer.”
You open your mouth to argue, but your body betrays you with a yawn, aching bone-deep from exhaustion. He sets the mug down on the table before extending his hand to you, and you stare at it for a long moment before giving in without a fight, slipping your fingers into his. Wonwoo guides you gently through his door. His bed is unmade, sheets tangled from his apparent restless night. You crawl in beside him, he sets his glasses on the nightstands and draws the covers over both of you, and the room feels impossibly still. He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd– just settles close enough that your shoulders touch, hands still clasped beneath the sheets.
“Just a few hours,” he murmurs, already sinking into sleep, thumb stroking absentmindedly over yours.
“Just a few,” you whisper back, though you know the world outside will come crashing in soon enough.
For now, the sunrise paints the ceiling in soft gold, a warm breeze filters in through the open door, and you turn onto your side, tuck your body against the quiet warmth of him.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It’s the startling vibration that drags you out of the depths of sleep, a muffled buzz rattling atop the nightstand. You blink against the pull of your eyelids, heavy with exhaustion, and it takes you a moment to even register that the sound is your phone.
You shift to reach for it– only to still when you realise Wonwoo’s arm is heavy across your waist. His chest flush against your back, his breath measured and warm at the curve of your neck. And lower– he’s hard, thick against your thigh through the thin barrier of fabric.
The call clicks off. Blessed silence. But before you can let relief settle, the phone starts buzzing again, shrill in the quiet of the room. You should get it. You need to get it. Instead, you stay perfectly still, heart pounding, because the pressure of him against you is enough to short-circuit every thought in your head.
Wonwoo stirs, makes a low noise in his throat that sounds too close to a groan, the noise absentminded and unintentional– but it sparks fire anyway. His nose brushes the back of your shoulder, lips grazing skin in a touch so deliberate it sends a lick of need up your spine. The phone is still buzzing but by the time you rouse from the bed, with Wonwoo grumbling behind you, it rings off again. You look over your shoulder and Wonwoo has rolled onto his back, hair mussed, eyes hazy with sleep but dark with something heavier.
Your phone rings again, but you don’t care now, because your hand finds the line of his jaw, the other sliding over the nape of his neck, and you’re pulling him up to you. His mouth crushes into yours, clumsy with sleep and hunger for touch, and you hum into his mouth, fingers twisting into his hair. The sound he makes when you part your lips for him is wrecked, needy, and it only unravels you more.
He guides your leg over his lap, holds your hips down, keeps you grinding against him, until you slide a hand between your bodies and bunch the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free his cock. He whines, delicious, as you circle your fingers around him and drag. Every careful argument you’ve rehearsed since last night burns away in the heat of his mouth, the drag of his body against yours. Your phone stops, mercifully, only for the silence to throb with urgency. Whoever it is will call again. You know it.
“Listen–” you try, breaking off from his mouth with a sharp breath.
“I’m listening,” Wonwoo says, then scrapes his teeth along your jaw. One of his hands rags down your body, slipping under the hem of his t-shirt that you still wear, dancing his fingers over soft skin, finds your naked waist and grips it, slender fingers digging so desperate, and he trails further until he’s cupping your breast, running his thumb over the swell of flesh.
“You’re obviously not,” you chide. You can feel him hard against your clothed cunt, and you press against him, giving an experimental grind. Fuck.
Wonwoo tsks. “You haven’t said anything yet.” He’s kissing down your neck. “How can you tell whether I’m listening or not?”
“You’re distracted,” you say, and he’s pulling his t-shirt off your body, tosses it to the floor.
He huffs a laugh, rolls his hips to drag the thick, hard line of his cock against your cotton clad pussy, already dampening the material. “You’re not exactly making it easy for me.”
This conversation is a thin veneer– for the desire you hold within you, for the convoluted mess of feelings you’re trying to keep bottled. What Wonwoo will do with his body will haunt you, as he already does in your dreams, but you’re letting it happen anyway, despite the words you said yesterday. You whine as he rolls his hips again, fucking his cock slow against your core, walls clenching around nothing.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you getting wet.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” you pant. You’re moving over him now, sliding your needy clit over his length. The condoms are in your room, but breaking apart to fetch them would break the moment too. So you lean, brace your palms on his knees and let him tug your sodden underwear to the side. Moans come broken and in tandem as he dips two long fingers inside, crooks them and draws your wetness out. He smears it over your folds, over the juncture of your thighs, dips again to gather more as works it over his cock.
Wonwoo uses his thumb to press his length hard against your cunt and slides slow, and it’s so so much better without the barrier of your underwear. Can feel the heat of him better. You like the way he watches where your bodies meet, his hunger pure and open, and more still when his eyes meet yours and he searches your face for all your tells as he fucks his length against you, cockhead bumping over your clit. The crotch of your underwear slips back over you, over his cock against you and he moans again, desperate, as his pre-cum seeps through along with your juices, making the thin white cotton sopping wet, and almost sheer. Can see the slit of the head of his cock every time he slides up.
It’s a crude display you fear you’ll never recover from, but that doesn’t still your hips. Doesn’t stop your eyes from clouding over with hazy lust and insatiable need. Doesn’t stop Wonwoo from littering praise with his lips pressed into your skin– how hot you are, how he’s needed this, how you feel so fucking good, baby. Baby. Doesn’t snap you from your reverie, this time, only makes you dizzy.
“Oh God,” you babble, and he’s nodding along with you. He lifts your chin with his hand, tugs you toward him to kiss you deep, and he flops backwards onto the bed dragging you forward, his dirty groan sending shivers down your spine. “Wan’ you inside. Now.”
“Yeah?” he pants, but you’re already slipping a hand behind, lining him up against your pulsing entrance and sinking onto him. His sounds spur you on, so good you want to sink your teeth into them. You ride him hard and cant your hips in a way that makes the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, makes him hold you down, grind the base of his cock against your clit to draw littered moans from your kiss-bitten lips. He’s digging his fingers into your hips so hard you’ll surely bruise, but this is how you want it. Frenzied and raw and so hard it’ll leave you sore for days afterward.
Tears prick at your eyes when your hips falter out of their rhythm, but Wonwoo’s taking over, fucking up into you from below. “Fill me up so good,” you whine.
One of his hands moves, loops a circle around your wrist, and he drags it to his mouth. Presses a kiss to the pulse point there. “Tell me what you feel.”
You sigh, the pleasure wracking through you still, makes it hard to understand what he wants.
You laugh, unsure. “I– I feel like I’m gonna come soo–”
“No. Tell me you like me,” he whispers into your skin, so quiet you almost miss it over the obscene sound of the slide of his cock inside you. He slows your hips to a halt, cock buried to the hilt. Without the movement you can feel how the wetness has pooled on his skin. God. Fuck, the feeling of him so deep makes you squirm in his lap, but he holds you tight. “Wanna hear you say it.”
He must know, surely. How could he not, because you wouldn’t have taken in your body if you didn’t have some feeling for him. What difference does saying it aloud make? “I like you,” you confess, breathing hard, but the weight of it in your chest is already lightening.
“Yeah?” You nod, and then he’s moving again hips slower this time, taking one hand and slipping it between your bodies, teasing with your clit. That, along with the look on his face, mouth parted and pretty, eyes dark with lust, has your end rocketing toward you.
You cock an eyebrow. “You’re gonna make me say it and then not say it back?”
He smiles wide. “I like you t–” He’s cut off by a moan, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Shit– fuck, baby. Just got so tight.”
He’s sitting up again, manoeuvring your legs so they cross at your ankles behind his back, and this new angle makes you cry out with pleasure. You’re soaking into his lap, the wet slap of skin, the bite of your bunched underwear pushed thoughtlessly to the side, and the drag of his thick cock inside your tight, wet heat, has you so fucking close.
“Ah– so good,” you whine, a fractured, pathetic sound. “Gonna come, Wonwoo, I’m coming– God–”
“Cum on my cock, yeah, fuck– just like that,” he pleads. “You feel so fucking good. You’re so good.” His body moves charged under your touch as he works you through it, kisses your open mouth as you cry out, swallows your pretty sounds with his mouth as his own hips begin to stutter, muscles taut and corded and he’s panting “Fuck. Fuck– yeah, baby, me too,” into your skin. Comes so hard inside your body that it has you swearing you can see stars, hands carding through his hair, sweat beading on his forehead that you sweep away with your lips.
When he pulls his cock from your pussy, your underwear slotted back in place, his cum and yours seeps out of you, thick through the material, and Wonwoo groans at the filthy sight of it. Drags two fingers through, gathers a little and brings them to your mouth. You open without question, and your eyes flutter closed in bliss when he presses them into your wet, hot mouth, tongue curling around his fingertips, lapping away the taste of you both together.
“Is it good?” he whispers.
“Mhm,” you murmur. “So good.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
He holds you in his lap like this, letting you come down slowly, hands sliding over the smooth skin of your back, and he trails his lips along your collarbone. You cradle his head in your arms, cheek resting heavy against his temple, fingers gently toying the hair at the nape of his neck. He loves the softness of it, hasn’t been touched this delicately in years, and right now, if asked, he’d confess he wants to live like this, wrapped up in each other.
“Can I ask you something?” he whispers into your skin.
“Mhm,” you murmur back, too fucked out to form words.
“Does it need to stay here?”
You sigh. “You know it does. We’re too messy. We can hardly get along most of the time.”
“That was before,” he presses.
“Maybe,” you say, leaning back to look at him, hands smoothing over his shoulders. You’ve got that reluctant look on your face that pricks his nerves. “But you don’t know. We hardly know each other properly.”
“So let me know you properly.” He pouts, draws you back in to press a kiss to your cheek. “What should we do today? Should we go to the beach?”
You let out a sad little laugh. “I’ve got work.”
He sighs, frustrated. “You never stop working. Take a day off.”
You lean back away from him again, frowning, hands pressed flat over his shoulders. “Did you forget the two of us are caught in a dating scandal? Back to back with your sex tape this isn’t an ideal time to take a day off.”
Wonwoo rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, and he feels you bristle under his touch. “What does it matter if it’s true? We’re not doing anything wrong. Let them talk.”
You scoff. “It’s not true, though, is it? We’re not dating. We just fucked.”
“Twice.”
“That’s not th–”
“And I don’t want it to stay here,” he cuts you off, hands falling to your hips in the hope he can anchor you here with him, voice growing more insistent. “Just say you want this as much as I do.”
He’d hoped you’d give in, but you’re pushing off him and tucking your head down, avoiding his eyes. He goes for your hand but you move out of reach, and grab his t-shirt to pull it over your head and hide his marks left on your skin.
And as you both go quiet, and your sated bodies sag against each other, you think this is it. It’s a bitter twist to break him free from the haze that took over. You’re insistent you’ve let this thing between you run its course, and now it has to stay here, in this room. But at least he’ll always know how he could undo you, and you in turn him, the mess he made of your body is proof of it.
And then you’re picking up your phone, frown tightening and your breath quickens. The glow of the screen washes your face ashen. You exhale hard, thumb skimming over the notifications, expression clouding.
Wonwoo hates it instantly. Hates how quickly your focus shifts away from him. He moves closer, mattress dipping under the weight, wrapping his arms back around your waist, nose brushing the divot in your neck. “Ignore it.”
“I can’t.” There’s reluctance in your voice that he holds onto.
“Tell them you’re sick.” His voice dips, coaxing. He’s pulling you back down against him. “What do we even have to do today? Nothing. Let’s walk on the beach. Or– or get coffee. Pretend we’re not us for a while.”
The fantasy is so vivid in his mind he almost believes it could happen. But you’re shaking your head, standing up and slipping out of his arms. “I’ve got to call Edoardo back. And Gabriella.”
He watches you scroll through messages, and feels the pout tug at his mouth before he can stop it. “You’re so stubborn.”
Your eyes flick to him, and despite yourself, your expression softens a little. “And you’re annoying,” you say softly, reaching out to run a soft thumb over his bottom lip, pushing his sullenness away. “At least you’re cute.”
It warms him more than it should. But you’re already moving toward the balcony door, phone pressed to your ear.
“Francesca, ciao. Mi dispiace, non sono stata bene. Puoi passarmi Edoardo?” You step out into the bright sunshine, lighting up your anxiety ridden face, door clicking shut behind you, and Wonwoo is left alone with his thoughts.
The echo of your earlier confession still pulses in his head, but now it mixes with the reminder that although your world has been taken over by him and his reputation, it’s still so much bigger than him. And he doesn’t like sharing.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Your last call ends and you’re left staring at your own reflection in the black glass of your phone screen, Gabriella’s voice still needling at the edges of your skull. There’s laughter down below from the pool, at a bitter contrast with the kind of anger that coils tight in your chest.
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, try to work your way through the disbelief of it all, trying to make sense of why she would have turned herself in after dragging it on for so long. It feels– pointless. Was the goal to just set fire to his life, and her own in turn? You want to scream. Instead you shove back from the balcony chair, slide the door open with more force than you mean to.
Wonwoo’s just stepped out of the bathroom, wiping the condensation from his glasses and pushing them back on. His hair is damp, towel slung low around his hips. Steam clings to his skin, the scent of his soap curling through the air, and he smiles soft and unguarded at the sight of you, falters when he takes in your expression– it almost undoes you. You want to cross the room, put your arms around him, hold him against you until the tension in your body melts away. But you can’t. Not when the truth tastes this bitter on your tongue, not when his fucking cum still dampens your underwear. Shit, you need to shower so badly.
His brows knit together, cautious. “What did they say?”
You give him a tight-lipped smile, dig your nails into your palms until it hurts. “It was your ex,” you bite out. “She’s the one who leaked the tape.”
The words hang heavy, souring the air between you. His body goes taut, mouth parts in surprise. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and that silence cuts deeper than any outburst could.
“She turned herself in this morning,” you continue. “It’s being kept under wraps for now, but it’ll break soon, Wonwoo. You should stay offline.”
There’s a sharp tick in his jaw. He drags a hand through his wet hair, exhales heavy, like he’s holding himself together with sheer force. You ache to touch him, to soften the edges, but you keep your hands to yourself. This isn’t your place.
“Say something,” you whisper, because the silence is too much. “Why would she do that?” Wonwoo doesn’t look like he understands it either for a minute, and then you see something click in his eyes. “What is it?”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You get the details fourth-hand: the police to Jeonghan to Gabriella to you. Wonwoo was right– it was just a pathetic bid for his attention. The ‘ex’ she supposedly cheated on him with doesn’t even exist, and the profile Gabriella had for him on Instagram belonged to her. Turns out love really can make you crazy.
She’d told him several months ago that she wanted to get back together, spent a few weeks pleading her case over texts and voicemail– all while Wonwoo shut her out, uninterested in rekindling their relationship– until she went dead silent. Later, she leaked the photos knowing it would bring her character into question in her industry, in the hope he’d reach out (and of course you’d been against it) so on the back of your advice and Mingyu’s, he’d blocked her number.
After the Vanity Fair cover came out, every trace of her across Wonwoo’s ribs erased, she uploaded the video, a last ditch effort that only fucked her over worse than him. She hadn’t said why she chose to turn herself in, but Wonwoo wonders if it was the DeuxMoi post, if seeing him move on with someone new made her realise her efforts were fruitless. You almost feel sorry for her.
Wonwoo’s kind of fucked up over it, doesn’t know whether to unblock her and try to talk it out, nods in agreement when you tell him that’s a bad idea. Kind of stings that he wants to talk to her at all, because if it were you you’d haul them over hot coals through the courts. Still. It’s not your place. You’re there for his reputation and not his feelings.
You still need to shower away the mess he made of you earlier, so you leave him with his mood and take to the bathroom where you stand under the stream for a long time, and hope it does something to soothe the ache in your chest. It doesn’t. Your freshly laundered clothes are delivered in the meantime, thank God, because you can’t go the whole day wearing stuff that smells of him. You pull on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, the weather too warm for working from the balcony in much else.
With Edoardo assured you’re handling the DeuxMoi issue, you’re determined to fix it before the story takes on a life of its own. It starts with calling Jeonghan back, who asks how you want to play it.
Truth be told, you’re tired of being the one who makes all the decisions, who has to look at every action from every possible angle, to figure out if a look could be misconstrued or words twisted. And before all this, you loved your job, but now it feels like you’re flailing, having made mistake after mistake where Wonwoo is concerned, letting him bleed through the gaps of the line you drew between work and your emotions. It’d be nice to have another assistant to help compartmentalise your life, as well as your suitcase. You’ll just have to do it yourself.
Wonwoo’s words from earlier swim back to you. He’s right, it’s closest to the truth. Nobody needs to know it went further than your argument in the elevator if nothing more is going to happen.
“Call on the hotel staff who leaked the still to post the rest of the footage, and they’ll see us having a dispute and me going to my hotel room alone. Say we’re close friends as well as colleagues and unfortunately we’d both had a couple of drinks, but now it’s resolved, and Wonwoo is entirely focused on the upcoming Grand Prix.”
There’s a long silence at the end of the line, but eventually Jeonghan says, “Are you sure?”
You blink. “Why would I not be sure?”
“We all thought you and Wonwoo–”
You cut him off– “Who’s we?”
“Well–” he starts, uncertain. Another pause. “Listen, if I tell you, you have to promise not to cut my bonus.”
You laugh, a little irritated now. “What if I push you off a cliff instead?”
“That’s fine so long as you still pay me,” he retorts.
“Spit it out, Jeonghan,” you say shortly, growing ever frustrated.
“We had a betting pool in the office. How long it’d take you two to get together.”
Your voice drops. “You’re fucking kidding me?”
Jeonghan chuckles nervously. “Mingyu let slip that Wonwoo had a little crush on you, and everyone got really excited for a big enemies to lovers thing. Honestly most of us were rooting for you.”
You’ve no idea how to answer him, completely lost for words. You sit frozen, phone pressed to your ear, Jeonghan’s words echoing in your head. A little crush.
“Rooting for us,” you repeat, voice hollow.
“Yeah,” Jeonghan says quickly, as if padding it with cheer will soften the blow. “You should’ve seen Inès– she nearly cried when she saw DeuxMoi’s post and we all thought it was happening.”
“Inès is in on this too?”
“Why do you think you’ve been sat next to each other on every flight since the start of the season?”
You’re going to burn the entire office to the ground, you think. You shut your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. The ache in your chest spreads sharper, like something’s cracking open. It’s stupid– you know it’s stupid– but hearing it out loud, that Wonwoo liked you, that your colleagues are silently cheering for you, it makes the memory of last night coil differently in your stomach.
“Right,” you manage. “Well, tell Inès to save her tears. There’s nothing to root for.”
“That’s not what it looks like from the outside,” Jeonghan says gently.
“Well none of you know what’s happening on the inside, do you?” you snap, harsher than he deserves. “It was one mistake, Jeonghan–” you falter, nearly giving the game away. “In the elevator, I mean. And you’d better not let the betting pool bullshit get to Edoardo if you want to keep your head, or your precious bonus.”
“Actually–”
“Promise me, Jeonghan,” you hiss.
He laughs nervously again, mutters something about you having his undying loyalty, then promises to draft the response exactly as you instructed. You end the call before he can say anything else, flop into the padded chair behind you.
“Shit,” you whisper, dragging both hands down your face.
Behind the door to Wonwoo’s room, you hear the dull thud of a drawer closing, the shuffle of him moving around, and for a second you’re tempted to march in there and beg him to tell you what to do. How to navigate this uncommon ground, to ask if he regrets it, and see if he thinks this is as impossible as you do. But you can’t. Because it isn’t your job to give in to your every desire. It’s your job to clean this mess before it buries you both alive.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Wonwoo feels unsure interrupting your work, has done his best to avoid you all morning, but it’s getting into the afternoon, and neither of you have had anything but tea and water since the early hours. You’re out on the balcony still, legs stretched out, bare feet resting in the other chair, laptop balanced on your lap. Your face set in that frown you wear when you’re trying to hold the world together.
“Do you want to get lunch?” he asks. Tries to keep his voice casual, but the tentative intention behind it is obvious.
Your eyes don’t leave the screen, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “It’d be foolish to be seen together right now,” you say, voice flat.
Right. Of course. Wonwoo shifts, presses his palms against the stone wall, and exhales slow through his nose. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “Room service?”
“Sure, whatever you want.”
What he wants is to throw your laptop in the fucking pool. What he wants is to pull you outside, make you forget work and just be with him, here in this beautiful place. Wonwoo disappears back inside, orders without asking your preference– he’s already noticed what you’ll actually eat and what you’ll push around a plate until it goes cold. When he comes back, you’re still typing furiously, shoulders tense, and worrying your lip so hard he thinks you’ll surely bite through it.
“Take a break,” he says quietly. “Your eyes will go bad if you keep staring at a screen like that.”
Finally, you twist to look at him, lips quirking at the corners, a drop of mirth in your tired, pretty eyes. “Oh really? Is that what happened to you?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, the ghost of a smile. “Yup. I learned the hard way.”
For a moment, the weight between you lightens, like if he leaned a little closer, you’d meet him in the middle instead of pushing him away. But then your laptop pings again, and your gaze flicks back to the screen.
Wonwoo straightens, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn’t push further. He can’t. Not when you’re still holding him at arm’s length, even as you wade through the mess that is his personal life and try to salvage something worthwhile from the wreck. Your food will come soon, and he’ll be damned if he lets you work through that too. Until then, he’ll stay quiet enough that you let him keep your company. He shifts your feet off the chair and over his lap as he settles into it, and you give him a pointed look before drawing your legs away, setting your feet on the ground instead.
After a while, a knock at the door breaks the silence. Wonwoo moves to answer it, relief and dread mingling in his chest. He tips the server and wheels the tray outside. You close the laptop at last, though not without a little sigh of resignation, and set it on the table beside you. Wonwoo notices– the way your shoulders sag, the way your face softens just a fraction without the harshness of the screen glaring at you.
He uncovers the dishes. “C’mon. Eat,” he says simply, handing you the plate he knew you’d prefer.
Your eyebrow quirks, amused. “Didn’t even ask.”
“Didn’t you once say you’d move to Italy just for the pasta?” he replies, a little pride flaring in his belly when it elicits a laugh from you.
You take a cautious bite, and then another, appetite sneaking up on you now that food is in front of you. Wonwoo eats slowly, quietly, watching you more than his own plate, cataloguing the way your lips wrap around the fork, the faint hum you make when you’re satisfied. For a little while, it feels like a ceasefire. The pressure of DeuxMoi, his ex, the lies– it all fades to the edges as you both pick at your plates in a rhythm that feels almost normal.
You break it first, of course. “Room service three times in less than twenty-four hours. The staff are going to think we’re sex obsessed freaks.”
Wonwoo snorts softly. “They’ll think we’re busy. They don’t care what people do in their own rooms.”
“They do when one of them is famous.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Okay, so let them call me a sex freak.”
You laugh, swatting gently at his arm. “God, Wonwoo, I’m begging you to make my job a little easier for once.”
He grabs your retreating hand, tugs it up to brush his lips over your knuckles. “I’m begging you to make my job easier,” he says. “I try to concentrate on the race and all I’m thinking about is y–”
He stops short when he sees your wide smile falter, the sudden shallow breaths. Wonwoo wants to reach across the table, shake you by the shoulders out of your hidden world and ask when you’ll let him kiss you again. Instead, he lets your hand drop from his and the conversation stutters there, you finish the rest of your meals in silence, eyes decidedly cast down.
When you’re finished you load the tray with your empty plates, tuck your laptop under your arm, and tell him you’re going to pack up, get ready for the airport. Wonwoo nods, says he’ll do the same, even though his suitcase has been ready beside the door for the last three hours.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The taxi ride is suffocating. The humid air pressing through the vents, the slow traffic outside, the driver’s radio tuned low. You sit with your knees angled toward the window, your face carefully arranged into neutrality. Wonwoo watches the side of your face instead of the buildings flashing past, his chest tight with everything unsaid.
He should’ve brought this up earlier. Wants to know if last night was only a mistake to you, if you’re really capable of walking away like it was nothing. His hand twitches against his thigh.
“About last night–” he begins, quiet.
You cut him a sharp look, flicking your eyes pointedly toward the driver before staring back out the window. Wonwoo closes his mouth. Stares down at his hands, jaw tight, and the silence gnaws at his gut all the way to the airport.
The lounge is cooler, a little more privacy with people sitting further away, busy with their work or their own conversations, but you’re no more forgiving. You sit across from him, your laptop open again, and he feels the wall between you rising brick by brick. It makes him restless, anxiety lacing through his veins.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We need to talk,” he murmurs.
Your head snaps up, eyes firm. “Not here,” you hiss. “Someone might hear.”
“So what?” He snaps back. “Let them hear.”
“Are you insane?” you whisper back through your teeth. “Do you want to hand them another scandal on a silver platter? Jeon Wonwoo fights with girlfriend in airport lounge?”
The word girlfriend draws a bitter laugh from him and you scowl. Wonwoo swears under his breath. He doesn’t care about the headlines, about DeuxMoi, about the vultures waiting for another scrap of drama. What he cares about is the potential of you and him, slipping further away with every cautious word.
Wonwoo pushes up from the chair. “Come with me.”
You hesitate, glance around, then rise reluctantly, laptop tucked under your arm. He leads you through the lounge, weaving past clusters of businessmen and couples until he finds a corner leading to an emergency exit, half-hidden by a structural column, tucked away out of sight.
“Wonwoo–” you start, but he cuts you off.
“Will you kiss me again?” His voice is ragged, raw. He’s close enough now that he can see the brief tremble of your bottom lip, the way your fingers tighten around your laptop. “I don’t want this to end before it’s even started.”
Your lips part, the air between you charged and taut. For a beat, you don’t move. Then you surge forward, press your mouth to his, and the dam breaks.
It’s frenzied, sharp teeth nipping at his lip, the hot slide of his tongue over yours, your laptop nearly tumbling from your grip as his hand anchors the back of your neck. His other hand finds your waist, hauling you closer, and he kisses you like he's drowning. The taste of you, the heat of your body, your quickened breath reminds him of last night, and again this morning. It’s too much and not enough.
It deepens too fast, spirals until you’re breathing hard against his lips, chest heaving. You tear yourself back with a gasp, eyes dark and clouded, almost mournful.
“This is it,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I’m sorry I broke my own rules, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Wonwoo’s chest constricts. He shakes his head, wanting to argue, but you force a crooked, brittle smile. “Maybe in ten years or so, if I quit or you retire, we can pick it back up.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pretend to find humour in it.. His eyes bore into yours, silent and wounded, because to him, none of this is a joke.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Modena, Italy
On your return after the meeting with Rolex (terse between you and Wonwoo, friendly in the face of others) you’d given him back his ring on the promise that you’d wear it on Grand Prix weekends, if his superstition still called for that. He’d protested, but you argued it wouldn’t be a good idea to wear it day to day now, since it turned out everyone at work had bets riding on the two of you.
You’d also told Inès, in no uncertain terms, that you didn’t want to be seated next to Wonwoo again, and she delivered: separate schedules, separate briefings, separate transport when necessary. You only cross paths in rooms where it would be impossible not to, and there, the two of you perform as colleagues and nothing more.
It’s worked, that’s for sure. The storm DeuxMoi stirred up has quietened. The rumors faded, drowned under fresher scandals, more salacious fodder. Online, at least, the world has moved on.
But you– you’ve thrown yourself into work, into emails, into KPIs, and career development programs for your subordinates, favouring schedules with Charles over Wonwoo, and rewriting Edoardo’s speeches until the cadence rings smooth. You keep your head down and mind your business, but still, you can feel his absence like a phantom limb, an itch unscratched.
Edoardo notices. He doesn’t bring it up for a while, but you catch the way his brow furrows when Wonwoo’s attention lags in meetings, when his performance during practice sessions falls flat. “Something’s off with him,” he muttered once, voice low. “What on earth happened between you?” You’d bitten your tongue until it ached.
At night, the walls of your too large home seem to echo with the quiet. You lie in bed with your hand between your thighs, trying to chase the release that came so easy with him, but it can’t get there. You move your fingers the way you think he would, but it’s hollow and leaves you unsated and kicking at the sheets in frustration. He did it better. He did it so much better, and you can’t scrub the memory of it from your skin.
Sleep comes late every night, and when it does, he’s waiting there. Dreams of him fucking you into the mattress, of his voice ragged and his breath hot against the shell of your ear, of his mouth drawing out sounds from you you can hardly remember making before. You wake gasping, sheets tangled, body aching with need.
The worst part is the way he pretends. The way he hardly acknowledges your hellos in the office, just nods, a stiff dip of his chin that twists something in your chest. The way his eyes slide past you like you’re just another staff member, like the brief stay in the Bahamas never happened. It drives you half mad.
You type messages on your phone late at night.
I think I made a mistake.
Wonwoo, can we talk?
I can’t stop thinking about you.
But every time your thumb hovers over send, you remember his silence in the office, his polite distance, and you wonder if he doesn’t want you anymore, and maybe you’ve ruined it for good. And so every message is discarded. Deleted and retyped and repeat. Again, and again, and again.
The days bleed together. It’s been nine days since the Bahamas, since your lips on his in the lounge, since you told him it was over before it could even begin. And now you’re on home ground, where the air is thick with history, where the ground of the city itself seems to hum with ghosts of legends, where Wonwoo’s presence surrounds you but he won’t speak.
There’s a dinner tonight with some sponsors, you, Edoardo, the head of engineering, Charles and Wonwoo, everyone’s partners. Fourteen total. Edoardo has asked for you to host, ‘since you keep your home so beautiful!’ and he’s sure your cooking is sublime. First of all– sexist. Second– your cooking is fine but you’re tired, so you’ve hired a chef for the evening and put it on the company card. Third– it’s easy to keep a house nice when you’re never fucking home to see it. Of course you don’t say any of this to your boss. Just smile and assure him it’ll go well.
The problem is the people coming tonight love to drag a dinner on, laden with wine and cigars and you know the night will last well into the early hours. Edoardo has already had a case of wine delivered to your house. Earlier in the week, Inès, bless her heart, had asked carefully, kindly, if you’d like her to arrange a scheduling conflict that’d get you out of it, book the others in at a nice restaurant instead, but how would that look? No, you’ll get through this like you do everything else.
You’re blotting off your lipstick in the mirror when the doorbell rings. Not the chef, she’s already in the kitchen, not the guests– too early yet. Your assistant calls, “Lo prenderò, signorina!” from down the hall.
You hear his voice before you even step out of your bedroom. Deep and familiar, lovely in the way it snags at the fibres of your heart.
“Wonwoo?” He stands in your foyer, clutching a bouquet of snapdragons and lilacs clutched in one hand, bottle of champagne in the other, wearing something smarter than his usual casual attire, all in black. His eyes flit unsure from you, to your assistant, to the floor. Your assistant looks over him approvingly, raises her eyebrows at you and brings her fingers to her lips to kiss them.
“I– uh. I wasn’t sure what to bring,” he says.
“Those are lovely, thank you,” you say, as your assistant takes the flowers from him and rushes off to the kitchen to arrange them in a vase. “Should we have the champagne with dinner?”
“Or you can save it,” he says, shrugging. You can hear your assistant padding upstairs. “Whatever.”
Whatever.
“I–uh. Am I the only one here?” He lifts his watch to check the time. “Sorry. I thought it started at eight.”
“Eight-thirty,” you say. You’re not sure what else to add. He’s early, painfully so, and you haven’t had time to steel yourself against this awkwardness. You weren’t prepared to be alone with him.
“Right.” He shifts his weight on his feet, stuffs his now empty hands in his pockets, glances around your entryway. “Nice place. I’d wondered what your home would look like.”
“Yes. Well, I like it.”
When his eyes return to you, they linger a beat too long. “You look nice too.”
“Thanks.” You close your arms over yourself, hands curled over your elbows. “I had a shower and everything.”
That pulls the faintest smile from him, quick to vanish.
Your assistant is back, hovers in the doorway with a polite, curious expression. You can feel the way the room crackles with the strangeness of it, how easily could someone so removed from the situation notice the fractures between you two? “Perché non torni a casa, Elena?” you tell her gently. “Hai lavorato duramente oggi.”
Her brows lift, eager to be away. “Sei sicuro?”
“Sì, sì. Buona serata.” You give her a grateful look until she grins, gathers her things, and slips out with cheerful goodbyes. The door closes behind her with a final click that leaves you and Wonwoo alone, save for the chef in the kitchen.
It’s almost worse without a buffer.
“I like the way you speak,” he says. “In Italian, I mean. I still can’t get the hang of it.”
You falter, searching for something to say that isn’t completely ridiculous. In the end you say, “I’m sure Charles wouldn’t mind helping you with it, or anyone in the office, really.”
The silence stretches, heavy and awkward. To fill it, you gesture toward the garden. “I was about to set the table. It’s such a nice night, I thought we could eat outside.”
“I can help.”
You shouldn’t let him, but you do. Together you lay out plates, silverware, glasses, jugs of water that will likely remain untouched, and napkins folded with a precision that doesn’t really matter, since the rest of your guests will be happy and drunk in no time at all. Neither of you speak much, and the scrape of porcelain against wood fills the quiet. Occasionally you can feel his eyes on you, and having him in your home like this, helping you with the table, feels agonisingly domestic.
When you’re done you brush your hands off, and he says, out of nowhere, “Can I have a tour?”
You blink at him. “A tour?”
His mouth curves, uncertain. “I just– I want to see how you live.”
It’s not an absurd request, most other circumstances you’d have offered one anyway. It just felt odd, letting him in your space after everything, but something in his tone makes you relent. You lead him room by room, narrating stiff, like an estate agent: kitchen (he says polite hellos to the woman chopping vegetables at the island), living room, the dining room, the study with its neatly organized shelves of books high to the ceiling, the main bathroom that you’ve used exactly zero times in favour of your en-suite, two guest rooms that are often occupied with friends when you’re home after the season. He makes small comments, nods, a murmur of approval here and there. It almost feels normal.
Until you reach your bedroom. You hesitate in the doorway as he steps to the middle of it, and looks around. You follow because you can’t very well leave him standing there alone.
“It’s very you,” he says quietly, his gaze sweeping over your furniture, the artwork and photographs on the wall, the muted tones of your bedding, and the flowers he brought sitting pretty on your windowsill, the sweet scent of the lilacs drenching the room. His eyes settle on you again, softer now.
He takes a hesitant step closer. Your breath catches, your body moving with a will that betrays your brain. A magnetic pull closing the scant inches between you, the barely there brush of the back of his hand grazing yours, his gaze flicking down to your mouth. You tilt toward him, and he toward you, almost, almost–
The doorbell rings and it startles you out of your daze, pulling back, and his mouth parts with words unsaid, eyes snapping toward the sound. You swallow hard, smooth down your dress, and say under your breath, “I’d better get that.”
His eyes fall to your lips again, for a brief moment. “What are we doing?” he asks, under his breath.
You don’t know. How can you, when he’s claiming all the space inside your head, even while you sleep? You don’t answer, just turn and make your way downstairs, to greet the rest of your guests with a big smile and go back to pretending everything is as it was.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Nine bottles are emptied by the time your mains are served, because the sponsors surely know how to put it away. It’s Peter from AWS, Sophia from the Armani Group, Stephen from Shell, and their spouses. The former two Wonwoo hardly knows, but they’ve been friendly enough. It’s only Stephen that Wonwoo has heard stories about.
Wonwoo sits not quite across from you, close enough to watch the way your earrings dazzle in the light when you turn your head, the careful curve of your smile as you answer Sophia’s questions about your decor. Stephen flanks your other side, and Wonwoo notices how when he leans in, you shrink back, how your smile goes stiff when he talks too close in your ear.
He notices how Stephen’s gaze lingers too long, too often. Not when his wife is speaking, of course but when she’s distracted, wine glass in hand, attention turned to Edoardo beside her. His eyes find you every time, dragging slowly over the neckline of your dress, down to where your necklace sits pretty on your collarbones. It makes Wonwoo’s stomach knot, seeing it without the ring that’s slotted back on his finger.
Wonwoo sips at his wine, tells himself to work his expression into something lighter, because this dinner is important for the team, for the sponsors, and for you. He tells himself that this is not his business, that you’re more than capable of handling yourself.
Still, every time Stephen leans forward, whiny voice forced smooth, gaze fixed on the contours of your body, Wonwoo has to school his expression into neutrality. He knows if he lets it slip, if he lets anyone see what he’s thinking, the whole table will know how he feels about you. Makes no sense for him to feel possessive over you, especially when it concerns someone you’re showing clear lack of comfort around, but he feels it all the same.
He has no right to say anything. Not when he’s already been told by you that this thing between you has no place in the real world. Not when you’ve been so careful to build these walls between you at work, to look through him like he could be anyone else.
And so the irritation sits like lead in his chest, and he says nothing. Instead he keeps his hands steady, bantering jovially with Charles, laughing in the right places at Edoardo’s anecdotes. Answering questions and joining in the conversation where he can. But he doesn’t miss an opportunity to meet your eyes across the table, ask silently if you’re okay, and try to take that small reassuring smile you give him as enough to convince him that you are.
At one point Edoardo’s wife, María, remarks that everyone here is a couple, except for you and Wonwoo. She leans in, eager for gossip, and asks, “Are either of you seeing anyone? You’re too young and beautiful not to.”
The entire table turns to look at you both, and it makes Wonwoo feel like he’s under a microscope, but you just laugh it off, say your last relationship ended a few years ago, and if Edoardo keeps adding to your plate then surely you’ll never have time for a lover ever again. Edoardo gasps at that, clutches his chest and scolds you for blaming him rather than admitting you’re a workaholic. Wonwoo hides a small smile behind his glass.
María turns her attention on him. “What about you, Wonwoo? No one special you’re keeping secret?”
Wonwoo clears his throat. “I think everyone at this table has heard more than enough about my love life.”
There’s a smatter of quiet, awkward laughter around the table.
And María smiles sweetly, says, “I wonder what it must feel like to be single these days. All those apps, it sounds wretched.”
A louder chorus of laughter this time, and Wonwoo agrees. He takes another long sip of wine and lets the conversation move on without him. He catches your eye for a moment, and you offer him a tiny, grateful smile.
Adrienne leans over and says, “Wonwoo, have you been here before?”
“Nope,” he says, “First time.”
“I keep telling Charles we should get somewhere like this,” she gushes, looking out over the rolling hills, all pink and orange under the setting sun. “Isn’t the view stunning?”
Wonwoo looks over at you, only to find you already watching him. “Yeah,” he says, meeting your eyes. “It is.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The sky dims to a cool blue and fills with the swirl of smoke, mixing with the silver of the thin clouds on the horizon, by the time the twelfth bottle is emptied. You tell everyone to stay put, keep drinking, keep enjoying the wine. “I’ll clear the plates,” you say, sliding to your feet.
Wonwoo stands too, almost instantly. “I’ll help.”
Adrienne smiles up at you both. “Aren’t you a sweet pair?” she sighs, eyes shining like she’s watching a romance unfold. She’s almost as drunk as the rest of them.
“We’re not a pair,” you say under your breath, but Adrienne doesn’t catch it.
Charles tugs Adrienne more firmly into his lap. “I’d help too, but someone seems to have taken me hostage.”
Adrienne presses a kiss to his temple, giggling soft, and the other end of the table erupts in laughter at Peter’s story. You roll your eyes, a half smile on your lips in effort to play along, but your pulse is a drum in your ears as Wonwoo follows you into the kitchen, carrying a small stack of plates.
The clatter of the dinner party fades behind you, replaced by the muffled scrape of porcelain against marble as you set things down on the counter. You can feel him at your back– reaching around your body to lay his stack next to yours.
“Thank you,” you murmur.
“Of course,” he says, voice low.
He doesn’t look at you when you turn to rinse the cutlery, just leans back against the island, and says too loud, “I don’t think much of Stephen.”
“Shhh,” you admonish, glancing toward the door, though you know they won’t hear you from all the way outside. His profile is cut sharp against the warm kitchen light, hair falling into his eyes. Makes you want to smooth it back with your hands. “You’re drunk.”
Wonwoo ignores your observation and presses on. “Does he always look at you like that?”
“He looks at everyone like that,” you whisper. “Trust me, I’m no special case.”
“I think you’re special.”
The wine must have loosened Wonwoo’s grip on sense, because he’s leaning down behind you, but the wine must’ve loosened yours too, because you’re letting him, so pathetically desperate for him to touch you. He presses a kiss to your shoulder next to the strap of your dress. Holds there, sighs against your skin.
“I’ve had too much time to think this week,” he says.
You huff a small laugh. “Jeonghan must be letting you off easy.”
“I’ve missed you bothering me,” he says, another soft kiss pressed to the nape of your neck.
You tsk. “You can’t just say you missed me?”
He smiles against your skin. “Okay,” he whispers. “I missed you.”
You can’t figure out how it starts, if it’s his hands that slide to your waist that turns you, or if you do it of your own accord. Just know that your arms wrap around his neck as he pulls your chests flush against one another. One of his hands travels up your body, trails over your shoulder, fingers delicately caress your neck. Makes you wonder if he can feel the way your heart beats faster. You just know that your mouth is already wet with want as your lips meet in the middle, slow and deliberate and deep. The taste of wine on his tongue makes you feel dizzy. The air between you hums, prickling with all the things neither of you will say, but this kiss makes up for it. The slow pull of his teeth on your bottom lip tells you he needs this. The quiet moan he presses into your open mouth says enough. The push of his hips into yours says plenty.
A roar of laughter from outside breaks you apart, panting, and you realise with a jolt that your lipstick smears his face. You reach out to grab his jaw with your hand, and rub at it with your thumb. Fuck. Shit. You’re just making it worse but he’s smiling, pulling at your hand and pressing soft lips into your palm.
You should say something– anything. Instead, you clear your throat, voice too soft when you manage, “They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”
“They’re drunk,” he replies simply, and it’s true. No one will notice. No one except you, heart knocking stupidly against your ribs, all too aware of the way your hand lingers too long in his grip, and of the way he watches your face for any inclination you’ll let this happen as it should. “Can I stay tonight?”
Your first instinct is to laugh, to brush it off, to remind him of the twelve drunk colleagues in your garden, that it’s barely eleven and you’ll be hard pressed to get rid of anyone before one, to remind him that they saw everything—the headlines, the photographs, the grainy image from the hotel, and they’ll be watching to see if there’s a break in the act tonight too, drunk or not. The rules you’ve set for yourself still hold purpose, to prevent this kind of mess.
But the words don’t come. His hand is still warm around yours. His thumb traces the curve of your palm like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. His eyes– dark, steady, so unbearably sure– hold yours with a question that feels bigger than the one he asked.
Yes hovers on your lips. You hear yourself exhale instead, shaky and low, borrowing time. “Wonwoo…”
Another wave of laughter breaks from outside and you swallow the lump in your throat. You turn, tearing off a piece of tissue from the roll and wetting it under the tap.
“Hold still,” you murmur, stepping back to him. His hands stay braced back against the counter, body loose but eyes pinned on you as you wipe away the telltale red smear on his lips. He leans into your touch just barely, almost like a reflex. The faintest pink blooms across his skin where you rub too hard.
“There,” you whisper, chest tight, when it’s gone. “Perfect.”
Wonwoo doesn’t move, doesn’t let his eyes leave you. Only when you step back does he shift, straightening slowly, jaw setting in a line. You gesture toward the crate of bottles, keeping your voice steady. “Can you take another out?”
He nods and reaches for a bottle. On his way back out he gets close, fingers dragging across the small of your back, nose sliding up the back of your neck, a last kiss pressed behind your ear. When he’s gone, you leave the plates where they are and slip upstairs. In the mirror of your bathroom you find your lipstick smudged, colour worn thin from his kiss. The sight alone makes your pulse spike all over again. You grip the counter hard, knuckles whitening, trying to will the heat out of your body.
So you fix your lipstick, reapply foundation where necessary. Smooth your dress, dab perfume at your pulse point like it could take away the feeling of his fingers over it. Downstairs, laughter carries in with the breeze through the open doors, Wonwoo’s voice among it.
If you let him in your bed tonight, give in yet again, could it be okay?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Wonwoo’s eyes find yours as you come outside again, lipstick re-applied, and as perfect as ever. If you’d given his request any consideration at all, there’s no indication. The seats are all shifted now, everyone settled into their post-dinner rhythm, the kind that grows easy when the food is finished and the wine has taken root. Most are at the table, still chatting lively, but Edoardo, Peter, and Stephen have trailed a little further away, standing in a small circle with their cigars and their glasses, talking intently.
You slip into the chair beside him, legs crossing neatly, smile polite and unreadable as Adrienne laughs at something Charles mutters into her hair. Wonwoo wants that. Doesn’t see why he can’t. Doesn’t see why you wont, because every time he dares to touch you, you seem to want it as much as he does. Adrienne leans over to pluck a cigarette from the pack on the table, and Charles reaches into his pocket to find his lighter. The way they move is almost automatic, a practiced comfort after years of knowing one another. Wonwoo wants that with you.
“May I have one?” you ask her, almost idly, like it’s nothing. Wonwoo blinks, caught off guard by the request.
Adrienne raises her brows, and slides one across to you. “Didn’t know you smoked.”
“It’s been ages,” you admit, slotting it between your lips, casual. “Feels like the right kind of night for it.”
Charles flicks the lighter for Adrienne’s first, then leans across to light yours too. Wonwoo watches the glow of the flame across your face in the semi-dark, watches the way you tip your head toward the flame. Loves the way the smoke curls from your lips as you exhale, slow and steady. His throat goes dry. He shouldn’t think it’s hot, but he does. It’s devastating, the way you affect him.
The curve of your mouth, the way you draw in deep, the way your fingers rest on your lips as you take a drag, it makes something coil tight in his gut.
Without thinking, Wonwoo plucks the cigarette from your fingers as you lower it, ignoring the way your expression lifts a little in surprise. He holds your gaze as he takes a drag himself, lungs heavy with the forgotten bite of it. He hasn’t touched one in years, not since training, not since his mother made him swear to never touch one again. But with your lipstick stain on the filter, it feels more like tasting you again.
When he exhales, it’s deliberate, a slow ribbon of smoke winding into the night air.
Your brows lift, amused. “Since when?”
“I don’t,” he says, and his voice is a little rough around the edges. He passes the cigarette back to you, fingers brushing yours, letting the faintest smirk ghost across his lips. “Just felt like the kind of night.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The guests slowly filter out the front door, they pile into chauffeured cars with peals of laughter that breaks the softness of the night. Charles and Adrienne linger a little longer, but sometime after one they too announce their departure. Charles hoists Adrienne onto his back, heels dangling from the straps in her hand, and she’s laughing loud. He turns red faced with wine and effort to Wonwoo, asks if he wants to be dropped off, and Wonwoo glances sideways at you. You give an infinitesimal shake of your head.
“Mingyu’s picking me up in a few minutes,” he lies.
Charles looks between you, a tiny knowing smile playing on his lips, and Wonwoo can’t bring himself to care. Just wants them to go so he can kiss you without your worries taking precedent. “Okay, enjoy the rest of your night,” Charles says, and walks out the door, Adrienne clinging on to him, waving happily and yelling her thanks to you for hosting.
When the door clicks closed and you turn to him, that polite and poised smile you’ve worn all evening is gone. Your earrings catch the light as you tilt your head, watching him with an expression that says you’re as tired of pretending as he is.
“God,” you murmur, half to yourself, slipping your heels off at the threshold. “I thought they’d never leave.”
Wonwoo huffs a laugh, low in his chest. “You handled them well.”
“You helped.” Wonwoo’s eyes flick down to your mouth yet again, remembering the feel of it in the kitchen, the lipstick, the cigarette you shared. When his eyes lift again, yours are heavy with want, drawing him in with that same gravity that’s been gnawing at him for so long.
He doesn’t move at first. Feels the moment stretch taut, like a breath held underwater. It’s you who closes the gap. You breathe in sharp and shallow as his hands fly to your waist, and yours fist in his shirt, pulling him down, and his mouth finds yours yet again.
It’s almost feral the way you kiss him, hard and messy. His hands framing your face because he needs to hold you, needs to remind himself that this is real. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and you gasp into his mouth when his hips press into yours, the proof of how much he wants this, wants you, evident in the thick length hardening beneath his trousers.
“Fuck,” you pant when he tears his lips away to kiss down your jaw, your throat, biting lightly where your pulse hammers. “Wonwoo–”
“Don’t tell me it’s just once.” His voice is ragged against your skin. “Not again.”
“Wasn’t gonna.” You shake your head, tilting it back to give him more, letting him taste every inch of skin he wants. You shove him off after a moment, chest heaving, just to lead him upstairs. He feels sleazy as he watches your ass as you walk up the stairs, reaches out to touch, take a firm handful and pinches playful and you’re laughing, pulling at his hand and dragging him up to your room.
In your bedroom is where he kisses you slow and dirty. You moan into his mouth when he squeezes the meat of your ass, drags down a strap of your dress to caress the skin he exposes, rolls his thumb over your puckering nipple. He groans as you press your hand over the tent in his trousers, rub firm over the length of it through the material.
He walks you backwards across the room until the mattress dips under your shared weight, and he cages you in with his arms. Wants to keep you like this, bated breath and hot beneath him, wants to mold your body with his, make your pleasure his own, make it belong to him. Fucks him up a little, when you pull off his mouth, and your eyes go heavy and clouded with lust as your eyes zero on your own hands pull his shirt untucked, dip under the material and trail your nails over his skin, lighting little fires in their wake. Fucks him up a lot when your kiss-bitten lips fall into a pout after you drag his shirt over his head, and say “It’s unfair how hot you are. I never stood a chance.”
Feels much the same about you, says so, calls you beautiful as he slides his hands down your thighs to pull up your knees and nudge them apart, lets the satin of your dress pool like water at your hips and exhales, satisfied, as he runs his middle fingernail over your lace covered clit, finds the material a little damp.
“You’re so sensitive,” he observes, a pleased spark running through his veins.
“Hardly,” you complain, sucking in a breath as his soft pets quickly turn insistent. “Couldn’t get there this week.”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice deep and thick, head swimming with the implication. “You couldn’t get yourself off? Were you thinking of me?” You nod, and he can’t fight the smug look off his face.
“Have you touched yourself while thinking of me before?”
“Yeah–” you admit, voice tiny and embarrassed. “Have you?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, intentionally avoiding saying how often, and he loves the way you draw your bottom lip between your teeth as you picture it. “Can you do it now? Show me how you get yourself off?”
Can feel the heat flush on your body as you shake your head no. “Want you to do it.”
He smiles. “Another time, then?” he presses, almost too casual.
“Yes. Yeah, another time,” you breathe, and he keens forward to catch your lips in another kiss. You break off, peppering your lips across his jaw, and between them you whisper, “Wonwoo, touch me.”
Wonwoo gives in to your pleas without a fight. Drags your underwear down slow over your legs, you kick them away, let your knees fall apart so he can see how wet he makes you. He circles your clit, swollen and sensitive, with a calloused thumb, hums pleased when it draws a little sigh from you. Slides down over your damp slit with two fingers and dips in, moves to line his body against yours just to mouth wet at your neck, keeps slipping his fingers in and out, too shallow to bring you close, enough to wind you tight, your harsh small breaths a giveaway it’s working as intended.
“Don’t tease,” you beg, but he can feel the way your entrance pulses around his fingers and it sends a lick of want right through him, wants to work you up enough that he’s got you doing that on his cock.
Wants to sink his teeth into the sounds you make, but he settles for the swell of your breast. Leaves little marks over your skin, sucks a bruise on your sternum, draws your nipples into his mouth with his tongue, one after the other, coats them in his spit and blows cool air through pursed lips, watches them pucker with a self-satisfied hum.
You turn on your side with a frustrated groan, facing away from him, but his fingers still find purchase between your legs. With a harsh suck to the crook of your neck he drives his fingers deep, crooking them firm and revelling in the way your head tips back and your breaths go shallow. At this new angle the heel of his palm rocks against your clit as he plunges his fingers inside your slick, wet cunt, driving you closer to the precipice with each thrust and curl. You whimper, legs begin to tremble, and as you get impossibly wet, he coos in your ear. “Are you close?”
“Yeah,” you pant. “Yeah m’close.”
He wants to take photographs of you like this, so pretty and fucked out over him, mouth parted in a little o as your pussy drenches his hand while he fucks his fingers into you and grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. Knows it’s a stupid thing to bring it up now so he tucks the thought away for later, for a promised another time. Feels the way you clench, hears the way you wail, broken, and your body goes all tight against him, has him fucked up, the way your eyes roll back, and he holds you closer just to rut his aching, neglected cock against your behind.
You draw in a ragged breath as your body relaxes, and he pulls his fingers from you. He takes the wetness that coats his fingers and works it over your thighs, sighs at the way they glisten in the dim light of the moon outside your window. Wonwoo breathes heavy against your skin, and you’re turning over to face him, dazed smile lighting up your beautiful face. It punches all the air out of his lungs, the way you look at him.
He craves you, your mouth, your touch. “You’ve no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.”
You soften, look at him with something like adoration, a contented glow under your skin. He wants more of that– your smile instead of your scowl, wants to stop bringing you problems to fix, wants to share this bed with you, a year from now, two, three, a decade, and keep you sated. Keep you his. That’ll come later. Right now he wants to fuck you so full of his cum that it drips down your legs. Wants to take your sighs in his mouth and swallow them like sweet wine. Wants your release for himself again, and again.
You’re pulling at his belt, pushing his trousers and his boxers down his thighs, and then you’re sliding your leg over his hip, trying to get the angle right so he can line his cock up with your core, make love to you like this. That’s what it feels like, this time. All that carnal, fraught need melting into tenderness as he slides inside, a blinding, tight heat that has him burying his face in the crook of your neck, the light scratch of your fingernails on his back running seams through him, makes him undone.
His arm bands around your waist as you rock against each other, skin against skin, the drag of your nipples against his chest. His lips trail over your shoulder, yours pressed into his hair, feels your breath hot and quickened against his scalp. Pushes into your open, pliant body slow slow slow, the achingly deep, wet slide tightening the coil in his gut. Hears your broken sob and feels the clench of your pussy simultaneously. Nearly comes apart with it himself, but he keeps rolling into you, with firm, slow strokes. Feels your lips ghosting against his forehead, whispering sweet nothings into his skin.
Wonwoo can feel you hurtling toward your end, wants to claim it as his. “You like how good I fuck you?” he rasps. You answer with a broken moan. “Yeah– shit, tell me you’re mine, baby, tell me–”
“M’yours,” you gasp, words shallow and half formed on the back of a twisted guttural sound. “M’yours, Wonwoo.”
Electric in his veins, he gasps too as you clench his cock so tight. “Yeah– yeah you fuckin’ are.” Works a hand awkwardly between your bodies to toy with your clit, draw your earlobe between his lips just to sink his teeth into it, and you keen, nails digging into his skin. You cry out, babbling his name while you ride on the wave of your release. “Coming– fuck, Wonwoo.” You whine through it, a gush of wetness soaks him and the sheets below and his vision nearly whites out.
“Oh my God,” he groans. Your pussy pulses around him, rolls you onto your back and himself on top, hiking both your legs around his waist just so he can drive into you with hastened, erratic thrusts, each one punctuated with breathless grunts.
“Wan’ it in me,” you slur. “Fill me up– please, please, Wonwoo– fuck–”
Pleasure rips through him so hard his eyes roll back, and you’re babbling praise in his ear. Comes with a force that shakes him, cock twitching desperately inside you as he empties his cum into your body, seeps out around him. You drag your fingers through the mess of your slit around his cock, bring them to your mouth and run them over your bottom lip, leaving a translucent sheen that you lick away with a quiet hum of satisfaction. “So good, Wonwoo,” you whisper, offering him a taste. “Taste it.”
“Pervert,” he teases, but he leans in anyway. Draws your wet fingers into his mouth, salted and heady slick over his tongue. Makes him woozy, the way you look at him delirious as he laps your fingers clean.
A little later, after you’ve caught your breath, you shower together. Wonwoo presses your back against the cold tile and soaps down your body with the cloth, works his way slow and gentle over your skin, between your thighs, almost drops to his knees to lick you out when he catches your breath stutter, but you’re pulling him up, laughing into his lips and saying you can’t possibly go again before sleep.
Afterwards, Wonwoo helps you change the sheets, and you laugh about the alien domesticity of it all. Then, as the horizon slips a pale yellow with the fast approaching dawn, you lay in bed, all shy, silly smiles and soft touches. Wonwoo asks if he can stay here again, after the race on Sunday, and you give him a forlorn little smile.
“Did you forget you’ve got a flight to catch?”
“Oh.” He laughs, disappointed. Fuck his favourite cousin for getting married right when he’s got you. “Yeah I did actually.”
You grow quiet once again, his hands smoothing over your arms, until he catches your necklace glinting in the low light, looking too bare. He reaches around your neck without asking, unclasps the chain, warm from your body, and slips his ring over it. “Need my good luck charm this weekend,” he says simply, voice slow with exhaustion, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth where a smile quirks.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Mhm,” he says, even though he’s on the edge of sleep.
“Why’s it so special?” Your voice is low, tentative. “Did she give it to you?”
That makes him laugh. “You think I’d make you wear something my ex-girlfriend gave me? You don’t think that’s really fucked up?”
You laugh too, relieved. “I only knew that it was special. Not why.”
“It’s from my grandparents,” he says. “They took me to a bunch of races when I was a kid, made me love it. My grandfather always wanted to race but never got the chance, so when I said I wanted to drive for Ferrari one day, he put me on the karting track as soon as I turned seven. They paid for everything. Got me to where I am. They bought me this–” He touches the ring, sitting pretty in the notch between your collarbones. “–when I got my first seat.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Why don’t I ever see them at the track?”
Wonwoo shrugs. “They’re getting old, and travelling is hard for them, and they hate staying in hotels now. They come when they can.”
You’re overthinking. He can see it in the way you worry your bottom lip with your teeth. Wonwoo pulls it away with his thumb, kisses soft at the dent you made there. “Would you like to invite them here in September? For the Italian Grand Prix?”
“Here?” Wonwoo can’t fight the smile from his face.
“I have a lovely guest room,” you say.
“You do,” he agrees, happily. Another long pause. “Are you sure?”
You nod, smiling too. “Try not to get sick of me before then?”
“I won’t,” he promises. Whispers it onto your lips, and chases it with a kiss that tastes like a promise.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Imola, Italy
Wonwoo [16:14] You look pretty today
You [16:15] I’m just wearing the team shirt like always
Wonwoo [16:14] Yes but you look really nice in it. Good boobs
You [16:14] Pervert 😑
Wonwoo [16:14] Missed you all day
Wonwoo [16:14] Can we get away for a few seconds? Wanna kiss you so bad
You [16:15] Sorry! Your schedule’s jam packed and there’s no time allotted for kissing!
Wonwoo [16:14] Fine.
You laugh, imagining the sullen pout fixed on his face.
Wonwoo [16:14] Can I kiss you in the paddock after the race?
You [16:15] Lol no
Wonwoo [16:15] What if I get podium?
You deliberate for a minute, because a podium is entirely possible with his skill, and the more you think about kissing him in the open, the more you don’t hate the idea. Still, you’ve given in to him enough lately.
You [16:16] Get P1 and then we’ll talk
Wonwoo [16:16] Yeah? Promise?
You [16:16] 🙄 Okay sure
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The roar of engines and cheers and clapping still thrums through the concrete, vibrating under your feet long after the chequered flag waves. The crowd is a living, breathing animal, tens of thousands of voices surging in a tide of screams and applause. Wonwoo’s car streaks past the chequered flag, a scarlet blur crossing into history before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing. The commentary over the trackside speakers rings in your ears–
AND AS SEEN ON SCREEN, JEON WONWOO WINS THE GRAND PRIX! HIS SECOND WIN FOR FERRARI!
Your headset crackles with Edoardo’s elated shout, the engineers cheering, Charles’ laughter cutting through as he takes P2 only a hair behind and congratulates his friend. The garage explodes, mechanics jumping, hugging, slapping each other’s backs. You can’t stay composed when the very air that surrounds you buzzes with electricity, happy tears prick at the corner of your eyes and you clap and cheer along with the others.
When the anthem plays, you watch him on the podium, hair plastered against his forehead damp with sweat. He lifts the trophy and the cameras flash, capturing him from every beautiful angle. He finds your face in the crowd and his grin spreads wide and unrestrained and proud– the kind of smile you’ve seen directed at you out here once before.
And then comes the champagne. He twists the cork, sprays the bottle wide and wild, and it arcs across Charles’ back, into the crowd, soaking anyone lucky enough to be close. And then he’s turned again, lifting the bottle high for the cameras, glory making him shine.
When he comes down, it’s chaos. Photographers swarm, Jeonghan ushers him through in your direction, and reporters shout questions over one another. He answers most of them quick, that same smile plastered across his face. He’s barely handed his bottle and trophy off to an intern before he’s pulling at his gloves, unfastening his suit around his collar, peeling it back from his body to reveal the tight turtleneck undershirt below. The press already know he’s been excused from post-race media, on account of his imminent flight to Seoul, but that doesn’t stop them from crowding him.
Jeonghan is the first to pass you in the crowd, smile knowing and humorous playing on his lips. Then Mingyu, who claps you on the shoulder like a proud dad. Very odd. And then Wonwoo, whose eyes soften as he takes you in. He’s flushed, sweat and champagne still wet on his skin, vibrating with adrenaline. He’s beautiful. He draws you into a tight hug before you can react, one arm over your shoulder, the other slotted around your waist, and the quickened flash of cameras in your faces makes you lightheaded.
“Guess I’ll be seeing you,” you shout over the racket.
You can feel him nod. “If you get a chance you should come join us,” he shouts back.
You’d thought about it already, but the schedule won’t budge, so you shake your head. “Just call me when you’re back.”
There are people everywhere and he’s lingering too long, holds his arms around you too long, though you’re not exactly letting go either. Fans are pressed against barricades, cameras still snapping, Jeonghan calling Wonwoo from across a sea of people that now separate the two of you from him. You’re standing out in the open, painfully visible.
“Wonwoo–” You’re not sure what you want to say, what you can say with all these people here. That you’re proud? That you’re sorry you wasted all that time hating each other? “Congratulations.”
His eyes search yours, dark and steady even with his chest heaving, with sweat dripping down his temple. “Are you gonna make good on your promise or what?”
And before you can think it through, before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to draw him in, and kiss him sweet in front of everyone.
It’s not a stolen thing this time. Not a whisper in the kitchen, not a hurried press of mouths in a quiet corner of the airport lounge. It’s full, deliberate, your hands bracing at his jaw as the world gasps and cameras click rapidfire. For half a second, he freezes. Then his hands fist in the material of your top at your back and he’s dragging you closer, kissing you back like it’s something he’s always wanted.
The crowd erupts. Someone wolf-whistles. You hear a dozen shouts in too many languages to pick out. Wonwoo pulls back, smiling so hard you want to laugh and cry at the same time. He presses his forehead to yours, breath hot, voice low enough only you can hear. “Same again next time?”
You laugh, a wet, helpless sound. “You’re an idiot.”
But you’re smiling, wide and aching, even as presses a rough kiss against your cheek one more time and pulls away, turning toward the waiting car that’ll take him to the airport. He waves once at the crowd, at Charles calling something after him, at Edoardo giving him a proud smile and a final thumbs up. And then he’s gone, the tinted window of the black car obscuring him from view.
You stand rooted in the same spot, watching until there’s nothing left to see. A familiar figure sidles up beside you. Edoardo, sleeves rolled, still holding the comms headset in his hand. He follows your gaze to where Wonwoo’s car disappeared, then looks back at you, a sly quirk tugging at his mouth.
“You kids figured it out, then?” he asks simply, like he’s asking about the weather.
You look at him, startled. “You don’t care?”
“Why would I care?” His eyes are twinkling. “You two just won me five hundred euros.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Several hours later, you’re in a bar celebrating the double win with some of the team, and their partners. Adrienne, Inès and several others interrogating you about Wonwoo all night, and they squeal with laughter when you refuse to answer their drunken, lewd questions, when your face burns instead. Thankfully, you’re saved by a text from him at last.
It’s a picture. A Getty photograph of the two of you in the blurred crowd, both of you smiling into the kiss. It’s so perfect you almost want to pay the ridiculous sum to have the watermark removed and keep it framed on your nightstand. It’s absurd, the way he changed everything you thought about him out of nowhere. A Wonwoo you once thought cold and standoffish is not that at all. He’s sweet, and loving, and so, so warm.
Another text startles you out of your fuzz.
Wonwoo [00:19] We look good together, don’t we?
Yes, you think, hearting his message and covering your beaming smile with your hand. You really do.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
GOD I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG
thank you for reading, everyone! if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging to get it seen outside of my small following. thank u ily <3
summary; With a subtle fire growing between two vastly different souls, are they doomed to surrender to a bond that binds them together? Or... are they exactly what each other need?
abo universe • mafia au • arranged marriage • fluff, smut, angst • hurt-comfort
contains; mafia boss! wonwoo, florist! reader, alpha! wonwoo, omega! reader, reader knows how to fight back/stand her ground even though she’s submissive, right hand man! woozi, beta! svt members (cheol, woozi, gyu, vernon & chan), mentions of JxW, wonwoo is unhinge but not too unhinged, woozi encouraging/supporting wonwoo to be more unhinged, wonwoo wears glasses, very subtle “where is my wife!?” trope, not really sure who fell first and who fell harder, unplanned pregnancy, the honeymoon scene is sweet AND nasty
mature/trigger warnings; dom! wonwoo, sub! reader, big dick! wonwoo, knotting, biting/marking kink, size kink, use of sex toys, g-spot stimulation, breeding kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you do the nasty), mating press, implied sex marathon when reader is in heat, somewhat of an aftercare, reader is extremely horny when in heat, wonwoo doesn’t mind bcs he’s just as horny and has really high stamina, tummy bulge, creampies, squirting, that one business proposal scene, drugs (heat inducers, heat/rut suppressants), forced drugging, weapons (guns, knives, needles etc), abduction, violence (it’s a mafia au so, yea), mentions of miscarriage, etc
petnames; his (Nonu, Alpha), hers (Doll, Babydoll)
a/n; RAHH, new fic !! hope yall enjoy this because i sure as hell stressed over this fic way more than i should’ve- was also sick as i tried to finish this out and get it out (by its very overdued deadline rip)
big thanks to rae ( @nerdycheol) and supi ( @supi-wupi) for beta reading and sharing their thoughts on it hehe ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡
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In this universe, there exists a city called Ashville.
A modern city that’s under the rule of an infamous Mafia family that’s been around for generations.
In this universe, each individual is born into one of three dynamics: Alpha, Beta, and Omega. These roles are usually found out before they become teenagers, typically around the ages ten to twelve. Not only do they dictate one’s instincts, but it also determines their place in the social hierarchy.
Alphas stood at the very top of the hierarchy, their presence commanding and unyielding. Known as protectors and leaders, their strength and resolve made them pillars of stability and order. They exude an air of confidence, their pheromones carrying an unmistakable weight that both enthralls and intimidates. An Alpha’s instinct could be a double-edged sword – their need for dominance paired with their sense of responsibility.
Betas occupy the middle grounds, acting as stabilizers so that the world doesn’t get thrown into a world of instinctual chaos. Neither driven by the dominating urges of an Alpha nor bound by the vulnerabilities of an Omega, they serve as the mediators. The voice of reason, if you will. Their neutrality is what makes them the glue that holds society together, but could also be the cause of its downfall if they were to commit treason.
Finally, the Omegas, whose roles are often misunderstood due to their vulnerabilities. They’re the heart of the societal order, their instincts centered on nurture, connection, and to a few, rebellion. They are similar to Alphas in terms of pheromones, but what set them apart would be that an unclaimed Omega’s pheromones could attract unwanted attention from unclaimed Alphas, drawing them in like moths to a flame.
Claimed Omegas would bear the bonding bite of their Alphas. But, in the event an Omega is without a mate, either by choice or tragic events; they are forced into prostitution. It is a sad reality and possible outcome to many. Hence, many Omegas forged paths of quiet defiance, proving that they too are strong without a mate.
Click.
"Can you, please, get a bit closer?" The photographer asks, practically begging at this point.
Wonwoo heaves out a sigh while your shoulders slump, tired from having spent the entire morning posing for your wedding portrait. While it was true that you were somewhat excited to have finally found your mate, let’s just say of all the possible occupations you’ve come up with, a mafia boss was not on that list.
Hell, not even the Jeon Wonwoo was on your list.
The mob boss takes a step closer, placing both hands on your hips and the photographer beams at the sight. “Yes, yes! Just like that!” he exclaims, pulling out his camera as he continues to snap more portraits. Wonwoo feels your body tense up from the close proximity so he leans in close to your ear. “Relax, doll,” he whispers, “You’re tense and you look terrified. Nobody is going to believe that we’re ‘in love’ if you keep this up.”
Click.
“I-I’m sorry,” you squeaked, the grip you had on the bouquet of flowers tightening slightly, “ ‘M just nervous…”
“Oh, I know you are, doll.” Wonwoo turns his head slightly, nuzzling his nose into your hair and you let out a quiet gasp, “I can smell it. Do I scare you that much, hmm? Having second thoughts because your mate is the infamous mob boss?” He lets out a low chuckle when you shake your head profusely, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “Keep your eyes on the camera, darling. Once this is over, you can go right back home.”
Click.
“Shouldn’t we make preparations for the ceremony?” you asked, “What about the cake? The venue? The–”
“Don’t stress your pretty head, doll,” Wonwoo says, giving your hips a light squeeze, “I’ve settled everything and your preferences have been taken into account, too. I’ll contact you for the cake tasting and venue checking.”
“And, it’s a wrap!” the photographer announces with a wide smile, “Thank you so much Mr and Mrs Jeon! I promise you won’t be disappointed with the results!”
You weren’t sure if the photographer was always this… enthusiastic with his clients. Or if he was holding himself back from pissing himself. ‘I’d be terrified too if the Jeons were my client…’
Not one soul didn’t know who the Jeons were. What started off as a small group of delinquents had eventually grown into one of the largest mobs to run Ashville. The man who started it all, Jeon Wonsoong, was a man who could send even the Devil running with its tail between its legs. While most mobsters were practically built on wealth, the Jeons’ were quite the opposite.
Jeon Wonsoong had built the mob of the Jeon family from scratch – from the literal blood, sweat and tears of his companions and oftentimes, those who had crossed him. The Jeons had their respect earned, not given on a silver platter. Many have mocked Wonsoong when he began building a name for the family – claiming that he was too ambitious, that he’d be better off as an underling.
They were the very same people he’s overthrown.
Just a mention of the Jeon family name was enough to drain anyone’s face of their colour.
Decades later, enter Jeon Wonwoo, the one and only beloved grandson of Jeon Wonsoong. Wonwoo already had the responsibilities of being the next mob boss ever since his mother’s pregnancy was announced. Wonwoo grew up watching how the “family business” worked, seeing his father fire bullets through heads after heads of rivals or anyone and anything that could be a threat to the family.
The poor boy was terrified at first but by the time his teenage years rolled around, he’s pretty much grown numb to the fear and squeamish feeling of seeing piles of bloodied dead bodies.
He’s watched the drug dealings, the smuggling – the most atrocious crimes or businesses known to man would be committed by the Jeons’, yet they would refuse to inflict any form of harm onto women and/or children for pleasure.
Wonwoo remembered bringing it up to his father when he was 16.
“Your grandpa is a family man, son. He’d never harm a child for the wrongdoings their parents have done – that’s why he takes them into the family and raises them to be his men.”
“What about crimes against women?”
“Crimes against women is unfortunately something that cannot be stopped, regardless whether or not the perpetrators are in a mob,” Wonsoong replies as he enters the room, one hand linked with his grandmother’s while the other held onto his walking stick, “We may be mob bosses, crime lords – whatever it is they call us, Wonwoo, but, causing harm to women and children for pleasure is a monstrosity I will not allow this organisation to ever commit. Your grandmother was assaulted for choosing me over some rich bastard – your uncles and I broke their arms, castrated them before making them kneel in front of her family to beg for forgiveness.”
“His heart is in the right place,” Wonwoo’s grandmother added on, “While being a mob boss or part of a mob gang is less than ideal for anyone, at least your grandfather shows some levels of decency as a human being.”
“So… in the scenario one of our members has assaulted, or caused harm to women or children in any way, what happens to them? Do they get their bones broken and then castrated?”
“That was back in the good old days, my dear grandson,” Wonsoong chuckled, “Now, they are battered and bruised, fingers cut, and castrated – before being shot thrice.”
Sure, it’s terrifying to have the entire nation’s economy in the palm of a mafia family.
Yeah, the occasional stumbling upon a body being dumped in certain areas could be traumatising. Hell, it even caused mass panic.
But, citizens soon learnt one saying, “Don’t cause the Jeons trouble, and trouble won’t find you”. A fancy way of saying, “If you don’t want to be the next corpse, don’t fuck with the Jeons”.
Because all the bodies found were individuals who have crossed them.
You stare at the wedding venue, brows furrowed as you take in the sight. You knew the Jeons had a taste for dark aesthetic, but you weren’t expecting the wedding decorations to be all black.
You weren’t exactly a superstitious person, but you did believe in the superstition that the colour black brings misfortune.
“Are the decorations up to your expectations, Mr Jeon?” the receptionist nervously asks, “We’ve followed the reference pictures and instructions you’ve given us.”
“Umm… Could I –” your breath catches in your throat when both men turn their attention to you. Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, “Not to your liking, doll?”
“No! No! The decorations are beautiful and the venue itself is grand,” you began, “But… Could we add a little bit of colour?”
The alpha crosses his arms, “Colour? You want to add colour?” He gestures to the venue, “You do realise that everything here is decorated with intention, right? Black represents strength, power, control. It’s to show dominance –”
You cut him off, “This is my wedding, too. Don’t I get a say in this?”
Wonwoo’s gaze hardens at your interruption, clearly not used to anyone defying him; much less an Omega that’s his soon-to-be wife. He narrows his eyes, a way to get you to back down without being too dominating so as to not scare off the beta of a receptionist; but you stood your ground. The air thickens, charged with tension.
“A little colour won’t hurt this black theme you have going on, Mr Jeon,” you state, crossing your own arms and taking a step forward, “You can have all the power and control you want, but I also deserve a say in how this day looks because it’s also my day.”
The silence hangs between you both, the weight of your words settling in. The receptionist watches with a bated breath and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. But then Wonwoo shifts, uncrossing his arms and turns to the receptionist, “Accommodate whatever requests the missus has.”
The receptionist visibly relaxes, nodding quickly as he whips out his tablet and moves to stand beside you as you walk around the venue, listing out the changes you wanted done.
“I love the black roses bouquet you’ve lined up down the aisle, but please add in some red roses. Switch out the black ribbons on the vases for white ones; you can barely see anything!”
Approaching the tables, you pick up one of the black napkins that’s been folded into a rose. You turn to the receptionist, “I want all the black napkins gone. Replace them with a burgundy red.” The receptionist jots down every detail, his fingers moving swiftly across the tablet screen as you continue to inspect the venue. Wonwoo watches you silently, impressed as you move with purpose and an air of confidence – something he rarely sees in an Omega.
You stare at the chairs that are draped in black fabric. “Are we welcoming death? I get the whole idea of this wedding to let it be known that you’re a mob boss, but at least have something that shows you have taste.”
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow at your bluntness before the corners of his mouth twitch into a small smirk. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but his gaze still holds a steady weight, almost as though he’s studying you.
“Taste…” he echoes, his voice low, as if contemplating your word. “This is a wedding, doll, not some fashion show.”
You gently graze your fingertips over the black fabric, “Exactly, a wedding. I get that this whole… dark and mysterious aesthetic is your thing, Mr Jeon, but at least have a bit of sophistication.”
You turn to face him fully, “I’m not asking for colourful flowers or for them to be placed everywhere or even pink ribbons. Just a little bit of refinement so it doesn’t look like a funeral.”
Wonwoo’s eyes narrow slightly, and he watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He takes a step forward, his hands shoved into his pockets as he peers at the receptionist's tablet. “You’re changing everything, aren’t you?”
You meet his gaze, letting out a shaky breath as you try to maintain your confidence, “Not everything. Just enough for it to… look more like a wedding.”
The air remains thick, but there’s no hostility; just a slow understanding that’s beginning to form. After a few seconds, the Alpha lets out a quiet breath and gives a slight nod. “Alright, doll. I trust your judgement.”
He turns and walks out of the venue, saying he has a business call he needs to answer. The receptionist turns his attention back to you, “What would you like to be done with the chairs, um… Mrs Jeon..?”
You give the receptionist a small smile, “You can call me Miss Park. I’m not yet married to him to be called Mrs Jeon.”
The receptionist chuckles nervously, “Not exactly a chance I would want to take, umm… Missus.”
“Hmm, I’ll accept that term. Back to the chairs – let’s switch the black fabric for a red fabric, similar to the napkins. Have a black sash tied into a bow at the back, is that doable?”
The receptionist nods excitedly, tapping away at the tablet as he realises his commission for this wedding may be enough to seal him a quick vacation. “Yes, of course it is, Missus! Would that be all?”
You take one last look at the venue, glancing up at the chandeliers, “Just soften the lighting and we’re all settled.”
That was approximately six months ago, which means it’s been six months since your marriage to Jeon Wonwoo became official.
Park ___. That's your name, that’s who you are.
A small corner shop florist that was everyone’s go-to for event planning or last minute flowers. Everyone knew you by your flower shop. They knew you by your smile. They knew you as "the flower lady who always got your back!”.
Never in a million years would you think that you’d now be known as Jeon Wonwoo’s wife. Jeon Wonwoo’s Omega. Jeon Wonwoo’s mate.
To be frank, you hated the fact that all your years of hard work were being overlooked now that you were married or bound to Ashville’s most nefarious and powerful mob boss.
Your name, once synonymous with ambition and independence, was now whispered in hushed tones, attached only to his. Your achievements, your sacrifices, all the blood and sweat you had poured into carving your own path no longer mattered. To them, you were nothing more than an Omega claimed by an Alpha who took whatever he wanted.
The weight of your new… identity settles on your shoulders in tons. You imagined several shackles were locked around your limbs, cold and unyielding. It didn’t matter that you had built a name for yourself. Now, you were just his.
And the entire city knew it.
You hated the look people would give you – some with fear, some with pity. Others had a look of cruel amusement, as though they were watching a wild animal realising its cage had no door. That the cage was its new home.
It made your blood boil. You weren’t some weak, whimpering Omega who would roll over and get all submissive at the mere scent of their Alpha. You fought to stand where you were. But damn it all, thanks to the stupid bind fate had planned.
Wonwoo sat beside you in the limousine, both of you having just left a dinner event that was hosted by one of Wonwoo’s allies that was meant to celebrate his wedding. Not both of your weddings, just his. The entire night, you had been paraded around as though you were nothing more than an extension of him – his Omega, his possession, his wife. No one toasted to you, no one acknowledged you beyond hushed whispers and fleeting glances.
You clenched your fists, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress.
“You’re upset,” Wonwoo states, his voice smooth and calculating, the corners of his mouth lifting in a faint, amused smirk. “What’s bothering you, doll?”
“Don’t,” your tone came sharper than expected, so you took a deep breath to calm your nerves. Your voice was less hostile when you spoke again, “Don’t call me that, please.”
Wonwoo’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something in his eyes – amusement mixed with the faintest hint of challenge. He tilts his head, studying you as if you were some artifact or priceless painting that’s been put up for display. “Don’t call you what?” he asked, his voice now softer, but the command in his words can’t be missed.
You swallowed thickly, trying to mask the storm inside you as you held your ground. “Don’t call me doll,” you repeated, this time with more conviction. There was a slight tremble in your voice, betraying the raw emotion you were trying to suppress. “I… I’m not a doll, or some object. I’m a person.”
Wonwoo’s remains unreadable, though the intensity of his gaze and his posture didn’t change. But, there was a subtle shift, a quiet acknowledgment in his eyes. “I see my Omega bites back,” he chuckles, his tone teasing but there was a hint of respect behind it. “I must say, it’s quite… refreshing… Or, entertaining, for lack of a better word.”
You frown, “Entertaining?”
His eyes scanned your face, but there was no mockery in his gaze. Instead, there was something more akin to admiration, though when it comes to Jeon Wonwoo, deciphering any of his words or looks was like trying to get pigs to fly. “Well, it’s not every day you see an Omega go head-to-head with an Alpha. Especially if the Omega is now under the Jeon Family.”
“I can play that pretty little housewife you’re picturing,” you mumble, releasing your clenched fists in favour of crossing your arms, looking out the window, “Just don’t expect me to be all pliant and submissive twenty-four seven.”
Another deep chuckle leaves his lips. Something about his words, about how he says you were the first Omega to not heel to traditions makes you feel oddly proud. It was clear he still had his guard up, but at least in this moment, you could tell he’s trying not to push your boundaries or you too far.
“Relax, babydoll.”
Hmm… Perhaps you could accept that pet name. It’s much better than being called ‘doll’.
His voice is less teasing but there was still that underlying sharpness. “You’re still you, despite what society says. That defiance you have there? There’s power in that. Not many dare to challenge the expectations placed on them. Especially Omegas.”
His words sunk in, not as an insult, but as an observation; a praise. It was one that left you feeling both uncertain yet strangely affirmed. It’s the first time in a while that someone, aside from your parents, recognised your rebellion, your defiance as something more than just a nuisance. Let alone an alpha like Jeon Wonwoo.
He reaches out a hand, finding purchase on your thigh. You tense at his touch, the heat of his hand sending a jolt of electricity through your body. But, you don’t pull away, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the fabric of your dress.
“I see that fire you’ve got in you, ___,” he continues, his fingers slowly tracing the curve of your thigh, “And it’s not just for show, too.”
Your tone came out sharper than you intended when you replied, “You think you can control that?”
A sly smirk tugs at his lips, “Control? It’d be fun to break you, sure, but… I quite like the idea of having a feisty Omega by my side. Believe me, babydoll, I know what it’s like to prove yourself to be seen and acknowledged. I had to do the same to prove it to my father and grandfather. You didn’t think I was handed this position just like that, did you?”
"I don’t doubt you had to fight for it," you say quietly. "But I’m not here for a power struggle. Not with you, not with anyone."
He shifts slightly, giving your thigh a firm squeeze. “Look, babydoll, I don’t expect you to bend over my desk or lap whenever I tell you to. But, I do expect you to listen to me when it comes to your safety or if you’re ever caught in the crossfire of my dealings. Is that understood?”
You meet his gaze, feeling a shiver run down your spine. The grip he had on your thigh had goosebumps rising, but the touch wasn’t just possessive; it was also protective. A silent reminder.
“I know you’re more than capable of handling yourself, babydoll. But being capable doesn’t mean you have to face every danger alone, and in my world, in my life, it’s not kind to the unprepared despite their capabilities to be able to stand up for themselves.”
You bite back the words you want to say, about how you weren’t some fragile porcelain doll. That you didn’t need him to look after you like you’re some helpless Omega –
“I’m not asking you to give up the control you have over your life. I can see as clear as day that you’ve been able to manage just fine without an Alpha.”
Oh.
“What I’m asking from you is to trust me when it matters. I know this marriage is out of convenience, for the sake of the mating bond, but you’re not someone I’m willing to let slip through the cracks either. Not without a fight.”
His words pulled your defenses down just a little, but you still held on tight to the edges of your resolve. Perhaps it was because of the many judgemental and snide comments you’ve received from others, especially Alphas, in the past that made you want to argue with him. The way he speaks, so calm and measured, you were itching to fight back.
But, something in his eyes stops you. There was no sign of mockery, no superiority – just a raw honesty you’d never thought you’d see in an Alpha. Much less the one that practically rules over the entire city.
“I didn’t ask for any of this…” You voiced out, sounding quieter than you’d intended. “I didn’t ask for you to be my mate. I didn’t ask for you to try and protect me.”
While he doesn’t flinch at your words, there’s a shift in his posture, a subtle tense in his shoulders that tells you he isn’t completely unaffected by your words.
“I know, babydoll,” his tone now tinged with something that feels like understanding, “But, believe me when I say that I am not asking for your submission. I’m asking for your trust. If I wanted to control you, I would’ve made that clear six months ago.”
“Can’t believe those bastards had to wait six months to do this stupid party…” you mumbled, cheeks heating up as you realised you sound like a girl throwing a little tantrum.
Wonwoo chuckles, “Well, our schedules have been overlapping. I think they expected us to go on a honeymoon for a while.”
“Tch, as if I’d ever want to be on the same bed as you.”
“Moving back to the topic earlier, I’m not asking for a leash, babydoll,” his voice is low, almost soothing. “I’m asking you to let me stand by your side when the world gets too heavy. Because it will. And when that happens... I don’t want you to face it alone. All I ask for is your trust and to let me understand you.”
You’re unsure of what to say next, the weight of his gaze making it difficult to think clearly. You’ve spent almost your entire life resisting the idea of relying on anyone, but here he is, asking for something as simple as your trust.
The sincerity in his words linger, and for the first time, you wonder if you’ve misjudged the Alpha. Maybe he wasn’t like the others that were trying to force their way into an Omega’s life. Maybe he wasn’t looking to bend or break an Omega so they’d be solely dependent on their Alpha.
Maybe he too was looking for something different. Something that goes beyond fated bonds and forced relationships.
You look at him, and for the first time, you allow yourself to wonder if there’s a part of you that could trust him.
He pulls his hand away from your thigh, fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the contact.
“But, there’s clearly something bothering you, babydoll. C’mon, out with it.”
You hesitate, lips parting, but no words come out. You’re not sure where to start or if you even want to start. Part of you still wants to keep everything bottled up, to keep your walls firmly in place. But then there’s him, sitting beside you with that quiet patience, the intensity in his gaze softened just enough to make you believe he might actually care about what you’re about to say.
You shift slightly in your seat, arms tightening around yourself. “That… That Juyeon guy at the dinner…”
Wonwoo's expression darkens almost instantly, the warmth in his gaze snuffed out like a candle. His jaw tightens, and though he remains still, you can feel the way his entire body tenses at the mention of another Alpha’s name.
“And, what about him, babydoll?” His voice is calm, a little too calm. It’s the kind that you know he won’t like your answer.
You swallow hard, “He… The way he spoke to me…”
You sigh, “Look, I know it’s inevitable that people will start addressing by ‘title’ instead of my name. Wonwoo’s Omega. Wonwoo’s wife. But, I don’t like it being said in a condescending tone. The way he called or referred to me as Wonwoo’s little Omega felt as though I was just another weapon or gun you’ve added to your already large collection.”
You shift a little, the frustration simmering beneath your skin as you try to put your feelings into words. “I don’t want to be reduced to that. To just another thing you own. It’s already hard enough that I had to not cuss him out for trying to feel me up the entire time…”
Wonwoo stills.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Heavy. Suffocating.
The air between you crackles with something dangerous. His expression doesn’t change, doesn’t twist in anger or morph into something openly furious, but the sheer stillness of him is enough to make the hairs on your arms stand on end.
“Say that again, babydoll” he orders, and though it’s barely above a whisper, it’s the sharpest you’ve ever heard his voice. “What did you just say?”
For a moment, you wonder if you’ve screwed up by making such an accusation or statement about his associate. But, you pushed on, “Juyeon… He kept brushing up against me on the table. Placing his hand on my knee, my thigh. He’d touch my back too when he had the chance.”
Wonwoo doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
But then, he slowly exhales through his nose, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as if trying to keep his composure.
“I see.”
Two simple words. And yet, something about the way he says them sends a cold shiver down your spine.
“Wonwoo–”
“Mingyu,” he calls out to the driver.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Tell Jihoon to pass a message to Juyeon. I’d like to have dinner with him tomorrow night. Just the two of us.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Wonwoo!”
“I told you I’d stand by you when it matters,” Wonwoo repeats his earlier statement, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “And this matters.”
You swallow, finding it harder to resist the pull of his words than you care to admit. The stubborn part of you wants to fight him, wants to tell him you don’t need his help, but you can’t deny how much relief it brings to know he won’t just stand idly as you get disrespected.
For the first time, you allow yourself to believe that he might actually be a good guy.
“You… run a clothing line?”
Wonwoo looks up from his desk, his eyes on you as you stand by one of the many shelves he’s lined up on the walls. In your hands was a photo frame with a photo of him and a blonde man standing side-by-side in front of a building.
“Is that very surprising, babydoll?” he asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Just because my family runs the mafioso doesn’t mean I have to just run that business.”
Behind the pair was a store with the sign J&W. Wonwoo said it’s a combination of their initials, a collaboration of some sorts. When you asked why he can’t just open one under his own name, his reply was simply, “You really think people would dare to set foot into a shop that’s under my name?”
“This man… Is he a business partner? Shareholder?” A shadow looms over you and tilting your head backwards, it sits comfortably against his broad shoulder. Wonwoo hums, “You could say that. He’s… I consider Jeonghan a friend and if you know me well or long enough, I don’t offer my trust easily.”
“I’m guessing that trust also applies to the hiring process of your bodyguards?”
You’ve counted a maximum of… six bodyguards during your stay at his mansion. Well, excluding his right-hand man, Jihoon, that makes five. “Some… unfortunate incidents happened when I was younger that started my trust issues.”
His voice drops just a little, one hand coming up to rest on your waist. You don’t miss the way his jaw clenches briefly before relaxing, as though catching himself before slipping too deep into memory.
“Jihoon and I have known each other since childhood. Family relations all that so it’s natural I came to trust him.”
“The others?”
“They’ve earned their place and my trust.”
You look down at the frame before tilting your head back up, raising it a little, “And Jeonghan?”
Wonwoo takes the item from your hand, as if examining it before handing it back to you. “Ah, Jeonghan…” A quiet chuckle slips past his lips, “Let’s say he’s a different story… I actually met him through Seungcheol, one of the bodyguards. You’ve probably seen him around – buff, kind of gray-ish hair.”
“The one that’s always butting heads with Mingyu?”
A flicker of surprise crosses his features, “So you’ve been paying attention.” Amusement laces his tone, clearly not expecting you to do so. You narrowed your eyes, “Well, if I weren’t aware of my surroundings, I wouldn’t have been able to survive this long until you showed up, can I?”
He gives your waist a firm squeeze, pressing a kiss to your temple, an action that catches you off guard. “I suppose you have a point, babydoll,” he concedes, voice low. “And I suppose it’s hard to ignore the two when they’re at each other’s throat.”
You roll your eyes. “Well, they’re not exactly subtle… Or quiet. It is interesting to see Mingyu surrender or lower his head, though…”
Wonwoo chuckles, taking the frame off your hands and setting it back on the shelf. “They’re both betas, but Seungcheol does have more of a… I guess more dominant nature. We’d suspected him of being an Alpha initially, but tests proved otherwise.” He adjusts the frame slightly before turning his attention back to you. “Still, that doesn’t stop him from acting like one.”
“And Mingyu just… lets him?”
The Alpha shrugs his shoulders. “Mingyu respects strength. He may not always like it, but he knows when to back down.”
You hum in thought. “And Jeonghan? Where does he fit into all of this?”
“He and Seungcheol go way back if I’m not mistaken. I don’t know the full details, but from what I’ve gathered and from what they’ve told me respectively, they used to work together before Seungcheol decided to have a change in career paths.”
Another squeeze to your waist, “Jeonghan… plays by his own rules. Always has.”
You frown slightly, clearly confused by his words. “What do you mean?”
“He’s a businessman,” Wonwoo says simply, though there’s something guarded in the way he says it. “And like all businessmen, he knows how to get what he wants.”
That doesn’t quite answer your question, but you know better than to push too hard.
“Is he dangerous?”
Wonwoo’s lips curl at the question, but it’s anything but a smile. “He’s charming, I’ll give him that.. And that makes him the most dangerous of all.”
A shiver runs down your spine. You don’t know if it’s from his tone or the way his fingers finally slide away from your skin.
The air in the mansion felt… different.
You couldn’t exactly put a finger on it, but it just felt as though there was a shift to your surroundings. Your heart was racing despite it being a calm and quiet day, Wonwoo was out discussing a fashion deal and majority of the staff in his mansion were given specific orders to not bother you unless needed.
Your heart was racing faster than usual, your senses were heightened in a way that made your skin feel alive – and not in a good way. It was in a way that made your head dizzy. It was subtle at first, a warmth curling in your lower belly, an uncomfortable tingle spreading across your limbs that makes your skin far too sensitive to the air around you.
You ignored it at first – or at least, you tried to.
The mansion was eerily quiet. The grand halls, lined with cold marble and towering windows. Despite housing the most dangerous mafioso and his bodyguards, it felt safe. But, it could be because of Wonwoo’s presence and his pheromones.
Now, each step you took felt heavier, every breath felt sharper, and the very air felt charged with something oppressive.
You knew this feeling. You had been trained to recognise it.
But it was too soon. Far too soon.
You’ve kept track of your heat since it was revealed that you were an Omega. You’ve made sure to take your suppressants on time to prevent any mishaps, never missing a single dose. Yet, despite your careful planning and discipline…
Could it be Wonwoo’s pheromones?
It had to be – your cycle wasn’t due for another week, give or take.
You pressed a sweaty palm against the nearest wall, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over you. It started as a slow burn in your veins, a heat that swirled in your stomach and spread outwards.
It was definitely your heat. You could feel it creeping up, threatening to consume you if you didn’t act fast.
“Missus..?”
Mingyu.
“Missus, you don’t look so well,” the Beta points out, taking a step forward.
It was times like these that you were grateful for Wonwoo insisting that his staff were Betas. Before you came into the picture, it was to ensure no crossfires ever happened between him and an Alpha staff. Two or more Alphas under the same roof with some kind of “power imbalance” could lead to a hostile environment, and Wonwoo prefers peace and quiet… despite the field of work he’s in.
After you came into the picture, Wonwoo would answer that he didn’t want any unclaimed or stray Alphas pouncing on his Omega.
Mingyu sniffs the air and his ears perk up as he catches a whiff of sweetness in the air. It was sweet like candy and he instantly knew what was going on. Thankfully, his training somewhat prepared him for scenarios like this, albeit it was catered more towards Alphas.
“Missus, do you have any suppressants?” Mingyu, taking a cautious step forward so as not to agitate you. You shook your head, letting out a small sniffle, “I ran out of them… I-I was planning to get them some time this week because it isn’t due for another–”
“Okay, well, I could text Boss to pick some up for you once he’s done with his meeting,” the giant suggests, reaching out a hand to steady you when he notices the slight wobble in your stance. “In the meantime, you shouldn’t be out and about, Missus… Let’s get you–”
“What’s going on here?” Jihoon, Wonwoo’s right-hand, interrupts Mingyu’s sentence. The tall beta freezes, his hand hovering near your arm but not quite touching. His jaw clenched, glancing over his shoulder, meeting Jihoon’s sharp, assessing gaze.
Unlike Mingyu, who was all warmth and concern, Jihoon carried an air of cold efficiency, his presence cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade. The right-hand man’s eyes flicker to you, his nostrils flaring slightly as he picks up on
Jihoon’s eyes flicker to you, nostrils flaring slightly as he picks up on what Mingyu already had. His brows furrow, and a barely-there sigh escapes his lips. “Shit,” he muttered, noticing the way you swayed slightly against the wall, trying to regain your balance.
Mingyu lowered his hand, deciding that it was best to keep a respectful distance from you. “Missus is having a bit of a… situation,” he said, his tone careful. “She’s early and ran out of her suppressants. I was gonna text Boss–”
“Call him.” The right-hand man’s voice carried an authority that was impossible to ignore. While his eyes softened just a touch as your discomfort, they still held that calculative gaze.
The tall giant was hesitant, his thumb hovering over the screen of his phone. Every one of Wonwoo’s staff knew that calling him while he’s in any sort of meeting was serious. Texting was discreet, something that could be swept under the rug or dealt with later. But a call meant urgency. It meant that Wonwoo would have to drop everything, no matter what he was doing, to deal with the situation.
But a look from Jihoon has Mingyu cursing under his breath, tapping the call button and pressing the phone to his ear.
“Missus,” Jihoo’s tone while still authoritative, was softer than before. His gaze flickered to your hands that were trembling at your sides and against the wall. “Give me your hand.”
You’re momentarily confused, blinking up at him then lowering your gaze to his outstretched hand. His voice carried a quiet but insistent command, and despite the overwhelming wave of hormones washing over you, you obediently did so.
“You’ll be okay,” Jihoon murmured, though it seems he was reminding you rather than comforting you. “All the staff here are Betas, I’m sure Boss told you that. Your heat won’t affect us so there’s no need to fear us jumping on you.”
His gaze returns to Mingyu who’s speaking on the phone. “Won’t be long before Boss gets back. I’ll take you back to your room.” You nod your head, though you weren’t sure if it was in response to his reassurance or because you knew that your legs couldn’t walk without someone guiding you.
The walk through the halls felt like an endless blur, the air thick with both the scent of your heat and the tension of the situation. Your heart pounded in your ears, your breaths coming in short, uneven pants. The mansion, usually cold, felt suffocating now.
You barely registered when Jihoon pushed open a door, guiding you inside the room. You entered without a second thought, freezing when the scent hit you.
This wasn’t your room.
Your body recognised it before your mind did – the faint traces of musk, crisp cologne, and something that was deeply ingrained in your instincts. Your entire being tenses as you realised exactly where Jihoon had brought you.
Wonwoo’s room.
You let out a whimper, the lingering remnants of the Alpha’s pheromones made your entire body tense. He wasn’t even here yet, and you were already drowning in him. You stared at the king-sized bed, your body wanting to sink into it, to bury yourself in the softness of the sheets that still held the imprint of his presence. But, the rational part of your mind knew better.
Your sluggish thoughts tried to fight through the dizzying fog, “Jihoon, this- this isn't–”
“I know, Missus,” he interrupts cooly, “But, I'm going to assume this is your first heat that's induced by an Alpha’s pheromones. It'd be best to get used to Boss’ pheromones – not just for your heat, but for your well-being too.”
“Well-being?”
With surprising gentleness, he guides you to the edge of Wonwoo’s massive bed, lowering you to sit onto the cool sheets. It was a stark contrast to your fevered skin. Your mind screamed for you to leave, to fight the Beta and make a run for it to your room – but your body betrays you as it reacts to the lingering scent of Wonwoo’s pheromones.
Before you can do anything, you instinctively crawl onto the bed, your fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you as you’re pulled towards the only source of comfort in your current suffocating haze. You somewhat collapsed onto the mattress, burying your face into it and inhaling deeply, a pathetic whimper slipping past your lips as your thighs clench with need.
Your fingers curled into the fabric, your entire body as the Alpha’s scent wrapped around you like a vice.
You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be reacting like this.
You should be fighting this, clawing your way out of this haze and demanding to be taken back to your own room where you can suffer through this alone. But your instincts don’t care for logic. Instead, you’re in Wonwoo’s room, trembling and desperate, drowning in a need so raw it leaves you gasping.
You hated how easy it was to succumb.
And then it happens.
A shift in the air.
A choked noise left your lips as his scent filled the room completely, no longer just a lingering trace but a full, undeniable presence.
You sit up immediately, turning your head back to the door behind you before you can even think. It was an instinct, your body responding to an unspoken command before your mind can even have time to process anything.
“Nonu…”
Wonwoo definitely broke several speed limits on his way back to base.
The second he saw Mingyu’s name flash across his phone screen – not a text, but a phone call – he knew something was wrong. He brought the device to his ear, nothing more than a clipped ‘Speak’. Once Mingyu announced ‘Missus is early’, he ended the call and left the meeting without a word.
He didn’t care who was speaking. Didn’t care about the confused stares or hushed murmurs as he strode out the boardroom.
The only thing that mattered to him was getting back to you.
He stopped by a pharmacy, picking up several bottles of heat suppressants and a few cooling patches before speeding the rest on his way home.
Wonwoo storms through the halls of the base, his coat thrown onto the couch, his tie loosened and his jaw set tight.
Everyone knew they had to stay the hell out of his way.
His staff, the Betas, moved to the sides, pressing their back against the walls as he passed. Nobody dared to meet his gaze, not even Seungcheol – especially when the Alpha’s scent was laced with irritation – thick and suffocating in the air.
Grabbing a bottle of suppressants and a packet of heat patches from the plastic bag, he tosses the bag to a nearby staff. “Chan, store the suppressants in the missus’ bathroom cabinet. Cooling patches go in the mini fridge for her skincare.”
Chan nodded quickly, following the instructions.
Approaching his room, Jihoon steps aside from the door and slips past him without so much as a glance back. There was nothing that needed to be said. The right-hand man had done his job. Now, it was Wonwoo’s turn.
He entered the room and his expression was unreadable as he took in the scene before him. His nose twitched as your pheromones had practically covered every corner of his room. Sensing his presence, he watches as you sit up on your knees, head turning back and making eye contact with him.
“Nonu…”
He hears your breath hitch as he draws closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
“You really are a handful…” His voice was smooth, almost lazy. But, there was something else beneath it, something dark. It caused a shiver to run through you. Whether from arousal or fear, you’re not sure.
He steps closer, footsteps slow and deliberate. With each step he takes, a spike of awareness shot throughout your body. Your body reacts instinctively to his presence, knees pressing together in an attempt to soothe the ache inside your stomach. But, you knew it wouldn’t work.
Nothing did.
Not the cool sheets, not the distance that grew shorter and shorter.
By the time Wonwoo reaches the edge of the bed, your entire frame is trembling. He tilts his head to the side and exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“Nonu…”
Fuck. Your voice sounded so wrecked that the Alpha’s breath stuttered for just a second.
It sounded so needy, trembling with something raw that managed to slip through the cracks of Wonwoo’s self-restraint. His fingers twitched at his side before crossing his arms in front of his chest, the black button up straining slightly against his forearms and chest.
Your mind grew foggy as his scent grew thicker, wrapping around you completely. Before your mind could even process it, your body moved on its own – crawling to the edge of the bed to be closer to where he stood.
Wonwoo didn’t understand why Jihoon would bring you to his room (he does, he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it). You should be locked in your room, alone and away from him. Yet, here you were – right in the center of his personal space, clinging to the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring you to your senses.
The worst part of it all?
You looked like you belonged there.
He reaches out, cupping your cheek and tilting your head up. A small, needy whimper slips from your lips before you even realise. He orders you to stay still and you do, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue. Wonwoo presses the pill to your tongue and the bitter taste barely registers past the haze in your mind.
“Swallow.”
You obey instantly, throat bobbing as you swallow the suppressant without protest. You opened your mouth again, showing him that you had done exactly as he ordered.
Wonwoo’s jaw tightened.
The fact that you took the suppressant without much fight should have relieved him, but it didn’t.
Because your lips trembled.
Because your pupils remain dilated.
You close your mouth, another whimper slipping free as you nuzzle your cheek into the palm of his hand that cupped your cheek. Both of you knew the heat won’t subside immediately, that it would take up to hours for the suppressant to actually kick in.
After a few moments, Wonwoo pulls his hand away and lets out a slow, measured breath.
“Good girl.”
Two words.
Just two simple words.
And yet, your entire body shudders.
His eyes darkened for a brief second before he stood to his full height, pulling his hand away as he took a step back. You whine at the loss of his hand against your kin, blinking up at him and Wonwoo swallows hard.
“Don’t.” His voice came out tighter than he intended, “Don’t look at me like that, babydoll.”
Like he was the only thing you needed.
Like he was the only one that could save you.
“Nonu, please,” you whined, “Make the pain go away.”
Wonwoon’s self-control snapped and before he could even think, he was on you. One hand came up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head up.
And then he kissed you.
Hard.
It wasn’t soft and gentle.
It was desperate – a clash of heat and hunger, of pent-up frustration.
You gasped into his mouth, fingers fisting into his shirt and his grip tightened. Wonwoo presses his lips harder against yours as he swallows every whimper, every soft plea. Your heat was drowning him, making him forget every single rule he had set for himself.
He knew this was reckless. Knew that this could have dire consequences.
But when you moaned against his lips, the noise soft and needy, every ounce of logic flew out the window. His tongue slid against yours, deepening the kiss as if he was attempting to steal the breath from your lungs. His hands moved, sliding down your thighs and gripping them just enough to make you gasp again.
Wonwoo thinks he could still salvage what little control he had as he presses you deeper into the mattress – at least until he hears you whisper his name. The sound was soft, pleading – ruined, even. And he realises that it was already too late.
He’s gone.
“I’ll only help you this one time,” Wonwoo’s voice was low, dangerously low. He sounded controlled, but the way his hand gripped your thighs; the way his gaze dropped to your lips betrayed the inner turmoil he was facing. “Understood?”
You nodded immediately and he narrowed his eyes. But there was no mistaking the way your body arched towards him like it already knew what it wanted. His hands slid up your sides and under your shirt – his rough, calloused hands running against your smooth skin.
Just this once, he told himself.
Just tonight.
Just until the suppressants kicked in.
“Nonu!”
Fuck. The way you cried out so prettily for him had him curl his fingers deeper inside you. He was supposed to be in control, not let his instincts take over. But, damn it, the way you begged his name in that desperate, pleading tone had him losing focus.
Truth be told, Wonwoo always had a distaste for the heat and rut cycles. They were messy, primal; a reminder of how little control he had when it came to instincts like this. His body screamed for release, for dominance, but discomfort clawed at his mind.
But, God, the way you reacted to him. Every touch, every whine of his name, it ignited something he couldn’t deny.
Your back is pressed against his chest, the fabrics clinging to your skin damp with sweat and fever, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. All you could feel was how good his fingers were working inside you – skillful and relentless.
The fabrics between you only intensified the ache. Your night shorts were thrown somewhere into the corner of his room, the shirt somewhat bunched around your hips while Wonwoo, still fully dressed, sat behind you with his back against the headboard. His chest felt warm against your back, the steady breaths he let out betraying the tension vibrating through his body.
You keened, one arm thrown back to hold the back of his neck in an attempt to ground yourself. “Nonu…” You whimpered, voice cracked and ruined. “N-Need more. Please, I–”
“I know,” he growls against the side of your neck, voice strained. His lips brushed your skin, not quite a kiss, but the warmth made your entire body shudder. “I know, babydoll. Your poor pussy needs more, right? Your heat has you all hot and aching, doesn't it?”
His free hand rests on your waist, anchoring you against him as his fingers curled again – this time slower, as though he’s searching for something. “She’s begging, babydoll. Dripping and sucking my fingers in like she knows who she belongs to.”
A sharp gasp leaves your lips and Wonwoo feels your body tremble. Your legs try to snap shut and he whispers into your ear, “That the spot?”
You nodded, back arching as his fingertips continue to bully your g-spot. You could feel him pulsing hard through his pants, pressed flush against your ass. Every clothes rut of his hips against you has you crying out – needy, frustrated.
Your thighs are trembling violently now, the tension coiling deep in your gut and it was ready to break. Wonwoo continues to stimulate that spongy spot, his fingers working to open you up with expert precision. “You’re close, aren’t you, babydoll?”
You could only nod, not trusting your words as your mouth parts to let out a high pitched moan as your body surged towards the edge. He presses his fingers until they’re knuckle deep inside you, curling up right against that spot as his thumb circles over your swollen clit.
“C’mon,” he rasps into your ear, “Cum for me.”
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.
White hot pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your vision blurs and your entire body seizes as you cried out, body jerking against the Alpha behind you as a gush of wetness spilled over his hand and soaking the sheets beneath you.
Wonwoo doesn’t move. Instead he holds you tighter, hands still resting between your legs but his thumb circles your clit in a manner that was meant to ground you. You're gasping and shaking in his arms, hands trying to push at his wrists, desperate but weak. You aren’t sure if it was overstimulation or if you wanted him to give you more.
His voice was low, full of something far too tender for the way his heart was racing – for the way he’d always acted. “Good girl. Did so well for me.”
Wonwoo looks down at you only to be met by you looking up at him, eyes glassy and lips parted in a silent plea. You were flushed and panting in his lap, slick coating his fingers.
Despite his distaste for these cycles, he knew he’d do it again.
He hated how much he realised he loved this, how he could pull those sounds from you.
But, he loved how he was the only one who could pull those noises from you.
Loved how you trusted him through it.
Wonwoo carefully pulls out his fingers, ready to move you back to your room – then you whimper out his name like it was a prayer meant just for him.
“Babydoll,” he growls lowly, voice rough and filled with warning. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Yet you did.
Maybe it was the scent of your heat. Maybe it was the way you clung to him, silently begging him. Maybe it was the way that nickname you called him rolled off your tongue like he was your God.
He’s quick to have you pressed against the mattress, hips flushed against yours as he finally gives in to the carnal pull. You hear him fumbling with his belt and the sound of his zipper coming undone. The sudden shift in the situation knocks the air straight from your lungs.
One moment he’s cradling you in his arms, the next you’re sprawled beneath him; his hands on either side of your head to not just keep himself up, but to keep you right where he wants you.
Where you need to be.
You gasp out his title – not his name or that cute lil nickname you just gave him, but his title. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers claw into the bedding, silently begging for him to just fill you up.
And he does.
In one thrust, he buries himself to the hilt and savours the way you cry out to him, body arching as your pussy clamps down on him.
He leans over you, chest pressed against yours, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “Feel that, babydoll? That’s me shaping your pussy so that it only knows how to take my dick.” He pulls his hips back, just until only his tip remains inside before slamming forward, making sure you feel him in your womb. “Wanted me to fuck you? Well, I’m gonna give it to you.”
A needy sob escapes your lips as he sets a punishing pace; and he chuckles lowly, hot breath against your neck. His lips part and he bites down on your neck, hard, claiming the spot with a bruising mark. You gasp, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure through your core, causing your pussy to squeeze him tighter.
Wonwoo growls, hips stuttering for just a moment before he thrusts even deeper, harder – making sure your walls remember every vein, every inch.
“My sweet Omega,” he grunts against your skin, voice rough and possessive. His tongue darts out to soothe the bite. You mewl, feeling the imprint of his teeth as though he was trying to brand you as his.
Your hands scramble for purchase, settling on his back and your nails dragged down his back as he fucks you through every tremble, every whimper.
“You like that, dontcha babydoll?” he sits up, knees digging into the mattress as his hands grip your hips so tightly you were sure it’d start to bruise. All you could do was nod, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes.
“C’mon, babydoll,” he coos condescendingly, one hand sliding up your body to wrap itself loosely around your throat. He didn’t apply any pressure, just letting it sit there as a reminder of his control, his claim.
And it was like a switch flipped.
A sharp gasp escapes your lips, back arching off the mattress as more slick drips out of your pussy, creating a white ring of cream around the base of the Alpha’s cock.
You didn’t mean to react the way you did, and Wonwoo felt it.
The way your walls clenched around him tighter, the sudden wetness coating where your hips met.
“Oh?” his tone was dark with approval, “You like that?”
“S-So good, Alpha,” you choked out, mind growing hazy from your heat and the pleasure, “Love.. Love it so much! Feels s’good!”
His thrusts grew rougher as something primal took over. He removes his hand from your throat, sliding it down your body to rub tight circles over your clit. Your back arches as a sharp cry tears from your throat, body trembling uncontrollably. Slick gushes out from your pussy as you squirt again, drenching his shirt and milking his cock.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, hips stuttering at the milking compression of your cunt. “Shit, I’m close, babydoll. And you're gonna let me fill you, isn’t that right?”
You nodded through the haze, words slurred by pleasure, “A-Alpha!”
That was all it took. With one final thrust, Wonwoo buries himself to the hilt as his cock twitches inside you as he cums deep inside you.
The room was thick with the scent of your heat and sex, but all Wonwoo could hear was the sound of your soft, uneven breaths – body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure, barely conscious of anything except for the way he filled you to the brim.
He stayed buried inside you for a moment longer, reluctant to leave the warmth of your creamed pussy. But when he hears your soft whimper, noticing the way your body twitching from oversensitivity, he’s snapped back to reality.
Wonwoo groans as he carefully pulls out, a groan escaping his lips at the sight of his cum spilling out from you – coating the insides of your thighs and dripping onto the sheets beneath you. You whimper at the emptiness, at the sudden cold air on your overheated skin.
He doesn’t say anything, only tucking himself back into his pants and stands up.
For a moment, you thought he’d leave you in his room – maybe even go as far as to sleep in one of the guest rooms.
But then, you hear the faint rustling of the plastic bag before the mattress dips beside you.
Wonwoo leans over, gently brushing away the sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead. You can barely keep your eyes open, the heat and aftermath pulling you under.
Then, coolness.
A soothing, mental chill spreads over your fevered skin as he places a cooling patch on your forehead. You let out a shaky breath, weakly reaching out for him.
Wonwoo takes them in his.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice no longer holding that sharp or commanding tone. Instead, it sounds softer. “I’ve got you babydoll.”
His other hand adjusts the sheets around your body, tugging the blanket up to your waist after retrieving your night shorts from the floor. He made sure your legs weren’t tangled, made sure you were comfortable.
You blinked up at him sleepily, cheeks still flushed a shade of red and lashes slightly damp. “Please stay, Nonu…”
He freezes.
For a moment, the only sound was his breath, still a little uneven. You could tell he was torn between his old habit of keeping you at arm’s length and giving into his instincts.
Without uttering a word, he eases under the covers beside you, gently pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, strong and warm, as he nuzzles his face in your hair. “Of course, babydoll. You’ll sleep easier if I’m here.”
Wonwoo never stays. Once he’s made sure you’re in good hands, he'd leave.
But, tonight wasn’t like the others.
Tonight, he stayed – not to keep his distance, but to keep you close.
Tonight, he stayed to protect you.
His.
You felt it then– the way he held you. Not like a favour, but like someone claiming what’s his.
Weeks after that incident during your heat, you and Wonwoo went on with your lives as though nothing had happened. The mansion returned to its usual rhythm – quiet mornings, the hum of the electric kettle.
Wonwoo buried himself in work, occasionally checking up on you as per his mother’s command, occasionally picking you up from your flower shop instead of leaving it to Mingyu. They were… small efforts into making the marriage look less of a business arrangement, but you appreciated it nonetheless.
You busied yourself with your own work, too. But, you’d still go grocery shopping and prepare meals for the people of the mansion (which frankly, was a task you overestimated because cooking for 6 people proved to be a difficult task). They’d thank you, of course – you went through all the time and effort – it’d be wrong for them not to appreciate it and clean up after themselves.
However, you were careful to not let yourself brush against the Alpha for too long. Nor would you let your thoughts drift back to the night where tangled limbs and breathless whispers once filled the space.
While you both went on with your lives, acting as though nothing had happened – there was a subtle shift in the air.
Mingyu was the first to notice it.
Being one of the bulkier guards, he had been stationed at the mansion to keep an eye on things during your off days. It was a simple routine he took a liking to – he gets to have a nice conversation with less scarier missus and it was considered low stake.
That morning started out no different than the others. You passed him in the hallway, offering a soft habitual “Morning, Gyu” as you balanced a basket of laundry against your hip. He nodded in return, returning the smile and his eyes followed you until you turned a corner.
His nose twitched as he picked up the smell of something… sweet. Like the first bloom of spring in the middle of winter.
It was far too faint for it to be a heat cycle, but it still lingered in the air.
Mingyu couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. You looked the same, moved the same. But there was something different about your aura.
Wonwoo only noticed the sweetness of your pheromones once Mingyu brought it up.
He’d pause a little longer when he passed you in the hallway, fingers twitching just a little when your scent clung to the couch after sitting on it for hours. His jaw would flex when you leaned over him to grab something from the kitchen shelf.
Yet, he didn’t say anything.
Neither did you.
You hear the door open just past midnight.
Muted voices. Heavy boots.
You catch a whiff of the faint, metallic tang of blood and turn your head towards the front door.
Wonwoo was the first to enter, as always. His expression is calm, unreadable. His coat hung open, dark with flecks of something you didn’t need to guess. Jihoon followed close behind, quieter than usual. His shirt was stained too, though he’d slug his jacket over his arm to conceal most of it.
He looked… calmer. The tiredness in his eyes were evident, but he didn’t have that frenzied look he always had. There was no smirk, no offhand remarks about which body part he sliced off, where he left it or if he convinced Wonwoo to break every bone of their rivals.
You stayed curled on the far end of the couch, a soft blanket on your lap with a book in hand. “Hi, boys. Long night?” You asked, tone casual but laced with something warmer
“Hey, Missus,” Jihoon responds, brief but polite. “Kinda.. But, we got it under control.”
He disappears down the hallway without another word, tugging off his bloodied gloves. Wonwoo follows a beat later, slinging his coat over one shoulder, a faint dark red smear on his jaw. “Have you had dinner, babydoll?” His voice was oddly warm.
You nodded your head, “Gyu made some aglio olio with steak. There should be some leftovers in the fridge for you.”
Wonwoo nods in response. He continues to stand there, looking at you like he was still figuring out he’s supposed to get used to coming home to this – to you.
You look back at him, and he notices the subtle way your nose wrinkled at the scent clinging to his nose, how your fingers twitched against the cover of the book you’re holding.
“I’ll go shower,” he mumbles, voice lowering. It almost sounded like an apology in disguise.
He walks up the stairs, halting momentarily to look back at you. That scent of yours still hangs in the air – sweet, distracting. Wonwoo stands there for a few more seconds before disappearing in the halls of the house, leaving silence and a rising heat in your chest.
He reappears moments later, now in a loose shirt and pyjama pants – looking more like a sleep-deprived graduate student than a man capable of unspeakable violence. He heads towards the kitchen and you follow him, feet quiet against the hardwood floor.
The house felt too big at that moment, the silence stretching between the walls like it was listening. The Alpha doesn’t say anything, just moving with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times – opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of chilled wine. It was like he belonged in the silence.
The overhead light pooled golden over him, catching in the soft fall of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. The loose fabric of his shirt clung to the curve of his shoulder, just barely damp from the shower he just took, and you caught yourself staring – longer than you should have.
“You’re not gonna eat what Gyu made?” you asked, breaking the silence between you both before it could swallow you whole.
Wonwoo didn’t look back at first, popping the cork with one clean motion and pouring himself a glass with a kind of ease that spoke about how often he did this – like he was numbing or avoiding something.
“It’s cold now,” he answers, voice quiet but not dismissive. The wine filled his glass with a smooth swirl of deep red.
Then, without a word, he reached for another glass.
Not for wine.
He filled it with water from the chilled filter on the fridge, the sound soft and steady in the stillness of the kitchen. He sets it down on the counter near you and you blinked. There was no eye contact nor explanation, but the gesture settled somewhere deep in your chest.
You take a step closer, fingers brushing against the cool glass as you pick it up. “Thanks..” You take a sip and set it back down, leaning against the counter with your arms folded loosely. “But, just because the food is cold means it’s bad.”
“I’m not hungry.”
You watch him bring the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it down with a soft clink. His gaze lingered on the dark liquid, as though he was contemplating something.
“You didn’t even look at the plate,” your voice wasn’t accusatory, it was just gentle – just there.
Wonwoo lets out a breath, not exactly a sigh. “Didn’t need to.”
The silence that followed felt different – it felt tighter.
Then, without thinking, you moved a little closer. Just enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Just enough for your voice to come out quieter when you asked, “Do you ever let yourself take a break, Nonu?”
Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. He doesn’t look at you when he answers, “I take a break when I sleep.”
“You barely sleep…”
You see a flicker in his eyes – you touched something.
He knew it.
You knew it.
But he didn’t run from it, at least not this time.
“Then I guess I don’t stop,” his reply was low, maybe a little bit more honest than he meant it to be.
You stood there for a beat, the glass cool in your hands – the silence wrapping around you both like a blanket that was too heavy to shake off. Your eyes dropped to the way his fingers held the wine glass, knuckles still faintly pale from tension. The condensation on your own glass trickles down your fingers, as though it was trying to ground you in the moment.
“Are you hurt anywhere, Nonu?” The question came out softer than you meant it to be – it sounded warm and it lingered in the air. You didn’t look at him directly, just watching the condensation slide down the side of his glass.
“No.”
It was clipped. Cold. Dismissive.
The kind of answer that was meant to end the conversation before it could even start. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Of course – you weren’t supposed to ask. You weren’t supposed to care – not like that. Not out loud.
He didn’t move at first. Just standing there, knuckles pale against the glass as his eyes locked on some distant point past the kitchen tiles. The silence stretched, heavy and humming, until he sniffs your sweetness in the air again. The sweet scent relaxed his posture, his shoulders dropping just a little and his grip around the glass loosened.
You watched him carefully, heart thudding in your chest and your voice caught before you even knew you were going to speak again.
“Can… Can I sleep with you tonight, Nonu?”
The words hang in the air, delicate and trembling.
It was too soft to take back. Too honest to ignore.
His fingers stilled around the glass, the sound of the fridge humming filled the silence that followed. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it had. Your heart thudded in your chest, loud enough to drown out the quiet.
Wonwoo stares at you, his expression unreadable. His eyes seemed darker tonight, shadowed by something you couldn’t quite place a finger on. He looked tired – not just physically-bone-deep tired, but it was like the world had taken a little more from him than he was willing to admit. Whatever he and Jihoon did out there, it still clung to him like smoke.
“Trouble sleeping lately, babydoll?” His voice was surprisingly soft, low and quiet like he didn’t want to wake the others in the house.
You nodded, looking at the glass in your hand. “The air’s been… weird lately. A-And, it’s hard to sleep without you lately.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass, voice barely above a whisper – shaky and raw, “I-I don’t know why but it is… Especially when you’re gone.”
He was still staring, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look up – not when you knew his expression is all it takes to undo you.
Another beat of silence.
One second.
Two.
Then, you hear a quiet breath escape him. His glass clinks on the counter as he sets his drink down.
His voice was soft, “Come on, babydoll.”
His response caught you off guard. When you looked up, he was already turning away, walking toward his room – but his pace was slower than usual. As though he was waiting for you to catch up to him.
Your heart flutters, warmth flooding your chest even as your legs carry you forward. Wonwoo doesn’t say anything when you slipped into his room behind him, the bed dipping under your weight. The mattress sighs softly when you settle in beside him – it wasn’t the first time you shared a bed, but it was the first time you asked to.
You lay on your side, back facing him as you clutched the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring you. Wonwoo doesn’t move for a while, but you could hear his breathing – steady, though it was a little too measured to be natural. Awake. Thinking.
Maybe regretting this decision.
Your throat tightens, tears brimming in your eyes as you start to overthink.
But then, quietly, just barely there, you feel the blanket shift. The mattress dips again, and your back feels warmer as his body inches close. It doesn’t touch, though it was there.
There was a beat of silence, the tension in the air so thick that you could feel it pressing against your skin.
Then, slowly his arm slips around your waist. It was slow enough to almost break you. Your breath hitches, but you don’t stop him. You don’t move, letting yourself sink into him. His hand rests lightly on your stomach, not in a possessive manner; just there, offering you a grounding presence.
“I don’t sleep well because I worry of the danger you’re in by being my mate,” he murmurs, voice almost buried against the back of your neck. “Not when I come back from that kind of work. Not unless I know you’re safe.”
You close your eyes, something in your chest tightens at the vulnerability in his voice, a kind of raw honesty he rarely ever let slip.
“I am safe, Nonu,” you whispered, “With you.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the way his arms wrapped themselves around your waist, the way his forehead lightly brushes against your shoulder… It was enough.
You didn’t say another word. You didn’t need to.
Sleep came slowly that night, but this time – when it did, it came easier.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks, neither of you woke up alone.
Wonwoo stayed late at the office one night. The quiet hum of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows did little to distract him from the glow of his screen or the dull ache that was beginning to form behind his eyes.
Numbers blurred, reports repeated themselves – he was going through the motions, more out of habit than necessity.
His phone buzzed. His mother.
“Mother?”
“Wonwoo,” her voice was soft, but there was a certain sharp edge to it. “You’re working late again?”
“I am,” he said flatly, not annoyed – just a little confused as to why his mother was calling him.
“Go home, Wonwoo. Be with your mate. She needs you.”
The words stung more than it should have.
“She has Mingyu and Chan looking after her–”
“She doesn’t need them, Wonwoo.” Her voice firmer, “She needs you. Her Alpha.”
“What’s this about, Mother?”
“It’s hard for me to explain this over the phone, Wonwoo. Just… Just go home and be with ___, okay?”
The line disconnects before he could respond. Staring at his phone, his thumb hovers over the redial button, demanding answers.
He never got the chance.
His phone rang again – this time, Mingyu’s name flashes across the screen.
It was never a good sign when his men called him.
He picks it up on the first ring. “What?”
“Boss– Wonwoo– fuck,” Mingyu’s voice was shaking, breathless. “Where are you? Missus is gone. The door was busted in, Chan’s unconscious near the stairs and– fuck– there’s blood.”
The words don’t register at first.
“She’s gone.”
Wonwoo froze in his seat, phone pressed to his ear – Mingyu and Seungcheol shouting on the other end. Something about getting Chan medical help for a GSW to his abdomen. The office lights hummed quietly and everything around him felt… wrong. Too still. Too normal.
It was so… eerie.
Blood. Mingyu said there was blood.
“How messy is the place? How’s Chan?”
He finally stands up from the desk, papers fluttering off his desk, forgotten. His grip tightens around the phone until his knuckles whitened.
“It’s bad, Boss. This place is trashed, fuck.” Shuffling can be heard before Mingyu speaks up again, “Chan said she fought. Oh fuck, one of the guy’s face is clawed off.”
“Gyu!” Seungcheol’s voice rings through the background, “We got a survivor! Tell Wonwoo to come back quickly!”
Mingyu didn’t need to relay the message, already hearing Wonwoo starting up his car.
The Alpha’s jaw clenched so tightly that it started to ache. A sound clawed its way up his throat, something raw and ragged. But, he swallowed it down. “How long ago?”
“About an hour. Maybe less. Cheol and I went out to get some groceries and when we got back, we found the place like this.”
“Chan and Vernon?”
“Chan’s wound up pretty bad, but he’ll be okay. Vernon’s helping Cheol prepare the bastard that survived.”
Wonwoo exhales through his nose. He feels sick. His body wants to move, to run, to destroy something – but his mind was spiraling, trapped in the memory of your last interaction. Cold, casual and detached. Like you were just a roommate. Like he hadn’t felt the way you cling to him during that heat. Like he hadn’t felt you snuggle up close to him when you both fell asleep in the same bed weeks after.
He should’ve listened to his mother.
He should’ve come home.
“Make sure that bastard lives until I get there,” he ordered Mingyu, voice now low and lethal. “Tell Jihoon to get his switchblade ready.”
He ended the call and drove through the streets. The engine roars to life like it felt his fury, the sound tearing through the night as he shot out of the compound. Tires screamed against the pavement, and the city blurred past him – buildings, lights, the occasional flash of red as he burned through the intersections without hesitation.
You were his.
And someone had taken you.
He was going to make sure he’d put an end to those bastards.
Your head pounded.
The room swayed as you blinked awake, wrists bound behind your back and there was a coppery tang in your mouth. A single overhead light buzzed above you, like a spotlight focusing on the main lead, and the rest of the space was swallowed in the shadows.
You shifted, testing the restraints. You could move, but it’d take some effort to break free from them. Then you hear it.
Footsteps.
You stilled, keeping your head low as several men stepped into the room. You didn’t recognise their scents. They weren’t of anyone familiar to you. They weren’t Wonwoo.
One of them circled you, stopping somewhere behind you. “She’s smaller than I thought…”
“Yeah, but she’s feisty,” came another, his voice sharper. “Don’t let her face or size fool you. Bitch fucking bit me when we took her in. Had to knock her out to make things easier.”
One knelt in front of you, just out of kicking distance but you held back. “You’re awake.”
“Such amazing observation skills,” you snorted, blinking the haze from your vision. “What gave it away? My eyes being open or the fact that I’m glaring back at you?”
It was a shame they didn’t laugh.
“If you’re smart and behave, maybe we’ll go easy on you.”
You scoff, “Please, if you were smart, you’d know you made a grave mistake the moment you busted my front door in.”
The figure leans in slightly, expecting fear but all you offered was a tilt your head. “So, what’s the plan? Some kind of ransom? Revenge?”
The masked man tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “You’re not exactly acting like a scared little Omega.”
“Yeah, funny thing about that – I bark and bite. If you assholes think you can–”
Smack.
A sharp slap landed across your cheek as you were mid-sentence. The sting flared, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you take a deep breath and straighten your posture, licking the copper from the corner of your mouth. “Oh, my bad…” your voice was low, “But you really should’ve known better than to think I’d be the damsel in distress type.”
There were at least three of them when they returned after leaving you alone for hours. They still wore those black face masks, as if that was supposed to scare you.
One carried a metal case and the other cracked his knuckles, another move that was meant to scare you. But what was scaring you the most was how terrible their intimidation tactics were. You sat upright the best you could, back straight against the wooden chair, chin lifted like you hadn’t been bound for hours. Like you weren’t aching in places you hadn’t known could ache.
They didn’t speak at first, only opening up the case. Silver tools gleamed under the low light.
You arched a brow. “Wow. Dontcha think that’s a little dramatic? What happened to just asking nicely?”
One stepped forward and backhanded you, hard. Your head snapped to the side, cheek screaming from the impact, but you refused to give them the satisfaction of crying out in pain.
“Tell us everything you know about the Jeon clan,” demanded the man that opened the metal case. “Security. Other bases. Codes, if you know any.”
You spit at his face.
They didn’t like that.
The first hit was to your stomach – brutal and deep, knocking the breath from your lungs. Then another to your ribs, then your face again. You lost count after five, maybe six.
Still, you didn’t scream.
“Damn, this bitch can take hits.”
Pain blurred the edges of your vision, but you clung to consciousness with everything you had. You thought of Wonwoo. Of how he looked at you when you didn’t think you were watching. Of how he subtly showed his affection thinking you wouldn’t notice.
You thought about how furious he’d be if he were to see you in the state you were in. Wonwoo’s mother had previously mentioned their stand on crimes against women, how if their own had even a strand of hair plucked, the perpetrators would face dire consequences.
When they paused, panting like they’d been doing real work, one leaned in and grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugging on it hard. “Last chance. Talk.”
The smile you gave had one of them flinching. Not because of how badly beaten up you looked, but because it bordered on the line of a psychotic smile.
“The Jeons don’t break, and neither do I. We fucking burn.”
These bastards sure as hell loved leaving you alone. Though you’d consider it to be a mistake on their end.
Your body was wrecked – ribs aching, lip split and bruises were already to form everywhere. But you were still breathing, still alive and that was enough.
You tilt your head back, blinking up at the ceiling through the haze of the pain. Blood dripped down your chin, but your hands were slick now – whether it was from blood or sweat, you couldn’t tell. You twist your wrists again, angling against the metal cuff just the way Wonwoo had shown you during one of his late-night, paranoid self-defense lessons. “If they bind you with steel, look for tension. Give it slack, then break it where it’s weakest. Everything has a weak point.”
It hurt like hell, but you kept going. The metal bites deeper into your skin before it snapped.
You stifle a gasp as the cuff breaks loose with a sharp clink. Your left wrist was bleeding freely now, but you didn’t waste a second. You made your way to the door, and to your surprise, it was unlocked. Either they didn’t you’d try, or they thought you couldn’t.
You slid out silently, stating low. You hear footsteps and muffled voices somewhere down the hall. Realising you needed a weapon, you decided to find their weapons storage. Your head spun, but you pressed forward and duck into the first door you saw.
Luck must’ve been on your side because it led you exactly where you wanted.
Guns were lined up on the tables, the overhead lighting making it seem more ominous than it already was. Your fingers shook as you picked up a semi-automatic handgun – sleek, back, loaded. Wonwoo’s voice echoed again, “Don’t ever hesitate to shoot. That gives them a room to attack. You pull the trigger the moment they come into view.”
You hear footsteps approaching and pressing your back up against the wall, breathing through your nose, waiting. You hold the gun close to your chest, and when the masked man steps inside, you don't hesitate.
Bang.
He dropped like a sack of potatoes, the sound of the shot echoes through the hallway.
There was no going back now.
Shouts echoed down the hall and you made a run for it. Turning a corner, you came face-to-face with two more men. They hadn’t expected you to be armed, by the time they noticed the gun in your hand and reached for theirs, you had already pulled the trigger.
You ran past their motionless bodies, trying to figure out where you were. The layout and interior – you knew you were in some kind of warehouse. Then you smell it – the night air, you were close to an exit.
You burst through a door, grunting in pain from the sheer force you had put on your shoulder to get the damn thing to open. Your knees almost gave out, the adrenaline making your hands shake.
You kept the gun raised, every shadow looked like another threat.
But you didn’t stop.
Not until you were safe. Not until you got back to Wonwoo.
But you weren’t able to get far.
The alley had opened into a dead-end loading yard and your heart dropped the second you saw the rusted fence, the padlocked gate.
A black van screeched to a halt behind you. You spun, gun raised – but hands grabbed you from both sides before you could even aim. You bit, clawed and kicked, but there were too many. They slammed you face first down onto the ground, a heavy knee to your back following. Your cheek scraped against the pavement and the gun slipped out of your hand.
“Hello, ___.”
You froze, your blood went cold.
Juyeon.
You turned your head enough to see him step into view. His suit was stained, fingers missing from both hands – four gone entirely with pink scars crusted where they’d once been. He flexed what was left, grimacing slightly as if the sight offended him.
Wonwoo had done that. You knew it because Jihoon had told you – how he encouraged your Alpha to cut off the fingers on his left hand so they were more… symmetrical.
“You fucking bastard,” you spat, “I’ll have them dismember you–”
His laugh cuts you off. “Still got some fight in you, I see,” he mused. “That’s what my men meant by you’re no ordinary Omega.” He crouches down, eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. “But you’re more useful to me if you shut the fuck up.”
You snarled, bucking under the weight holding you down. One of his men shoved your head back down as Juyeon took out a syringe from his suit. The liquid was thick, glowing a faint blue under the alley lights.
“You know what this is, little Omega?” he asked conversationally, “The labs call it Phase Nine. It’s new. Not on the market nor the black market.”
You went still.
“It’s a liquid heat inducer that’s designed to have your primal instincts override your rationale. It could even break bonded cycles.”
You thrashed, “Don’t you fucking touch me with that! I swear I’ll–”
“Hold her,” Juyeon ordered.
“No!” You kicked wildly, but the hands clamped down harder.
“I said hold her!”
You screamed when he jabbed the needle into your neck and depressed the plunger.
A cold, burning sensation spreads through your veins like ice catching on fire. Your limbs trembled violently and your lungs burned with every breath you take. You heard Juyeon chuckle as darkness begins to swallow your vision.
“Take a little nap,” he whispers, “And when you wake up, your body won’t resist anymore.”
You wake to the sound of voices – low, mocking laughter. Your head throbbed, and your body felt… wrong. It felt as though weights were chained to your body and your head felt fuzzy. The heat inducers were still coursing through your veins, but you fought the haze, clinging to the remaining sharpness you had in the chaos of your mind.
You feel the fire burn from inside out, every nerve in your body screaming for release.
The door to the room opened and Juyeon stepped in, his fingers twitching where they were still missing. He wore that sharp, predatory grin on his face and how you wished you could slap it right off of his face. His presence was suffocating and the pheromones he was releasing stank up the room so bad you wanted to throw up.
You gritted your teeth and pushed yourself up from the cool, concrete floor. Your limbs felt like lead, but you couldn’t let him get close.
Only Wonwoo could touch you.
Not this disgusting bastard.
He notices the faint fight in your eyes and pauses, a cruel smile crept onto his face as he observes your struggle. “Shit, you are a tough one to break. Lucky for me I got more of those inducers to break you.”
He takes another step forward and your body tensed. “C’mere, Omega,” Juyeon coaxes, his voice so syrupy that it twists your stomach the wrong way. “Let me help you with that heat of yours, yeah? I’ve got something far better than the inducer you’re desperately fighting. Something real.”
You growl, throwing your body into him. Your actions startled him – he hadn’t expected you to fight, not with the drugs clouding your senses. But you didn’t need to be at your best. You needed to make him understand that you were more than just an Omega.
You got a punch in, a brutal hook to his jaw and knocking him back. Juyeon staggered, but he didn’t fall. His men moved, one lunging towards you; but you managed to catch his wrist, twisting it behind his back with a vicious snap, making him grunt in pain.
Another went for your throat, but you kicked up, shoes hitting him in the stomach that had him doubling over, gasping for air. It’s a shame you weren’t wearing your heels, would’ve left a mark on the bastard.
You moved again, a blur of motion and rage. You weren’t thinking nor did you care, you only had one goal – to survive.
Another man reached for your arm. You spun, elbowing him in the face then slamming your knee into his ribs. He staggers, gasping for breath. You were covered in sweat, heart pounding as your body rebels against the inducers.
One of Juyeon’s man was quick enough to grab you from behind, pinning your arms to your sides. “That’s enough,” Juyeon sneers, wiping the blood from his mouth. He grabs another syringe from the table, the liquid inside glowing a sickly blue. “You want to fucking fight? Fine. Let’s see how long you’ll last.”
You hissed, struggling against the man holding you, but the inducers were still tearing through you. The heat was unbearable, your vision swimming in and out of focus. You were starting to lose control.
“Fight all you want, sweetheart,” his voice was mocking as he approached with the needle. “But you’ll break eventually.”
Your hands were still unrestrained, and in that final moment of desperation, you grabbed an old pipe that lay on the ground. You swung it with all your might, hitting the nearest man across the skull. He collapsed with a sickening thud, and you barely had time to register the victory before Juyeon was on you again.
Your body was trembling, soaked in sweat as blood was smeared across your face and hands. The pipe clattered to the floor beside you, slick with someone else’s blood. Juyeon stood across from you, staggering as his face twists into something monstrous. The second that syringe slipped from his grasp during your scuffle, it shattered across the cement.
“You little bitch,” he spat, pulling out a switchblade from his pockets. “You think you’ve won?”
You didn’t answer, hands scrambling for the gun from one of his men on the floor. Your hands shook, but you raised the weapon anyway. Just like Wonwoo taught you.
Never hesitate when it comes to your life.
Juyeon takes a step forward and you pull the trigger.
Bang.
The scream that tore out of his throat was inhuman.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his crotch as the front of his pants soaked red. He writhed, gasping and cursing through clenched teeth. It wasn’t a clean shot, but you didn't want it to be.
Your hands were still trembling as you kept the gun trained on him. “Never… Never underestimate an Omega. Especially me.”
The door slammed open behind you. Boots thundered in, guns drawn and you hear voices yelling commands.
You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to.
You already know who it was.
“Clear the room!” Seungcheol’s voice echoed like thunder. “Get the Missus to safety and lock up any survivors!”
Vernon was quick to reach you, kneeling beside you as his hands tried to gently guide the gun down. “Hey, Missus…” he said quietly, “You’re okay now. We’ve got you.”
But you couldn’t bring yourself to lower the gun. It was as though you feared that if you did, Juyeon would get up.
Then you smelled him.
Wonwoo appears through the smoke of bodies, his eyes immediately locking on yours. The sight of you, his mate – bloodied, shaking and bruised – had him on his knees by your side in the blink of an eye. Sure, you were alive; but you were hurt.
He doesn’t say a word, only pulling you into his arms and holding you like you were the last thing in the world that mattered. You didn’t even realise how cold you were until Wonwoo wrapped his arms around you.
His warmth crashed into you like a wave, and what very little strength you had left was gone as your body collapsed into his. You could feel the way his body shuddered as he held you, his breath ragged against your hair, like he hadn’t been breathing until that moment. His hand held the back of your head, fingers tangling in your messy hair like if he let go – you’d disappear.
“I’ve got you, babydoll,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve got you now.”
You dropped the gun.
And finally, your body let go.
Wonwoo carefully knocks on the door, a way to announce his presence before sliding it open. His eyes meet yours and his shoulders slump when you give him a small smile. “Hey…” was all you managed to say before his giant stature envelops you in a tight embrace. The Alpha nuzzles into the crook of your neck, a quiet whine leaving his lips as he takes in your scent. It’s grounding, calming – proof that you’re here, safe, and his.
You melt into his warm embrace, your hands instinctively finding their way to his broad back. His tense muscles slowly relax under your touch, his soft whines turning into soft hums of contentment.
“I… I was so scared,” Wonwoo admits, “Scared I couldn’t find you, couldn’t reach you in time… I –”
“Nonu,” you call out softly, one hand moving up to comb through his dark locks, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
He nods and pulls away, the crease in his brow not fully gone. “Yeah, but… I can’t help to think of the worst case scenario of what could’ve happened had we gotten there any later… ___, the doctors said you were practically battered. There’s even still traces of that heat inducer in your blood.”
You shudder at the memory of having the liquid injected into you, Wonwoo tightening his hold on you. “They didn’t touch you did they?”
“Well, it depends on what you mean by touch..?” It was more of a question than a statement, “They didn’t put their dicks in me if that’s what you’re wondering. I was drugged up and a little woozy, but I managed to fight them off until you guys showed up.”
“So, they did touch you,” he sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to your template. “I’ll deal with those bastards once I head back.”
He cups your face in his large hands, his eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory. “How are you feeling, babydoll? Feeling any better?”
You manage a faint smile at Wonwoo’s concern, your fingers brushing gently over the back of his hand where it cradles your cheek. “I’m feeling better,” you murmur, though the ache behind your ribs and the lingering exhaustion paints a different story. “Just… Just need to pee real quick…”
Wonwoo looks hesitant, but he nods, reluctantly removing his hand from your face.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and push yourself up, determined to manage the short walk to the bathroom without assistance. But the moment you stand, a sudden jolt of pain rips through your lower abdomen. You let out a strangled gasp that makes Wonwoo instantly alert. Your knees give out before you can even call out to him.
You clutch your stomach as your body crumples to the cold tile floor.
“___!” Wonwoo is quick to drop to his knees beside you, arms wrapping around you before you hit the ground. “Babydoll, hey, what’s the matter?”
“It hurts,” you wheezed, eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pain twists through you. “Nonu, it… My stomach hurts.”
He feels his heart shatter at the sight of you writhing in pain, his arms tightening around your waist as he gently tries to ease you onto his lap. “Fuck, okay. I’m calling the nurse–”
“No, don’t go,” your breath was shallow, hand clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly. “Stay. Please.”
“Shit, shit… I’m here, babydoll. I’m not leaving.” Wonwoo’s voice is firm but trembling, his free hand fumbling for the call above him. He presses it repeatedly, urgency written all over his face. “Nurses! Doctors! We need help in here!”
He cradles you closer, rocking you slightly as if trying to soothe you through the pain. “You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs over and over, lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve got you, babydoll.”
Moments later, the door bursts open and nurses rush in. Wonwoo doesn’t let you go, not until they gently urge him aside to check your vitals and prepare to move you. Even then, his hand never leaves yours.
And when they wheel you away for tests, his gaze follows you – haunted and fierce – already blaming himself for letting you get off the bed in the first place.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Jeon… It seems you had a miscarriage.”
The words hung in the air. The silence that followed felt suffocating, like a weight pressing down on your chest. Wonwoo’s and your mother wrapped their arms around you in an instant, offering you comfort; but everything felt so… distant. Their voices were muffled and the doctor’s face was blurred as the word ‘miscarriage’ echoed in your mind.
Your hands instinctively moved to your stomach, as though you were trying to hold onto something that was no longer within reach.
Meanwhile, Wonwoo’s tense body stood behind you as if he were a statue that’s freshly carved from stone. His emotions were frozen in place and his silence was louder than anything else in the room.
Suddenly, the pieces began to fit in place.
Why his mother kept nagging him to return home instead of doing overtime in the office.
Why his father kept urging him to look into a bigger home.
Why his mother and mother-in-law kept visiting you while he was away.
Hell, that even explained why Jihoon was more tame.
You were pregnant.
Pregnant with his child.
Your mom and Wonwoo’s mother tried to comfort you with soft reassurances murmured in your ear, but they couldn’t pierce through the thick glass that’s been erected around you. Your mom’s hand stroked your hair, a gesture that was meant to soothe you. But it only reminded you of the ache, of a loss so sudden that it felt as though a piece of you had been ripped away.
Wonwoo’s shaky voice brought you back to reality, “How… How could this have happened? W-When– How long has she been pregnant? She wasn’t displaying any symptoms or even showing!”
The doctor shifts, looking at the clipboard in his hand. “Mrs Jeon was around… seven weeks into the pregnancy. It’s not uncommon for the symptoms to be minimal, especially in the early stages. We suspect that what Mrs Jeon had experienced was a cryptic pregnancy, where the pregnancy goes undetected or unnoticed.”
You feel the Alpha shift his gaze from the doctor to you. “Seven weeks…” His voice was laced with confusion and guilt as he tries to recount every moment he’s spent with you, searching for signs he might have overlooked. He runs a hand down his face, resting it over his mouth as he mutters, “Fuck… No wonder your scent was sweeter…”
“As for what could’ve caused her miscarriage… We can only assume that it was due to the recent… uneventful incident that the Missus has experienced. The emotional, mental and physical distress coupled with the absence of an Alpha must’ve increased her stress levels to a point where it significantly affected her well-being.”
The doctor lowers his head in condolences and exits the room. Both yours and Wonwoo’s parents left soon after, deciding to give you both some privacy.
“Nonu…” you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Your broken voice seemed to crack something within him and his rigid frame finally moved. Wonwoo sinks down to his knees in front of you, his hands hesitantly reaching for yours. He held them gently, and despite his warm touch, you could feel the tremble in them.
“Babydoll…” You finally forced yourself to look at him, and the sight added another weight to your already heavy heart. His jaw was clenched as his lips were parted slightly, his lips trembling slightly while his eyes glistened with unshed tears. He’s quick to cup your face when you sniffle out his name again, wiping away the tears that began to spill from your eyes.
“No, no, no…” he murmurs, wiping away your tears. “Don’t cry, babydoll… This isn’t your fault, yeah?”
His tender words only made the tears fall harder. The pain in your chest was unbearable, and the sound of his voice made it harder for you to hold yourself together. You shook your head, “N-No… Nonu, it was my fault. I-I should’ve been more alert or at least aware as to why I was –”
“Hey, hey…” He interrupts gently, “Don’t do this, babydoll, please. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You didn’t know, and even if you did, this is something out of your control.”
His thumb continues to stroke your cheeks, wiping away the endless tears that streamed down. “B-But… I-I should’ve.. hic… told you that I wasn’t feeling… hic… like myself.. M-Maybe i-if you’d known, you could’ve –”
Wonwoo presses a gentle kiss to your lips, leaning his forehead against yours once he pulls away. “Babydoll, please, don’t blame yourself… I… I should’ve been a better husband… I shouldn’t have just left you all alone again after your heat. I shouldn’t have kept my distance from you thinking it’d be a good decision… I should’ve been paying more attention to you, been home with you..”
His confession made your heart ache further. You reached up, your hands trembling as they covered his. “No, Nonu… Please, don’t say that… You've been the perfect husband and –”
“Babydoll, I wasn’t there to realise something was up. Our parents knew it before we did and –”
“We could… We could try again, right..?” Your voice was shaky, filled with uncertainty and carried a weight as though speaking it out loud could shatter what little hope you were clinging to. Wonwoo’s breath hitches, his eyes carrying the same raw, aching vulnerability you felt.
“Oh, babydoll…” he whispers, his lips trembling as he pecks your lips, “Of course we can. We can try as many times as we want, but that’s for when you’re ready – when we’re ready. Right now… Let’s… I… Let me make sure you’re okay.”
You nodded, hands moving from covering his to clutch the fabric of his shirt; as if holding onto him would stop the pieces of your heart from falling apart any further. “We’ll try again,” you echoed, voice trembling but filled with a quiet determination. “When we’re ready.”
Wonwoo hums, tilting his head to the side so he could capture your lips in a tender kiss. His lips moved against yours gently. It was soft, unhurried, and full of unspoken promises. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours once again, and his hands move to cradle your face, thumbs brushing softly against your cheeks.
Snow muffled the world outside the cabin, layering the landscape in a blanket of silence and softness. The fire crackled lowly, casting shadows on the wooden walls and painting flickers of gold across the thick blanket tangled around your legs.
It’s only been days since you left the hospital, body still aching quietly – your ribs would hurt just a little when you breathed in too deeply, you could even feel the stiffness in your limbs when you moved too fast. But here, tucked away in the mountains with no one but Wonwoo, the pressure to be okay all the time faded just like the hush of falling snow.
Wonwoo sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his presence warm and steady. He’d just come back from gathering more firewood, snow melting in his hair and a few flakes clinging stubbornly to his coat. You watched him shrug it off, mouth watering at the way his muscles ripple under the thick sweater as he crossed the room to tend to the fire.
God, he looks so good you just wanna pounce on him.
He returns to the bed, slipping under the covers with you like he belongs there – like he’d always been there. One of his arms snakes around your waist, drawing you against his side with practiced ease, careful to not press too hard against you.
He smells like warm cedar, a touch of pine, and that deep, grounding Alpha musk that seeps into your senses like a balm. He exhaled softly, rubbing slow circles into your hip with his thumb.
“Is it too cold?”
You shake your head, almost purring into him. “Not with you here.”
Wonwoo’s expression softens, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Good. I was worried it’d be… well, something you wouldn’t like. The snow, the isolation…”
“You picked it for a reason,” you whispered back, nuzzling into his chest. “It’s quiet up here. I like that.”
He held you closer, his heart beating steadily beneath your cheek. “I needed us somewhere no one could reach. Just for a little while.”
“Because I’m still healing?” Your voice was smaller than you meant for it to be.
“No.” His answer was immediate. “Because I need time with you. Alone. Not shared. Not interrupted. Just… us.”
You hum, closing your eyes and letting yourself be embraced by the most fearsome man of the city. In this moment, where the world was blanketed in snow, where nothing existed but the steady beat of Wonwoo’s heart and the feel of his body against yours, you were safe.
“Nonu?”
Wonwoo looks down, still curling against his side beneath the blanket, hand pausing on your waist. “Yeah, babydoll?”
You hesitated, feeling your pulse thudding against your ribs. You feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours and the subtle way his scent thickened the longer you laid together in the quiet cabin. Maybe it was the isolation, or the cold outside – or maybe it’s just him.
The sense of safety he gives.
You swallowed, “What… What do you think about knotting me?”
Wonwoo stills, his hand splaying wider on your waist as a means to ground you in place, as though you’d float off if he didn’t. He leans down slowly, brushing his nose against your cheek. “Are you asking me if I thought about it?” his voice is now laced with some darker, thicker. “Or if I want to?”
Your face burned, and you tried to look away, but his hand caught your chin, gently coaxing you to meet his eyes. His gaze flickers down to your lips, then lower, and back. “You know I’ve thought about it, babydoll. Especially that time during your heat, but I had to stop because we were still getting used to each other.”
“What about now?”
His voice drops, “You’re still healing. Not now, okay?”
You let out a shaky breath, “I feel okay, Nonu. Better. And… I want it. I want you”
His hand tightened slightly at your hip, not enough to hurt, but just enough to let you feel the echo of what he was holding back.
“You sure, babydoll?” he asks quietly, “Because once I do that, there’s no going back to pretending I don’t need you. I’m going to be all over you, y’know?”
You reach for your Alpha, fingers curling into his sweater, voice barely steady. “Then let it.”
For a moment, Wonwoo just stares at you. And then the alpha in him stirred – quiet and hungry – as he shifts to hover above you, mouth grazing yours. “My feisty Omega can’t help but to be all soft for me now, hmm?” his voice was rough with barely checked restraint and it was enough to have you dripping. His breath ghosts over your lips, his nose brushing yours as his eyes darken. “Always biting back, but the second I touch you like this…”
His hand slides down your thigh, his touch possessive and curls it under your knee, spreading you open just a little more before pulling down the pyjama pants you were wearing.
“...you melt.”
Your breath catches, fingers curling into his sweater as heat coils low in your belly. Wonwoo wasn’t just teasing, he was marveling.
“Oh, babydoll,” he continues, enjoying the way your thighs tremble when his cold fingers trail up the skin of your bare thighs. “I’m going to bury myself in you and let my knot swell so deep that you’ll forget where I end and where you begin.”
“You’ll take good care of me, right, Alpha?”
Wonwoo groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll take good care of you, my sweet Omega.”
He kisses you slowly, soft at first – the deeper, hungrier, like the dam had cracked and he could finally taste what he’d been starving for. His palms slid down your sides, memorising every curve, every shiver. He doesn't rush, deciding to not strip you out of the sweater you were wearing to keep you warm.
Pulling away just enough, Wonwoo slides off his glasses and settles them aside on the nightstand. His eyes, dark and intense, were focused entirely on you. The familiar weight of his gaze sent a shiver up your spine. It was as though without the barrier of his glasses, he could see straight through you.
“You’re so beautiful, babydoll,” he murmured, breath brushing against your lips before he kissed you again, deeper, like he couldn’t stop himself. He groaned against your mouth, the soft drag of his lips against yours. His fingers traced the line of your jaw., down your neck and over the curves of your body, like he was committing the shape of your body to memory.
You let out a shaky whimper, hands trembling as you reached for him, tugging him closer. His entire being invades your senses, filling the space between your bodies as his kiss grew more intense, more desperate. You can’t help but respond to his hunger with your own, pulling him closer against your body.
You barely registered the way Wonwoo moved, only the warmth of his body that left yours for a moment. You hear the quiet click of the drawer opening beside the bed. Your voice wavered between surprise and something breathless, eyes widening just a little as your Alpha pulls out a slee black toy from it. It gleamed in the firelight, deceptively elegant. It wasn’t flashy, obviously neither you nor Wonwoo liked flashy. It was plain black, smooth, curved, and obviously meant for one purpose.
"You brought a vibrator on our honeymoon?"
Wonwoo shrugged, “More like Jihoon and Mingyu told me to. They’re… invasive to say the least.”
“How did they even know we’d be doing this?”
Wonwoo gives you a dry, amused look, like you’d just asked why the sun rises. “They’re nosy and overconfident. Honestly, since that night of your heat and when you’d ask to sleep with me, Mingyu said he can smell some kind of budding romance.”
You stared back, “That’s… That’s not a real thing, right?”
He shrugs again, “God knows. Jihoon just enables him. I have a feeling they packed it themselves when I wasn’t looking.”
A pause.
“You don’t check your luggages?”
“They probably hid it under my clothes.”
You snort, “I’m surprised it even made pass customs.”
Wonwoo chuckles, “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve smuggled through airport security.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Do I even want to know?”
He tilts his head like he’s genuinely considering it. “Probably not.”
You stare at the vibrator in his hand, “So… What use is this to us and did you at least sanitise it?”
Wonwoo sits back on his heels, the firelight casting him in gold and shadow as he pushes the sleeves of his sweater up to his forearms. “Of course I sanitised it, babydoll. As for what use, I’m sure you have that figured out.”
You let him part your legs slowly, his eyes instantly dropping to your wet cunt. He caresses your thighs, coaxing them wider and when his scent changed, thickening with quiet arousal, your body responded like it knew what was coming.
“I’d consider my knot to be big,” he said, voice low and even. “It’s gonna take more than just my fingers to open you up.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He eases two fingers into your cunt, tongue darting out to wet his lips when your breath gets stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The drag of his knuckles felt cruel, like he wanted you to know exactly how he’d take you apart.
When he pushes in a third finger, you whimper. The stretch burns at first, before it fades into a more consuming ache. Your hips buck instinctively, his hand on your waist kept you pinned down like you were nothing more than a body to be used.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his lips brushes against your jaw, “You keep clenching like that and I’m going to think you like being stretched out like this.”
His fingers curled again, and you choked on a cry.
“Atta girl,” he praised, smiling against your skin.
The air was heavy with the smell of sweat, arousal, and something more dangerous. You were trembling underneath him, not just from pleasure but from the oppressive weight of his presence, the way he looked at you like you’re something fragile yet can’t help but want to break you at the same time.
Every curl of Wonwoo’s fingers leaves you breathless, the coil in your lower belly growing tighter. “You’re dripping, babydoll,” he says flatly, drawing his hand back just enough to spread your wet folds with two of his fingers before plunging them back inside. “You’re making a mess and I barely touched you.”
With one final curl of his fingers, your back arches involuntarily as his fingertips press hard against your g-spot over and over. “C’mon, babydoll,” he murmurs, voice filled with arousal. “Cum for me.”
Your body obeys, a loud cry of his name tearing through your throat as your body seizes, pussy walls fluttering around his fingers. Your nails dig into his arm, thighs trembling around his wrist, and all you can do is ride it out as he coaxes every last tremble from your body. He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, breathing hard, and sweat sticking to your skin.
Only then does he ease them out, slowly. He lifts his slick covered fingers to his lips, tongue flicking out to taste you as he keeps his eyes on your ruined expression with a dark glint.
“You taste sweeter than I thought,” he mumbles. Leaning down, he presses a gentle kiss on your lips before spreading your thighs again. “Gimme one more and I’ll knot you, yeah?”
He turns on the vibrator, the black toy humming to life. You watch with wide eyes as he brings the toy to your slick, pulsing entrance. The moment the curved tip presses inside you, your hips jerked. It zeroed in on that spongy spot deep inside you, making your vision blur and your thighs tremble.
One hand keeps your hips still while the other begins to move the toy inside you. Your breath stutters, back arching as the toy presses up and in, vibrating relentlessly against your gspot. Your legs twitch, thighs trembling as you try to squirm away from the intense pleasure, but Wonwoo won’t let you.
He keeps you in place, spread open while he grinds the toy mercilessly against your gspot, your pulsing walls clenching and unclenching around it rhythmically. Slick, wet sounds fill the room, echoing between your moans and the relentless hum of the vibrator. Your knuckles turned white as your hands clutch the sheets, the coil in your lower belly tightening up again.
“Nonu!”
“Gonna cum again?” he asks, voice low and taunting. He pushes the toy deeper and your vision goes black around the edges. A broken sob claws its way out of your throat as the pressure becomes unbearable. “C’mon, babydoll. Show me how greedy this pussy is. I want you soaked for my knot. Wanna feel you gush all over me.”
He twists the vibrator just right, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit and your body convulses around the toy. A loud cry rips from your throat, sharp and raw as your pussy squirts, hips arching off the bed – drenching his wrists, the toy and the sheets beneath you.
Wonwoo groans, eyes dark as they lock on the way your body submits to him so beautifully. “Fuck, babydoll” he breathes, tossing the wet vibrator aside. “You’re ready to take me now. Gonna stretch you around my knot just how you’re meant to.”
He doesn’t even bother to wipe his hand, sliding them under your thighs and guiding them around his waist, lowering himself over you. You can feel the heat of his cock, flushed and heavy, grinding his length against your slick folds. “Gonna knot you so good, babydoll. Fill you so full that everyone who smells you knows you’re taken.”
You lick your lips at the weight of his knot that’s already swelling at the base. You lock your legs around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his back pulling him closer.
That was all the permission he needed.
Wonwoo lines himself up, holding back a growl as the blunt head of his cock bumps against your clit. His jaw clenches, holding back a guttural growl as he pushes in, inch by inch. Your eyes flutter shut as he stretches you, your slick walls sucking him in greedily.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grits out, kissing your jaw. “So fucking wet. Pussy feels so warm that I could die happy right now.”
You whimper, back arching as he bottoms out, his knot pressing against your entrance. He rolls his hips experimentally, letting you feel every vein of his cock, the way his cock drags against your soaked, swollen walls.
His head dips to press his mouth against the curve of your jaw, your throat. “Taking me so well. Fuck, you feel so good.”
His hands tighten on your thighs, pushing them up so your knees are pressed against your chest, angling your hips just right so he can sink even deeper. His leaking cockhead bullies your sweet spot, making you cry out with each thrust.
“Feel how deep I am, babydoll?” He slides a hand between your bodies, pressing down on your lower belly. You moan at the pressure, nails scratching down his clothed back and Wonwoo starts to roughly thrust into your sloppy cunt. The drag of his cock against your walls sends aftershocks through your twitching body.
Wonwoo groans loudly, biting down on your shoulder – not hard enough to break the skin nor the sweater you wore, but enough to have your wet walls squeeze around him. “Shit, babydoll. Your pussy tightens up when I bite you. You like that, huh? Like it when I mark you up?”
You can’t answer. You’re shaking and gasping, all thoughts wiped out by the way his leaking cockhead grinds into your cervix with every thrust, body starting to bounce from the sheer force.
He presses down on your belly again, palm flat and firm. The pressure makes you clench reflexively, his eyes focus on the way your pretty cunt is stuffed snugly around his dick – entranced with the way your puffy lips coat his thick cock with your sweet cream.
“Nonu,” you whine out, feeling a jolt of electricity run up your spine when his abdomen rubs against your clit. “Please! Want your knot!”
Wonwoo growls, forcing his knot past your rim with one brutal thrust and stretching your pussy wide. You cry out in pleasure and pain, nails digging into the fabric of the sweater that he thinks you’d shred it into pieces. You feel it pop past your entrance and lock inside you, your vision going white.
He pulls out halfway only to slam back in, so addicted to how tight and wet you are around him. He loves how your gummy walls are taking his knot, how the lewd sounds of skin slapping and the wet squelching of your pussy fills the cabin. Wonwoo’s thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it hard and fast; grunting in approval when he feels your arousal drip out your stuffed cunt.
“N-Nonu, ‘M gonna cum!” you moan, head thrown back against the pillows as he fucks you harder into the mattress.
“I know, babydoll,” he murmurs, “Can feel your pussy milking my cock.”
Your walls flutter wildly against him. His knot throbs, snug and swollen inside you, ready to fill you up. “Cum for me, my Omega,” he groans into your neck, planting wet kisses as he chases his own climax. “Make a mess on my cock.”
Your orgasm slams into you, white, hot and all-consuming. Your entire body convulses underneath him, pussy creaming his dick. Wonwoo curses under his breath, hips jerking as your pulsing walls trigger his own release.
“Take it,” he pants, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he spills his cum deep inside. Ropes and ropes of hot cum flood your womb, and you mewl as your mind wanders back to the first time he filled you up.
Your Alpha stays buried inside you, knot locked tight as he releases your legs, hanging them over his forearms. One hand has a possessive grip on your hip while the other rubs your overstimulated clit in slow, teasing circles with just enough pressure to make you jolt.
He grinds his hips against you, knot fully lodged inside you. It’s said that Alphas cum more than they usually do when knotting their bonded mates, and sure enough, Wonwoo was indeed filling your pussy with load after load of his hot cum. Not that you were complaining though. You happily take every drop he gives you with a blissful smile.
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting the room in a dim amber. You’re still lying beneath Wonwoo, still stretched wide around his knot, both of you soaked in sweat and slick. You could still feel him twitching inside you, some of his cum slipping past the tight sleeve of your cunt around him.
He releases his hold on your legs so he can bury his face into your neck, pressing soft kisses to the skin, teeth nipping over your scent gland. His voice was soft when he praised you, “My babydoll did such a good job at taking my knot.”
His hands slide under your sweater, caressing your body in gentle touches. You both stay like that until his knot deflates. But, your body hasn’t had enough yet. Your hips shifted without thinking, instinctive, needy.
Wonwoo chuckles when he feels it, pulling back to look at you – his eyes dilated and darker than before. “You still want another round, babydoll?”
You bit your lip, squirming just a little as your walls flutter helplessly around his girth. “Well, you’re still hard, Nonu~”
His grin is wolfish, but there’s a glint of fondness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. He hums, rolling his hips just enough for you to feel the slow drag of his length still nestled inside you. “That’s ‘cause your greedy little pussy won’t let go of me.”
He leans down again, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. “Keep squeezing me like that and I’ll knot you again, babydoll.”
You purr, bucking your hips up to meet his.
Wonwoo hisses, shifting his weight and hooking his forearms beneath your knees. In one swift motion he folds you in half, sinking his cock deeper into your pussy. He kisses you hard, tongue sliding against yours as he pounds your soaked cunt, thick cockhead repeatedly knocking against your cervix so hard it knocks the breath right out of your lungs too. You gasp into his mouth, body starting to tremble from the stimulation.
“Fuck,” he moans, “Pussy still so fucking tight. Look so fucking hot full of my cock.”
You cry out when you feel his knot start to swell inside you again. You can only moan and cry as he keeps hammering his cock into your sensitive hole. “Bet you’d take every load I give you, huh? Stuff you so full you’ll be dripping for days.”
Your head lolls back against the pillows, lips parting in a breathless moan. You feel everything – the stretch of his knot forcing you wider, locking you in place, the way his cock drags along your swollen walls.
“Nonu–” you whimpered, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. “Full! Too full–”
“But you can’t help but to want me to fill you again,” he groans, gripping your hips with a bruising grip. He shifts the angle of his thrusts, feeling him in your guts as his thick cock pummels into you relentlessly. Wonwoo groans when he feels your pussy constrict around him again. “Ohh, fuck, babydoll. You gonna cum again? Gonna squirt all over my cock like the needy little Omega that you are?”
You can’t answer, the only sounds leaving your lips are your filthy moans. You wail every time he drives his dick in and out of you, grinding his thick knot right against that spongy spot inside you until you reach another climax.
Your whole body seizes as you cum hard, the air being punched out from your lungs. You gush around your Alpha, liquid splashing between your thighs – soaking his sweater and the sheets beneath you. Wonwoo is mesmerised by the sight of you squirting all over his cock, how your eyes screwed shut while your sweet cries filled the room.
“Fucking hell, babydoll,” he growls, throwing his head back as he feels his own climax approaching. “Squeezing my cock so fucking good.”
The milking compression of your walls around him, clenching and unclenching around his knot, like your body was begging for him to creampie you was what drove him right to the edge. With a loud roar of your name, his whole body goes tense. His fat cock twitches and throbs inside you, flooding your already wrecked cunt with spurts of his hot cum. His knot swells further, making sure to keep your soaked pussy filled to the brim.
You cry out, nails digging into his forearms as you feel droplets of his cum drip down your thighs. Wonwoo groans when he feels your walls flutter around his length, grinding his hips slowly to try and push his cum deeper.
When he releases your legs from the mating press he had you in, you let out a moan of relief. Your muscles are barely able to hold up after being held up in that position for so long. Your thighs fall limp on the bed, trembling, and slick with sweat and a mixture of your bodily fluids.
Wonwoo doesn’t move, his cock still buried inside you as he continues to release more ropes of thick cum, coating your walls. He places his palm flat against your belly again, right over the small swell of where his cum is filling you – where his knot is. Then he presses down on it.
You gasp, your entire body jerking.
Your cunt tightens reflexively, milking his cock for more of his cum, and he groans at the squeeze. You whimper, eyes glassy, and droplets of tears cling to your lashes.
Your body goes limp beneath him as Wonwoo hovers above you, back hunched as he tries to come down from the delicious high he had just experienced. He’s still sheathed inside, cock still pulsing, his cum sloshing inside your pussy that he can already feel it dripping down your thighs.
But, fuck, the way you were tightly holding onto him – his pretty Omega all wet and stretched and stuffed to the brim, it had his instincts just snarling beneath the surface.
“Shit, babydoll,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride and affection, “Knotted you twice and you’re still squeezing me like you want a third.”
You let out a shaky chuckle, looping your arms around his neck. “I might,” you whisper, giving him a dazed smile.
Wonwoo shakes his head, “You’re insatiable.”
When he leans down to pepper kisses to your throat, you whimper out his name. “Shh, I got you, babydoll. Let’s wait til my knot deflates before we do anything else.”
You hum, clinging to him as your legs weakly wrap themselves around his waist, body still trembling from pleasure and emotions.
And as the snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the surrounding world in white, you and Wonwoo stay tangled together in the heat of the cabin, arms holding each other like you’d never let each other go.
synopsis: as a full time medical student and a part time realist, you never believed in fate. it’s not like it was a choice—you just never had the time to do anything but memorise the anatomy flashcards in your pockets and cry over the brachial plexus scrawled on your bathroom mirror. you understandably could not fall in love.
the day you met wonwoo—one of the country’s wealthiest—was arguably the worst, most regrettable day of your life. coincidentally, it was also the start of a story you never expected yourself to tell.
pairing: ceo! jeon wonwoo x f! medical student! reader
tropes/themes: age gap (8 years), chance encounter, eventual smut, fluff, small timeskip
word count: 7.2k
rating: 18+ (MDNI)
smut tags below the cut.
smut tags: p in v sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, breast play, missionary, window sex, slight exhibtionism, pet names (princess, baby), rough sex, fingering. wonwoo kinda has a creampie kink
MDNI !!
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹
Panic was a common name in your house. You could name about a dozen times just this week where you freaked out over a quiz or a practical exam result you weren’t particularly satisfied with. Everyday was a war between you and your (lack of) discipline.
It wasn’t like you hated being a medical student—of course you couldn’t. Becoming a qualified doctor was your biggest dream since the day you learned the word. You fought hard every day of your life, and you were grateful to be able to do what you’ve always wanted—to save people, to be reliable in a patient’s most vulnerable moments, to be the reason someone can have a future.
But you couldn’t lie and tell yourself that you enjoyed every moment of your present life. There were days where you couldn’t even keep your eyes open for a full minute, where you has to skip a few meals to buy a particularly expensive textbook, or cancel on a high school friend’s birthday party because you had a nasty exam that same night.
Today happened to be one of those difficult days. You had been spending the last few weeks cramming for the three exams you had this week. Each one seemed to get better—until it got worse. You had a pharmacology final this afternoon, and you felt confident enough that you could get through it with a solid passing grade. You had been studying for it, along with your other exams, with everything you had. The minute you saw the test paper, though, you knew you were absolutely, utterly screwed.
You had been studying the wrong content. You mastered your knowledge in the completely wrong topics. You felt panic rush through your bones when you read questions you only vaguely recognised. Your face felt icy, your hands were shaking with vigour and you could barely even breathe. Your eyes scanned the room, hoping that this was a plain misunderstanding and the exam proctor had just accidentally given everyone the wrong papers. But to your incredible dismay, everyone else was busily writing down their answers and working their way through the test paper, their eyes focused and sharp. You felt faint. Like you were going to fall and trap yourself within a dark abyss. You could only wish that could happen.
You turned your attention back to the paper laid on your desk, staring at the words that mocked you. You vaguely recalled going through the content when the lecture was released, but you didn’t study it enough to confidently know what the answers to the questions were.
The feeling you were experiencing right now was indescribably terrible. The fear of failing—of losing everything you ever fought for, was a nightmare you never wished to experience.
The questions on your test paper swirled around in your line of sight, every word sounding more daunting than the last. Though, you were partially thankful that the exam was multiple choice—because you at least had a small shot at getting some of the questions right. You took a deep breath in and took your time to read each word carefully. It was only when you were halfway through the paper when the proctor announced that the exam time was up, and ordered everyone to place their pens down on the desk.
Your blood ran cold. You silently hoped that this was just some sort of sick joke and that you were a victim of a cruel prank played by a group of famous pranksters. There was no way that 2 hours had already passed. You desperately began circling random answers, your pen shaking in your hand. A voice cleared itself in front of you. Your eyes followed, finding the face of an annoyed old woman, her slender arms crossed against her chest.
You apologised quickly before handing her your exam, defeat settled instantly in your joints. You watched her turn away with your pathetic piece of paper held in her hands. You felt tears well in your eyes when the realisation dawned upon you. You definitely failed that exam. There was no way you could have passed. You were doomed from the very start.
When all the test papers were collected, everyone walked out of the room, their postures showing their confidence. You couldn’t tell whether you hated their smug attitudes more or yourself for not preparing enough to have that same confidence. You speed walked past the door, not even turning back to ask your colleagues about how they went. You really were not in the mood.
You needed to go somewhere—someplace secluded or at least someplace quiet. You dragged your feet along the concrete path, your steps heavy and slow. You didn’t know where you were headed. You didn’t know where you even were. You just kept walking aimlessly until you could find a suitable place to cry your heart out.
You eventually found yourself on a bridge—an overway crossing over a car-filled highway. You watched as the cars sped past, their lights flashing momentarily in your eyes. You had forgotten your despair for a moment, until the emotions you were holding in earlier came crashing back into you at full force. Your knees buckled and you crouched down, your head dropping to your knees as you sobbed uncontrollably, like an inconsolable child during a full blown tantrum.
You wailed and screamed and thrashed about, letting out every breath you held in that cursed exam room. Your mind was numb with deep regret and anger. You cursed out every single day you wasted during the past few weeks studying for questions you wouldn’t even be asked.
You eventually calmed down from a full blown meltdown to a calmer one. You had no energy to scream, but the tears could not stop falling. You laid your head on your knees, hoping the mild pressure would ease the debilitating ache in your head. You fell silent as darkness rose from the sky, the stars revealing themselves from beneath the blanketing clouds. You heart calmed down just a little as you stared into the sparkling abyss.
“Rough night?” A deep voice echoed, slightly concealed by the sounds of cars driving past. Surprise slipped through your body. Your eyes shifted to the tall build of a man standing before you, adorned in the rich silk of an immaculately curated suit. His sharp eyes, stationed behind a thin pair of frames, stared at you intently. You gulped down your nerves.
Standing before you was a dangerously handsome man with features sharper than a knife. You hated how nervous his appearance alone made you feel. You shifted your gaze away, hoping that the darkness of the night would conceal the redness of your eyes and the puffiness of your face.
“You could say that.” You replied vaguely. He raised a sharp brow.
“Boyfriend dumped you?” His terrible guess could only make you laugh.
“Worse.”
A chuckle left the stranger’s mouth, the sound so deep you felt it reverberate through your body. A chill slipped down your spine.
“Hm. Would you mind sharing?” You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. You didn’t feel the need to pour your heart out to a stranger you didn't even know the name of.
But maybe, that was exactly what you needed right now.
“I bombed a test. Terribly.” You sighed. A wave of silence engulfed the air.
“…Was it a hard one?” His voice sounded softer than earlier.
“No…I just…I spent weeks studying for it but, I realised during the test that I studied all the wrong things.” Your voice was cracking. Your throat was horrifically dry and sore from your earlier session of crying and screaming.
You stared at a random spot on the ground. You refused to look at him. Not in your most vulnerable moment. Not when the only thing you felt at the moment was pure and utter shame.
“…Is that really so bad?” His words were infuriating, but his tone was soft. He clearly had no ill intention behind his words, but it didn’t help ease your frustrations in the slightest.
“Of course. I’m in medical school. Failure isn’t an option. People’s lives are at stake.” Your tone came out defensive. You regretted it almost immediately.
You carefully stole a glance at his face, taking in his unreadable expression.
“…I see.” His eyes were fixed on you. You felt yourself burn under his gaze.
“Has this happened before?”
You shook your head.
“So it was just a simple mistake then?” You grew silent at his question. A long moment passed before you responded.
“…I guess.”
“Everyone makes mistakes. Even doctors do too. They’re humans after all.”
“Don’t let a simple mistake take over you like that. Learning from your failures and preventing them from happening again is what true growth stems from. Your capabilities won't be diminished because of a mistake.” His words made your heart skip a beat. Your nervousness grew stronger with each passing second, but you knew his words were right. It definitely was comforting to hear it from a stranger. A handsome one at that.
“…Thank you.” You eventually replied, your voice softer than before. He simply nodded before slipping his hands into his suit pockets. Silence.
He turned on his heel and began walking away, his broad shoulders taking up your line of vision. You quickly stood up before he could get away further.
“What’s your name?” You called out, curiosity biting into your brain. He turned his head toward you, a smirk evident on his face.
“That’s a secret.”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹︶
The walk back home was an odd one. While one part of your brain was trying to figure out where the hell you were, another part was playing back the conversation you had earlier with the handsome stranger. His words surprisingly made you feel better than when you had left the exam room just a few hours ago, which is saying a lot.
You felt drained, though you pushed yourself to get home as quickly as you could. The darker surroundings sent a wave of fear coursing through your body. You needed to get home soon.
A muffled chime sound reverberated from within your pocket. You pulled it out, eyes scanning over the glowing screen.
A message was sent from your best friend and roommate, Gyuri. She was a law student whom you met a few years ago when you were assigned to the same dorm room as first year undergraduate students. Needless to say, you continued to be in the same room as the years went on, and built a lifelong friendship as a result.
“Are you on your way home? I’m about to order in. Do you want anything?”
You typed and sent back a half-hearted response before slipping the device back into your pocket. You sighed deeply as you continued your journey back to your dorm, your body dancing dangerously close to the road. Something you were going to regret in about five seconds.
A car blitzed passed you. On other days, this wouldn’t have been an issue. It would’ve given you a jump scare at most. But today, on your worst bad luck day since birth, the car splashed into the largest, most dirtiest puddle in existence. Some would call it divine timing, others—such as yourself—would call it divine punishment. The murky water splashed all over your body, staining your white clothes, of course, into an awful shade of green-brown. The driver didn’t even stop to apologise.
It took a full moment for the situation to register in your brain. To have a completely terrible day, from start to the very end had to be an insane streak of luck—no matter how cursed that luck may be.
You felt your eyes water again. You had only just finished piecing yourself together, and now it felt that the strings you used were ripped apart for good. The cold air blew past your body, emitting a chilling shiver from within. You crossed your arms against your chest, holding onto yourself for warmth—and maybe a little comfort. A few people walked past you, their eyes staring at you with pity. But no one was kind enough to ask if you were alright. To offer you the slightest hint of comfort in a moment of pure and utter anguish.
The tears fell from your eyes as you continued walking, your steps shorter and slower than earlier. Your mind bustled with curses of doom and anger to the world and your entire existence. At this very moment, you couldn’t name anything you hated more.
The temperature continued to drop as the night grew older, and its effects were starting to manifest in you in the form of mild hypothermia. Your shivering only grew worse, your teeth chattering against each other. You were still fairly far from your destination, and it made you feel that maybe you weren’t going to make it home without a half frozen body.
You increased your pace. Your mind was in disarray but you were eager to step into the warmth of your dorm room. Maybe a little too eager.
You bumped harshly into someone, making you stumble back from the sheer force. A mortified look formed on your face. You bowed your head immediately, not having enough courage to meet their eyes.
“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” You apologised regrettably, your tone almost pitiful. A wave of silence hit you, and you hoped to God that it wasn’t because they were inexplicably angry.
“…Are you okay?”
That voice.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹︶
Your head immediately lifted. Your eyes found the same eyes that stared at you earlier. The same alarmingly attractive face that watched you fall apart, but pieced you back together unknowingly.
“It’s you again…” You muttered, your voice soft and hushed. His sharp eyes scanned over your appearance, an unreadable look written all over him.
“How could one’s day be so terrible?” A simple chuckle left your mouth at his query.
“I would love to know too.” His gaze softened at your response. He quietly slipped off his dark suit jacket, and when you realised what he was doing, your eyes immediately widened.
“No no, it’s okay. I’m all dirty.” You pointed at the muddy spots on your clothes. He lifted an eyebrow with disbelief.
“You’re also shivering.” He replied simply, pointing at your shaking body.
Before you had a chance to retort, he wrapped his jacket around your shoulders. The warmth of rhe fabric and the faintly masculine scent of his cologne engulfed you immediately. The intimacy of the moment almost made you collapse with weakness.
“…Thank you.” Your eyes stared into the depths of his, looking for something you couldn’t quite name. Something you didn't want to name.
“Wonwoo. Jeon Wonwoo.” He spoke, his voice quiet but firm. It took a moment for you to realise he was informing you of his name. The corners of your mouth lifted.
“What happened to Mr. Secret?” You teased. A deep chuckle left his mouth. Your heart skipped a beat.
“Is that what you wish to call your knight in shining armour?” He replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“I do enjoy a hint of mystery.” You played along, your voice mildly bitten with a flirtatious energy. You almost slapped yourself when you realised.
“Touche.” He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips were slightly lifted. A beat of silence fell.
“Are you going to tell me your name? Or do I have to outright ask?” His frank nature made you smirk.
“That desperate, huh?” You teased. He rolled his eyes at you again. You giggled softly.
“It’s [First name]. [Last name] [First name].”
His eyes stayed pinned on you.
“So, Miss [Name]. Would you like an escort home?” His choice of vocabulary made you cheese like a schoolgirl.
“What’s with the choice of words? I’m not a princess, you know.” You joked, a shy smile forming on your face.
In this moment in time, you had completely forgotten the despair you were feeling the entire day. Every moment that had ruined you didn’t matter anymore. It was odd that one small encounter could flip your entire day around.
“My apologies, Miss [Name]. Would you rather me leave you stranded when you’re cold and covered in puddle water?” You rolled your eyes at his remark.
“No need for the sass. And just [Name] is fine.” You began walking towards the direction of your home, and his large frame walked beside you.
“So [Name], you’re a medical student, right? Where do you study?”
“Yonsei University. 2nd year.”
“So that makes you…” He trailed off, his eyes trained on you. You understood his question immediately.
“23. What about you?” His eyes remained unreadable.
“31.” Your eyes widened slightly, but you didn’t make it obvious. You were taken aback by the age gap, and also because you realised you were attracted to someone almost a decade older than you.
“And what do you do for work?” You questioned, your tone curious.
“I’m the CEO of JeonTech.” Your eyes almost bulged out of its sockets. You stopped in your tracks.
“…JeonTech, as in…the JeonTech?” You were half convinced that he was lying. Only half because his words would explain the reason behind his exquisite attire. He nodded curtly, his face indifferent to your surprise.
“You’re lying. Why would a tech company's CEO be walking around in the streets and not riding around in a million dollar car with a personal driver?” Your eyes squinted at his, searching for any hint of dishonesty.
“Look me up.” You scrunched your eyebrows and squinted your eyes further at his indifferent face before whipping out your phone. Your fingers typed in “JeonTech CEO” into the search bar. When the images loaded, you almost threw your phone away.
Professional quality images of the same ridiculously handsome man appeared on your screen, his features so ludicrously attractive it made you weak in the knees.
You turned your phone off immediately.
“Still think I’m lying?” His face was smug. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or kiss him. Maybe both.
“Well, no one would expect to meet a company CEO on the street on a random Wednesday.” You muttered under your breath before continuing to walk. A chuckle left Wonwoo’s mouth.
“Maybe your luck isn’t so bad, then.” You turned your head toward him. A small smile formed on your face.
“Yeah. Maybe it isn’t.”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹
The long journey home officially came to a conclusion. You were stationed outside your dormitory, the darkness of the night hugging the breezy air. You played with your fingers nervously before staring up into Wonwoo’s dark eyes.
“Thank you for walking me home. And for the jacket, too.” You whispered, your voice gentle. His face remained indifferent. You were about to slip out of the warmth of his jacket, but his hand landed on your arm, effortlessly holding you in place.
“Keep it on.” He gently ordered, his voice firm. The warmth of his palm spread over from your arm to your entire body. Your heart skipped a beat unknowingly.
“…How will I return it to you, then?” You asked, your cheeks warming indescribably. A faint smile formed on his face as he kept his firm grip on you.
“Meet me at the overhead bridge this Saturday. Same time as when we first met today.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment too long. You almost shrank away from him.
“…Okay.” You nodded. Your nervous radar was through the roof. It had been a while since you had felt this way. A long while.
A minuscule smile of content formed on Wonwoo’s sharp face, only barely visible from the dim street light’s illuminance.
“Go inside, now.” He ushered you towards the door, his touch firm but gentle. His fingers lingered on the curve of your waist for a beat too long. His touch was electrifying.
“I’ll see you on Saturday, Wonwoo.” You turned around and stepped towards the door, a slight smile on your face. His piercing eyes never left you.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹︶
The weight of the day felt lighter than when your string of calamities initially started. You could only owe it to a single encounter. A single person.
Every gaze that was given, touch that lingered, and words that were spoken played in your mind over and over again like a broken record. Every moment you spent with Wonwoo—even every breath you took in his presence—lived in your mind, clear as day.
You weren’t a believer of fate. Hell, you were barely even a believer of love. But something in the way you were led to him—twice in the same night at that—made you hopeful that rhe little thing called fate could actually be an existing reality.
The entire day felt like a fever dream. An unrealistic scene from an overly cheesy rom-com. Maybe a book written by a young, hopeless romantic author.
You spent the rest of your night completing your routine mindlessly, your brain all too consumed by the face of the strikingly handsome gentleman you met incidentally today. Gyuri had noticed your peculiar behaviour since the moment you stepped into the room. When she asked you about it, you recounted the entire story to her, from the nightmarish pharmacology exam to the final word you exchanged with Wonwoo.
The story-telling experience was a roller coaster in itself, just like your day had been. Gyuri’s face constantly shifted, from expressions of sadness to squeals of excitement. She rambled on for 10 minutes about how fate truly exists, or something about a soulmate connection. Truthfully, you lost track of her words at some point.
But to say you weren’t just as excited would be a bit of a lie.
You could only hope that Saturday would come sooner.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹
One thing you’ve realised in your years of living was that when you looked forward to something, the universe would do everything in its power to keep it as far from you as possible.
Today was officially Saturday. In the three days that passed since Wednesday, you had experienced one hell of a rollercoaster. You barely even had time to rest and recover from the Wednesday catastrophe. You kept yourself busy with other tasks and assignments that you were due to submit soon.
Then, your pharmacology professor got into contact with you on the early morning of Thursday, requesting that you sit a make-up exam on Saturday. Because of course, you had failed.
It wasn’t much of a surprise. Of course it wasn’t. But some stupid little part of you had hoped that every question you guessed was miraculously correct. Now you know that wishful thinking is a complete waste of time, along with studying the wrong content for an exam.
You were equal parts grateful and equal parts unhappy with how it all turned out.
Grateful because your professor was giving you a second chance. That in itself was a miracle and a half.
Unhappy because due to your horrible, horrible luck, the 2 hour long exam was scheduled at 4pm. You were supposed to be meeting Wonwoo at around 5pm. You didn’t even have his phone number to inform him about it. A wave of dread washed over you. You could not believe it.
Of all the times it could’ve been scheduled.
Though, you had no choice but to oblige. This was your only chance to redeem yourself. They only give so many second chances in medical school. You may not even allowed to continue your studies if something like this happened again. You were grateful that they were being so generous.
You only wished that it could’ve been scheduled even just an hour sooner.
You let out a deep breath before packing your bag. It was well past 3 o’clock now. You had been spending the past few mornings rigorously studying for this test—actually studying for it—with full wishes to pass. You were nervous of course, but you felt a shred of confidence that you could pass this time around. You needed to.
You forced yourself to relax and headed out, bidding goodbye to your equally stressed-out roommate. The gleam of the afternoon sun illuminated the entrance of your dormitory. The warmth of the afternoon lifted your spirits just a little. The atmosphere was calm, a complete contrast from the state of your mind.
You began the 3 minute walk to the scheduled room, anxiety filling your shoes with each step you took. When you eventually arrived at the location, you noticed the proctor was already present within the room. It was the same old woman who watched you pathetically circle answers in the last millisecond.
You let out a breath before seating yourself on a nearby bench. You quietly fumbled through your bag for your supplies, when you realised you had subconsciously brought Wonwoo’s jacket with you today.
You didn’t even know if you were even going to be able to see him today. The circumstances were completely against you. Yet you still believed—hoped—that the universe would be a little more forgiving today. You hoped that he would wait for you.
The door to the exam room opened. The grey-haired woman stared at you expectantly, a plastic clipboard tucked beneath her arm. You stood up instinctively, and followed as she gestured you into the room. Anxiety was deeply settled into your bones as you sat down at the nearest desk, settling down your weighty belongings.
The proctor read through the exam instructions as you stared mindlessly at the paper. Truthfully, your mind was filled with a tinge of guilt. You wanted to see Wonwoo today. You’ve been looking forward to it ever since you parted ways with him 3 days ago. You didn’t know when the opportunity would come again if you missed it today.
“You may start the exam.” The proctor’s flat voice interrupted your unending train of thoughts. You instantly wiped your mind clean and shifted your focus onto the paper in front of you. Right now, your priority was to ace this exam.
Anything else, you can worry about after it is over.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹
5:43pm.
As soon as you had finished triple checking your answers, you hurriedly handed in your paper and thanked the proctor. You repeatedly checked your phone for the time, each passing minute resulting in a spike in your anxiety levels. Your feet moved faster than it had ever before, as you trekked the path that led to the very bridge you had met Wonwoo.
Please, please, please.
You pleaded, begged, prayed to the universe to excuse you just this once. To give you the one thing you've been anticipating. The one thing you've hoped for since your life as an exhausted adult began.
You turned onto the familiar road, your feet slapping against the crumbling grey concrete. The familiar stairs eventually came into view. You clutched tightly onto your bag and sprinted faster than you ever had before, disregarding the shooting pain you felt in your abdomen.
When you reached the top of the stairs, you fell down to your knees, energy depleted from the sudden sprint. Chest rising up and down, you lifted your head. Your eyes widened immediately.
Staring out at the incoming cars, was the tall and handsome Jeon Wonwoo, wearing an opulent black suit that made him look extravagant.
Your heart skipped a beat as you took in his serene form. You hastily stood up, but lost your balance and immediately fell back down to your knees. The commotion caused Wonwoo to turn his head, and when he realised the state you were in, he rushed to your side at once.
"[Name]? Are you alright?" His voice—his deep voice that you craved to hear again—filled your ears, the sound almost euphoric.
His large hand landed on your back as he inspected you carefully.
"I...I'm so sorry I'm late." You spoke in between breaths. His gaze softened.
"I don't care about that. Are you okay?" You nodded, your breaths finally starting to even out. He held out a hand, offering to help you stand up. Your hands found his instantly, the touch electrifying. Your heart picked up its pace as you stared into his eyes for three moments too long.
"...Thank you for waiting for me." You finally let out, your voice barely a whisper.
"I had a feeling you would show up eventually." His breath fanned your face, the proximity making you weak in the knees. There were no better words to describe this moment than intimate—soul-shifting even. You barely knew the man who stood before you, but it felt that something in the universe shifted the moment you met him. You didn't know him, but your soul did.
You looked down at the ground nervously, your hands fidgeting.
"I had a make-up exam scheduled today. With my horrible luck, it was booked at 4pm." A humourless chuckle left your mouth.
"I'm really sorry I was late." You apologised again, the words coming out of you naturally. A soft thumb covered your lips.
"Apologise again and I will kiss you." He warned, his voice serious and stern. Your eyes widened immediately as your heart picked up at full speed.
"Is that a promise?" You joked, and you were fully expecting at least a chuckle from him. Instead, his lips found yours, his touch gentle yet commanding. His hand wrapped around your cheek as his mouth moved against you like a man starved. Your knees buckled but you were quick to kiss him back, your arms wrapping around his neck for support.
A moment had passed. Then two. Then ten.
The two you of continued kissing like you were making up for the time you were apart from each other. Like you knew each other for longer than just three days.
Your face was warm and your legs were incredibly weak, but you held onto him like the world would end if you let go. His hands moved from your warmth of your cheeks to the curve of your waist, holding onto you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him.
Eventually, the lack of oxygen caused you two to part. You stared at his face, eyeing his swollen lips and disheveled appearance. It was almost sinful. Your palms flattened against his broad chest as his large hands held tightly onto your waist.
"Would you like to have dinner with me?" His question came out hushed, drawing out the most intimate atmosphere you could imagine. Your cheeks warmed as you nodded your head.
"Of course."
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹
Life had continued on without stopping for a break. Months had passed since that fateful day you had met Jeon Wonwoo. The man of your dreams, or otherwise known as your soulmate.
You feared that becoming romantically involved with anyone would hinder your life as a busy medical student. Surprisingly, though, the two of you had built your routines to slot perfectly into both of your bustling lives.
He would visit you once a week during your late night library study sessions, feeding you snacks and offering his shoulder for your mini-naps. You would go over to his apartment every weekend, studying in his office on a desk he built for you while he worked on his own things. Silent moments were common of course—but they weren't the deafening kind. Neither of you needed to be loud to know that the love was still there. You just knew—from the way he would tuck you into his bed if you fell asleep while revising, how he would always make sure you were well fed with your favourite foods, or how he would quietly listen to all the troubles on your mind and comfort you in his arms.
The day you met him was both the worst and best day of your life. But you would go through it all again if it meant you could experience him again.
Right now, you were over at his apartment, flashcards held tightly in your hands as you studied rigorously for the anatomy exam you had that upcoming Friday. You still had around a week more to prepare, but you wanted to make sure you were thoroughly ready. Your notes and supplies were sprawled all over Wonwoo's plush white couch.
Your mind was occupied as you muttered anatomical terms under your breath. Your boyfriend, Wonwoo, smiled at your focused form and sat down on the spot beside you. Suddenly, your face warmed and you were hyper-aware of his presence, making your voice trail off.
Wonwoo lifted an eyebrow at your sudden silence. You gulped and tried your best to shift your focus back to whatever you were doing before he got here. Your eyes read over the questions on your flashcards, but your mind was completely blank. Not a single word was registering. Until, a genius idea popped into your mind.
"Can I trace the anatomy on your body?" You turned to your boyfriend, your eyes flickering with anticipation. A look of confusion formed on his face as he registered your request.
"As in..."
"As in I draw out the anatomy I'm supposed to learn on your body. Just the veins and arteries. Please?" You used the best pleading face you could muster, knowing the kind of effect it had on your boyfriend. A sigh left his mouth—that's how you knew it was a yes.
Wonwoo held out his arm, and you excitedly grabbed a pen and slowly started mapping out the venous system. You held onto his arm gently began drawing the veins you confidently remembered onto his upper arm. Your focus sharpened and you were in full-concentration mode. Wonwoo watched your face carefully, his face full of love and adoration. He took in each of your expressions of confusion, confidence and contentment like it sustained his life.
It kinda did.
When you finished drawing up the veins, you looked up at Wonwoo, your eyes meeting his loving ones. Your face warmed under his gaze.
"What?" You asked, voice shy.
"You're amazing. You know that, right?" His sudden compliment made you nervous, like you had only just met the handsome man before you.
"Your knowledge is quite sexy." He whispered, his face nearing yours. His words made your legs clench together immediately. His large hand enveloped your face gently, and he kissed you. Hard.
Your hands landed on his chest as you kissed him back, your touch anything but gentle. Your flashcards, notes—heck, anything that even had to do with anatomy was long forgotten now.
The kiss eventually grew hungrier and more passionate, your tongues clashing against each other in a one-sided battle for dominance.
Wonwoo broke the kiss and pushed you down onto the couch, your back flushed against the soft surface. The intense look in his eyes made the wetness between your legs grow. He kissed you again, keeping it brief before his lips traveled lower towards your neck and collarbone. He left a trail of wet kisses along the ridges of your bones, taking his sweet time in each area. His hands fondled your confined tits, eliciting a sweet moan from your lips.
“Take it off me, Wonwoo. Please.” You begged, your voice barely a whisper. He obliged immediately, his hands ripping off every piece of fabric from your body. You gasped, but had no time to think about it further when he began to play with your dripping folds. A sinful moan left your mouth when he slipped a finger into your hole, his pace slow and excruciating.
He watched your reaction carefully and slipped another long finger in, making you whimper loudly.
“F-Faster, please, Wonwoo.” You begged, your voice desperate. A smirk formed on your boyfriend’s face, but he eventually complied to your request. Slick sounds resounded through the living room of Wonwoo’s expensive apartment, the sounds sinful and scandalous.
You felt yourself reach closer to your high when he increased his pace, and it was evident with the way your voice grew near pornographic. His mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking on it until it was red, raw and swollen. The sensation was accelerating the rate of your orgasm. He let go of your swollen nipple with a small popping sound.
“Cum on my fingers, princess.” He whispered into your ear, and you did just that. You shook around him as his fingers continued to move inside you, milking out every drop of your orgasm. You repeatedly moaned his name like it was the only word you knew as you came back down from your high, your plush walls pulsing around his slender fingers.
Wonwoo kissed your forehead gently before taking his fingers out of you to take off his own clothes. You watched carefully as he slipped out of his casual wear, your body mildly tired from your recent high. You stared seductively as he released his rock hard cock from the confines of his underwear, the raging red tip oozing out drops of precum.
He kissed you again before lining his length to your entrance.
“Is this okay?” He asked softly, as if he hadn’t just fucked the living daylights out if you with only his fingers. You nodded eagerly and he wasted no time sliding into your wet hole. The two of you groaned out loud at the contact, immediately feeling arousal from the way he filled you up perfectly.
“God, you are unbelievably tight.” He groaned, making you clench around him. He started with slow thrusts, making sure you weren’t feeling any pain. When you eventually got used to his size, you begged him to go faster, and he immediately complied with a smirk on his face.
The lewd sounds of skin-on-skin reverberated through the room, the filthy smell of sex filling up your noses. Your tits bounced with each thrust, making Wonwoo stare at them with pure lust in his eyes. He pinched and squeezed your already sensitive nipples, increasing the pleasure you were feeling.
“God, I can’t believe you’re mine. You’re literally perfect.” He grunted, voice deep and husky. His rough thrusts and sweet words made you moan like you didn’t know how to do anything else. You could feel yourself driving closer to the edge.
“Wonwoo, I’m so close.” You whimpered, tears welling in your eyes.
“Me too, baby.” He groaned, keeping up his fast pace. His thick cock continued to slip in and out of your hole, until you eventually reached your high again. Your walls clenched around him, and you almost screamed when your vision turned white. Wonwoo groaned and stilled to a stop, his swelling cock still wedged deeply inside you. It twitched and shook until eventually he released his thick, white cum deep into your hole, a non-stop supply coming out of him. The warmth made you moan out loud.
Wonwoo kept his length inside you, plugging up his release to prevent anything from leaking. After a while, he pulled his half-hard cock out of you, watching carefully as his hot seed trickled out of your tight and swollen hole. The view itself was enough to arouse him again.
“Can I fuck you again? Against the window?” He asked with a hushed voice, his fingers gently pushing your hair out of your face. You briefly looked at the window that he was referring to. Correction: a large floor-to-ceiling window that allowed for the perfect view of the city, and likely, a perfect view of the both of you to the city.
The thought of being watched made you embarrassingly wet. You clenched your thighs together.
“Please.” You whispered before smashing your lips against his. After a long moment of clashing tongues, he stood up and led the two of you towards the window, turned you around and pushed you up against it. The coldness of the glass hit your chest, squishing your tits and your face against it. The cold temperature elicited a pleasured noise from your parted mouth.
The possibility that someone could be watching you from somewhere right now was turning you on more than you wished to admit, but you had no time to dwell on it further. Wonwoo slipped his hardened cock back inside your hole again, making you arch your back and press harder against the glass. Your swollen nipples pebbled again as a result of the cold, increasing amount of pleasure you were feeling.
He began his rough and relentless pace again, making you press your hands against the window to hold yourself steady. His hands landed on your hips to continue his rough thrusts, his fat cock kissing your cervix deliciously. Your fat and swollen tits bounced against the window, your hardened nipples receiving pleasurable stimulation from constantly rubbing against the glass. High pitched moans left your mouth, leaving a mark of blurred condensation on the window.
The two of you were sensitive enough from your last high, so you knew it wouldn’t be long until you would be trembling before him again. But unexpectedly, Wonwoo pulled out of you and turned your body around to face him, and signalled to you to jump onto him.
You did what he asked and jumped, slowly wrapping your legs around his toned torso. He moved forward and pressed your back against the glass window, the icy sensation sending shivers down your spine.
Wonwoo’s lips quickly met yours again before he slipped himself back inside your wet hole, making the two of you groan out loud from the sensitivity. He wasted no time in starting up his pace again, only this time much more rough than the last, if that was even possible. Your swollen tits bounced hard in his face with each thrust, making Wonwoo slip his tongue over the bud of the right breast and sucking hard until your nipple was even more red and sensitive. You arched your back against the cold glass, a seductive moan leaving your mouth when he groaned with a mouth full of your tit, sending a vibrating sensation along the curves of your chest.
“Wonwoo, I’m so close.” You whimpered, feeling like your soul was starting to be ripped out of you when you felt yourself beginning to reach euphoria again.
“Me too, baby.” Despite him looking visibly more tired, he never gave up or slowed down. He continued pounding into you deeply, his leaking cock slipping in and out of you mercilessly. A loud whine left your mouth as you couldn’t hold back anymore and you came again, your walls pulsing desperately against his twitching cock.
You felt like you were going to pass out from too much pleasure, but eventually he slowed down his pace, thrusting inside you slowly as he shot loads of his hot cum inside your hole again, filling you to the point where it started gushing out of you. He moved his hips a few more times to fuck his mess back inside you, making you nearly cry from overstimulation.
Your boyfriend then kissed your forehead sweetly, a complete contrast from his sinful actions just two seconds earlier.
“You did amazing, baby.” His fingers gently moved your hair out of your face, making room for him to kiss your cheek. An exhaused smile formed on your face.
“I studied the wrong content again.” You joked, your breath uneven. A hearty laugh left Wonwoo’s lips.
“You’ll pass this time, though. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, then I’ll help you study.”
You looked into his eyes lovingly, before kissing his soft lips.
“I love you.” You whispered. He responded back with a deeper kiss.
“I love you more.”
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ ︶⊹︶︶︶⊹
a/n: thank you for reading! please let me know what you think, i would love to hear your thoughts <3
any likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated.
The sun blazes over Camp Half-Blood, painting the fields in a golden haze that feels like a hug from your father, Apollo. Camp is alive today: chatter spills from the dining pavilion, swords clash in the training arena, and somewhere, a satyr’s panpipes trill a melody that makes your heart hum. You’re in your element, sandals kicking up dust as you weave through campers, your grin as bright as the sunlight threading through your hair.
Being a daughter of Apollo means you carry warmth in your bones, a radiance that draws people in whether you mean it to or not. But not everyone’s drawn to the light. Your gaze snags on him, Wonwoo, the son of Hades, sitting alone under the sprawling oak at the edge of the archery range. He’s all sharp angles and quiet mystery, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he sketches in a worn notebook, ignoring the world.
He’s been at camp for months now, but he’s a shadow slipping through the cracks of camp life, always on the fringes, never joining in. You’ve seen him dodge capture-the-flag games, skip campfire singalongs, and vanish when group activities start. It’s like he’s allergic to fun. Or people. Or both.
Today, though, something shifts in you. Maybe it’s the way the sunlight catches the curve of his jaw, softening the edge just enough to make you curious. Maybe it’s the challenge of it, reaching someone who seems determined to stay unreachable. Whatever it is, your feet are moving before you can overthink it, carrying you across the field toward him.
"Hey, Wonwoo!" you call, voice bright but not pushy. You stop a few feet away, hands on your hips, letting the breeze tug at your camp T-shirt. He doesn’t look up, but his pencil pauses, a tiny sign you’ve got his attention. "You ever gonna join the rest of us, or is brooding under trees your cardio?"
His eyes flick up, dark and unreadable behind his glasses. "I’m fine here" he says, voice low, like he’s guarding secrets in every syllable. It’s not rude, just… distant. Like he’s built a wall and expects you to walk away. You don’t.
Instead, you plop down on the grass across from him, cross-legged, undeterred. "You know, for a son of Hades, you’re not that scary. I mean, the whole dark-and-mysterious vibe is cool, but have you tried, like… fun? It’s not fatal, I promise."
His lips twitch, just barely, and you count it as a win. "I don't do...groups" he mutters, returning to his sketch. You lean forward, catching a glimpse of sharp lines and shadows on the page, something haunting, like skeletal wings under moonlight. It’s beautiful, in a way that makes your chest ache.
"Okay, but hear me out" you say, voice softening. "One activity. Just one. If you hate it, I’ll leave you alone to draw your creepy birds or whatever." You gesture toward the archery range, where targets gleam under the sun. "Archery’s my thing. Let me teach you. Ten minutes, tops."
Wonwoo’s eyes narrow, like he’s weighing whether you’re worth the effort. "Why do you care?" he asks, and there’s no malice, just genuine confusion. Like no one’s ever bothered to pull him out of his shadows before.
You shrug, flashing a grin. "Because I’m nosy. And I think you’re missing out. Plus, my dad’s the god of archery, so I’m basically obligated to show off."
He snorts, quiet, but it’s there, and you feel a thrill at cracking his armor, even just a little. After a long pause, he closes his notebook and stands, brushing grass off his black jeans. "Ten minutes" he says, like he’s already regretting it.
You lead him to the archery range, grabbing a bow and quiver from the rack. The sun feels warmer here. You hand Wonwoo a bow, noticing how his fingers curl around it, tentative, like he’s not sure he belongs in this bright, open space.
"Okay, stance first" you say, stepping closer. "Feet shoulder-width apart, like this."
He mimics you, but his posture’s stiff, all sharp edges and no flow. You bite your lip, fighting a laugh. "Relax, you’re not summoning a skeleton army. Here" You step behind him, bold but careful, placing your hands lightly on his shoulders. He tenses under your touch, and you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. It’s… kind of adorable.
"Loosen up" you say, voice gentle as you guide his shoulders down. "Now, raise the bow. Aim for the closest target." You adjust his arm, your fingers brushing his as you position his grip. His skin’s cooler than you expect, like he’s carrying a piece of the Underworld with him. The contrast to your warmth, Apollo’s gift humming under your skin, sends a shiver through you, one you quickly shake off.
"Focus on the target" you murmur, stepping back but staying close enough to catch the scent of pine and something darker, like earth after rain. "Breathe in, draw the string, and let go when you’re ready."
Wonwoo’s quiet, but he follows your instructions, his movements precise if not graceful. The arrow flies, wildly off-target, embedding itself in the grass. You burst out laughing, not meanly, just delighted by how human he looks right now, all flustered and glaring at the arrow like it betrayed him.
"Wow, you’re really bad at this" you tease, nudging his arm. His glare shifts to you, but there’s a spark in his eyes, something alive and curious that wasn’t there before.
"You said you’d teach me" he counters, voice dry but not cold. "So teach."
You grin, stepping back into his space to adjust his stance again. This time, he doesn’t tense as much, letting you guide his elbows, his hands. You’re close enough to notice the faint freckles across his nose, the way his jaw clenches when he’s concentrating.
"Okay, try again" you say, voice softer now. "And don’t overthink it. Just… feel it."
He draws the bow, and you hold your breath, willing the arrow to find its mark. It flies straighter this time, hitting the target’s outer ring with a satisfying 'thunk'. Your cheer is immediate, loud and unfiltered, echoing across the range.
"Yes! Look at that! Son of Hades, secret archery prodigy!"
Wonwoo lowers the bow, staring at the target like he doesn’t quite believe it. Then his gaze shifts to you, and there’s that spark again, brighter, sharper, like a star winking through a storm cloud.
"It’s not a bullseye" he says, but his voice is lighter, almost playful.
"Baby steps, shadow boy" you say, your grin so wide it hurts. "We’ll get you there."
For a moment, you just stand there, the sun warming your skin, the shadows of the oak tree stretching long and cool behind him. You’re light and he’s shadow, but right now, the line between you feels blurry, like something new is taking shape. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but the flush on his cheeks and the way his eyes linger on you, like he’s seeing you for the first time, tell you enough.
"Ten minutes are up" he says finally, handing you the bow. But he doesn’t walk away, not yet.
You tilt your head, smirking. "Wanna go again?"
The lake at Camp Half-Blood shimmers under the late afternoon sun, its surface catching the sun’s light like a mirror for your father’s radiance. You’re supposed to be at the infirmary, restocking bandages or sorting herbs, but the pull of the water’s edge is stronger today. Maybe it’s the way the air smells of pine and wild mint, or the quiet that feels like a gift after the camp’s constant hum.
Your sandals sink into the soft earth as you wander, your camp T-shirt sticking slightly to your skin in the summer heat. You’re humming a tune, something bright and nonsensical, when you spot him.
Wonwoo’s crouched near the water, half-hidden by a cluster of reeds, his dark jacket blending with the shadows cast by the willows. He’s not sketching this time. His movements are too careful, too deliberate, like he’s trying not to draw attention. One hand presses against his side, and even from here, you can see the strain in his posture. Your stomach twists. Something’s wrong.
"Hey, Wonwoo" you call softly, keeping your tone light to avoid startling him. His head snaps up, eyes sharp behind his glasses, and you catch the briefest flicker of panic before his face smooths into that familiar guarded mask.
"I’m fine" he says before you even ask, voice clipped. He shifts, turning his body slightly to hide his side, but you’re already closing the distance, your healer’s instincts kicking in. Apollo’s gift hums under your skin, a warmth that sharpens your senses, picking up the faint tang of iron in the air. Blood.
"You’re not fine" you say, dropping to your knees beside him. Up close, you see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his jaw clenches against pain. "Let me see."
"It’s nothing" he snaps, but his voice wavers, and when he tries to pull away, he winces. That’s enough for you. You reach out, gentle but firm, tugging at the hem of his jacket. He stiffens, but he doesn’t stop you as you lift the fabric. A gash runs along his ribs, angry and red, the edges tinged with something dark, infection, maybe, or worse, something tied to his Hades blood. The wound looks a few days old, poorly bandaged, like he’s been hiding it.
"Gods, Wonwoo, what happened?" Your voice is sharper than you mean, worry bleeding through. "Why didn’t you go to the infirmary?"
He glares at the lake, not you. "Didn’t need the fuss. I can handle it."
You scoff, already digging into the small pouch at your waist for the supplies you always carry, bandages, a vial of nectar, a bundle of crushed herbs that smell sharp and green. "Yeah, clearly. This looks like a solo training mishap gone really wrong. What were you fighting, a hellhound? A lawnmower?"
His lips twitch, but the almost-smile fades fast. "Doesn’t matter. Just leave it."
"No way." You meet his eyes, holding his gaze until he looks away first. "I’m an Apollo kid. Healing’s kind of my thing. You’re stuck with me now." You don’t wait for permission, dipping your fingers into the nectar and brushing it lightly over the wound. He hisses, and you murmur an apology, your hands steady despite the way your heart races at his proximity. His skin is cool under your touch, like stone left in the shade, a stark contrast to the warmth pulsing from your fingers.
You focus, calling on Apollo’s light. A soft golden glow spills from your hands, wrapping around the wound like a warm embrace. The infection’s darkness retreats, the redness fading as the gash begins to knit together.
It’s not instant, Hades’ influence clings to him, decay resisting your light, but you pour more of yourself into it, sweat prickling at your temples. You’re close enough to feel his shallow breaths, to notice the faint scar on his collarbone, the way his dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks suddenly, voice low and rough. You pause, your glowing hands still pressed to his side. His eyes are on you now, intense, searching, like he’s trying to unravel you. "You don’t even know me. This… this isn’t your problem."
You frown, the words stinging more than they should. "It’s not about it being my problem. You’re hurt. I can help. That’s enough."
He scoffs, but there’s no venom in it, just something raw and brittle. "Don’t need your pity, sunshine."
The nickname catches you off guard, sharp and teasing, but it’s the accusation that makes you bristle. You pull your hands back, the glow fading as you sit back on your heels. "Pity? Seriously? You think I’m here because I feel sorry for you?" You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. "I’m here because I care, Wonwoo. Big difference. You’re not some charity case, you’re… you’re worth helping."
His eyes widen, just for a second, before he looks away, his jaw tight. "You don’t get it" he mutters. "People like me, Hades’ kids, we’re not… we don’t get that. People keep their distance for a reason."
The words hit like a punch, not because they’re harsh, but because they’re so resigned, like he’s accepted it as truth. You see it now, the loneliness woven into his quiet defiance, the weight of a heritage that paints him as an outcast. Your chest aches, Apollo’s warmth urging you to bridge that gap.
"Then they’re idiots" you say firmly, leaning closer. "I’m not keeping my distance. And I’m not here because of who your dad is. I’m here because you’re you, the guy who hit the target after one lesson, who draws creepy birds like they’re poetry. You’re not just some son of Hades, Wonwoo. You’re…yourself, someone worth caring about."
He goes still, so still you think he’s stopped breathing. His eyes flick to yours, and there’s something there, vulnerability, raw and unguarded, like a crack in his carefully built walls. Your hands are still close, hovering near his side, and you realize how small the space between you is, how you can feel the coolness radiating from him against your warmth. Your pulse stumbles, but you don’t look away.
"Why?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you keep trying?"
You swallow, the question hanging heavy in the air. The lake laps gently at the shore, the scent of herbs and earth grounding you. "Because I see you" you say simply. "Not the shadow, not the son of Hades. Just… you. And I think you’re worth knowing."
He doesn’t respond, not right away. His gaze drops to your hands, then back to your face, and you catch the faintest flush across his cheeks, a warmth that doesn’t come from you. It’s enough to make your heart skip, to make you want to reach out again, but you hold back, giving him space.
"Get used to it" you add, a playful edge creeping into your voice as you stand, brushing dirt from your knees. "I’m not going anywhere. And next time you get hurt, you come to me, got it? Or I’ll drag you to the infirmary myself."
He snorts, standing slowly, testing his side. The wound’s mostly healed, just a faint scar now, but he moves like he’s still carrying something heavier.
"You’re bossy" he says, but there’s a softness in his tone, a crack of light in his voice.
"Apollo’s kid" you grin, spreading your arms. "Comes with the territory."
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes linger on you, that spark from the archery range brighter now, like a star finding its place in the dark. "We’ll see" he says, and it’s not a promise, but it’s not a rejection either.
As you turn to head back to camp, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows across the lake, you feel the weight of his gaze on your back. It’s a challenge, a question, a beginning. And you’re ready to meet it.
Sleep eludes you tonight. The Apollo cabin is too quiet, the bunks filled with soft snores and the faint glow of sunlight lingering in your veins, restless and buzzing. You toss in your cot, the memory of Wonwoo’s guarded eyes and that faint, fleeting flush by the lake tugging at your thoughts. It’s like a melody you can’t shake, half-formed and haunting. So you slip out, barefoot, your camp T-shirt and shorts barely enough against the cool night air.
The forest beyond the cabins hums with life: crickets chirping, leaves rustling, the distant hoot of an owl. You wander without a plan, letting the moonlight guide you, until you find yourself climbing a low hill overlooking the camp.
And there he is. Wonwoo sits at the crest, knees drawn up, his dark silhouette blending with the shadows of the pines. The starlight catches the edges of his glasses, glinting like tiny constellations. He doesn’t notice you at first, his gaze fixed on the sky, fingers tracing idle patterns in the air. Thin wisps of shadow curl from his hands, faint and shimmering, like smoke weaving itself into shapes.
You pause, breath catching at the sight. There’s something otherworldly about him here, unguarded, his Hades heritage spilling out in quiet, mesmerizing tendrils.
"Hey, shadow boy" you call softly, padding closer. He startles, the shadows dissolving like mist, but his expression softens when he sees you. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make your heart skip.
"Couldn’t sleep?" he asks, voice low, reverent almost, like he’s speaking to the night itself.
You shrug, settling beside him on the cool grass. "Apollo kid problems. Too much sunlight in my blood. You?"
He glances at the stars, then back at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "The Underworld’s quieter at night. Feels… closer."
You tilt your head, curious. "You miss it?" It’s a bold question, but the night feels like a space for secrets, and you’re greedy for his.
He hesitates, fingers brushing the grass. "Not miss, exactly. It’s just… different. The stars there aren’t like these. They’re sharper, colder. Like they’re watching you." His voice drops, almost a whisper. "Sometimes I see them, even here."
"Show me" you say, the words out before you can stop them. His eyes snap to yours, searching, like he’s weighing whether you mean it. You nod, leaning closer, your shoulder brushing his. "I want to see your world, Wonwoo."
For a moment, he’s still, then he exhales, raising a hand. Shadows pool in his palm, dark and fluid, twisting upward like ink in water. They shimmer, forming pinpricks of light, stars, but not like the ones above. These are jagged, pulsing with an eerie glow, set against a void so deep it makes your chest ache. It’s beautiful, in a way that feels like falling, like staring into something vast and unknowable. You can almost feel the chill of the Underworld, the weight of its silence.
"Gods" you breathe, leaning closer, your eyes wide. "That’s… incredible. Haunting, but incredible."
He glances at you, surprised, like he expected you to flinch. "You don’t think it’s… too dark?"
You shake your head, grinning softly. "Dark doesn’t mean ugly. It’s like… poetry. Like your sketches. There’s beauty in it, Wonwoo. You just have to look."
His lips part, but no words come. Instead, he holds your gaze, and you feel it again, that spark, that pull, like the line between light and shadow is blurring. You want to show him something too, to share a piece of your world. Your hands glow faintly, Apollo’s warmth tingling under your skin, and you raise them, letting golden light spill out. It weaves through the air, soft and radiant, forming rolling meadows under a blazing sun, wildflowers swaying, a breeze you can almost feel. The golden image hovers, delicate and warm, mingling with his shadowy stars until the air between you hums with a strange, beautiful harmony.
Wonwoo’s breath catches, his eyes reflecting your light like twin moons. "That’s… yours?" he asks, voice hushed, reverent.
"Part of it" you say, letting the meadow dissolve into sparks that drift upward, blending with his stars. "My dad’s domain. Sunlight, growth, warmth. I wanted you to see it."
He’s quiet for a long moment, watching the fading interplay of light and shadow. Then, softly, "It’s warm. Like you."
Your heart stumbles, heat creeping up your cheeks. "You think I’m warm?"
He flushes, looking away, his fingers twisting in the grass. "You’re… brighter than I expected. Not just the Apollo thing. You. You make everything feel… less heavy."
The confession is so quiet, so unguarded, it steals your breath. You nudge his shoulder, playful but gentle, trying to ease the weight of the moment. "Careful, Wonwoo. That’s dangerously close to a compliment."
He snorts, but there’s a softness in it, a crack in his walls. "Don’t get used to it."
You laugh, the sound bright against the night, and lean back on your hands, the grass cool beneath your palms. The stars, real ones, glitter above, and for a moment, you just sit there, the silence comfortable, charged with something new. You feel the urge to keep pushing, to peel back more of his layers, but you hold back, letting the quiet do the work.
"Why do you keep doing this?" he asks suddenly, echoing his question by the lake. His voice is softer now, less defensive, like he’s genuinely curious. "Hanging around me. Showing me… this." He gestures vaguely at the air where your lights and shadows danced.
You hum, tilting your head to study him. His profile is sharp against the starlight, all angles and quiet strength, but there’s a vulnerability there too, in the way his hands fidget, the way his eyes avoid yours. "Because you’re interesting" you say honestly. "You’re not what I expected either. I thought you’d be all gloom and doom, but there’s more to you. Like those stars you showed me. They’re dark, sure, but they’re… alive. I want to know more about that. About you."
He doesn’t respond right away, but his shoulders relax, just a fraction. "You’re weird" he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, and when he glances at you, his eyes are softer, like he’s seeing you in a new light.
"Says the guy conjuring Underworld constellations" you tease, nudging him again. "We’re both weird. That’s why this works."
He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifts, and it’s enough. You sit there, the night wrapping around you like a blanket, the breeze carrying the faint scent of earth and pine. Your shoulder brushes his again, and neither of you moves away. It’s not much, just a shared moment, a fleeting dance of light and shadow, but it feels like a promise, like the stars above and below are witnesses to something beginning.
"You ever think about balance?" you ask, voice quiet, almost lost in the wind. "Like, light needs shadow to mean anything. Maybe that’s why we keep running into each other."
He tilts his head, considering. "Maybe" he says, and it’s the most open he’s sounded all night. "But I’m not… good at this. At people. At…" He trails off, gesturing vaguely at you, at the space between you.
"You’re doing fine" you say softly, meeting his eyes. "Just keep showing up. I’ll handle the rest."
He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to. The silence that settles is enough, warm and heavy with possibility. You stay there, side by side, watching the stars until the first hints of dawn tint the horizon gold. And when you finally stand to head back, his fingers brush yours, just for a second, cool and fleeting, but enough to send a spark through your veins.
The armory smells of iron and oil, a sharp tang that clings to the air as you slip inside, the door creaking behind you. Afternoon light filters weakly through high, dusty windows, casting long shadows across racks of swords and shields. You’re here to polish arrows for tomorrow’s training, but your eyes find him before they find the quiver. Wonwoo, hunched over a grindstone in the corner, sharpening a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The scrape of metal against stone is rhythmic, almost hypnotic, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a darkness that feels heavier than the shadows pooling around him.
You haven’t seen him since that night on the hill, when your light and his shadows danced under the stars. The memory of his quiet confessions, the brush of his fingers, lingers like a song in your chest, urging you closer. You’ve been orbiting each other since, small moments, shared glances during meals, his rare half-smile when you pass him in the training fields, building something fragile but real. But today, something’s off. His jaw is tight, his movements too sharp, like he’s fighting more than the blade.
"Hey, shadow boy" you say, keeping your tone light as you approach, setting your quiver on a nearby table. "Sharpening your dagger or your brooding skills?"
He doesn’t look up, but his hand pauses mid-stroke, the grindstone slowing. "Not in the mood" he mutters, voice low, edged with something brittle.
You frown, leaning against the table, arms crossed. "Okay, what’s with the storm cloud? You were fine yesterday. Did I miss something?"
He sets the dagger down, too carefully, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. When he finally meets your eyes, his gaze is dark, stormy, and it sends a shiver through you, not fear, but something closer to hurt. "Why do you keep doing this?" he asks, voice rough. "Following me. Acting like… like we’re something we’re not."
Your heart stumbles, but you keep your expression steady, even as his words sting. "What are we, then? Because I thought we were at least friends. Maybe more, if you’d stop running."
He laughs, but it’s bitter, sharp like the blade in his hand. "Friends. Right." He stands, pushing away from the grindstone, his movements restless, like a caged animal. "You’re Apollo’s kid, sunlight, healing, all that golden perfection. I’m Hades’ son. Death. Decay. Shadows. You really think that mixes?"
You step closer, undeterred. "Don’t pull that mythology card on me, Wonwoo. You’re not just your dad’s shadow, and I’m not some untouchable ray of sunshine. We’re people, not prophecies."
His eyes flash, and he turns away, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles whiten. "You don’t get it" he says, voice low, almost a growl. "I’m not built for this, for you. I’ll drag you down. Corrupt that light you’ve got. It’s what I do. It’s what I am."
The words hit like a blade, but it’s the pain behind them that makes your breath catch. You see it now, the fear in his clenched fists, the way he won’t meet your eyes, like he’s bracing for you to agree, to walk away. It’s not just about Hades or Apollo; it’s about him, believing he’s not worth your warmth. You think of Persephone, caught between worlds, her love for Hades a bridge, not a curse. You want to be that bridge, but he’s building walls faster than you can climb them.
"That’s not your call to make" you say, voice firm but trembling with the effort to keep it steady. You step into his space, close enough to feel the coolness radiating from him, the faint scent of earth and steel. "You don’t get to decide what I can handle or what I want. I’m here because I see you, Wonwoo, all of you, not just the shadows. And I’m not afraid."
He flinches, like your words are a wound, and when he turns to you, his face is raw, unguarded. "You should be" he says, voice cracking. "You don’t know what it’s like, carrying this… darkness. Everyone leaves, eventually. They always do."
Your chest aches, Apollo’s warmth urging you to reach out, but you keep your hands at your sides, giving him space to breathe. "I’m not everyone" you say softly, but with a fire that surprises even you. "And I’m not leaving. You can push me away, but I’m choosing to stay. Deal with it."
For a moment, he just stares, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for a lie, a crack in your resolve. The armory is silent except for the faint drip of water somewhere, the air heavy with unspoken things. You want to touch him, to close the distance, but the tension in his frame warns you to wait. Instead, you hold his gaze, letting him see the stubborn spark in your eyes, the determination that comes from your father’s light but belongs entirely to you.
"You’re impossible" he mutters, but there’s no heat in it, just a quiet resignation. He steps back, grabbing his dagger, and for a second, you think he’s going to stay, to let you in. But then he turns, heading for the door, his shadow trailing long and dark behind him.
"Wonwoo" you call, voice sharp enough to stop him mid-step. He doesn’t turn, but he pauses, one hand on the doorframe. "This isn’t over. You can walk away now, but I’m not giving up on you. Not today, not tomorrow. You’re worth fighting for, even if you don’t believe it yet."
He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders tense, and you catch the slightest tremor in his hand before he pushes through the door, disappearing into the fading light outside. The armory feels colder without him, the blades gleaming mockingly, like they know how close you came to breaking through. Your heart pounds, a mix of hurt and resolve. You pick up an arrow, running your fingers over its fletching, and make a silent vow, to fight for him, for this, for the fragile thing you’ve built in stolen moments of light and shadow.
The door swings shut, and you’re alone, but not defeated. If Wonwoo thinks he can push you away that easily, he’s got a lot to learn about you.
The Oracle’s words resonate in your mind, sharp and cold as the mist that swirled around her in the attic. "The son of Hades will fall to shadows deep, where light must dare to follow, or forever sleep."
The green haze clung to you like a warning, seeping into your dreams until you woke with a start, heart pounding, adrenalin pulsing in your veins. You knew it was about Wonwoo before you even heard his name whispered among the campers, he was gone, vanished before dawn.
You don’t wait for permission. Chiron’s concerned frown and the camp’s murmurs of caution fade as you grab your bow, a vial of nectar, and a small pouch of herbs, your hands trembling with purpose. The prophecy is a call, and you’re Apollo’s daughter, light doesn’t falter, not when someone’s worth saving. You slip through the camp’s borders, the wards tingling against your skin, and head for the only place Wonwoo could have gone: the Underworld, where shadows call to shadows.
The entrance is a crack in the earth, hidden in a forest, its edges jagged like broken teeth. You whisper a prayer, feeling a flicker of golden warmth in your chest, and descend. The air grows heavy, damp, smelling of wet stone and decay. The Styx roars below, its black waters churning with lost voices, their whispers clawing at your resolve. You clutch your bow tighter, its familiar weight grounding you as you navigate the twisting caverns, guided by instinct and the faint pull of Wonwoo’s presence, a cold, familiar thread in the dark.
The Underworld is a labyrinth of echoes and voids, its walls slick with moisture that glints like tears in the faint bioluminescence of fungi. Shades drift past, their hollow eyes brushing over you, drawn to your light but repelled by its heat. Your sandals slap against the stone, each step a defiance against the oppressive silence. You don’t know how long you’ve been walking, hours, maybe, or even days. Here time blurres and bends, but your heart tells you he’s close. The prophecy’s weight presses on you, but so does the memory of his voice, his rare softness under the stars, the way his hand brushed yours. You won’t lose him to this.
The cavern opens into a vast chasm, a yawning abyss that pulses with darkness so thick it feels alive: the entry of Tartarus. At its edge stands Wonwoo, his back to you, his dark hair blending with the shadows that writhe around him like living tendrils. He’s too still, his hands limp at his sides, the dagger you saw him sharpen in the armory glinting at his feet. The air here is colder, heavier, pulling at your light like it wants to swallow it whole. You call his name, voice sharp against the void.
"Wonwoo!"
He turns, slow, his eyes dull, like the stars he showed you have gone out. The shadows cling to him, curling around his arms, his legs, whispering things you can’t hear but feel, doubt, fear, the weight of his lineage dragging him down. "You shouldn’t be here" he says, voice hollow, broken. "Go back."
"No." You step closer, ignoring the way the abyss tugs at your warmth, chilling your skin. "I’m not leaving you here. Not to this."
His laugh is bitter, a sound that cuts deeper than any blade. "You don’t get it. This is where I belong. The prophecy, it’s me, you must have heard it in your mind like I have. I’m the one who falls. I’m not worth this, sunshine. Not your light, not your fight."
The nickname, once teasing, now feels like a plea, and it stokes the fire in you. You drop your bow, letting it clatter against the stone, and close the distance, your hands glowing with Apollo’s light. The golden aura flares, pushing back the shadows, illuminating the strain on his face, the sweat on his brow, the tremble in his jaw. He’s fighting it, but he’s losing, the abyss pulling him toward its edge.
"You don’t get to decide that" you say, voice fierce, trembling with the weight of your resolve. "You don’t get to tell me what you’re worth. I’m here because I choose you, Wonwoo. Prophecy or not, I’m not letting you go."
He shakes his head, stepping back, closer to the edge. The shadows tighten around him, and you see it, the fear in his eyes, not of the abyss, but of you, of what it means to be wanted. "You’ll get hurt" he whispers, voice cracking. "I’ll ruin you."
"Then let me decide that!" you snap, reaching for him. Your hand closes around his wrist, his skin ice-cold against your warmth, and you pull, hard, anchoring yourself against the stone. The shadows hiss, recoiling from your light, but they don’t let go, curling tighter around his legs. You grit your teeth, pouring more of Apollo’s gift into your hands, the glow intensifying until it’s almost blinding. The cavern shakes, pebbles skittering, the abyss roaring like a wounded beast.
"Fight it, Wonwoo" you plead, your voice raw, your arms straining as you hold him against the pull. "You’re stronger than this. You’re more than Hades’ son. You’re the guy who hit the target, who showed me stars, who’s worth every second of this fight. Come back to me."
His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you think you’ve lost him, the darkness is too deep, his fear too heavy. But then he reaches for you, his hand trembling as it finds yours, his fingers interlocking with a desperate grip. "I don’t know how" he whispers, voice broken, like he’s admitting a truth he’s never spoken.
"Then let me show you" you say, tears burning your eyes as you pull harder, your light flaring brighter, a beacon against the void. The shadows scream, unraveling, and you feel the strain in every muscle, every heartbeat, Apollo’s warmth draining as you pour it into him. Your knees buckle, but you don’t let go, not when his grip tightens, not when his eyes clear, just a fraction, a spark of starlight returning.
With one final heave, you pull him away from the edge, both of you collapsing onto the cavern floor, breathless, tangled together. The shadows retreat, hissing, the abyss falling silent. Your chest heaves, sweat dripping down your spine, your hands still glowing faintly as they rest against his chest. He’s trembling, his breaths shallow, but he’s here, solid, alive. You don’t let go, not yet, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, the scent of earth and steel grounding you.
"Why?" he asks, voice barely a whisper, raw and vulnerable. "Why would you do this? You could have fallen with me in Tartarus, are you crazy ?"
You lift your head, meeting his eyes, seeing the storm still lingering but softer now, tempered by something new: gratitude, maybe, or hope. "Because you’re mine" you say simply, voice steady despite the exhaustion. "Light, shadow, whatever pulls us together, you’re worth it. And I’m not giving up."
He stares at you, his hand still in yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles, hesitant but real. "You’re crazy" he murmurs, but there’s no bite, just a quiet awe, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
"Cabin 7 kid" you manage, a tired grin breaking through. "Crazy’s in the job description."
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften, and he pulls you closer, just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. The contact is cool, grounding, and you feel the weight of what you’ve done, what you’ve both survived. The Styx murmurs in the distance, the cavern’s chill seeping into your bones, but you’re warm where you touch him, a fragile balance of light and shadow.
"We need to get out of here" you say, voice soft but firm, pulling back to stand, though your legs wobble. You offer him a hand, and he takes it, rising slowly, his grip steady now.
"You didn’t have to do this" he says as you retrieve your bow, his voice quieter, like he’s testing the words. "But… thank you."
You nod, squeezing his hand once before letting go, the prophecy’s weight lifting, just a little. "Don’t thank me yet. You owe me a campfire singalong for this."
He snorts, a ghost of a laugh, and it’s enough for now. The journey back is long, the Underworld’s shadows still whispering, but you walk side by side, your light guiding the way, his presence a steady anchor. You’ve pulled him back from the abyss, and he’s let you, that’s a start, a promise, a bond forged in the dark. During the way back to camp half-blood, he protects you silently, holding you in his arms when you sleep, not letting lost souls or shadows get to you.
The campfire crackles, spitting sparks into the night sky, a canvas of stars that feels softer now, less like the jagged constellations of the Underworld. Camp Half-Blood hums around you: distant laughter from the Aphrodite cabin, the strum of a lyre, the rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. The scent of smoke and toasted marshmallows curls through the air, grounding you as you sit on a worn log, your knees tucked close. The fire’s warmth kisses your skin but your eyes are on him, Wonwoo, sitting just across the flames, his silhouette sharp yet softer than you’ve ever seen it.
Since you pulled him back from the edge of Tartarus, he’s been… different. Not louder, not brighter, that’s not him, but present. He lingers now, joining meals, hovering at the edge of group activities, he's not avoiding people anymore, his dark eyes finding you in crowds like you’re his anchor. But there’s a weight to him still, a haunt in the way his fingers fidget with the hem of his black hoodie, the way his gaze drops when you catch him staring too long. The Underworld left its mark, and you know he’s carrying it alone.
You shift, brushing dirt from your camp T-shirt, and call softly, "Hey, shadow boy. You gonna sulk all night or join me over here?"
His eyes flick up, catching the firelight, and for a moment, you see that spark, the one from the hill, the lake, the cavern. He hesitates, then stands, moving around the fire to sit beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. The coolness of his presence, that faint Underworld chill, contrasts with the heat of the flames, and you feel it again, the pull, the balance, light and shadow meeting in the space between.
"Didn’t think campfires were your thing" you tease, nudging his arm, but your voice is gentle, probing. "You’ve been quiet. Even for you."
He exhales, a sound that’s half-sigh, half-laugh, his fingers twisting together in his lap. "Not good at this" he mutters, glancing at the fire, then at you, his glasses reflecting the flames. "Talking. Being… here."
You tilt your head, studying him. The firelight softens the sharp angles of his face, highlights the faint scar on his jaw, the way his hair falls into his eyes. "You’re here now" you say softly. "That’s enough."
He shakes his head, a small, frustrated motion. "It’s not. Not after…" He trails off, his jaw tightening, and you know he’s seeing the abyss again, the shadows that nearly swallowed him. "I pushed you away. In the armory. Before." His voice cracks, raw, like the words are scraping their way out. "I was scared. Not of you, but… of what I’d do to you. That's why I went there, to the abyss. I was afraid of what my darkness could do to you."
Your heart clenches, your heart urging you to reach out, but you wait, letting him speak. His hands fidget, clenching and unclenching, and you notice the faint tremble, the vulnerability he’s trying so hard to hide.
"You’re light" he continues, voice low, almost reverent. "Everything about you, your smile, your magic, the way you make people feel… it’s alive. Warm. And I’m…" He laughs, bitter and soft, gesturing vaguely at himself. "I’m Hades’ son. I’m shadows, decay, the stuff that dims things. I thought if I let you close, I’d ruin you. Dim that light. I couldn’t live with that."
The confession hangs between you, heavy as the smoke curling upward, and your chest aches, not with hurt, but with the need to make him see. You shift closer, your knee pressing against his, and reach for his hand. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away, letting you lace your fingers through his. His skin is cool, steady, grounding, and you hold on, letting your warmth seep into the touch.
"You don’t dim me" you say, voice steady, fierce with conviction. "You think you’re all shadows, but I see the stars in you, Wonwoo. The way you draw, the way you fight, the way you show up, even when it scares you. You’re not decay, you’re depth. And I’m not going anywhere."
His eyes meet yours, wide and searching, like he’s looking for the lie he’s convinced himself is there. The fire crackles, casting flickers of gold across his face, and you see it, the fear, the hope, the crack in his walls widening. "You went into the Underworld for me" he says, almost a whisper, like he still can’t believe it. "You could’ve died."
"And I’d do it again" you say without hesitation, squeezing his hand. "Because you’re worth it. Because we’re better together, light, shadow, all of it. You don’t scare me, Wonwoo. You make me feel… whole."
He goes still, his breath hitching, and for a moment, the world narrows to just you two, the fire’s warmth, the coolness of his hand, the distant laughter fading into the background. Slowly, hesitantly, he leans forward, his forehead resting against yours, a gesture so intimate it steals your breath. His glasses brush your cheek, and you feel the faint tremble in his frame, like he’s letting go of something heavy.
"I don’t know how to do this" he murmurs, voice raw, his breath mingling with yours. "But… I want to try. With you."
Your heart swells and you smile, soft and sure. "That’s all I need" you whisper. "We’ll figure it out together."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes softer now, like the stars he showed you, sharp, but alive. His thumb brushes your knuckles, a small, tentative gesture, and you feel the shift, the walls he’s built crumbling, not all at once, but enough to let you in. The firelight dances, casting shadows that mingle with your glow, a quiet harmony of light and dark.
You stay like that, hands intertwined, foreheads close, the campfire’s warmth wrapping around you like a promise. The night feels endless, but not heavy anymore, just full, like the stars above, like the future you’re choosing to build, one moment at a time.
The campfire’s glow weaves a cocoon around you, its warmth tangling with the coolness of Wonwoo’s hand in yours. His forehead rests against yours, his breath soft and uneven, carrying the faint scent of earth and pine. Your heart thrums, it’s him, his closeness, the way his thumb traces slow, hesitant circles over your knuckles. The night hums with possibility, the distant laughter of campers fading until it’s just you, him, and the crackle of flames.
You pull back slightly, just enough to see his eyes, dark, starlit, searching yours with a vulnerability that makes your breath catch. The firelight catches the edges of his glasses, glints off the faint scar on his jaw, and you realize how close you are, how the space between you has shrunk to nothing. His gaze flickers to your lips, quick, almost shy, and your pulse stumbles, heat rising in your cheeks.
"Wonwoo" you whisper, voice soft but steady, "you said you want to try. So… try."
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for a moment, you think he’ll pull away, retreat into his shadows. But then his hand tightens around yours, cool and grounding, and he leans in, slow, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. You don’t. You tilt your head, closing the distance, and when his lips meet yours, it’s like light and shadow colliding, soft, tentative, but electric.
His kiss is hesitant at first, cool and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But you press closer, your free hand finding his cheek, your warmth seeping into his skin. He exhales against your mouth, a quiet sound that sends a shiver through you, and the kiss deepens, his lips moving with a quiet hunger, like he’s been starving for this and didn’t know it. Your fingers slide into his hair, soft and dark, and you feel his hand shift to your waist, pulling you closer, his cool touch anchoring you against the fire’s heat.
It’s not perfect, it’s a little clumsy, his glasses bumping your nose, your heart racing so fast it’s hard to think, but it’s real. It’s him, letting you in, and you, meeting him halfway. It’s balance, harmony, a promise forged in the quiet spaces you’ve carved together.
When you finally pull back, breathless, your foreheads touch again, and you smile, your thumb brushing his cheek. "See?' you murmur, voice teasing but thick with emotion. "Not so scary, is it?"
His lips curve, the smallest, softest smile, and his eyes, gods, his eyes, are brighter, like the stars he showed you, alive and warm. "You’re still impossible" he says, but his voice is low, fond, and his hand stays at your waist, like he’s not ready to let go.
"Good" you whisper, lacing your fingers tighter with his. "Get used to it."
The fire burns on, and you stay there, wrapped in each other, the night soft and endless around you.
The weeks following the campfire confession slip by like sunlight through leaves, each day weaving you and Wonwoo closer, threading your lives into something new, something shared. The air at Camp Half-Blood hums with summer’s presence, crisp mornings, golden afternoons, and nights thick with stars, and you find yourselves orbiting each other, drawn together in ways that feel both effortless and inevitable. Your light and his shadow don’t clash anymore; they blend, soft and steady, like dawn and dusk.
You catch him at the archery range one morning, not sketching in the shadows but standing at the line, bow in hand, his stance less stiff than before. You tease him about his form, stepping close to adjust his elbow, your fingers brushing his arm. He doesn’t flinch, just smirks, quiet, but warmer than the sun overhead. "Still not a prodigy" he mutters, but when his arrow hits the target’s inner ring, you cheer loud enough for both of you, and his rare laugh echoes in your chest.
Meals become your ritual. He starts sitting at the Apollo table, ignoring the raised eyebrows from your siblings. You steal bits of his ambrosia-laced dessert, and he retaliates by flicking crumbs at you, his deadpan humor softening into something playful. One night, you sneak him an apple from the camp orchard, and he sketches you biting into it, his pencil capturing the way your eyes crinkle. He doesn’t show you the drawing, but you glimpse it later, tucked in his notebook, and your heart swells at the care in every line.
Training sessions turn into shared challenges. During a capture-the-flag game, he summons a shadow to shield you from an Ares kid’s spear, and you repay him with a burst of light to blind his opponent, your powers syncing like a dance. Afterward, sweaty and grinning, you collapse by the lake, your shoulders touching as you trade stories: your childhood summers chasing fireflies, his quiet nights mapping constellations in the Underworld’s eerie glow. His voice is softer now, less guarded, and you learn the shape of his silences, the way they hold more than he says.
Evenings find you on the hill again, or by the lake, or stealing moments in the forest’s quiet. He teaches you to see beauty in shadows, pointing out the way moonlight pools in hollows, while you show him how sunlight gilds the world, your golden aura flickering to make him smile. Your hands brush more often, his cool fingers lingering on yours, your warmth seeping into him, and the touches grow bolder, a hand on his cheek, his arm around your waist, each one a step past his walls.
The Hades cabin looms at the edge of Camp Half-Blood, its obsidian walls glinting faintly under the moonlight. You’re perched on the porch steps, the night air cool against your skin, carrying the scent of pine and distant campfire smoke. Wonwoo sits beside you, one knee bent, his dark hoodie blending with the shadows. The past few weeks have woven you closer. Each touch, each smile, has built something solid, a bridge between your light and his shadow.
Tonight, the camp feels far away, the world narrowed to the creak of the porch and the soft rhythm of your breathing. You’re talking about nothing and everything, his latest sketch of a skeletal bird, your disastrous attempt at a guitar duet with an Apollo sibling. His laugh, rare and low, warms you more than the summer night ever could.
"You’re terrible at music" he teases, his glasses catching the moonlight as he glances at you, a playful edge to his voice. "Thought Apollo kids were supposed to be good at that."
You nudge his shoulder, grinning. "Rude. I’m better with a bow. Besides, you’re one to talk, your bird drawings are basically emo poetry with wings."
He snorts, but his hand finds yours, fingers lacing together, cool and steady. The touch is familiar now, but it still sends a spark through you. You lean closer, your shoulder pressing against his, and the quiet shifts, charged with something deeper.
"Sunshine" he says, voice softer, almost hesitant, and your heart skips at the nickname. He’s staring at the stars, his thumb brushing your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "I’ve been thinking… about us."
You tilt your head, studying the way his jaw tightens, the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Yeah? Good thoughts, I hope."
He exhales, a shaky breath, and turns to face you, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s trying to find the courage to say something he’s been holding back. "You… you’ve changed things. For me. I didn’t think I could want this, want you, like I do." His voice drops, raw, vulnerable. "I want to be closer. Not just like this. I mean… really close. Intimate."
The words hang between you, heavy with meaning, and your breath catches, warmth flooding your chest. His gaze flicks to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you see it, the fear of rejection, the hope he’s daring to let himself feel. You squeeze his hand, your voice steady despite the racing of your pulse.
"Wonwoo" you say softly, leaning in until your forehead brushes his, the coolness of his skin grounding you. "I want that too. I want you. All of you. Your flaws and your qualities. Your unsecurity and confidence. Your strenghs and weaknesses."
His eyes widen, a spark of starlight in the dark, and he leans in, closing the distance. The kiss is slow, deliberate, deeper than before, his lips cool and hungry against yours. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the balance, your light, his shadow, merging in the quiet of the night. When you pull back, breathless, his smile is small but real, his fingers still tangled with yours.
"Okay" he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "Let’s try this. Together."
You nod, your heart full, the stars above witnessing the promise blooming between you.
The night air clings to you as Wonwoo’s hand, cool and steady, tugs you gently from the porch of the Hades cabin. His fingers, laced with yours, tremble just enough to betray his nerves, but his eyes, dark, starlit, and fixed on you, hold a quiet resolve. The obsidian walls of the cabin seem to swallow the moonlight as he leads you inside, the door creaking shut behind you. The air shifts, heavier now, scented with earth and the faint musk of old leather, the cabin’s interior dim but warm with the glow of a single lantern flickering on a table.
He pauses at the threshold of his bedroom, a small, sparse space with a neatly made bed, a stack of sketchbooks, and a single window letting in slivers of starlight. You feel the weight of the moment, the intimacy of crossing this line, and your heart races. Wonwoo turns to you, his glasses catching the lantern’s glow, and there’s a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, a shadow of doubt you recognize from the armory, the abyss.
"You sure?" he asks, voice low, rough with vulnerability. His hand hovers near your cheek, not quite touching, like he’s afraid he’ll break something fragile.
You step closer, closing the gap, your hand finding his. "I’m sure" you whisper, your voice steady, warm. "I want this. I want you."
His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, standing in the center of the room. His lips are cool, tasting faintly of your lip balm from before, but there’s a hunger in the way he presses closer, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against him. You melt into it, your fingers curling into his dark hoodie, the fabric soft under your touch. The kiss deepens, a quiet dance of light and shadow, and you feel the world narrow to just this, his breath, his touch, the steady beat of his heart under your palm.
You tug at his hoodie, a silent question, and he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, searching. "I’m… not great at this" he admits, voice barely above a whisper, a flush creeping up his neck. "I mean, I’ve never…" He trails off, looking away, his shoulders tensing like he’s bracing for judgment.
Your heart softens, and you cup his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. "Hey" you say, voice gentle but firm. "It’s just us. I trust you, Wonwoo. And I know you trust me."
He exhales, a shaky breath, and nods, the tension easing just enough. His hands, hesitant but sure, find the hem of your camp T-shirt, and you lift your arms, letting him pull it over your head. The cool air brushes your skin, but his touch, cooler still, careful, grounds you. You reach for his hoodie, tugging it off, revealing the lean lines of his frame, the faint scars from battles and the Underworld’s pull. He’s beautiful, all sharp angles and quiet strength, and you trace a scar on his collarbone, feeling him shiver under your warmth.
His glasses slip slightly, and you smile, reaching up to adjust them. "Keep these on" you tease softly, and his lips curve, a rare, shy smile that makes your chest ache.
You step closer, kissing him again, your hands exploring the planes of his chest, his shoulders, as he pulls you flush against him. His fingers fumble slightly as they undo the button of your shorts, and you help him, stepping out of them, your own hands guiding his shirt off. The air between you is charged, intimate, and you feel the balance: your golden warmth, his cool shadows, merging in every touch. He’s still nervous, his movements careful, but there’s trust in the way he lets you lead, in the way he holds you like you’re something precious.
You stand there, bare and unguarded, his hands resting on your hips, your foreheads touching. "You’re enough" you whisper, feeling his breath hitch. "Just you."
He kisses you again, softer this time.
Standing there in the dim glow of the lantern, bare before each other, you feel a rush of vulnerability that mirrors the one in Wonwoo’s eyes. His gaze traces over you, not with hunger at first, but with a quiet awe, like you’re a sunrise he’s never seen before. The Hades cabin bedroom feels smaller now, the air thick with anticipation, the faint chill from his shadows mingling with the warmth radiating from your skin. Apollo’s light hums faintly within you, a golden pulse that makes your fingertips tingle as they rest on his chest, feeling the steady, if erratic, beat of his heart.
"You’re beautiful" he whispers, his voice low and rough, like gravel wrapped in silk. His hands hover at your hips, cool palms barely grazing your skin, as if he’s afraid his touch might eclipse your light. But you lean into him, closing the space, your body pressing against his in a way that makes him inhale sharply. "Like… like the sun itself came down to kiss the shadows."
You can’t help but smile at his words, cheesy and poetic, straight out of one of those ancient myths your siblings whisper about at campfires. But coming from him, it feels real, earnest, and it sends a flutter through your chest. "And you’re my moonlit mystery" you murmur back, your fingers trailing up his arms, mapping the lean muscles, the faint scars that tell stories of battles and burdens. "Cool and captivating, pulling me in like the tide."
He chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you, but there’s still that insecurity flickering in his dark eyes, behind his glasses. His Hades heritage makes him doubt, makes him think his chill might snuff out your fire. You see it in the way his shoulders tense, the slight hesitation before his hands finally settle on your waist, pulling you closer. "I don’t want to… overwhelm you" he admits, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Or make you cold."
"You won’t" you assure him, your voice a warm caress. You rise on your toes, capturing his lips in a kiss that starts slow, exploratory, your mouths moving in a rhythm that feels like the ebb and flow of light and dark. His lips are cool, a contrast that sends shivers racing down your spine, but it’s a delicious one, like dipping into a pool on a hot day. Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently, and he groans softly, the sound muffled against you.
The kiss deepens, turning sensual as his tongue brushes yours, tentative at first, then bolder, tasting of night and secrets. You press closer, feeling the hard planes of his body against your softer curves, the way his cool skin draws out your warmth, creating a steam of sensation where you touch. His hands explore now, sliding up your back, fingers tracing your spine with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, like you’re the goddess he’s worshiping in this hidden temple.
You break the kiss, breathless, your forehead resting against his as you whisper, "Let me show you how much I want this." Your hands drift lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants, and he nods, his eyes hooded with desire and trust. You help him step out of them, your gaze taking him in: lean, strong, his arousal evident, making your own body ache with need. He’s beautiful in his vulnerability, shadows clinging to him like a lover’s embrace, but you’re here to chase them away with your light.
When he reaches for your underwear, his fingers tremble slightly, but you guide him, stepping out and kicking them aside. Now there’s nothing between you, just skin and heat and the pulsing energy of your divine heritages. You pull him toward the bed, the sheets cool under your back as you lie down, drawing him over you. He hovers for a moment, his weight on his elbows, his glasses slightly askew, and you reach up to straighten them with a soft laugh. "My brooding hero" you tease, your voice laced with affection.
He smiles, that rare, full one that lights up his face like stars piercing the night, and leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s more urgent, his body settling against yours, the cool length of him pressing into your warmth. You gasp at the contrast, arching up to meet him, your hands roaming his back, nails grazing lightly, drawing a shiver from him. "You feel… incredible" he murmurs against your neck, his lips trailing kisses there, cool and teasing, nipping gently at your pulse point. Each touch sends sparks through you.
Your legs part instinctively, inviting him closer, and he shifts, his hand sliding down your side, over your hip, to the heat between your thighs. His touch is hesitant, exploratory, fingers brushing your most sensitive spot with a gentleness that makes you moan. "Like that?" he asks, voice husky, his eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction as if committing it to memory.
"Yes" you breathe, your hand covering his, guiding him. "Just like that. You’re perfect." The cheese slips in, but it feels right, romantic, over-the-top in the best way, like you’re two demigods rewriting the myths. His fingers circle, slow and sensual, building a fire within you that rivals the sun. You feel the tension coiling, your body responding to his cool touch, the contrast heightening every sensation. Waves of pleasure build, your breaths coming in sync, ragged and shared.
When you’re trembling on the edge, he pauses, kissing your lips softly. "I want to feel you" he says, his voice a whisper of need. You nod, reaching between you to guide him, feeling his hardness against your entrance. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, his eyes squeezing shut at the sensation, a low groan escaping his lips. "Gods… you’re so warm. Like sunlight wrapping around me."
You arch into him, the fullness exquisite, a perfect blend of his coolness filling your heat. "And you’re my shadow, completing me" you reply, cheesy but true, your arms wrapping around his neck as he begins to move. The rhythm starts slow, sensual, each thrust deliberate, his hips rolling against yours in a dance that feels ancient and new all at once. You feel every inch, the way he fits, the cool slide that makes your inner walls clench, drawing moans from both of you.
His pace quickens gradually, driven by your gasps, your nails digging into his shoulders. The bed creaks softly, the lantern flickering as if in time with your movements. Sweat beads on your skin, mixing with his cooler sheen, creating a slick glide where your bodies meet. He buries his face in your neck, whispering praises "You’re everything, sunshine. My light in the dark", his voice breaking with emotion, making your heart swell even as pleasure builds.
You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, the angle hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "Wonwoo" you moan, your hands in his hair, tugging as waves crash over you. He follows soon after, his thrusts erratic, a final deep push sending him over the edge with a shuddering groan, his body tensing above you.
In the aftermath, he collapses gently, rolling to the side and pulling you into his arms. Your bodies entwine, cool and warm, light and shadow, as breaths slow and hearts sync. "I love you" he whispers, the words cheesy and perfect, sealing the moment.
You smile, kissing his chest. "And I love you, my shadowy prince."
The Hades cabin is quiet as you drift into sleep, wrapped in Wonwoo’s arms, your bodies tangled in the cool sheets. His skin, chilled by his Underworld heritage, presses against your warmth, a perfect balance that lulls you into a deep, contented slumber. His breath, slow and steady, fans across your shoulder, and you feel the weight of his arm draped over your waist, grounding you in the aftermath of your intimacy. The lantern’s flicker has long since died, leaving only the faint glow of starlight seeping through the window, bathing the room in a soft, silvery haze. Your heart hums, content, as you nestle closer, his cool fingers tracing lazy patterns on your hip until sleep claims you both.
Morning comes gently, the first rays of dawn creeping through the window, painting the room in hues of gold and rose. You stir, blinking against the soft light, your body warm where it’s pressed against Wonwoo’s. His arm is still around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his dark hair tickling your skin. You smile, the memory of last night flooding back, his hesitant touches, his whispered praises, the way your light and his shadows merged in a dance of heat and coolness. Your heart flutters, but as you shift, you feel something else: the hard press of him against your thigh, unmistakable and stirring a familiar heat in your core.
You glance at him, his face peaceful in sleep, glasses slightly askew, lips parted just enough to show the faintest hint of vulnerability. He’s beautiful, your shadowy prince, and the sight of him, aroused even in sleep, sends a playful spark through you. You shift closer, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, your hand trailing down his chest, feeling the lean muscles tense under your touch. His eyes flutter open, dark and hazy with sleep, and he blinks at you, a flush creeping up his neck as he registers your closeness.
"Morning, shadow boy" you murmur, voice teasing but thick with affection, your lips brushing his ear. "Seems like you’re… awake in more ways than one."
His eyes widen, and he shifts, clearly aware of his morning wood pressing against you. "Gods" he mutters, voice rough with sleep, his hand moving to cover himself, a mix of embarrassment and that familiar insecurity flickering in his gaze. "Sorry, I didn’t-"
You cut him off with a laugh, soft and warm, your hand catching his wrist to stop him. "Don’t apologize" you say, your eyes glinting with mischief. "I like it. And I’m thinking… maybe I can help with that before we have to face Chiron and the breakfast crowd."
His breath hitches, and for a moment, he just stares, like he’s trying to gauge if you’re serious. But your hand slides lower, grazing his abdomen, and his eyes darken, desire mixing with trust. "You’re gonna get us in trouble" he says, but his voice is low, playful, and his hand finds your hip, pulling you closer. "Chiron’ll come looking if we’re late."
"Then we’ll be quick" you whisper, your lips brushing his, a spark igniting where your warmth meets his coolness. "Think you can keep up, son of Hades?"
He groans softly, a sound that sends a shiver through you, and then he’s kissing you, deep and hungry, his lips cool and urgent against yours. The kiss is a spark, reigniting the fire from last night, and you melt into it, your body arching to press against his. His hands roam, one sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pulling it over his hip. The sheets rustle as you move, the cool fabric a contrast to the heat building between you.
"Quick, huh?" he murmurs against your lips, a teasing edge to his voice as he rolls you beneath him, his weight a delicious pressure. "You’re too much, sunshine."
"And you love it" you retort, your hands sliding down his chest, nails grazing lightly, drawing a shudder from him. You feel him, hard and ready against you. "Come on, shadow boy. We’ve got a deadline."
He chuckles, low and throaty, and his hands move with more confidence now, sliding down your sides, mapping the curves he’s only just begun to know. You’re both still bare from the night before, skin against skin, and the intimacy of it, waking up together, tangled and unguarded, makes every touch feel electric. His fingers trace your inner thigh, teasing, and you gasp, arching up, urging him closer.
"Gods, you’re beautiful" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes drinking you in like you’re a myth come to life. His lips trail down your neck, kissing the spot where your pulse races, his cool breath sending shivers across your heated skin. "Like… you’re made of sunlight, and I’m just… here, stealing it."
"You’re not stealing" you murmur, your hands guiding his face back to yours, kissing him deeply, your tongue brushing his in a slow, sensual dance. "You’re part of it. My shadow to my light." The cheesiness slips out, but it feels right, like a vow, and his eyes soften, his insecurities fading under your warmth.
He shifts, positioning himself between your legs, and you feel the tip of him against your entrance, hard and cool, a contrast that makes you moan softly. "Tell me if it’s too much" he says, his voice a low rumble, his hand cupping your cheek as he searches your eyes.
"It’s perfect" you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "You’re perfect." And then he’s pushing in, slow and deliberate, filling you with a delicious stretch that makes you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders. He groans, low and deep, his forehead dropping to yours as he pauses, letting you adjust, his breath ragged.
"You feel… so good" he murmurs, his voice breaking with need, his hips starting to move in a slow, sensual rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, deep, the coolness of him inside you a contrast to the heat building in your core. You meet his movements, rocking up to match his pace, your bodies finding a rhythm that feels like music: your light, his shadow, harmonizing in every slide and pull.
The bed creaks softly, the sheets tangling as you move, your hands roaming his back, nails digging in as pleasure coils tighter. His lips find yours again, kissing you with a desperation that makes your heart ache, his tongue exploring, tasting, claiming. You feel the glow of your skin intensify, Apollo’s gift responding to the intensity, casting golden flickers across his face, his scars. He’s beautiful, all lean strength and quiet vulnerability, and you want him to feel it, to know he’s enough.
"Faster" you whisper, your voice breathy, urgent, as you feel the edge approaching. "We’ve got to hurry, remember?" The teasing note makes him chuckle, but he complies, his thrusts quickening, deeper, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You moan, louder than you mean to, and his hand covers your mouth gently, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Shh, sunshine" he murmurs, his voice husky. "Don’t want Chiron knocking." But his own control is slipping, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that’s almost frantic now.
You nod, biting your lip under his hand, your eyes locked on his as the pleasure builds, a tidal wave ready to crash. His other hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with a skill that surprises you, drawing a muffled cry from your throat. "Gods, Wonwoo" you gasp against his palm, your body trembling, so close.
"Come for me" he whispers, his voice raw, his lips brushing your ear, and it’s enough, the intimacy, the trust, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his entire world. The wave breaks, pleasure crashing through you, your walls clenching around him as you arch, your glow flaring bright enough to light the room. He follows moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he thrusts deep, spilling inside you, his body shuddering against yours.
You collapse together, breathless, tangled in each other, his weight a comforting anchor as you come down. His forehead rests against yours.
"You’re gonna need to clean those" you tease, pointing at the black sheets, your voice thick with affection.
He chuckles, rolling to his side and pulling you with him, his arms wrapping around you. "Worth it" he murmurs, kissing your forehead, his lips cool and soft. "But we really need to get to breakfast before Chiron sends a search party."
You grin, snuggling closer for just a moment, savoring the warmth of his embrace, the balance of your light and his shadow. "Five more minutes" you murmur, and he doesn’t argue, just holds you tighter, as the dawn paints the room in gold.
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Phone Sex - Mutual Masturbation - Dom! Wonwoo - Brat! F. Reader - Biting - Choking - Hairpulling - Semi Public Sex - PIV - Unprotected intercourse
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
You are going to die here.
That’s the thought that keeps drifting through your head as you blink at the same line of dialogue for the twelfth time, the blue light from three mismatched monitors painting your apartment in shades of insomnia. Your eyes burn and your spine feels like it’s been replaced with poorly implemented ragdoll physics, but your fingers keep moving anyway, muscle memory dragging you forward.
Your desk is a war zone. Empty energy drink cans stand around your keyboard. Sticky notes cling to the edge of your monitor in neon layers, covered in half-legible scribbles about branching choices and emotional beats, little arrows connecting one colour to another as if you thought that would actually help at the time. There’s a cold slice of congealed pizza on a plate somewhere under a pile of printed scripts you swore you’d recycle three days ago. A hoodie you don’t remember taking off is half on your chair, half on the floor. Somewhere under it all, your phone vibrates and then gives up when you don’t bother to check.
You crack your knuckles, stretch your neck until it pops, and reread the dialogue you just typed. You grimace. Too melodramatic, not enough specificity. Too “late-night drama,” not enough “player agency.” You delete the line and start again, fingers clattering, a soft plastic storm in the quiet of your apartment. The clock in the corner of your screen informs you, very helpfully, that it’s 02:43.
You were supposed to send the final script for this indie client six hours ago. But they pushed new requirements yesterday – “a more emotionally resonant, cinematic ending, you know, like that huge AAA title but different enough that we don’t get sued” – and then attached a list of notes that made it clear they had no actual idea what they wanted. Typical.
You scroll through the feedback again, jaw tightening at the last line: We know you’re really good with feelings and stuff, so just sprinkle some of that magic on there. We’ll worry about the “real” game bits. You don’t need a mirror to know your expression right now could curdle milk.
Sure. Feelings. Sprinkle some on. Like parsley. Like you’re not the one who also mapped their entire progression path because they didn’t hire a systems designer and hoped you wouldn’t notice.
Your cursor blinks. You type, erase, retype. The story in your head is broader than what’s making it onto the screen; it always is. Your brain wants to build a whole trilogy, and your contract only pays for four endings and twelve unique dialogue paths. You keep catching yourself jotting down ideas that go way beyond scope, then crossing them out hard enough to rip the page.
You force yourself to focus. Deep breath. Okay. You can do this. One last pass. Then maybe, if you’re lucky, three hours of sleep and a shower that doesn’t involve you crying silently under the hot water. You promise yourself an actual breakfast, too, even though you already know that’s a lie.
Your inbox tab flashes with a new email.
You almost ignore it. Nothing good ever lands in your inbox after midnight. It’s either a passive-aggressive reminder, a bug report, or your mother sending you a link to yet another “stable career path in marketing or UX writing.” Still, the notification icon is glaring at you like a boss’ health bar at 2%. You sigh, swipe the cans aside enough to find your mouse, and click over. The sender field makes your brain stutter.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Invitation to Discuss Potential Collaboration
The logo is crisp and tiny next to their domain, the stylised anvil-and-flame you’ve seen a thousand times on splash screens, posters, and awards shows. Titan Forge. The company that basically defined your teenage years, the one whose GDC talks you watch on YouTube when you need inspiration, the one that other studios name-drop in their “inspired by” decks. The name people drop into conversations with a certain reverence, like it’s a magic spell that can open doors. You click the email open with hands that suddenly don’t feel entirely attached to your body.
Dear,
Titan Forge is exploring potential collaboration opportunities with select external developers for upcoming projects. Your previous work has come to our attention, and we would like to invite you to our offices to discuss a possible partnership.
Please find attached a mutual NDA for review and signature, along with the proposed date for an in-person meeting at our studio.
We look forward to speaking with you.
Best regards,
Titan Forge Talent & Partnerships
You reread it once. Twice. Five times. Your heart thumps so hard you can hear it in your ears. The words blur, then snap back into focus. Your previous work has come to our attention.
You glance around your apartment like someone might be standing in the corner with a camera, waiting to yell “Pranked!” But there’s only your dying plant, your dirty mug, and your mess of cables. The plant droops accusingly, like it knows you’re about to forget to water it for another three days.
You check the sender carefully. It’s a real Titan Forge domain. The signature block looks clean, not one of those obvious scams with Comic Sans and bad logos. There’s an NDA attached, and it’s long and boring and full of legalese about confidential information and non-disclosure, and no, you may not tweet anything. This is real.
You scroll back up, suddenly hyper-aware of the film of sweat on your palms. There are no details about the project. No indication of what “upcoming projects” means. Just “potential collaboration” and a date in three days’ time, in an office you’ve walked past more than once, telling yourself someday you’d get inside. You remember stopping across the street once just to stare at their lobby, watching badge-wearing employees scan in like it was nothing.
Doubt slinks in like a glitch through a wall. Maybe they sent this to the wrong person. Maybe they meant it for someone else, and your email got autocomplete’d by accident. Maybe they think you’re your own more impressive clone, the version of you who’s already shipped a breakout hit and has a hundred thousand followers on whatever platform is currently eating Twitter’s corpse.
You’re painfully familiar with being underestimated. Conferences where you’ve been asked if you’re “here with your boyfriend.” Panels where your questions get redirected to the guy next to you. Clients who praise your “soft skills” and then hand combat design to some dude whose portfolio is three jam entries and a YouTube channel. This… doesn’t feel like that. This feels like someone, somewhere, actually noticed. Like they played something you wrote and cared enough to remember your name. Which, obviously, means there’s probably a trap.
You scroll again to make sure you haven’t missed the part that says “participation unpaid, for exposure only.” There’s nothing. Just an address, a time, and the NDA. Your cursor hovers over the “Reply” button.
If you accept and it’s a mistake, you’ll die of embarrassment in their lobby while security escorts you out and some bored receptionist makes a note never to let you back in. You can already picture yourself walking home with your laptop bag feeling heavier than your entire body. If you don’t accept and it’s real, you will never forgive yourself.
You drag a hand over your face, pressing your fingers into your eyes until sparks dance behind your eyelids. Your pulse is jittery, too fast, like pre-boss-fight music when you haven’t found the health pickups yet. You open the NDA attachment again, scroll to the bottom, and type your name in the signature field. You attach the signed document, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you type a reply.
“Thank you for reaching out. I would be happy to visit the studio to discuss potential collaboration. The proposed date works for me.”
You hover over the send button. Your stomach swoops like you’re staring down a boss arena. You hit send.
The email flies out into the void. There’s no explosion, no confetti, no immediate follow-up saying “Sorry, wrong person.” Just the quiet hum of your PC and the soft, endless buzz of the fridge in the corner. You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.
You’ve been here before. This is the part where your brain tries to speedrun every possible worst-case scenario. It’ll tell you the competition is all men in expensive hoodies with more followers than you; that they’re going to look at you and see someone who likes “feelings and stuff” but doesn’t know real game design. You’ve survived this industry long enough to recognise the voice in your head that doesn’t belong to you. The one that sounds suspiciously like a collection of panel mansplainers and Reddit threads.
You take a breath. You can panic later. After the deadline you’re about to miss. You spin your chair back to your script and drag the current scene to the side, opening your notes. The feedback doc sits there, smug and bullet-pointed.
You let your forehead drop gently onto your keyboard. The keys imprint little squares into your skin. You exhale into the plastic. “Okay,” you mutter to yourself, words coming out muffled against the spacebar, then lift your head. “Fine. One more pass, then I send this, then I freak out about Titan Forge in a controlled manner.”
Promise made, you rework the scene until your eyes sting. You adjust lines, trim redundancies, and add that one small choice that ties back to an earlier conversation and makes everything hurt more. By the time you hit send on the revised script and attach the build notes, the sky outside your window is shifting toward that pre-dawn grey that feels like a graphics engine with no lighting baked in.
You watch your sent email slide into the folder and sit there, accusing you. There will be more notes. There are always more notes. But for now, you are free. Free, and buzzing with too much adrenaline and too many energy drinks in your bloodstream to sleep. You check the time: 04:19.
Sleep would be the sensible choice. Like good posture, or actually leaving your apartment sometimes. You open your game launcher instead.
The Aetherion icon glows in the centre of your screen, your most-used app after your engine and your writing software. The familiar loading animation swirls, the orchestral theme swelling in a way that still hits you in the chest, even after hundreds of hours. You’ve written breakdowns of this intro just to figure out why it works so well; you still don’t know, not really.
The login screen fades in. You type your password by muscle memory, fingers moving faster than conscious thought. Your username materialises in the corner: MidnightNyx
You select your main.
Nyx appears in a burst of light — slim, dark armour etched with faintly glowing sigils, twin daggers strapped across her back, a hood shadowing her face. She stands in the middle of the Iridescent Wilds, crystalline trees rising around her, their branches tinkling softly as pixelated wind passes through. Wisps of colour drift like fireflies between the trunks.
For a second, you just breathe.
The tiny floating UI elements, the faint shimmer of particle effects, the distant silhouettes of other players moving like fireflies through the forest — it all feels like stepping into a version of reality that fits you better than the one with rent and deadlines and emails that may or may not change your entire career.
You move Nyx forward with the lightest touch on your keys, listening to the soft thud of her boots on glassy ground. Her cape sways; the gems in the trees refract light in shifting patterns. Somewhere overhead, a dragon’s silhouette cuts across a distant moon. Your chat box blinks with system messages. A friend request from someone you don’t remember grouping with; a guild recruitment spam; a global shout about some rare world event spawning in fifteen minutes.
Your guild status still reads [Solo]. You’ve been invited to join groups before, but there’s something comforting about logging in alone, slipping into the world without anyone expecting you to talk. No cameras, no commentary, no one asking you to justify your design decisions in real time. The raid finder icon pulses.
You roll your neck, stretching the knot at the base of your skull. The Titan Forge email sits behind all of this like another open window in your brain. You’re not going to be able to stop thinking about it. But you can redirect the energy. Screw sleep. You guide your cursor to the raid queue and hover over “Crystal Depths – Mythic.”
Probably a bad idea. Your reaction time is trash on this little sleep. But Crystal Depths is your favourite: a dungeon carved entirely out of luminous gemstone, mechanics built around light refraction and shadow phases. Elegant, punishing, beautiful. The kind of encounter you secretly wish you’d designed. You click the queue button. A small confirmation pops up. Enter matchmaking as: [DPS] [Healer] [Tank]
You smirk despite yourself and tap DPS. The queue timer starts ticking up, numbers creeping higher in the corner of your screen.
You tug your blanket off the back of your chair and wrap it around your shoulders like a cloak, pulling your knees up under you. The fabric smells like coffee and takeout and you. Under your breath, you murmur, half to Nyx, half to yourself, “No pressure, right?”
The words hang in the air, small and wry, and you can’t tell if you’re talking about the raid you just queued for or the meeting you just agreed to with a company that could rewrite your career. Probably both.
The timer ticks past 01:23. Somewhere in the world, other players are also hitting “Join.” Different screens, different lives, all funnelled into the same encounter, the same boss arena, the same glowing loot. You watch the spinning icon and let your heartbeat settle into a steadier rhythm.
Here, you know what you’re doing. Here, you’ve already proven yourself a hundred times, in clean pulls and perfect dodges and clutch saves. Here, nobody cares what you look like or whether your voice sounds like it belongs on a panel. They care if you can play.
The screen flickers. Match found. Joining raid…
You straighten automatically, fingers finding their place on the keys. For the next hour, you’ll transform into Nyx, shadow-stepping through the Crystal Depths, blades flashing, dancing on the edge of failure and victory with nine strangers.
The loading screen swirls into a new scene of glittering caverns, light bouncing off mirrored walls. The raid frames populate on the left side of your UI, names appearing one by one in a quick cascade of colour and guild tags. You barely glance at them. You’re already moving Nyx forward, ready to work, ready to fight, ready — for just a little while — to exist in a world where your enemies are clearly labelled, and your objectives are simple.
Kill the boss. Don’t die. Don’t let your team down. Everything else can wait.
Titan Forge’s lobby looks just as intimidating as the outside.
It’s all polished concrete and matte-black metal, warm wood accents, and big green plants that are somehow alive despite being indoors. Screens on the walls loop trailers and dev diaries on mute, flashes of monsters and magic and UI mock-ups reflecting across the gleaming floor. The company logo glows behind the reception desk: the stylised anvil-and-flame, bright enough to make your heart skip. You clutch your laptop against your chest like a shield.
The receptionist gives you a professional smile, scans your ID, and hands over a visitor badge on a lanyard. “You’re here for the partnerships meeting?” she asks. “Yeah,” you manage. Your voice sounds surprisingly normal. That’s something.
“Great. Take the elevator to the fifth floor. Someone will meet you at the door.” You clip the badge to your shirt and head toward the elevator bank. The doors slide open with a soft whoosh, swallowing you into a box of brushed metal and your own reflection. You stare at yourself in the mirrored panel: dark circles under your eyes, hair pinned back in a way you hope reads as competent instead of I did this in a rideshare. Your reflection adjusts her grip on the laptop. “You belong here,” you whisper to yourself, barely audible. “Act like it.”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open onto a hallway that smells faintly of coffee and expensive hardware. A guy in a Titan Forge hoodie greets you, scans your badge with his phone, and leads you past rows of open-plan desks and glass-walled meeting rooms. Everywhere you look, people are in motion — standing meetings around whiteboards covered in diagrams, clusters of devs staring at screens, someone testing a game build on a massive TV with a controller, laughing when something clearly breaks. Snatches of conversation float past: fragments about shaders, telemetry, and patch notes. It’s like walking through a highlight reel of your dream job.
You’re so busy trying not to gape that you almost miss it when your guide stops and holds a hand out toward a door. “Here we are,” he says. “They’re just getting set up. You can go right in.” You adjust your grip on your laptop again and push the glass door open.
Five heads turn.
There’s a long table in the middle of the room with sleek chairs around it, a wall-mounted screen at one end, and floor-to-ceiling windows that pour light over everything. Four people are already seated, each with their own laptop, each looking like they could front a different marketing campaign for “diverse, talented developers.”
Your gaze skims across them on autopilot — sharp-bobbed woman with a blazer and glitter eyeliner, guy with blond hair and suspiciously perfect skin, dude in a designer jacket scrolling on his phone, woman with a messy ponytail and sharp eyes — and then snags on the fifth chair. On him. Jeon Wonwoo.
You’ve seen him on stage more times than you care to admit — accepting awards, giving talks about combat pacing and enemy AI. You’ve seen his name on leaderboards, on credits, on headlines in trade blogs. You’ve seen his face across convention hallways, in green rooms, on tiny Discord icons. You’ve argued with him on panels, quote-tweeted his threads, DM’d him memes, and fought with him about difficulty curves at three in the morning in a group chat full of other devs who should also have been asleep.
You know him. Unfortunately.
He looks up as the door clicks shut, eyes flicking over you. The bored expression shifts just enough to register recognition, like the game has finally loaded the correct asset. “Well, shit,” he says, voice low and dry. “They really are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
It’s almost a greeting. Heat spikes in your chest. You arch a brow, forcing your feet to keep moving. “Funny,” you say. “I was just thinking they must have lost a bet if they invited you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but familiar.
“Pixie,” he says, and there it is. “Try not to set anything on fire before the coffee break, yeah?”
It’s absurd that one stupid nickname can make your spine straighten and your heartbeat pick up, but here you are. You’ve heard it from him before, of course. He started using it after he saw your avatar in some game’s credit reel and decided you looked “like trouble but also like you’d fit in a backpack.” You hated it then. You still do. Mostly.
You walk past him to an empty chair across the table, two seats down. You sit, set your laptop down, and busy yourself with the charger cable like that little exchange didn’t just light up every competitive synapse in your body. He goes back to spinning his pen like nothing happened. It infuriates you. The others introduce themselves in polite murmurs while you’re pretending to check your email.
“Mina Myoi. Freelance designer.”
“Lee Felix. Systems and combat.”
“Byun Baekhyun. Creative direction, mostly.”
“Kim Yoohyeon. Narrative and content design.”
When it’s your turn, you look up and give them your name, a quick summary of “freelance narrative, RPG focus, some systems overlap.” They nod, murmur “Nice to meet you,” and then, inevitably, all eyes slide toward the last man at the table. He doesn’t bother to look up from his laptop. “Jeon Wonwoo,” he says, like he’s reading his own name off a bug report. “Combat design. Freelance.” He glances up then, eyes catching yours for half a heartbeat.
It’s really not long enough to be meaningful, but the overall effect is the same as always: he’s not surprised you’re here with him. He’s not impressed by it either. You want to throw your laptop at his head.
The door opens again before you can consider how bad that would look on a Titan Forge security report.
David Lee walks in like he owns the building, which, to be fair, he kind of does. Not literally, but close enough. You recognise him from interviews and presentations — sharp suit, white sneakers, the kind of charisma that could probably sell microtransactions to people who hate microtransactions.
Behind him: a woman in a Titan Forge narrative hoodie you recognise instantly as Jisoo, a tall guy with warm brown skin and a lanyard full of enamel pins who must be Raj, and a neat, prim man carrying a tablet who can only be Kaito. David claps his hands once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention to him, and grins. “Look at this table,” he says. “If a bus hits this meeting room, half the indie scene is screwed.”
There’s a ripple of laughter. You feel your shoulders loosen a fraction.
He moves to the head of the table but doesn’t sit, pacing slowly instead, remote in one hand. “You all know who we are,” he continues. “You’ve cursed our patch notes, you’ve argued about our balance passes, you’ve probably watched at least one of our trailers and thought, ‘I could do better than that.’” He winks. “Good. That’s why you’re here.”
The wall screen behind him flares to life with the Titan Forge logo, then shifts. Mythfall: Eclipse
The font is big and clean, the art behind it a swirl of dark sky and shattered constellations. You feel your stomach drop and your veins light up at the same time. David sees the reaction around the table and smiles like a wolf. “This,” he says, gesturing at the title, “is our next big mistake waiting to happen. Co-op action RPG, mythic collapse, gods dying, all that good cheerful stuff.”
He clicks, and a new slide appears: Five Trials
Vision
Versatility
Co-op
Fire
Fallout
You blink. “Cute naming scheme,” Felix mutters under his breath. David hears it and grins wider. “We’re not hiring an ‘idea person,’” he says. “We’re not hiring a code goblin who can’t talk to another human without breaking out in hives. We’re looking for someone who can lead. That means having a clear vision and the ego to defend it, but also the humility to throw it away when it’s wrong.” He ticks off the words on his fingers as he talks, energy crackling in the air.
“Trial One is vision. We give you a very thin prompt, and you tell us what the hell Mythfall: Eclipse actually is. Pillars, tone, the kind of player who’s gonna lose a hundred hours to it.” Click.
“Trial Two is versatility. You’re all specialists. We’re going to shove you out of your lane and see if you drown or learn to swim sideways.” Another click.
“Trial Three is co-op. You’ll be paired up to build a vertical slice together. We get to see how you share the wheel, who hogs it, who knows when to let go.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between you and Wonwoo for a second before moving on.
“Trial Four is fire. Live playtests, live feedback, live iteration. No hiding behind ‘we’ll fix it in post.’” Click.
“Trial Five is fallout. Long-term vision, live-service thinking, crisis rescoping. Because everything goes wrong eventually, and we want to see how interesting your solutions are when it does.”
The slide lingers behind him, the words stark against a dark background.
“You’ll be judged by people who actually ship this stuff,” David says, nodding toward the others. “Jisoo on narrative, Raj on combat, Kaito on production. They will not be nice to you. If they’re nice, it’s because they’re worried about HR.” Jisoo grins. Raj gives a little finger-wiggle wave. Kaito inclines his head, expression politely deadly.
“We’ll talk structure, expectations, and all the fun paperwork after this,” David adds. “But the short version is: over the next few weeks, we’re going to see what you do under pressure. We’re going to see how you handle failure and how you handle each other. At the end, we decide whether Mythfall gets one of you as a lead…” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “…or whether we go back to the drawing board and pretend this never happened.”
Your chest tightens. You’re not used to people talking about your career like it’s a boss arena you can win or lose in one shot. It’s always been incremental for you — contract by contract, line by line, tiny gigs stacking into something that looks like a trajectory. This is not tiny.
David’s gaze sweeps the table. “You’re here because I watched your work,” he says. “Because people on my teams argued about your stuff in meetings. In a good way.”
Wonwoo shifts slightly in his chair, eyes never leaving the screen. Of course, he’s interested. This is basically a love letter to everything he’s good at — combat, pacing, spectacle. If anyone in this room is a natural fit, it’s him. If anyone is currently feeding your imposter syndrome like it’s a Tamagotchi, it’s also him.
David wraps up with a reminder about discretion, a joke about “no leaks unless you want to see our legal team level up,” and dismisses you with instructions to check the portal for your first brief after lunch.
Chairs scrape. Laptops snap shut. You shove your notebook and laptop into your bag with maybe a little more force than strictly necessary and follow the others out into the hallway, heart still racing. The corridor hums with office noise: distant chatter, the clack of keyboards, the faint soundtrack of some game test playing behind a closed door. You’re halfway to the elevators when a familiar voice drawls behind you.
“So,” he says, “if you try to speedrun your burnout any faster, you’ll glitch through the floor, Pixie.” You stop. You turn slowly.
Wonwoo is leaning against the wall by the water cooler, hands in his hoodie pocket, head tipped slightly back. He looks like he’s been standing there for hours, even though you know you just left the same room. His badge dangles against his chest, tilted sideways. You lift your chin.
“Bold of you to comment on my burnout when your sleep schedule is a cryptid,” you say. “Do they know you only log off Twitter when the servers catch fire?” He arches a brow, mouth twitching.
“At least I don’t subtweet the people who might sign my checks,” he says. “Interesting strategy, by the way.”
You snort. “If Titan Forge kicked out everyone I’ve subtweeted, you’d be giving this little lecture to an empty hallway,” you shoot back. “You’re not that special.”
The corner of his mouth curls into that infuriating half-smirk. “Afraid of the competition, Pixie?” Your pulse jumps at the nickname, annoyingly traitorous. “Afraid you’ll finally have to notice it,” you shoot back. Something flickers across his face — brief, almost too quick to catch — before his expression shutters back into lazy.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “If you do something worth noticing, I’ll let you know.” Your jaw tightens. “Wow,” you say lightly. “I forgot how charming you are in person.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m sure the internet reminds you all the time.”
You want to hit him and high-five him at the same time. It’s deeply annoying that his insults land with the same precision as his combat balancing. “Enjoy your temporary head start,” you tell him, stepping past. “I’m sure it’ll make losing more dramatic.”
His low chuckle follows you down the hall, threading under the murmur of office noise. “We’ll see, Pixie.” You don’t look back.
You have the sudden, vivid memory of losing that one industry award to him — the way he accepted the trophy with quiet grace, the way the cameras lingered, the way your agent patted your back and said “Next time,” like that fixed anything. You remember starting the stream of his thank-you speech at home later, getting thirty seconds in, and closing the tab because it was easier to resent him than admit he was good.
Now you’re sharing a hallway. A project. A shot at something you’ve wanted since you first saw the Titan Forge logo on a much smaller screen. You ride the elevator down with your heart still hammering against your ribs, the weight of the badge on your chest suddenly heavier.
By the time you get home, your brain feels like it’s been run through a blender and poured back into your skull wrong.
You drop your bag by the door, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your living room for a full thirty seconds, just… buffering. The Titan Forge badge is still clipped to your shirt. You unclip it carefully and set it on your desk. Then you flop into your chair and stare at nothing.
You scrub your hands over your face, then reach automatically for the one thing that always helps when your thoughts are too loud. Aetherion boots up with that same familiar swell of music. You log in on autopilot, fingers flying over the keys.
Nyx materialises in the centre of a bustling hub, other players darting past like bright, restless birds. You roll your shoulders, mirroring the way Nyx stretches when she loads in, and open the raid finder. You don’t even care which one. You just need something that isn’t your own brain.
The queue pops faster than you expect. Raid ready. Joining in 5… 4… 3…
The loading screen dissolves into a vast, gleaming arena — all massive stone platforms and swirling magic, a boss at the far end already roaring in place. Your raid frames fill up in a neat list on the side of your screen, health bars stacking. Most of the usernames blur together as you skim them, all variations on edgy nouns and misspelt Latin. One stands out: KadeLocke.
Your gaze catches on the little sword icon next to the name. Melee DPS. Greatsword type, if you remember the class symbol right. You move Nyx into position near the group, bouncing on her heels while the raid leader pings markers. Chat scrolls by with the usual chaos. A message pings in party chat.
[Party] KadeLocke: First time for anyone? Mechanics are simple, but I can call them out as we go.
You smile despite yourself at the calm confidence in that one line. Not cocky, not plz listen to me, just… sure, like he expects people to follow because that’s what happens when he talks. Someone types first time here with a crying emoji. Someone else sends same lol.
You hesitate for a second, then type. [Party] MidnightNyx: I’ve done it, but I won’t say no to free carry commentary.
[Party] KadeLocke: Not a carry. Just prefer killing things efficiently instead of watching everyone panic.
You huff a laugh, shoulders relaxing a little. Same, you think. The pull timer starts counting down. The boss fight erupts into motion. Magic flares. Health bars dip. The arena shakes under heavy footsteps and explosions. In the middle of it all, Kade moves like he’s playing a different game. His greatsword arcs through animations with ruthless precision. He doesn’t waste a step. He doesn’t flail. His positioning is textbook. More importantly, his callouts are good.
[Party] KadeLocke: Stack centre for slam. Don’t touch the glowing tiles.
[Party] KadeLocke: Nyx, you and I take left adds? You’ve got the burst.
You blink. Nobody ever singles you out like that in randoms unless it’s to yell about aggro. You flick your camera and see him — his avatar, at least — already pivoting toward the left flank, greatsword resting on his shoulder as he waits for the next wave. You dart after him, Nyx’s daggers flashing as you fall into rhythm without even meaning to.
He pulls, you erase. He knocks enemies into the air, you chain combo off the juggle. Twice, you see a stray hit coming for him and dive in to interrupt, your fingers moving before you consciously decide to. You don’t have to think about where to stand. He’s always half a second ahead, his movements almost telegraphing what he’s going to need from you. The boss drops to one knee. Final phase.
[Party] KadeLocke: Everyone on boss. Save big cooldowns. Nyx, go crazy.
You grin, feeling the rush of it — the permission, the trust from a stranger. You burn everything you’ve got, weaving in and out of danger, leaving the boss’s health bar in ragged chunks behind you. When the thing finally goes down in a burst of light and loot, the chat floods. You lean back, letting your pulse slow, a stupid little spark of pride warming you as the victory fanfare plays.
A private message pops up. Kade: Nice damage. You’ve got good instincts. You stare at it for a second, lips tugging up. Nyx: You’re welcome for my hard work.
There’s a long enough pause that you wonder if you were too sharp, if text doesn’t carry your grin. Then, Kade: Bratty. Bold choice for someone who almost stood in the death beam twice.
Your mouth falls open in a laugh. Nyx: Almost stood in. Keyword. That’s called “living on the edge.”
Kade: That’s called “giving your healer a heart attack.” You wiggle your mouse, making Nyx circle in place. Nyx: They lived. Boss died. Sounds like a win to me.
Kade: Can’t argue with results, I guess.
He adds, a beat later, Kade: Queue another? Could use someone who knows how to improvise without completely ignoring mechanics.
Warmth pricks at the edges of your tired brain. This is just random matchmaking. You don’t owe him anything. You should probably log off, drink water, and stare at your notes for the first trial tomorrow.
Instead, your fingers are already moving. Nyx: Sure. But if we wipe, I’m blaming you in global chat.
You imagine Kade on the other side of the screen, wherever he is, reading that and maybe smiling. Maybe rolling his eyes. Maybe, like you, relieved to just play with someone who gets it.
Kade: Deal. I’ll try not to ruin your reputation, Nyx.
You feel a tiny, stupid flicker of warmth at the way he uses your name — not player or rogue or some generic label, but the one you picked, the one that feels a little more like you than your real one does some days. It’s nothing. Just a stranger in a game being mildly charming. The loading screen swirls, and the world pulls you forward.
In one life, you’re preparing to go head-to-head with Jeon Wonwoo for the biggest opportunity of your career. In another, you’re running into battle beside a stranger with a greatsword and good instincts. You don’t yet know how these two lives will collide.
For now, you tighten your grip on your mouse, flex your fingers over your keys, and step into the next fight.
The email arrives at 06:12, which is frankly rude.
You wake up to your phone buzzing itself off the nightstand, grope for it, and squint at the screen through one half-open eye.
You groan into your pillow. Sleep was not your friend last night. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain projected the Mythfall: Eclipse title card onto the back of your eyelids and ran a mental speedrun of Jeon Wonwoo being effortlessly competent in every possible scenario. You crack one eye fully open, tap the notification, and drag yourself upright against the headboard as the portal page loads.
TRIAL ONE – VISION
Objective: Articulate a concise, compelling core vision for Mythfall: Eclipse.
Deliverables (max 1 page total):
– 3–5 clear game pillars
– A short scenario synopsis (1 key story moment)
– A high-level combat loop outline
Deadline: 48 hours
You stare at the “max 1 page” line and make an offended noise. They want your entire brain in 500 words or less.
You swing your legs out of bed and immediately step on a sticky note. Of course. You peel it off your foot and squint at the scribble: “Player choices = emotional scars, not stats.” You have no memory of writing that, but past you was onto something. You decide: coffee first. Then vision.
Two hours later, your apartment looks like a crime scene where the victim is “scope control.” Your whiteboard is crammed with phrases in different colours, circled, underlined, connected by frantic arrows:
“All myths collapsing into one dying world.”
“Co-op = emotional co-dependency, not just DPS checks.”
“Players as unreliable narrators of their own legend?”
You pace in a tight loop between the board and your desk, marker tapping against your palm, trying to distil everything into something clean enough to fit on one page without losing what makes it interesting. You can practically feel Raj threatening to fall asleep if you don’t mention anything with numbers, so you scribble in:
“Synergy skills: co-op abilities that get stronger the more you ‘trust’ your party member.”
You add a quick note about positioning mattering, about telegraphed attacks that tell a story instead of just glowing red on the floor. You hate yourself a little for writing “visceral,” but it fits. You step back, chewing the end of the marker cap, and imagine Wonwoo in his apartment somewhere, sitting down with a notebook, pen in hand, completely unbothered. One neat, clean page. Probably annotated. Probably infuriatingly good. The thought lights up your competitiveness. No way, you think, turning back to the board. You are not letting him walk in with a cleaner pitch. You drag a line down the centre of the whiteboard and force yourself to pick. Three pillars. Just three. You write, slowly, in big letters:
Shared Fate, Shared Story – Co-op choices that bind players’ destinies together.
Myths in Freefall – Colliding pantheons, broken rules, consequences that reshape the map.
Every Fight Tells a Story – Combat as character expression, not just math.
Underneath, you sketch out one scenario: a boss fight where a dying god refuses to let go of power, and players have to decide whether to kill them outright or siphon what’s left to save a village. Either way, something breaks. Either way, the world remembers what they did.
You stare at it until the words swim, then force yourself to sit down and turn the chaos into a one-page doc. You trim, condense, murder your darlings. You cut a whole paragraph about mythological canon because nobody has time. You wrestle the combat loop into three sentences: anticipation, reaction, pay-off. You squeeze in one line about accessibility without making Kaito’s eye twitch from imagined budget creep. Every time you get stuck, your mind flashes a quick image of Wonwoo in that glass room — pen spinning, expression unreadable, sitting there like all of this is just another Tuesday. You type a little harder.
Titan Forge in the early morning feels like a level before enemies spawn.
The corridors are quieter, the lights a little softer. Most desks you pass are still half-empty, monitors waking up, a couple of early birds nursing coffee the size of your forearm. Somewhere, someone is yawning loud enough to echo. It’s almost peaceful.
You’re one of the first to reach the meeting room. The door is propped open. Inside, Jisoo is already there, leaning over the table with a notebook, pen moving in quick, looping strokes. Raj sits near the end with a massive mug, scrolling through something on his tablet with the kind of frown that usually precedes a refactor. Kaito has his laptop open, fingers flying over the keys, expression composed in that I’m already thinking three steps ahead of all of you way. You hover a second in the doorway, then step in. “You’re early,” Jisoo says, glancing up with a quick smile.
“Figured I’d get my panic out of the way before the others show up,” you reply, sliding into a chair near the middle of the table and setting your laptop down. Raj huffs into his coffee. “If you’re not panicking a little, you’re not respecting the process,” he says. You’re pretty sure that’s his version of encouragement.
People filter in over the next few minutes. Mina arrives with a neatly organised folder under her arm and a latte in a reusable cup. Felix stumbles in behind her, earphones around his neck, hair still damp like he showered in a hurry. Baekhyun saunters through the doorway, looking like he woke up directly into that outfit. Yoohyeon slips in quietly, tablet hugged to her chest, eyes already scanning some document. You watch them all take their spots, the party assembling.
Wonwoo is one of the last to appear. He walks in without hurry, hoodie thrown on over a plain T-shirt, badge clipped crookedly to the pocket. He’s got his notebook in one hand, pen in the other, as if he’s been taking notes on the way over. He takes in the room with one quick sweep, then his gaze lands on you. For a moment, his eyes soften — not enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. “Look at you,” he says, heading for the empty chair across and one over from you. “Almost human in daylight.”
You snort. “Careful. If you keep flirting with me in front of your future employers, people will talk.” He drops into his seat, flips the notebook open, and spins his pen between his fingers.
“Relax, Pixie,” he says. “I only flirt with people who can actually beat me.” You open your mouth, ready to bite back, when he adds, almost offhand, “But, you’re closer than most.”
It takes your brain a second to decide whether that was a dig or a compliment. By the time you land on both, David makes an entrance like the room has been waiting expressly for him. Probably because it was.
“All right, legends,” he says, grinning. “Trial One: Who actually knows what game they’re making?” He moves to the head of the table but doesn’t sit, pacing slowly instead, remote in one hand.
“Here’s the deal,” he says. “No slides, no mood boards, no thirty-page bibles. You get five minutes to convince us Mythfall: Eclipse is worth sinking the next several years of our lives into. Imagine I’ve just stepped into your Discord call and I’m one bad pitch away from cancelling the project and making a mobile idle clicker instead.” A reluctant chuckle moves around the table. Your palms are sweating.
“Keep it focused,” David adds. “Pillars, a moment that sells the fantasy, and how it plays. Make us feel it. We’ll ask questions. We’ll argue. If you’re lucky, Raj will try to break your combat loop. If you’re very unlucky, he’ll succeed.” Raj lifts his coffee cup in a little salute.
“Who’s going first?” David asks. Silence. You feel your hand lift before your brain fully catches up. “I’ll go,” you hear yourself say.
Wonwoo huffs a soft laugh under his breath, like, of course you will. You ignore him. You stand, unplug your laptop and move to the front of the room. The screen behind you is blank, your reflection faint in the glass. Five minutes. You breathe once, in and out, and begin.
“Mythfall: Eclipse,” you say, “is a co-op action RPG about what happens when the stories that shaped your world break… and you and your friends have to decide what replaces them.” That gets their attention.
Words fall into the space between you and the table. You talk about colliding pantheons and a sky full of dead constellations. About player characters who grew up praying to certain gods and now have to fight them. You anchor everything in co-op — not just as a feature, but as the heart of the experience. “Every big decision,” you say, “isn’t just ‘press A or B.’ It’s something you have to live with together. If you sacrifice a city to save a god, that’s not just a cutscene. That’s a thing your party remembers, brings up later, colours how NPCs talk to you.”
You outline your three pillars in plain language, watching their faces as you do. “Shared fate, shared story,” you say. “The game remembers what you and your friends did together, not just what you did alone.”
“Myths in freefall. The world is collapsing under the weight of all these pantheons smashing into each other. You’re not chosen ones so much as… the last ones who still care.”
“And every fight tells a story. Combat isn’t a separate thing from narrative; it’s where your character’s beliefs show up. A healer who’s lost faith in their god doesn’t cast the same way as one who’s still devout.”
You walk them through one key moment: a crumbling temple, a dying war deity chained to their own throne, a village on the edge of starvation outside. The choice: channel the last of the god’s power into the land to save the harvest, effectively killing the deity… or spare them, preserving a dangerous, wounded god whose followers will remember your mercy.
“Either way,” you say, “the map changes. The way enemies behave, the rumours you hear in taverns, the dreams your characters have — all of that shifts based on that choice. And because it’s co-op, there’s space for people to disagree. Maybe one of you wanted mercy and got outvoted. That friction is part of the story.” Then you ground it in play.
You outline the combat loop: learn, react, retaliate. Fewer inputs, more meaningful windows. You sketch how co-op skills could kick in — one player pinning an enemy in a beam of starlight while the other shatters it, the timing requiring communication, not just number crunching. You don’t look at your notes. You don’t look at Wonwoo. You look at Jisoo.
Her eyes have warmed, that faint, sharp smile tugging at her lips when you describe co-op dialogue that unlocks only if players have made certain choices together. You see little sparks of oh, I could write that lighting in her gaze. Raj’s expression is harder to read, but he leans forward when you talk about fights evolving based on past choices — enemies adapting to your party’s habits, not just their level. You make it clear you’re not pitching a bottomless pit of bespoke encounters; you’re pitching a framework. You wrap up just shy of five minutes.
“…Mythfall: Eclipse should feel like you and your friends carved your own constellation into a broken sky,” you finish. “And you’re the only ones who know what you sacrificed to make it shine.”
For a second, the room is quiet in a way that isn’t empty. Then Jisoo speaks. “I like the emphasis on shared memory,” she says. “A lot of co-op games are about sharing a space, but not a story. This would give us… teeth.” You blink. Your lungs remember how to work.
Raj taps his pen on the table. “If we start tying combat AI behaviour to narrative choices,” he says, “how many distinct states are you imagining?” There it is. You don’t pretend you have every answer, but you talk through modular behaviours, categories of outcomes instead of one-off snowflakes. You frame it as adjustable: test with a smaller matrix, expand if it works. Raj doesn’t smile, exactly, but he stops tapping.
Kaito’s questions are all about scope and pipeline. You acknowledge the risks, point to places the system can scale, and promise you’re not secretly trying to kill his schedule. David hasn’t looked away once. When you’re done, he tilts his head. “You’ve thought about this,” he says. “Good. I hate vague.” You sit down on legs that feel faintly like someone swapped your bones for jelly.
Wonwoo doesn’t say anything as you slide into your chair, but his pen stops spinning for a heartbeat. His gaze flicks over your face, then back to his notebook. The tiniest nod, like he’s marking down “respectable.”
One by one, the others present. Mina’s pitch leans into exploration and environmental storytelling — ruins that tell their own myths if you’re paying attention. Felix’s is systems-heavy, all elegant loops and progression paths. Yoohyeon’s is full of mood and texture, leaning into horror edges. Then it’s Wonwoo’s turn.
“Mythfall: Eclipse,” he says, “is a game about learning to read an enemy that doesn’t want you to.” He goes straight for the jugular: combat.
Not just numbers and cooldowns, but rhythm. He describes enemies as “conversations you have with violence.” Bosses who “remember” what you did last time and punish you if you try the same trick twice. Patrols whose route changes if you’ve been sloppy, mini-bosses that gain new abilities when their god dies or survives. If you talked about consequences on the macro level, he’s drilling into the moment-to-moment. “The core loop is simple,” he says. “See. Survive. Solve. First attempts are about staying alive long enough to understand what the hell this thing is doing. Once you’ve read it, you start rewriting the fight. That’s where mastery lives.” You watch Raj’s eyes brighten like someone plugged him in. To your surprise, Wonwoo doesn’t ignore narrative entirely. He frames it differently.
“The story is what explains why the enemies change,” he says. “If players killed a storm goddess in one region, storms everywhere get weirder. Enemies with lightning-based attacks behave differently. We tie myth states into the AI so the world’s response to what you’ve done isn’t just flavour text; it’s trying to kill you in new ways.”
There it is: the overlap. Where your pitch leaned into the emotional and social consequences of shared choices, his leans into the mechanical consequences. You’re talking about the same coin from opposite sides. You hate how satisfying that is.
From your angle, you can see his one-page document on the table — clean, dense handwriting, a little sketch of a boss arena with arrows showing attack patterns shifting over time. You clock phrases that echo your own thoughts: “player habits,” “party behaviour,” “myth-state driven modifiers.” You also notice what isn’t there: no mention of specific character arcs, no example of how two players might feel differently about the same fight based on their backstory. His story is the world. Yours is the people in it.
“So in your version,” David says when he’s done, “the gods die, the weather freaks out, and the world starts fighting back using your own habits against you.” Wonwoo lifts a shoulder. “Players get lazy if we let them,” he says. “We shouldn’t.” Raj looks openly delighted. “Punishing predictable play is my love language,” he says. “I like this. A lot.”
Jisoo’s expression is thoughtful. “It’s very strong on the ‘what you fight,’” she says. “I’d want to make sure we don’t end up with a technically brilliant game where players can’t remember a single character’s name.”
“We wouldn’t,” Wonwoo says easily. “As long as someone who cares about that is in the room.” His gaze flicks, briefly and unmistakably, toward you.
David sees it. Of course he does. “Interesting,” he says, clasping his hands. “We’ve got one pitch where story is the skeleton and combat is the muscle…” His attention moves to you. “…and one where combat is the skeleton and story is the connective tissue.” He looks back at Wonwoo. “If I locked the two of you in a room and told you to come out with a single vision, would we get a masterpiece or a murder trial?”
“Depends who gets the whiteboard,” you say before you can stop yourself. A couple of people laugh. Wonwoo’s mouth curves. “She can have the whiteboard,” he says. “I’ll take the controller.”
David’s smile says he got exactly what he wanted out of that. “Noted,” he says. “Either way, that was fun. Go eat. Check the portal this afternoon for Trial Two.”
By the time you get home, you feel like someone stretched your nerves out on a rack and then told you to “just relax.”
You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and slide bonelessly onto the couch while your brain replays the day on loop: your own voice pitching into the room, Jisoo’s interest, Raj’s questions, the way Wonwoo’s ideas slotted uncomfortably well next to yours without actually overlapping. Combat as conversation. Shared fate as story.
It should be validating that your instincts line up with his on the big picture: myths reacting, world state changing, co-op actually mattering. Instead, it makes your chest feel tight. You need to stop thinking. Or at least think about something that can’t email you back.
You get up, shuffle to your desk, and boot up Aetherion.
You log in, watch Nyx shimmer into existence in the middle of a crowded plaza, the usual swirl of players flitting past, and feel your shoulders loosen a notch. You don’t move her right away.
Your fingers hover over the keys as you stare at the minimap, debating. You could run a quick dungeon, do your dailies, mindlessly farm materials while your brain chews on David’s smug face and Raj’s questions. You could wander the fields alone and pull too many mobs just to feel something. Your friends list blips. KadeLocke is now online. Almost immediately, a whisper pops up. Kade: You look like someone standing in town and pretending they know what they’re planning to do.
You blink. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t typed. The accuracy is unsettling.
Nyx: Wow, psychic. Or are you stalking the login feed now?
Kade: You log in at weird hours and then stand still for a full minute. I’m allowed to draw conclusions. A beat. You busy?
You glance at your very empty, very Mythfall-filled real-life calendar and snort softly. Nyx: Busy spiralling. Why?
Kade: Tower challenge unlocked for me today. Two-player run. Want in?
You pull up the dungeon list automatically. The Tower icon pulses at the edge of the map – high difficulty, recommended party size: 2–3. You’ve never clicked it before. Nyx: Never done it. Thought it was one of those “sweaty tryhard” things.
Kade: It is. I’m inviting you anyway. A party invite pops. You hesitate for half a heartbeat, then accept. The UI shifts to show just two frames: KadeLocke and MidnightNyx.
Kade: Ready?
Nyx: Define “ready.”
Kade: You know your buttons. I know the layout. I’ll tell you where to stand and what to stab. Try not to improvise too much on the first pull.
You roll your eyes even as you move toward the teleport glyph. You step into the portal. The world dissolves in a flare of light, then reforms as a high tower lined with glowing runes and platforms suspended in midair. Far below, mist swirls in a bottomless drop. Above, you can just make out the silhouette of something huge moving in the clouds. You tighten your grip on your mouse. Nyx spawns beside Kade’s avatar on a wide, circular platform. His greatsword rests casually against his shoulder; his cape flutters in some dramatic wind the engine insisted on rendering.
Nyx: Okay. Mildly terrifying.
Kade: It’s worse if you look down. Don’t look down. A pause. First rule: stay on my left unless I tell you otherwise. Second rule: if the floor glows, move. Third rule: if you’re not sure what to do, ask. Don’t guess. You bristle automatically. Nyx: You know I’ve played this game before, right?
Kade: I know you have good instincts and a bit of a chaos streak. I’m accommodating both.
You open your mouth to type something sharp and entirely unconvincing about not having a chaos streak, but the pull timer appears before you can. You exhale, shake your hands out, and ready your daggers.
The first wave hits like a test you didn’t study for: enemies blink into existence around the edge of the platform, beams of light sweep across the floor in predictable-but-not-obvious patterns, and runes start charging under your feet. You dart forward on reflex.
Kade: Left. Now. You jerk Nyx in the indicated direction just as a beam carves through the space you were about to occupy. A rune explodes where you had been standing, showering the area with crackling energy. Okay. Maybe letting him lead isn’t the worst idea. He moves with that same calm precision you remember from the raid — no wasted motion, no panic. He kites enemies into tidy clusters; you slip in and out of their blind spots, carving them down. Every time something new appears — floating orbs, tether mechanics, lines aiming at your feet — his text pops up a fraction of a second before your brain finishes parsing what’s happening.
Kade: Ignore orbs, they’re bait. Hit the casters. Platform’s going to tilt in 3… 2… jump on my ping.
You jump when he pings. The platform shifts on its axis like a seesaw. For a sick second, you’re sure you mistimed it, and you’re going to slide off into the void, but Kade’s avatar slams his sword into the stone at the edge, anchoring himself, and your character bumps into his collision box instead of gravity. You land in a heap against him, metaphorically speaking. Nyx: Did you just body-check physics for me?
Kade: You were about to meet the bottom of the tower. I need you alive for at least one phase.
Your cheeks heat even though there’s nobody here to see you. You push off him and keep going, adrenaline slowly shifting into something steadier. The higher you climb, platform by platform, the less you hesitate, and the more you anticipate where he’s going to be. He calls less; you move more. When he does call, you listen, even if you grumble about it in chat.
On one particularly nasty platform, lines of magic crisscross the floor like a laser grid while enemies fling projectiles from the far side. You start to dart through an opening that looks safe.
Kade: Stop. You halt Nyx mid-step. A beam slices through the space in front of you a heartbeat later. Nyx: You’re no fun.
Kade: Fun is surviving long enough to brag about this. Move when I move.
He waits. You wait with him. When he lunges forward, you follow, toes skimming the edge of danger, heart thudding. It works. It’s infuriating. By the time you reach the top platform, your palms are slick, and your pulse is high, and you kind of hate how much you… trust him?
The final boss materialises in a flare of light and thunder: some towering construct woven from broken runes and discarded god-armor, eyes burning bright. You swallow. Nyx: So what’s the fun surprise here?
Kade: Don’t die. And when it splits into three, take the one that mirrors you. Shadow twin. You’ll know it when you see it.
You want to argue that this is unhelpfully cryptic. Then the fight starts, and you don’t have time. The construct slams its fists down, platforms appear and vanish, the whole top of the tower becomes a dance floor for people with a death wish. Halfway through, the boss shatters into three smaller versions; one of them moves exactly like you do — same skills, same dash, a twisted echo of Nyx. You swear under your breath and go after it. Kade doesn’t micromanage. He tanks his own twin with grim efficiency and throws you the occasional text when something truly unfamiliar appears, but otherwise, he lets you figure it out. You make mistakes, you adjust, you get better fast. When the last shard of the boss explodes, and the Tower falls quiet, your hands are shaking a little.
Loot appears in a tidy chest at the centre. You exhale slowly, the adrenaline high morphing into something warm and fizzy. A private message pops. Kade: You handle vertical runs better than most. Didn’t even try to swan-dive off the top platform once.
You let Nyx idle, daggers sheathed, while you reply. Nyx: I like to keep my dramatic exits for when someone deserves it.
Kade: Good to know. I’ll make sure I’m never standing near the edge if I piss you off. You pause, then let your fingers wander a little closer to the line. Nyx: Bold of you to assume you’d see it coming. I’m sneaky, remember.
Kade: Then I guess I’ll just have to keep you where I can see you.
A flicker of heat runs through you at that, entirely disproportionate to a handful of text characters. You push it, just a bit. Nyx: That sounds suspiciously like you enjoy being in charge.
You hesitate, thumb hovering over Enter, then hit it anyway, heart ticking up a notch. If he gets weird about it, you can always blame it on sleep deprivation and never queue with him again. The reply comes faster than you expect. Kade: I enjoy it when people follow instructions. Everything else is a bonus. And you strike me as someone who needs very specific directions, or you’ll start trouble on purpose.
You stare at that, surprised laughter bubbling up in your chest. He’s… not wrong. Nyx: Are you calling me a handful?
Kade: I’m saying if I tell you “stand here, hit that, don’t lick the glowing floor,” you’ll do the first two and then ask what I’ll give you if you obey the third.
Your face heats. Okay, you walked into that one. Nyx: Depends. What are the rewards for good behaviour?
You send it before you can talk yourself out of it, suddenly very aware of how quiet your apartment is. There’s a longer pause. Long enough that you wonder if you pushed too far, if you’ve misread the tone and he’s going to bail. Then, Kade: Clean clears. No repair bills. Maybe I’ll even say “good job” without sarcasm. Another line appears before you can respond: Start with that. We can renegotiate your perks later if you behave.
Something tightens pleasantly under your ribs. It’s not explicit. It’s barely suggestive. But there’s a shape to the way he phrases things — steady, teasing, a little bossy — that hits a very particular switch in your brain you try not to examine too closely. You type with fingers that feel slightly less steady. Nyx: Wow. High praise. Guess I’ll have to earn it.
Kade: You’re doing fine so far. But don’t let it go to your head.
You open his profile without thinking about it this time, skimming raid stats and titles. Whoever he is, he’s good. Better than good. The kind of player you’d happily trust to lead you through something brutal. He sends another whisper before you can fall too deep into the numbers. Kade: You on around this time often? I’d rather stack the party with people who can take a joke and a mechanic.
You roll your eyes even as your chest warms. Nyx: I keep weird hours. Freelancer life. But yeah, I’ll probably be around. Why, miss me already? You wince the second you hit Enter. That was… bolder than you meant it to be. The answer comes back, cool and easy.
Kade: I miss not wanting to yeet half my raid into the sun. You make that easier. I’m being practical. A half-second later: But if your ego needs the other answer, you can have that too. Your mouth curves helplessly.
You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. It’s later than you thought. Tomorrow’s brief will hit. Trial Two will start. David will smirk. Raj will poke holes. Wonwoo will be there, spinning his pen, acting like pressure is something that only happens to other people.
Right now, though, your world has shrunk to a little chat window and a name glowing quietly on your friends list. You tap out one last message. Nyx: Fine. Be practical. Just remember you asked for more time with me when I start “accidentally” pulling extra mobs.
Kade: If you do that, I’m putting you on callout duty so everyone knows exactly who to blame. Deal?
Nyx: Deal.
You sit there for another moment, watching the empty chat box, the way Nyx shifts her weight from foot to foot on the screen, Tower music still echoing faintly in your head. Then you log out. The game melts away into your desktop. Your room is quiet again, save for the soft whir of your PC fans.
You close the laptop with a soft click and let your head fall back, eyes slipping shut, the phantom sensation of standing on a narrow platform with nothing but open air below you lingering just long enough to make your stomach flip.
Raj is waiting for you when you walk into the meeting room the next morning, which is not a sentence you ever expected to think.
He’s usually glued to his seat beside Jisoo and Kaito, half a step removed from everyone, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Today, he’s leaning back in a chair at the far end of the table with a tablet in his lap and a coffee cup that says “I BREAK LOOPS FOR FUN” in chipped letters. He looks up as you come in. “Good timing,” he says. “Sit.” You obey mostly because your body is too tired to disobey this early.
“Did I miss an email?” you ask, dropping your bag and sliding into the chair next to him. “Portal update at six,” he says. “I thought I’d save you the joy of reading through production boilerplate and just give you the actual task.”
He hands you the tablet. On it, a document is open with a single bold title: TRIAL TWO – ROLE SWAP
FOCUS: COMBAT ENCOUNTER DESIGN
Design a self-contained combat encounter for Mythfall: Eclipse.
Deliverables (max 2 pages):
– Encounter fantasy
– Enemy types & abilities
– Arena layout
– Difficulty curve (phases, tuning goals)
Narrative dressing is optional but not required. Encounter must stand on its own as a “fun fight” in test harness.
You reread “narrative dressing optional but not required” three times, like if you stare at it long enough, it will turn into “please write us a monologue.” It doesn’t.
“So,” you say slowly, “you want me to design a fight with no story.”
Raj shrugs. “You can hang some story on it if you want,” he says. “But if I strip all your flavour text out and drop this into a greybox test build, it should still be fun. That’s the assignment.”
It’s like asking you to write a symphony using only drums. You like drums. You respect drums. You just also like… melody. Lyrics. Feelings.
“And I assume Wonwoo is writing a heartwarming branching quest about a puppy,” you say before you can stop yourself. Raj’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “You said that, not me,” he replies. “But yeah. He’s on narrative. You’re on combat. I want to see you both out of your comfort zones.” That stings. Because he’s not wrong.
You scroll further down. At the bottom, in small text:
Evaluation focus: clarity of encounter vision, readability of mechanics, pacing, difficulty curve, player learning moments.
No mention of “did this make anyone cry in a good way.” No space for your usual metrics. “Duration?” you ask.
“Short,” Raj says. “Think single dungeon boss or a set-piece fight. Ten minutes tops for an average group. Ideally, less.” You nod, throat tight.
“You’ve got two days,” he adds, standing. “Ask questions if you need to. I mean about the doc. Not about your feelings.” You blink. “What if my feelings are about the doc?” He gives you a flat look that softens at the edges. “Then write a good fight,” he says. “It’ll help.”
Trial Two is like being handed someone else’s toolkit and told to build the same house.
Your next forty-eight hours are a blur of spreadsheets, dev wikis, and documents with titles like “Enemy AI Behaviour: Beginner-Friendly Patterns” and “Damage Per Second Tuning – Internal Guidelines (Do Not Share Externally).” You learn how Raj and his team talk about fights: openings, checks, punish windows, soft enrages. You learn there are words for things you’ve always felt when playing, but never had to label in quite this way. You also learn that half your instincts are illegal.
Your first draft has three enemy types, a shifting arena floor, and a mechanic where the boss “remembers” which player took which action in earlier phases and punishes patterns. You show it to Raj in a one-on-one review. He skims, eyebrows rising. “This is cool,” he says. “It’s also three encounters stapled together and a QA nightmare.”
“I like to aim high,” you mutter. He pushes the tablet back across the table. “Cut it in half,” he says. “Then cut it in half again. Think of it like writing — this is your first draft. You’re not killing the idea; you’re putting it on a diet.” You go back to your desk and put it on a diet. Reluctantly.
You strip out one mechanic, then another, until what’s left is a tight, focused fight: a fractured avatar of a god of echoes, a circular arena with shifting safe zones, a loop that teaches players to listen and watch before punishing them for flailing. You still sneak story in. You can’t help it. The boss’s abilities are named like lines of a poem. When it splits into mirrored copies, you note how they repeat players’ own moves back at them. Raj might not care, but it helps you care. You fall asleep on your keyboard once and wake up with ASDF imprinted on your forehead.
In between coffee refills, you hear whispers. Someone mentions in the kitchen that “Jeon’s questline wrecked Jisoo.” Someone else says, “I heard she had to leave the room for a second.” You pretend not to listen as you stir powdered creamer into your mug. Later, you pass Jisoo in the hall. Her eyes are a little pink. She’s smiling, though. Wonwoo walks behind her, one hand in his hoodie pocket, notebook tucked under his arm. He looks like he always does — composed, maybe a little tired, hair falling into his eyes.
“Nice work,” Jisoo says to him as they head toward a meeting room. “I’m stealing at least half of that, just so you know.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “As long as you make it better,” he replies. You walk by them with your mug, heart doing something unpleasant. He doesn’t look your way; you don’t give him the satisfaction of glancing over your shoulder. It doesn’t bother you. It absolutely, one hundred percent does.
Two days later, you present your combat encounter to Raj and a couple of designers he’s dragooned into a small review. You stand at the front of a smaller room this time, whiteboard behind you, your spec open on the screen. No David. No David-related theatrics. Just Raj, Jisoo, and one gameplay engineer with tired eyes.
“Echo Warden,” you say, and launch in.
You outline the fantasy first: a broken fragment of a god that repeats everything it hears, stuck in a loop of its own prayers. You emphasise the mechanics more than the lore. Phase one: teach players to follow safe zones. Phase two: punish them if they just chase the same pattern. The boss starts mimicking the party’s positioning, forcing them to break their habits. You talk tuning goals: a group that learns quickly clears in five minutes; a group that doesn’t dies in three. You talk about telegraphs that are readable but not clownishly obvious. You talk about giving melee and ranged different jobs so nobody feels useless. Raj interrupts with questions. You’re ready for most of them. The ones you’re not, you attack sideways, using examples from other games and the internal docs you memorised at three in the morning. At the end, he nods once, slowly.
“You overcomplicate things,” he says. “But you cut back. That’s good. The core loop is solid. Pacing might need adjustment — I’d want to see it in a prototype — but this is… yeah. This is real combat design.” A strange warmth spreads through your chest at that last sentence.
Jisoo chimes in. “I like how you’re already thinking about what the fight is saying about the god,” she says. “Even without story text, you’d still feel like this thing is… stuck. That’s useful for us later.” You exhale. Your shoulders drop half an inch. It’s not your natural habitat, but you didn’t drown.
By the time you drag yourself home that night, your brain is buzzing with numbers instead of feelings. Every time you close your eyes, you see telegraphs and phase transitions and Raj actually called it solid playing on repeat. You should sleep. You open Aetherion instead.
Nyx appears in a familiar city square. Before you can decide whether to do anything, your friends’ list pings. KadeLocke is now online. Right on cue, a whisper pops. Kade: You’re logging in later and later. Should I be worried you got abducted by “real life”?
You huff, but it comes out more like a sigh than a laugh. Nyx: Real life would have to pry my keyboard from my cold, carpal-tunnelled hands. Just… long day.
There’s a longer pause than usual before his next message. Kade: You sound tired even in text. That’s a talent.
Kade: Was gonna ask if you wanted to do something dumb and dangerous, but I’m downgrading that to “chill and mildly hazardous.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitch. Nyx: My brain is soup, but I could maybe manage “mildly hazardous.” Nothing too sweaty, or I’m just going to feed the floor.
Kade: Noted. Come somewhere quiet with me, then. Less chaos, more me telling you where to go while you complain about it.
You hesitate over the keys, then type, Nyx: Bossy and comforting. Multitasking, huh?
His reply comes almost immediately. Kade: Text is slow if you’re wiped. You wanna try voice in-game? I use a modulator. Keeps things less weird. You can just follow my lead and save your energy for being a menace.
You stare at the message. You’ve been running content together for days now — raids, dungeons, the occasional open-world nonsense when you both needed to switch your brains off. You’ve talked about sleep schedules (bad), vague “projects” (worse), favourite snacks (you argued for a solid ten minutes about the correct ratio of chocolate to cookie in ice cream).
You know his timing, his playstyle, the way he reacts when things go wrong. You know he’s steady, that he doesn’t tilt, that he doesn’t yell at people when they screw up. You do not know what his voice sounds like. Or where he lives. Or his real name. Sharing your voice feels… weirdly intimate. Like handing over a piece of yourself you can’t take back. You chew your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’s been respectful. Funny. Reliable. Never once pushed when you dodged personal questions. Never once got gross when you made a joke that could have gone sideways. If this goes weird, you can hang up. You can mute. You can block. You are not trapped. You take a breath.
Nyx: Sure. If you sound like a 12-year-old, I’m disconnecting.
Kade: Fair. Join party. I’ll drag you through something interesting while we test it. A party invite appears. You accept before you can overthink it.
The party UI slides into place; a little voice icon glows to indicate an open channel. Your pulse kicks up a notch. You drag your headset over your ears, thumb hovering over your mouse for a second, then click to join.
There’s a soft crackle, the faint hiss of open mic, and then his voice comes through — filtered by the modulator, a touch lower and smoother than it probably really is. You can hear the whisper of fabric, a chair creaking as he shifts. It still sounds like him somehow. Calm. Steady. Threaded with that quiet amusement you’ve already learned to recognise in his text. “Nyx?” he says.
“Yeah,” you answer, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near it. “Hey.” There’s a small pause, like he’s calibrating. “Okay,” he says. “Not twelve. Good start.” You huff a laugh, the knot between your shoulders loosening just a little.
“Neither are you,” you say. “You sound like… the voice of a very smug tutorial.” He laughs, low in your ear. The modulator doesn’t hide the warmth. “I’ll take ‘smug tutorial’ over ‘nasal gremlin,’” he says. “You sound more awake than your messages.”
“Lies,” you reply. “I’m eighty percent caffeine and bad decisions right now.”
“Then no raids,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Come outside the city gate. I’ll show you something low-effort and pretty. You can pretend it’s a walk and not a carry.”
“Wow,” you say. “Already planning to drag me around?”
“You said your brain’s soup,” he reminds you. “You point, mash a few buttons, I’ll do the heavy lifting. It’s called party synergy.”
You make an exaggerated little tsk noise. “Bossy,” you say. “Functional,” he counters, and you can hear the smile.
You guide Nyx out through the city archways, past the usual crowd of players advertising dungeon runs and trading items. A ping appears on your map, marking his position just outside the walls. He’s waiting on a small hill overlooking the road, his greatsword planted tip-down in the grass, his avatar leaning on the hilt like it’s a posing stick. When Nyx jogs up, he turns to face you, gives a short bow emote, and then starts running toward the far-off line of cliffs. You fall into step beside him. “So,” you say, eyes on the screen. “Where exactly are we going, oh mysterious guide?”
“There’s a glade most people ignore because it doesn’t drop gear,” he says. “Fireflies, skybox, zero pressure. You can stab a few things if it makes you feel better.”
“You say that like I have a problem,” you protest. “You logged in to hit things after a long day,” he points out. “It’s not exactly a mystery, Nyx.” You open your mouth to argue, then close it again.
Bits of countryside roll past as you run — ruined stone arches, wandering NPCs, the occasional player sprinting by on some oversized mount. Every so often, a stray enemy spawns too close; Kade lazily swings once and deletes it before you can even target it. “I could’ve handled that,” you say eventually. “I know,” he replies. “Tonight you don’t have to.”
The words land heavier than they have any right to. You clear your throat and nudge Nyx closer, hip-checking his avatar with yours. On screen, your character brushes his shoulder, the collision box making him shift a step. “Careful,” you say. “Keep shielding me like that, and I’ll get spoiled.”
“You already are,” he says mildly. “You just hide it behind all that ‘I can do it myself’ energy.”
You want to argue. You don’t. He leads you off the main road, through a narrow canyon that opens into a hidden hollow: a small lake ringed with luminous trees, their branches glowing softly in blues and purples. Fireflies drift in dense clouds over the water, reflecting like scattered stars. The in-game soundtrack shifts to something softer — strings, a lone flute. You stop Nyx at the edge of the lake. “Okay,” you admit. “This is… obnoxiously pretty.”
“Mm,” he says, and the sound through your headset is oddly pleased. “Sit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hit the sit emote,” he clarifies, unbothered. “Before you decide to jump in and aggro the fish or something.”
You scoff. “I’m not that bad.”
“You pushed a cursed button just to see what would happen last time,” he reminds you. “I’m learning from experience.”
You roll your eyes, but Nyx drops into a sit at the water’s edge anyway, knees drawn up, daggers resting across her lap. Kade’s avatar sits beside her a heartbeat later, sword laid on the ground within arm’s reach. On screen, their shoulders almost touch. There’s a small, quiet space in your chest that you hadn’t realised was clenched until now. It eases, just a fraction. “So,” you say. “Do you bring all your exhausted carries here, or am I special?”
He hums thoughtfully. “You’re the first one who complains this much and still shows up for hard content,” he says. “Makes you… unique.”
“Wow,” you say. “Swoon.”
“Careful,” he replies. “Your standards are showing.”
A few low-level mobs wander near the tree line. When they stray too close, he stands, dispatches them with lazy efficiency, and sits back down without comment. “You know, you don’t have to nanny me,” you say, watching him.
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m optimising. You’re not at full capacity. No point wasting resources.”
“Reducing me to resource management. How romantic.”
“You want romantic, go stand under the virtual moon,” he says. “You want to log off less cranky than you logged on, listen to me.”
You feel your lips curve despite the words. “You realise you’re bossing me around while also telling me to relax,” you point out. “It’s a confusing brand.”
“You logged in sounding like you’d faceplant mid-raid,” he says calmly. “So I brought you somewhere you can sit down while I kill things. It’s not that complicated, Nyx.” There’s your name again, familiar now.
You watch the fireflies drift, tiny particles dancing across your monitor. After a while, you realise you’re just… sitting there. Not tabbing out to check your email, not mentally rehearsing how you’re going to defend your tuning decisions tomorrow. Just existing, with his voice a steady background presence as he talks about nothing and everything.
He tells you about some spectacular bug he saw that turned every enemy in a dungeon into spinning cubes. You rant about a client who decided you now care deeply about damage spreadsheets. You argue the merits of crunchy versus chewy cookies. You laugh more than you mean to. At one point, you yawn, the sound pulled out of you before you can smother it. He stops mid-sentence. “There it is,” he says. “That’s my cue.”
“I can keep going,” you protest automatically. “I’m—”
“Tired,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You’re clipping the ends off your sentences. Your camera movements slowed down by, like, half a second. Go to bed.” You blink. “You were timing my camera moves?”
“I was watching my party member,” he says simply. “I don’t need a wipe to tell me when someone’s out of gas.” Something in your chest twists at the casual way he says “my party member,” like that’s a position with responsibilities attached. You try to deflect with a joke. “You’re very bossy for a stranger on the internet,” you say.
“You keep logging in at stupid o’clock and following me into content,” he replies. “At some point, that becomes my problem too.” You stare at Nyx and Kade sitting side by side on the bank, fireflies drifting lazily around them. Your cursor hovers over the disconnect button. You don’t click it.
“Hey, Kade?” you say. “Yeah?”
You hesitate, then lean in anyway. “You give surprisingly good directions,” you say. “For a control freak.” He laughs, the sound low and warm in your ears. “And you follow them better than you pretend to,” he answers. “For a menace.” You grin, too tired to hide how much that pleases you.
“Don’t get used to it,” you warn. “Too late,” he says.
You disconnect from voice before you can say something softer and more dangerous, then log out of the game entirely.
Your room is suddenly too quiet. No ambient lake sounds, no modulated baritone in your ears, no bright UI demanding decisions. You shut your laptop and stretch out, the day replaying in flickers: Raj calling your fight “real combat design” with that reluctant approval, Kade’s calm “Tonight you don’t have to,” when he helped you relax. You’re not sure which one is going to echo louder in your head as you finally, finally drift toward sleep.
David waits until everyone’s seated to drop it on you.
The room is smaller this time, with fewer chairs. The roster has already been whittled down; Mina and Felix are gone, casualties of Trial Two. Nobody says it out loud, but the absence sits heavy at the edges of the table. You, Wonwoo, Baekhyun, and Yoohyeon sit opposite Jisoo, Raj, and Kaito. David leans against the screen at the front like he’s about to introduce a new trailer instead of your impending breakdown.
“Trial Three,” he says, smile bright and sharp. “Vertical slice.”
The screen behind him flickers to life, showing a simple list:
TRIAL THREE – CO-OP VERTICAL SLICE
Duration: 5 days
Teams: 2
Deliverable: Playable slice + pitch
“We’ve seen what you can do in your own lanes,” David continues. “We’ve seen you swap lanes and not crash the car.” His gaze flicks over you, then Wonwoo. “Now we want to see if you can drive together without killing each other.” You do not like where this is going.
David lifts his tablet, scrolling. “Team one…” he says. “Baekhyun and Yoohyeon.” They exchange a quick look — a mix of nerves and determination.
“Team two…” David’s eyes find yours. “…our favourite civil war: Wonwoo and his Pixie.” For a heartbeat, the room feels too small.
You feel Wonwoo’s attention like a prickle on your skin. You turn your head; he’s already looking at you, expression unreadable, pen still in his hand. “You’re kidding,” you say before you can stop yourself.
David’s smile widens, all teeth. “If either of you wants to lead at Titan Forge,” he says, “you need to show you can co-lead. This is a co-op game. We’re not hiring a lone wolf and letting them dictate from a tower.”
Raj snorts quietly. Jisoo hides a smile behind her coffee cup.
“You’ll each get a war room,” David goes on, tapping his tablet to bring up a diagram. “Whiteboards, pinned builds, your own branch in our repo, access to a small strike team for support — programmers, artists, whatever you need within reason.” He slides a folder across the table toward you and Wonwoo.
“The slice is a single mission,” he says. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. We want to see combat, story, co-op mechanics, and how you onboard players to your weird ideas. Five days. Internal playtest at the end. Don’t embarrass us.”
You flip open the folder. There’s a loose prompt on the first page: “First contact with a failing god. Co-op decision. Mid-tier difficulty. Must support two players and scale to four.” You glance sideways at Wonwoo. His jaw is set. He taps his pen against the folder once, twice, then stops, catching you looking. “Don’t worry, Pixie,” he says under his breath. “I’ll use small words when we talk about frame data.”
You smile sweetly. “That’s cute,” you murmur back. “I was just wondering how I’m going to explain to you what feelings are.”
David claps his hands once. “Keys to the war rooms at the front,” he says. “Shared drives are already set up. Go figure out if you’re soulmates or mutually assured destruction.”
Your war room looks like a crime board from a detective show. By the end of the first day, anyway.
It starts clean: a long table, three whiteboards, a couple of monitors on rolling stands, a window that looks out over the city and the neighbouring rooftop gardens. Two chairs on opposite sides of the table, like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release. You dump your laptop bag on one chair. Wonwoo drops his notebook on the other. For a few seconds, you just… look at each other. “Ground rules?” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Don’t waste time,” he says. “Don’t sand down anything interesting just to be polite.”
“I wasn’t planning to be polite,” you reply.
“Good,” he says mildly. “Then we’re aligned.”
You start by carving the prompt up into chunks. A god that’s failing. First contact. Co-op choice. You sketch a rough mission spine on the whiteboard: approach, first fight, narrative beat, second fight, choice, fallout. Wonwoo marks combat beats in red over your black storyline. That’s where the friction starts.
“Your cutscene here is too long,” he says, tapping the section you’ve labelled “confrontation.” “Players will be mashing skip.”
“It’s thirty seconds,” you say. “They can survive thirty seconds of emotional context before they go back to hitting things.”
“Thirty seconds before the boss, thirty seconds after the boss, a dialogue choice in the middle,” he says. “Pacing matters. They’ll feel the drag.”
You plant the marker on your hip. “Maybe if your boss fight had any emotional stakes,” you shoot back, “they’d want to see what they’re fighting about.”
His mouth tugs sideways. “It has stakes,” he says. “Failing god, collapsing arena, co-op mechanics that change based on who takes damage and when.”
“Mechanical stakes,” you counter. “I’m talking about something more than ‘health bar go down.’”
He watches you for a heartbeat, then sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Sell me.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sell me,” he repeats, leaning back against the table. “Why should I care about this cutscene when I’m the player? Don’t say ‘because narrative.’”
Fine. You pace once in front of the board, words lining up in your head.
“Because this is the first time the players see a god scared,” you say. “Up until now, gods are this untouchable environmental thing. Here, the god is cracked. Their voice glitches. They offer the players a deal — keep the worship flowing and they’ll keep the sky from falling over this region.”
You sketch with your marker as you talk, lines turning into rough silhouettes. “One player wants to take the deal. The other doesn’t,” you continue. “Or they both disagree with each other about how. That’s conflict before you start swinging. So when they do, it’s not just ‘we’re killing a thing.’ It’s ‘we’re killing something we might have needed.’ That makes the fight feel different.”
Wonwoo’s gaze tracks your motion, thoughtful. “What’s the co-op hook?” he asks. “Beyond ‘we voted differently.’”
You grin. “In the fight, the god only targets the player who argued against them,” you say. “The one who refused the deal takes more aggro, more direct hits. The other player gets all the buffs — damage, shields, healing. Narratively, the god is punishing the defiant one and rewarding the obedient one even as you’re killing them.”
He goes still. You see the exact moment it clicks in his head. “So if I was the one who told the god to fuck off, I’m the one getting smashed into the floor,” he says slowly. “And if my co-op partner told them ‘yes,’ they get to feel strong because I’m suffering.”
“Exactly,” you say, heart beating faster as the pieces line up. “It creates friction between players beyond ‘you didn’t dodge.’ They chose this dynamic.” He exhales once, sharply, like a laugh he doesn’t want to give you. “That’s… not bad,” he admits. He reaches past you, uncaps a red marker, and starts annotating the fight beats you’d sketched in black.
“If we do that,” he says, “we need to make sure the punished player isn’t just miserable. Give them tools. Let them redirect some of that damage back, or convert pain into a big finisher if their partner times something with them.”
You blink. “Hurt/comfort but make it gameplay,” you say.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You would put it that way,” he says.
The rest of the day goes like that. Friction, then connection. You argue about enemy counts, about how much information to put in UI versus VO, about whether the god should recognise each player individually or just the party as a unit. He tells you your first draft of encounter callouts sounds too “pretty” and not enough “actionable.” You tell him his initial co-op mechanic reads like a spreadsheet and needs one emotional hook, or you’ll fall asleep. Underneath the barbs, you start to spot the pattern.
His arenas carve out little pockets of story space for you — choke points that feel like altars, environmental hazards that tie into the god’s mythology. Your characters give his systems purpose — lines of dialogue that make the co-op mechanics feel personal instead of arbitrary. At one point, you’re both standing in front of the monitor, watching a quick blockout build one of the level designers put together from your notes: rough geometry, grey textures, placeholder god model. The fight’s barebones, but the shape is there.
The god slams a hand down. The floor fractures. One player’s health spikes; the other’s buffs flare. Kaito’s borrowed QA guy moves both characters through the motions while you and Wonwoo talk over each other, calling changes. “That spike is too harsh, they won’t recover—” you say. “Make the tell on the second slam clearer, they’ll think it’s random—” he says at the same time. You both stop. You look at him. He looks at you.
It should feel like you’re clashing. Instead, weirdly, it feels like you’re harmonising. Different instruments, same song. You hate how satisfying that is.
By the end of the day, your war room smells like coffee and whiteboard marker. The walls are covered in diagrams and snippets of dialogue, sticky notes stuck at every angle. A shared drive full of docs and reference videos hums on the monitor. You should probably go home and sleep. You go home and log into Aetherion instead.
Nyx appears in the city square. Before you can move, your voice channel pings — Kade inviting you into a call as casually as if he’d nudged your elbow. You accept.
“Hey,” he says, modulated voice sliding into your ears as the game finishes loading. “You sound like ten percent less dead today.”
You flop back in your chair. “That’s because I’m currently powered by spite and a very unhealthy amount of validation,” you say. “How’s your evening?”
“About to improve,” he replies. “Queue up. There’s a new story chain. Co-op only. Figured I’d try it with my resident menace.”
You smirk. “Flatterer,” you say. “Lead the way, Tutorial.” He laughs, low and warm.
You follow his party ping to a quest giver on the edge of the map — an old NPC Hermit perched near a cliff, exclamation mark hovering over his head. Text scrolls about “shadows gathering” and “only those bound by trust may face what lies ahead.”
“Subtle,” you say. “Very understated writing.”
“Some narrative designer got paid by the metaphor,” Kade says. “Accept it. Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes.”
The quest chain takes you both through a series of short encounters — ambushes where you have to cover each other’s blind spots, puzzles that only trigger if you step on pressure plates at the same time. At the end, a prompt flashes: New Campfire Scene Unlocked: “Between Battles”. [Play now with your party member?]
“Ooh,” you murmur. “Fancy.”
“Hit yes,” Kade says. “If it’s boring, we can bail.” You both confirm.
The world fades out and reforms in a small, quiet clearing — a tucked-away grove beneath a massive tree, moonlight pouring through the branches. A campfire crackles at the centre, logs placed around it. Your UI melts away until only minimal prompts remain. Nyx and Kade stand a few feet apart, idle animations softer now, shoulders relaxed.
A prompt appears at the bottom of the screen: [Press X to sit]
You hit it. Nyx crosses the distance and drops onto one of the logs by the fire. Kade’s avatar moves a second later, taking the space beside her. Your characters’ knees almost touch. A dialogue choice pops, classic Aetherion style — three options on a radial wheel, each with a short line.
You read them out. “Option one: ‘Long day.’ Two: ‘Nice spot.’ Three: ‘Don’t get used to sitting this close.’” You say.
Kade huffs. “Three,” he says immediately.
“Of course you’d pick the one with attitude,” you reply. “Look who I’m sitting next to,” he says.
You select the third option. Nyx shifts, leaning back on her hands, eyes half-lidded as she glances sideways at Kade. Text scrolls at the bottom.
Nyx: Don’t get used to sitting this close. I might decide you need personal space.
Kade: You say that like you didn’t pick this log when there were others.
You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “Wow,” you say. “They coded mutual calling-out. I feel seen.”
“You feel attacked,” Kade corrects. “Which, to be fair, is your baseline.”
Another set of options appears. You read them out again, more amused now. “Okay, new choices: ‘Is that your way of saying you like me here?’ / ‘Don’t read into it.’ / ‘Shut up and enjoy the fire.’”
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the wheel. The safest one is obvious. You don’t pick it. “First?” you suggest, feigning lightness. “Or is that too forward for you?”
“No,” he says, almost before you finish. “Hit it.” Surprise fizzes in your chest. You choose it. Nyx shifts a little closer, one shoulder bumping his.
Nyx: Is that your way of saying you like me here?
Kade: If I didn’t, you’d be on the other side of the clearing.
The camera pans in slightly, framing their profiles, the glow of the fire casting warm light over armour and skin. Under your headset, your heartbeat ticks up. “Didn’t know this game had romance options in co-op,” you say, half joking, half not.
“Apparently, we unlocked the DLC,” Kade replies. His voice is lighter than usual, but there’s something under it — a note you haven’t heard before. “You complaining?”
Your mouth is suddenly dry. “No,” you say. Your voice comes out softer than you meant. “I’m not.” On-screen, another prompt fades in, different this time — a single, simple option on its own little button: [Lean closer]-[Change subject]
You stare at it. You could click away. Laugh. Make a bit out of it. Your finger moves almost of its own accord. You choose [Lean closer].
Nyx shifts, folding her legs under her, turning to face him more fully. Their shoulders press together now; the firelight makes the metal of his armour gleam where it brushes the leather of hers. The camera lingers. You can hear your own breathing in your headset. “Oh,” you say, eloquent as ever.
Another prompt: [Touch his hand] - [Nudge his shoulder]
“They really went all in, huh?” Kade says, a low thread of laughter in his voice. “What do you want to do, troublemaker?”
You swallow. “You choose,” you say. “You’re the one who dragged me out here. Take responsibility.” There’s a faint noise through the modulator — a small exhale. “All right,” he says. “Hit the hand.”
You select: [Touch his hand].
Nyx’s fingers slide over, resting lightly on the back of Kade’s gauntlet. His avatar turns his hand palm-up, their fingers slotting together for a brief, deliberate squeeze before they relax against each other.
It’s a ridiculously simple animation. No moaning violins, no sparkly hearts. Just two characters sitting too close by a fire, hands touching. Your heart is hammering like you’re about to present a pitch to David again.
And then, like the game has been waiting for this moment, the real option appears: [Kiss Kade] - [Stay like this]
You suck in a breath. “Oh,” you say again, even less eloquent. Kade chuckles softly. “Panicking?” he asks. “No,” you lie.
You stare at the screen. It’s pixels. Animation. A pre-written scene. This is not actually doing anything in the real world. But it feels like choosing something anyway. You drag the cursor to [Kiss Kade] and hover.
“If this is weird, we can back out,” Kade says gently. “Pick the other one, we’ll tease the game for being thirsty and move on.” The fact that he gives you the out makes something in your chest unclench. You think about the way he’s been with you in runs — never pushing when you joked around a boundary. The way his voice softened last time when he said, “I brought you somewhere you can sit down while I kill things.” The way he calls you menace like it’s a compliment.
“I’m not panicking,” you say, more certain now. “I’m… deciding.” A beat passes. “Decide faster,” he says quietly. “You’re killing me here.”
The words send heat curling low in your stomach. You click.
Nyx leans in first, which you appreciate on a spiritual level. She tilts her head, eyes fluttering half-shut, and presses her mouth to Kade’s in a slow, clearly animated kiss. He meets her halfway, hand lifting to rest at the back of her neck. The camera pulls in, then stops just shy of full close-up—enough to see it, not enough to make it awkward. The fire pops in the background. Fireflies drift lazily overhead. It’s all code. Your heart doesn’t seem to care.
The scene lingers for a few seconds, then eases them back into their seated positions, shoulders still pressed together, fingers still loosely linked. Text scrolls at the bottom.
Kade: You know this means I’m going to expect you to stick around after the next raid, too, right?
Nyx: Guess you’ll just have to keep giving me reasons.
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. On the other end of the call, Kade clears his throat. “Well,” he says, tone light but a shade rougher. “That’s one way to test co-op features.”
You laugh, a little shaky. “Think we passed?” you ask.
“You tell me,” he replies. “How’s the pacing?”
“Honestly?” you say. “Pretty good.” You don’t add: and I kind of want to hit replay.
You sit there a moment longer, watching your avatars by the fire, heat still simmering under your skin for no good reason.
You just watched your character close the distance with someone whose voice you only just learned this week — someone who keeps catching you when you’re about to fall into traps, in-game and out, and acts like it’s just part of the job.
You’re not sure what this is yet. You are sure, when Kade quietly says, “Queue another campfire after the next raid?” That your answer comes a little too quickly. “Yeah,” you say, smiling at your monitor. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Trial Three crunch is the kind that eats time. Five days sounds generous on paper. In practice, it’s a blink.
Morning to night, you live in the war room with Wonwoo. Whiteboards fill, empty, fill again. Builds go up, crash, and get patched. You mainline Titan Forge coffee and half-stale pastries, your brain flickering between dialogue and damage numbers.
Raj wants the boss to be tougher. “Phase two is a victory lap,” he says in one review, flicking through the combat log. “If they don’t feel like they might wipe, they’ll get bored.”
Jisoo wants the scene more grounded. “The god doesn’t need a monologue,” she says, brow furrowed. “A few sharper lines will hurt more. Right now they sound like they’re auditioning for ‘Tragic Deity of the Year.’”
Kaito wants it all yesterday. “You are stacking new systems on new systems,” he tells you both, expression pinched. “We cannot build an entire religion and its AI in five days. Pick the one thing you want to prove and cut the rest.” Every note is fair. That doesn’t make them hurt less.
By the evening of day four, you’re frayed down to the wire.
The internal playtest build judders on the big screen while David and the others watch, controllers in hand, QA driving. The fight plays. The cutscene hits. The fight plays again. When the lights come up, you’re already braced. The feedback comes in low blows and body shots.
“Telegraph on the second slam is still muddy.”
“I don’t buy the god switching on the player that fast emotionally.”
“If this were a real milestone, I’d be yelling about scope creep.”
You nod. You take notes. You feel each comment slot into your already-overloaded brain like another brick on a tottering Jenga tower. Then Kaito says, almost offhand, “Right now, it feels like we’re playing two different slices stapled together. It’s… disjointed.”
Something in you snaps. “Because we keep cutting connective tissue,” you say, sharper than you meant to. “Every time we add a mechanic, something has to give, and it’s never the numbers.”
Raj’s brows lift. You can feel Wonwoo go still beside you.
“We don’t need more connective tissue,” Wonwoo says coolly. “We need the fight to feel coherent. The narrative padding is what’s making it drag.”
You turn to him. “Padding.”
“You know what I mean,” he says, jaw tight. “If players are dying because they’re watching a god act instead of reading the floor, they’re gonna get pissed.”
Heat flares in your chest. “If players don’t care why they’re fighting, they won’t remember the encounter in a month,” you fire back. “But sure, let’s just make it another pretty arena to wipe in.”
“I’m the one making sure they don’t wipe in the first thirty seconds,” he snaps. “Yeah, and I’m the one making sure they don’t alt-tab during the cutscene.”
The room goes very quiet. You realise, too late, that you’re arguing in front of David and the leads like this is a Slack thread and not your entire future. Kaito clears his throat.
“Okay,” David says lightly, but there’s steel under it. “This is good. Passionate. I’d rather see you fight for the slice than shrug at it.” You can’t tell if he’s sincere. “Take the notes,” he continues. “Cut one thing each. Combat, narrative. Meet in the middle like grown-ups. You’ve got… twelve hours.” You swallow down the sting. The meeting breaks. Chairs scrape. People file out. You stay long enough to collect your laptop, keeping your eyes glued to the table. You can feel Wonwoo’s presence like static beside you. “Pixie—” he starts.
“Don’t,” you say, sharper than you intend. You sling your bag over your shoulder. “I have to go make my padding less offensive.” You don’t wait for an answer.
You don’t remember the commute home.
One minute, you’re in Titan Forge’s elevator, badge still clipped crookedly to your shirt. The next, you’re in your apartment, keys on the counter, shoes half-kicked off, the room dim except for the glow from your monitors. You don’t change. You don’t shower. You don’t even take your badge off. You sit. You boot Aetherion.
Nyx materialises in a familiar forest — the crystalline one where you first really noticed Kade’s calm callouts. Fireflies bob between trees; particle-lit leaves sway in an endless digital breeze. The moment you load in, your voice channel pings. You accept on instinct.
“Hey,” he says, modulated voice sliding into your ears like you’ve been waiting for it. Then he goes quiet for a beat. “Rough day.”
It’s not a question. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “You have no idea,” you breathe.
“Try me.”
You move Nyx forward a few steps, then let her stop under a glowing tree. Your fingers hover uselessly over your keys. You don’t give details. You talk in vague, jagged shapes. “There’s this boss,” you say. “And he won’t stay dead the way I need him to.”
“Bad tuning?” Kade asks.
“Bad… everything,” you say. “Every time we fix one thing, something else breaks. And my co-lead—” you bite the word. “He’s brilliant and infuriating and somehow always exactly where the problem is, but he makes me feel like I’m just sprinkling glitter on top of his work.”
Silence, but not empty. Nyx idles on the screen, cloak fluttering. “Sounds like the boss isn’t the only thing that needs tuning,” Kade says eventually.
“He just… got under my skin today,” you admit. “We snapped at each other in front of everyone. I know better. I’m supposed to be… professional. Cool. Whatever.”
“You’re supposed to be human,” he says. “News flash, menace: humans lose it sometimes when they’re pushed.”
You swallow. “They’re only seeing the cracks,” you murmur. “Not the hundred things we did right. And he’ll be fine. He always is. I’m the one who looks… emotional.”
The word tastes sour. Kade exhales quietly.
“You’re carrying different things,” he says. “Both matter. One’s just easier to chart in a spreadsheet.” You blink back an unexpected burn in your eyes. “You’re very wise for someone who threatened to report me to floor safety,” you say. He laughs, low and warm. “I contain multitudes,” he says. “Come on. Walk with me.”
He pings a direction. You follow, letting Nyx fall in beside his avatar as he leads you off the usual path, deeper into the forest where the crystals grow taller and the ambient sound softens. He doesn’t try to fill every silence. He lets you vent in half-sentences and unfinished metaphors about bosses and deadlines and the way it feels to pour your whole heart into something and then watch people poke holes in it. When you crack a self-deprecating joke about “maybe I’m just not as good as I thought,” his voice cuts in, flat and sure.
“No,” he says. “That’s not it.”
You falter. “You don’t even know what I do,” you say.
“I know how you talk about it,” he replies. “I know how your brain works when we’re learning a fight. You look for angles other people miss. You see the story, not just the pattern. That doesn’t sound like ‘not good enough’ to me.”
Heat pricks behind your eyes. You tilt your head back in your chair, stare at the ceiling, and blink hard. “You’re very… soothing,” you say, trying to make it a tease so it doesn’t feel like a confession. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says. “They’ll expect me to start a support group.”
You laugh, real this time. The sharp edge in your chest shifts into something else. Softer. Sharper, too, in a different way. You’re aware of him in your ears, of the low rumble of his voice, of the way he keeps nudging you gently out of spirals and into smaller, safer topics — food, a bug he hit in another game, an NPC you both hate. The flirting that’s been threading through your conversations lately doesn’t disappear. It just evolves. When you grumble about your co-lead always being right in the most annoying way, Kade says, “Sounds like you need someone else to listen to you for a change.”
You shoot back, “Oh, so you’re volunteering for the job?” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Already doing it,” he says. “You’re just slow to accept my application.”
Later, when you call yourself “a disaster with a keyboard,” he says, “You’re not a disaster. You’re… high difficulty content.” You snort. “Is that your way of telling me I’m a pain in the ass?”
“It’s my way of telling you you’re worth the effort,” he says.
There’s a beat of quiet. Your heartbeat stutters. You find yourself wanting… more. More of that voice closer in your ear. More of his attention focused squarely on you and not filtered through a game lobby. More of this feeling of being guided and held together when you’re fraying apart. You don’t say it. You hover on the edge of it, teeth worrying your lower lip, fingers playing with your headset cord.
He gets there first. “Check your whispers,” Kade says suddenly.
You frown at your screen and open the chat. A private message blinks at the bottom. Kade: If I give you my number, you gonna use it?
Your pulse spikes. It’s reckless. It’s also the first thing you’ve wanted all week that feels like it’s just for you. Your fingers shake a little as you type. Nyx: Maybe. If you’re not a serial killer.
Kade: Too busy raiding to murder anyone.
You huff, breathless. You trade a few more lines — nothing identifying, just a string of digits and a “don’t be weird” from you, answered with a dry “no promises” from him.
When you finally log off, the forest dissolving into your desktop, the number is already in your contacts under: Kade. You stare at it for a long time.
Later, you lie in bed in the dark, in your T-shirt and panties, hair a little damp from the shower you barely remember taking. Your badge is on the nightstand, the screen of your phone the only light in the room as you scroll through nothing, thoughts chasing themselves in useless circles.
You flip to your contacts. Kade sits there like a dare. You should not. You really, really should not. Your phone vibrates in your hand.
Kade – Incoming call.
Your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts. You stare at the screen for two rings, three. You swipe to accept. “Hey,” you whisper, voice smaller in the dark than it ever is in daylight.
There’s a crackle, a breath, then his voice — softer than in-game, the modulation gone but worn down to a quiet rasp by the late hour and whatever he’s feeling. He’s whispering too, low enough that the edges of his words blur, like he’s sitting just out of sight instead of however many miles away. “Hey,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You huff out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“You still sounded wired when you logged off,” he says. “Figured you’d either be lying in the dark replaying everything, or doomscrolling. Thought I’d offer a third option.”
You shift onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “What option is that?” you ask. When he speaks again, his tone is different — lower, careful, edged with something you’ve only heard in brief flashes before.
“Let me get you out of your head for a while,” he says quietly. “If you want.” Heat curls low in your belly at the way he says it. Not pushy. Not coy. Just sure. You swallow. You could laugh it off. Make a joke. Change the subject. You don’t.
“And how exactly are you planning to do that, Tutorial?” you murmur, aiming for teasing and missing the mark, landing somewhere breathier.
You hear the faintest hitch in his breathing. “You trust me?” he asks.
The question hangs there, heavy and electric.
You think of how easily your body has learned to respond to his voice in-game — left, now, wait, with me — and how today, when everything else felt like it was slipping, that steadiness was the only thing that made you feel held together. You swallow. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”
There’s a quiet exhale on his side of the line, like something in him unwinds. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then here’s what you’re going to do for me, Nyx.” Your name in that tone sends a shiver racing down your spine.
“Lie back,” he says softly. “All the way. Head on the pillow. I want you comfortable.” You obey, shifting until you’re sprawled on your back, phone resting against your ear, the cotton of your T-shirt whispering against your skin. “Done,” you say, a little breathless already.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “No screens. No ceiling. Just your body and my voice. Okay?” You let your eyes slip shut. The darkness comes in, thick and soft. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Good,” he says. “Now breathe for me. In… and out.”
You inhale slowly, chest lifting, then exhale, letting it all out. He counts it out for you, low and steady. “Again,” he says. “In… hold… out… Good.”
You focus on his voice, on the rhythm he sets. Gradually, the edges of your thoughts blur, the endless loop of feedback and whiteboards and sharp looks fading to background static. When your breathing has evened out, his tone shifts again — still soft, but more deliberate.
“Put your hand on your throat,” he says quietly. “Not hard. Just… there.”
Your fingers lift, drifting up to rest lightly against the hollow at the base of your throat. You can feel your own pulse hammering under your touch.
“Feel that?” he asks. “That’s how wound up you are. You’ve been holding everything right there all day.” You swallow under your own hand.
“Slide down,” he murmurs. “Slow. Over your neck. Your collarbones.”
You obey, fingertips gliding down, following the line of your skin, over the small dip at the centre of your chest. The simple motion sends a shiver through you; you’re too keyed up for anything to feel casual. He hears the tiny intake of breath you make. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “Just like that. Take your time.”
Your hand drifts lower, skating over the top of your chest. Even through your shirt, every brush feels magnified. You hesitate there, fingers resting, not quite squeezing. “You know what’s next,” he says, voice gone rougher. “Go ahead. Touch yourself how you like it. Over your shirt first.”
Your cheeks flame, alone in the dark, but you do it — carefully cupping your breast through the fabric, testing how sensitive you are. The answer is: very. Your back arches a little without your permission. A soft, involuntary sound slips out of you. He hears it.
You hear him react — a muffled curse, the kind you’ve only ever seen as text, now breathed into your ear. “Fuck,” he mutters, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Your stomach tightens. “You okay over there?” you whisper, voice shaky. There’s a rustle of fabric, the faint drag of something over skin. “Yeah,” he says, but the word comes out rough. “Just… appreciating the audio.”
You can picture him, suddenly, lying on his own bed somewhere, phone at his ear, hand not exactly idle. The thought sends another jolt of heat through you.
You roll your nipple gently between your fingers, breath catching, everything buzzing. “Spend a minute there,” he tells you. “You’ve been ignoring your own body. Make it up to yourself.”
You follow his lead, letting each slow touch build on the last until it’s almost too much. You’re panting softly now, the room feeling smaller, heavier.
“Lower,” he says at last, voice a little strained. “Hand down. Over your ribs. Your stomach.” Your palm drifts down, gliding over your torso, skin hot beneath the thin shirt, the muscles there jumping under your touch.
“Under the waistband,” he adds, quieter. “Don’t rush. Just get your hand where it wants to be.”
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You slip your fingers beneath the elastic, the contrast between air and warmth making you shiver. Just having your hand there, grazing lightly over your clit, pulls a soft, helpless sigh from you. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I can hear how badly you needed this.”
Your fingers start to circle on instinct, ready to chase what’s coiled so tight inside you, but his voice stops you. “Slow,” he says. “Start with just… exploring. Light pressure. See how sensitive you already are.”
You obey, fingers gliding in careful, teasing passes over the already sensitive nub. It’s not much, but it turns the volume up on everything; even the smallest stroke makes your thighs tense, your toes curl.
Your breath grows uneven, little gasps hitting the speaker.
On the other end, his breathing changes with yours. You hear the faint rhythm of movement, the slightest catch in his inhale now and then.
“You touching yourself too?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a pause. Then: “Yeah,” he says, honest and low. “I am.”
The admission sends a sharp pulse through you. You press down on your clit a bit harder, your hips giving a tiny jerk. He groans quietly, like the image in his head just shifted into focus. “Tell me what you’re doing,” he murmurs.
Your face burns, but you give him something — that your hand is moving in slow, careful circles over your clit, that every pass makes your breath stutter, that it’s not enough and somehow already too much.
It stays like that for a while.
You touch yourself the way he tells you to: small circles when you want to drag your hand, slow passes between your folds when your instinct is to grind down, the occasional shallow dip of your fingers into your heat that makes your whole body jump. Every time you try to speed up, he reins you back, murmuring “Not yet,” and you find yourself obeying even as you whine. The restraint makes everything sharper.
At one point, when the need to move harder is almost painful, he says, “Put me on speaker.”
You blink up at the ceiling. “What?”
“Speaker,” he repeats, steady. “Phone on the pillow. You’ll want both hands in a minute.”
Your pulse spikes again, but you do it — pull the phone slightly away, tap the screen until his voice fills the room instead of just your ear, set it on the pillow beside you. He sounds closer now, somehow bigger, every sound magnified. “Good,” he says. “Now you don’t have to hold back.”
You slide your other hand down to join the first. Where your left stays on your clit, the digits of your other hand move through your folds and over your entrance. The extra freedom makes your movements bolder, less restrained. Finally, you dip two of them inside, feeling the wetness and your tightening walls around them. When you curve them upwards, rubbing the spongey part on your upper wall, another sound escapes, something between a raw little gasp and a broken sigh.
“You hear yourself?” he asks, voice gone almost hoarse. “You have no idea what that’s doing to me.”
You do, actually. Because you can hear him now, too — the slick rhythm of his hand, the quiet curses slipping between his teeth, the way he has to stop talking for a second when you moan a little too loudly. “Tell me what you’re doing,” you manage, turning his earlier request back on him. “I want to know.”
He hesitates, then gives you just enough: “My hand’s around my cock,” he says, the vulgarity somehow making your whole body heat. “Palming the head, slowly. I’m trying to not let myself get ahead of you.”
The mental picture hits you like a punch. Your next moan comes out louder than you meant; you bite your lip, but it’s too late. He swears again, softly, like he’s the one being wrecked by the sound.
The tension builds and builds, each deliberate stroke of your fingers inside your hole dragging you closer. Your legs are trembling now, stomach tight, breath catching with every movement of your hands. You’re not even really thinking anymore; you’re just chasing what you need, guided by his voice.
“Kade,” you whisper, almost shocked at how wrecked you sound. “I’m… I’m close.” There’s a raw exhale from the speaker.
“Yeah?” he says, voice shredded around the edges. “Me too.”
You can hear it — the way his breathing has gone shallow, the way his rhythm has gone a little messy, like he’s barely holding on.
For a few seconds, neither of you talks. You just move, the room filled with the sounds of your shared urgency: your ragged breaths, his groans, the faint slide of skin on skin, the muffled wet squelch of your pussy.
You’re right on the edge, everything inside you drawn tight as a bowstring. He must hear the change in your breathing, because he finds his voice again, pushing the words out around his own impending end.
“All right,” he says, low and rough. “Now. Give it to yourself. Come for me.”
The command tips you over. You break apart with a soft, strangled cry, thigh muscles locking, back arching off the mattress as pleasure slams through you in sharp, blinding waves. Both hands stutter and then keep moving, drawn along by sheer momentum and his voice in your room saying, “That’s it. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
Somewhere in the middle of your own unravelling, you hear him let go. A rough, bitten-off groan, a rush of air, a muttered curse that blurs into a sound you’ve never heard from him before — not a word, just a noise dragged up from somewhere deep.
For a few long moments, all that exists is the echo of that peak and the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe. Slowly, your body loosens, muscles unwinding, hands falling still. You collapse back into the mattress, chest heaving, every inch of you feeling oddly light and heavy at the same time. His breathing is still coming hard through the speaker, a little ragged, but softening. You stare at the dark ceiling, fingers still twitching faintly, heartbeat pounding in your ears.
He’s the first to speak, voice softer now, edges sanded down.
“You back with me?” he asks.
You swallow, licking your lips. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I… yeah.”
You hear him smile “Good,” he says.
There’s a pause. Then, lightly: “On a scale from one to ‘still thinking about your boss,’ where are we?” You let out a breathless laugh that feels more like a sob turned sideways. “I have no idea what my boss looks like,” you admit. “Or my own name.” He chuckles, warm and smug and weirdly fond.
“Mission accomplished, then,” he says.
You lie there in the dark, sweat cooling on your skin, pulse slowly working its way back down. The knot between your shoulders feels looser. The buzzing panic in your chest has been swapped out for a warm, heavy ache. Guilt tries to poke its head in — about work, about lines you’ve blurred, about how you’re letting a stranger talk to you like this.
It doesn’t stick. Mostly, you feel… lighter.
“You okay?” he asks after a stretch of quiet. “Yeah,” you say, this time without hesitation. “Better than okay.”
“Good,” he says again, a little hum in the word. “Then you’re going to drink some water, maybe wash up, and then you’re going to sleep. That’s an order.”
“Bossy,” you murmur.
“Effective,” he counters, back in that dry, familiar cadence. “Can you do that for me, menace?” Your chest squeezes. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I can do that.”
“Text me if your brain starts doing the spiral thing again,” he adds. “I can’t promise I’ll always pick up, but… I’ll try.”
Warmth blooms under your sternum. “Kade?” you say.
“Mm?”
“Thank you,” you murmur. “For… all of it.” You hear the smile in his reply. “Anytime,” he says. “Now hang up before I start liking you too much and say something embarrassing.” You laugh, soft and stunned. “Too late,” you say.
You end the call before you can hear his response.
You drag yourself up, drink water straight from a glass, stand under too-hot water until your skin prickles and your legs feel a little weak for more than one reason, then crawl back into bed, phone on the pillow beside you. As sleep starts to pull at you, you glance at the screen one last time.
One new message: Sleep, Nyx. You’ve got bosses to kill tomorrow.
You fall asleep with his words in your ear and the ghost of his voice still telling you what to do, for once not minding in the slightest.
The morning after, you’re wrecked and glowing in equal measure.
You wake up to your alarm feeling like someone unplugged your bones and put them back in slightly wrong, every muscle loose and heavy. Your body is tired; your brain is oddly quiet. Like somebody cleared the cache overnight.
You drag yourself through a shower and into vaguely clean clothes on autopilot, trying very hard not to think about how you got here — the way Kade’s voice had wrapped around your nerves, the way he’d pulled that earth-shattering orgasm out of you over the phone, like it was nothing.
You fail, obviously.
Every time you close your eyes too long in the elevator up to Titan Forge, you hear him again. “Give it to yourself. Come for me.” You almost miss your floor.
Wonwoo’s already in the war room when you walk in, standing by the whiteboard, one hand braced on the table, the other wrapped around a coffee like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.
He looks tired. Not his usual “up late thinking about enemy AI” tired. His hoodie is rumpled, hair messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and caffeine is only barely keeping him upright.
When you step inside, he glances up. Your gazes catch.
Something flickers across his face — a flash of something unreadable— before he looks away a fraction too quickly, taking a long swallow of coffee. You tell yourself the weird lurch in your chest is leftover vulnerability from last night, not anything to do with him.
“Morning,” you say, dumping your bag in your usual spot. “Barely,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes. You arch a brow. “Did the combat doc keep you up that late?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that,” he says, voice a shade rougher than usual. “You ready to make this god bleed for the playtest?” You grab a marker, capping it off with more force than necessary. “Born ready,” you say. “Let’s go break our own hearts before everyone else gets a turn.”
Between bug reports, tuning passes, and Jisoo poking her head in to ask for “just one more line” that will “totally make that cutscene land,” you barely have time to breathe. On your first coffee break, your phone buzzes in your pocket as you stand in the kitchen staring at the sad remains of a pastry tray. You fish it out.
Kade: “How’s your ‘colleague’ today?”
Your lips twitch. You glance at the doorway, half-expecting someone to be watching you. The kitchen is empty except for the hum of the fridge. You lean your hip against the counter and type back.
You: “Annoying. Smug. Infuriatingly good at his job.”.
Kade: “Sounds like you want to strangle him or sit on his lap.”
Heat flashes under your skin so fast you almost drop your coffee. You bite your cheek, thumbs moving before your brain can meddle.
You: “Bold of you to assume it’s not both.”
Kade: “There’s that bratty streak. Save some attitude for tonight.”
Your stomach does a slow, traitorous flip. You stare at the screen a second too long. A voice behind you makes you jump. “Coffee machine’s not a puzzle, you know.” You twist around.
Wonwoo’s standing in the doorway, mug in hand, watching you with that flat, unreadable look. Up close, the tiredness is even more obvious — the way his shoulders slump a little, the faint redness at the corner of his eyes, like he rubbed them too hard. You thumb your phone screen off and push the kettle button. “I was psyching myself up,” you say. “Trial Three, final day. Feels like a boss rush.”
He moves past you to the machine, sleeve brushing your arm. It shouldn’t register. Your skin registers it anyway. “At least on boss rushes you get loot,” he says. “If we survive this, I demand loot,” you reply. “Bare minimum: one nap and something with melted cheese.”
He huffs something that might resemble a laugh. “Aim high, Pixie,” he says. You don’t let your brain linger on how your nickname sounds in his sleep-rough voice.
The hours blur. You and Wonwoo fall into an uneasy, surprisingly efficient rhythm. He tweaks timings in the fight script; you adjust lines to match the new pacing. You suggest one more tiny reaction shot on the god when the choice lands; he grumbles about scope and then works the animation team to squeeze it in anyway. At one point, when Raj swings by to ask about the spike damage in phase two, you start to answer, and Wonwoo cuts in. “That tuning pass was mine,” he says before you can open your mouth. “If it feels unfair, blame me, not her.”
You blink at him. Raj squints, then shrugs. “It’s not unfair,” he says. “Just mean. I like it.”
He leaves. You glance sidelong at Wonwoo. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say. He keeps his eyes on his laptop. “You didn’t,” he says, “when they said the cutscene was too long. You argued it down to shaving five seconds instead of twenty. Call it even.”
You don’t have an answer to that, so you pretend to be very invested in your line spacing. You press your lips together, refusing to smile. It doesn’t work.
By midday, the war room looks like you detonated a design doc bomb.
Sticky notes bloom in clusters on every available surface. One whiteboard is entirely “CUT” and “KEEP” columns; another is scribbled with a half-dozen variations of one line of god dialogue.
You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Wonwoo in front of the build monitor as the latest version of the fight plays back. The QA tester controlling the characters executes your “punished vs. rewarded” dynamic perfectly — one player glowing with buffs, the other staggering under repeated hits.
When the god finally falls, the cutscene triggers. The new, sharpened version hits harder than you expected.
The god looks directly at the defiant player and whispers the line you fought for — the one about “you’ll carry this choice even when my voice is gone.” The look they give each other just before the screen fades out punches you in the chest.
You glance sideways. Wonwoo’s lips press together in what might be grudging satisfaction. “It works,” he says.
“You sound surprised,” you say.
He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “I’m surprised we got it to work in time,” he says. “Not that it works.”
You’re definitely too sleep-deprived, because your brain momentarily short-circuits at that. Before you can unpack it, your stomach growls loud enough to be embarrassing. He actually cracks a small smile at that.
“Go eat,” he says. “I’ll push this build to the playtest branch.”
You hesitate. “You should eat too,” you reply. “You look like you might ascend if someone breathes on you too hard.”
His mouth twitches. “If I ascend, you don’t get your cutscene,” he says. “Go.” You point two fingers at your eyes and then at him in a “this isn’t over” gesture, then back out of the room, phone already in your hand.
In the hallway, the fluorescent lights are a little too bright as you unlock your phone.
You: “We’re almost at presentation. I’m fifty percent adrenaline, fifty percent spite.”
You: “If this goes badly, I’m blaming you retroactively.”
He doesn’t make you wait long.
Kade: “Bold, blaming your emotional support raid lead.”
Kade: “How bad on a scale from ‘mildly annoying’ to ‘I need to set something on fire’?”
You glance down the hallway toward the war room and smile despite yourself.
You: “Hovering around ‘light arson.’”
You: “But the project is finally behaving. The flow feels good. It might actually… be something.”
Kade: “Of course it is. You touched it.”
Your breath catches. You stare at that for a second, feeling something warm and weird spread under your ribs. The dots keep bouncing.
Kade: “You pour yourself into things. It shows. Even from here.”
Kade: “Worst case, if they don’t get it, they’re wrong.”
You: “You’re dangerously close to being sappy.”
You: “That’s my job.”
Kade: “Relax, menace. I can be sappy and tell you what to do.”
Kade: “Speaking of. Deep breath. Shoulders down. Drop your jaw.”
You roll your eyes but follow the instructions, exhaling slowly, unclenching muscles you didn’t even realise were clenched.
Kade: “Better?”
You: “Hate that you’re effective from another timezone.”
You: “But yeah. A little.”
The reply this time is slower, the dots lingering.
When it comes, the tone has shifted — lighter, teasing, the kind of playful edge that makes your pulse tick up.
Kade: “Good.”
Kade: “Now go impress them so I can ruin your composure again later.”
You choke on nothing.
You: “You’re very confident.”
Kade: “Last night says I’m allowed to be.”
Heat streaks through you at the reminder. You lock your phone before you can type something incriminating in the middle of Titan Forge’s hallway.
The internal playtest and presentation take place in the same big conference room where your earlier trials happened, but it feels different with a build you actually believe in. QA runs the slice while David, Raj, Jisoo, Kaito and a handful of other leads watch, controllers in their hands. You and Wonwoo stand side by side at the front, laptops open to your notes, pretending your hearts aren’t banging against your ribs in sync.
The fight plays. The mechanics land. There are wipes, but fair ones. The co-op dynamic between the “defiant” and “obedient” players sparks arguments and laughter in all the right places. The cutscene at the end hits; you see it in the way Jisoo goes very still, in the little “ohhh” murmured around the room when the god spits their last line.
Lights up. For a moment, nobody talks.
Then Raj lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like he’s been holding it the whole time. “That phase two pattern is nasty,” he says. “In a good way.” He looks at Wonwoo. “I like how the punished player gets just enough tools that you want to be the one taking the hits.”
Wonwoo nods once. “Pain loop needed a reward,” he says.
Jisoo looks at you. “And the choice,” she says. “Tying the aggro mechanic to who argued with the god—that’s mean. I love it.”
You smile, shaky and a little relieved. “It felt right,” you say. “If they’re going to commit to defiance, the world should respond. Even if it’s inconvenient.” Kaito scrolls through notes on his tablet. “For a five-day slice,” he says slowly, “this is… ambitious. But it’s coherent. The systems and story are actually talking to each other.”
David has been quiet, watching you both instead of the screen. Now he straightens from where he’d been leaning against the table.
“It’s good,” he says. “Rough around the edges, sure, but the spine is strong. I can see the game in this.” Relief washes through you, sharp and dizzying. Then he smiles that sharp little smile that makes you nervous.
“Whose idea was the punished/rewarded co-op split?” he asks, eyes flicking between you and Wonwoo. “Combat or narrative?”
You open your mouth automatically. Wonwoo beats you to it. “Both,” he says. You blink at him. “She pitched the emotional hook,” he continues, nodding in your direction. “I built the numbers around it. You rip either side out, and it falls apart.” You catch up, mouth catching up to brain. “He’s the one who made it actually work,” you add. “If I’d tuned it alone, it would’ve been a story beat that accidentally killed everyone.”
David’s gaze moves back and forth between you like a metronome. “Cute,” he says. “You’ve discovered teamwork.” There’s a faint edge there you can’t quite parse. “If we had to ship this slice as-is,” he goes on, “I’d be yelling at you about scope, but I wouldn’t be ashamed of it. That’s… not nothing.”
Raj closes his notebook. “You two actually managed to make co-op feel like it matters,” he says. “That’s the thing I was most worried about when we started this project. I’m… impressed.”
You glance at Wonwoo. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw relaxed for the first time in days. When he notices you watching, he flicks a brief look your way. You share a small, tired smile. It feels oddly like a truce.
Later, after the room has emptied and the war room is in that strange limbo between “still yours” and “soon someone else’s mess,” you sit at the table with your laptop open, mostly for show. You know you should go home. Sleep. Eat real food.
Your phone buzzes. You don’t even pretend you’re not waiting for it.
Kade: “How’d it go?”
You: “We didn’t crash and burn. Presentation played all the way through. People made noises, I think, that were good.”
You: “Someone difficult even said he was impressed.”
You: “I might frame that sentence.”
Kade: “You should.”
Kade: “Told you. You touch something, it turns into something good.”
Heat creeps up your neck.
You: “Careful. I’ll start believing you.”
Kade: “Good.”
Kade: “I want you thinking about what you did right today when I tell you what else I want you to do later.”
Your breath hitches. You glance reflexively at the door. Still empty.
You: “You’re very sure there’s going to be a ‘later.’”
Kade: “I believe the odds are in my favour.”
Kade: “Unless you regret it?”
You chew your lip and type.
You: “No.”
You: “Definitely not.”
You: “You?”
The answer comes fast.
Kade: “Not even a little.”
Kade: “But if you ever do, we stop. No questions. That’s the deal.”
You: “That’s very responsible of you, Tutorial.”
Kade: “Don’t get used to it.”
Kade: “I still plan on bossing you around mercilessly.”
You grin at your screen. Footsteps sound in the hallway. You lock your phone on reflex just before Wonwoo pushes the door open, a folder tucked under his arm, his phone in his hand. “Jisoo wants our notes for the presentation doc,” he says, crossing the room as he types something. “She’s doing a postmortem write-up.”
You nod, closing your laptop. Your phone buzzes again on the table, screen lighting up with Kade’s name for a second before going dark.
Wonwoo’s eyes flick to it, then away just as quickly, expression unreadable. “Big plans tonight?” he asks casually. You swallow, hoping your face isn’t doing anything incriminating.
“Sleep,” you say. “Maybe forgetting my own name for ten hours.”
His mouth twists like he’s suppressing a comment. “Try not to die before Trial Four,” he says instead. “I’d hate to have to steal your ideas posthumously.” You snort. “You’d miss me.”
He doesn’t look at you when he answers, putting his phone away instead. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I would.”
Before you can respond, he drops the folder on the table and leaves again, the door swinging shut behind him. Your phone buzzes one more time. You pick it up, a little faster than before.
Kade: “Tonight I want you on call, no game. Just you and me.”
Kade: “Think you can be good for me twice in a row?”
You stare at the words, heat flooding your lower stomach. Between two fires, you think. One rival who makes you want to prove yourself every time he looks at you. One disembodied voice who sees right through you even without a name.
You: “No promises on being ‘good.’”
You: “But I’ll pick up.”
You set your phone down, the war room spinning quietly around you, and realise that, for the first time in days, you’re not just surviving the crunch. You’re looking forward to something. Even if you have no idea how dangerously tangled those two parts of your life could get.
Trial Four comes and goes in a blur of pitch decks, leadership questionnaires, and David using phrases like “scalability of vision” until the words mean nothing.
By the time the dust settles, the roster has shrunk again. Baekhyun and Yoohyeon are cut post-Trial Three, with a quick “thank you for your time” and corporate smiles that don’t reach anyone’s eyes. Now it’s just you and Wonwoo. Two names on the board. Two badges in the war room. You thought it would feel triumphant. Mostly, it feels like the world is narrowing to a single point.
You notice it slowly at first — little shifts around the edges.
In one review, David circles your cutscene outline with a red pen. “We could trim here,” he says. “Skip straight from the god’s first line to the choice prompt. Keep the pacing tight. What do you think, Jeon?”
Wonwoo twirls his pen once between his fingers, eyes flicking from the page to the whiteboard where your emotional beats are mapped out. “If you cut that line,” he says, “the god’s turn comes out of nowhere. The player needs the hesitation to believe the threat.”
David lifts his brows. “We can show that in gameplay,” he says. “No need to over-explain.”
“We are showing it in gameplay,” Wonwoo replies, tone even. “That line lets them feel it before they see it. It’s doing work. I’d cut the second reaction shot instead.” David looks between you, clearly weighing how much blood he can squeeze from both stones.
“You okay with that, Pixie?” he asks you. You’re still stuck on the we in “we are showing it.”
“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “We cut the second reaction shot, we keep the line.”
David’s mouth twists. “You two are getting very good at presenting a united front,” he says lightly. “Dangerous.”
Later, in a systems meeting, David tries again. He leans back in his chair, hands steepled. “If we were going to ship this,” he says, “I want to know whose name goes on the credits as lead. Narrative or combat. You can’t both be in charge.” He watches the words land, eyes bright like he’s waiting for sparks. You open your mouth, defences already snapping into place.
Wonwoo speaks first. “Pick whoever pisses you off less,” he says dryly. “It won’t change how we designed this. The slice is both of us.” You blink at him, caught flat-footed. David’s gaze sharpens. “You’re really okay with that?” he asks. “Even if the role lands on her?”
Wonwoo doesn’t flinch. “If she’s lead, I still get to build fights,” he says. “If I’m lead, she still gets to make people cry. Either way, you get a better game using both.”
You just stare at him. He feels it, finally glancing your way. “Don’t look so shocked, Pixie,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not a complete villain.” Your mouth opens. Closes. You look back at your laptop because looking at him suddenly feels dangerously complicated.
The days grow stranger by degrees. You and Wonwoo still bicker, but the barbs land softer now, wrapped in a layer of something almost like fondness. He still pokes holes in your logic, still rolls his eyes when you get too poetic on a first pass, still mutters “scope” under his breath whenever you pitch something ambitious.
But when David tries to pin a problem on you alone, Wonwoo steps in with a steady “that one’s on me.” When someone suggests cutting a narrative beat you love, he backs you up with combat justification. When you’re too fried to translate Raj’s tuning complaints into story terms, he quietly rephrases them until they make sense. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to pull away, to remind you this is still a competition, that only one of you walks away with Titan Forge on your CV. He doesn’t.
Meanwhile, your phone has become a second heartbeat. You don’t text Kade in the war room. Not when Wonwoo’s there. Not when anyone’s there. But the second you step away — into the hallway, into the stairwell, outside to gulp cold air on the rooftop — the buzz starts.
Kade: “Project update?”
You: “Internal politics worse than external action. Send help.”
Kade: “Kill them with charm. Or, failing that, numbers.”
You: “Charm stat is low. Spite stat is maxed.”
Kade: “Spite is a perfectly valid build.”
The sexting thread slithers between the jokes now, woven through the mundane.
Kade: “What are you wearing?”
You: “Corporate casual and despair.”
Kade: “Hot.”
Kade: “Lose the despair later. Keep the rest on until I tell you.”
Your cheeks burn on the rooftop, wind biting at your ears. You type with your back to the door.
You: “You’re very sure I’ll do what you say.”
Kade: “You say that every time, and then you do exactly what I tell you.”
Kade: “Eventually.”
You hate how true that feels. You love how true that feels. You delete three responses that are essentially variations of “fuck you” and settle on:
You: “You’re lucky you’re good at this.”
Kade: “I am. And so are you.”
You go back inside with your pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the final trial brief sitting on your desk.
In Aetherion, the boundary between “game” and “something else” keeps dissolving.
You and Kade finished the main story content weeks ago, but the devs keep patching in co-op vignettes — little side scenes, optional story nodes that only trigger if two players have a high enough “bond” score. You’ve unlocked almost all of them.
Campfires under different skies. Quiet nights in hidden shrines. Short quests where your characters work together to fix small, almost domestic problems — an NPC’s broken cart, a haunted well, a lost kid who won’t talk to anyone but Nyx. Tonight, you’re tucked into your usual corner of the crystalline forest, Nyx and Kade sitting on a log, a new “Between Wars” scene flickering to life around them.
You’ve both set your controllers down. At some point, the active playing stops and the two of you default to just talking. The conversation drifts like it always does.
Music first — soundtracks you love, tracks you loop when you’re playing or working. Then favourite boss designs, the ones that made you swear out loud in the best way. “The first time I beat that fight,” Kade says, “I screamed so loud my neighbour knocked on the wall.”
“Did you apologise?” you ask. “No,” he replies. “I asked if they wanted the build.” You laugh until your sides hurt.
That slides into childhood games — cartridges and cracked CDs, memories of borrowed consoles and staying up too late, the first time you realised you could be in a story instead of just reading it. You describe playing an ancient fantasy RPG on a hand-me-down system with a broken save battery, having to keep it paused for hours because turning it off meant losing everything. “That explains so much about your personality,” Kade says. “Early exposure to high stakes.”
“Says the man who thinks floor traps are a fun learning tool,” you shoot back. “They are,” he insists. “Pain is an excellent teacher.”
His voice is warm, amused, threaded with that intimacy that comes from too many hours spent comfortingly in each other’s ears.
At some point, you realise you’re lying sideways on your couch, phone in one hand, controller barely touched in the other, just watching Nyx and Kade’s idle animations flicker by the campfire. The game has become scenery. He has become the main thing.
The thoughts that have been circling for days finally break the surface three nights later.
You stall for a bit — talk about a minor NPC, toss a few jokes out, let them fall. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you blurt: “There’s someone at work I can’t stand.”
You hear him go quiet, the soft crackle from his mic shifting as he settles more fully into listening mode. “The same one you mentioned before?” he asks. “The ‘annoyingly talented’ one?”
You exhale, long and uneven. “Yeah,” you say. “Him.”
You pick at a loose thread on the couch with your free hand.
“He drives me insane,” you continue. “He’s smug, and infuriating, and he always seems… collected. Even when I’m falling apart. He used to act like I wasn’t even a threat. Like I was just… there.”
“Used to?” Kade prompts gently.
You think of Wonwoo taking the blame in front of Raj. Of him backing your line against David. Of his quiet “If she’s lead, I still get to build fights” like your success doesn’t diminish his. Think of the way he said, “Yeah. I think I would,” when you joked he’d miss you.
“Lately he’s been… different,” you say slowly. “Backing me up in meetings. Deflecting shit that isn’t my fault. It’s like he decided not to be an ass overnight, and my brain hasn’t caught up.”
You swallow. The words feel like they’re scraping on the way out.
“And I think I might also…” You force yourself to say it, “…be kind of into him, which is very annoying.”
When Kade finally laughs in reply, it’s not cruel. It’s strained, like he’s trying very hard to keep something steady. “Enemies-to-lovers is a classic trope for a reason,” he says lightly. You groan, dropping your forearm over your eyes. “This isn’t a romance novel,” you protest. “He’s— I mean, we’re competing. For the same project. He’s my rival.”
“Rivals to lovers,” Kade corrects. “Also a classic.” You make an inarticulate noise of despair. “You’re not helping.”
There’s a soft exhale on the other end. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped — not into the commanding cadence he uses when he’s telling you where to stand, but into something lower, more careful. “You sure?” he asks.
“Sure about what?”
“That this isn’t a romance novel,” he says quietly. “Feels like it from over here.”
You want to argue. You also want to crawl into your own hoodie and never come out. “You’re romanticising this,” you grumble. “You don’t know him.”
“I know you,” he says. “You light up when you talk about work. Even when you’re pissed off. You wouldn’t waste this much energy on someone you didn’t… care about, on some level.”
You chew on that, on the word care, on the possibility that your anger has been hiding something else. It’s too much. So you dodge. “So what, I’m just supposed to confess my undying love in the next meeting?” you say. “Wear a shirt that says ‘I hate how attractive your brain is’?”
He laughs, the tension in his voice easing a fraction. “I mean, I’d pay to see that,” he says. “But no. I’m saying you don’t have to have it all sorted right now. You’re allowed to want to throttle someone and kiss them at the same time.” The worst part is that you’ve already told him that exact thing — about your colleague — in texts. You’ve practically written your own trope label. You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “You’re infuriatingly reasonable,” you say.
“I contain multitudes,” he replies.
You can hear him smile, but there’s still something tight underneath, like holding this conversation is scraping against a nerve you can’t see.
On screen, Nyx shifts closer to Kade by the campfire, their idle animation nudging them nearly shoulder to shoulder. You watch them, heart thudding, as Kade says, almost too casually, “For what it’s worth?”
“Yeah?”
“Whoever he is,” Kade says, “he’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what he’s got in front of him.”
Your throat closes up for a second. You swallow around it. “Yeah, well,” you say, voice coming out softer than you like. “Good thing you’re not an idiot, then.” There’s a tiny, startled pause. Then he laughs, low and a little shaky. “Working on it,” he murmurs.
You log off hours later with your head spinning, your heart sore, and a growing suspicion that you’re in way over yours.
In one world, you’re gearing up for the final trial against the man who’s been an accidental measuring stick for your entire career, who has started quietly stepping into your corner when it counts.
In another, you’re falling asleep with your phone on the pillow beside you, waiting for a notification from the voice that can pull you apart and put you back together from miles away.
The lines between them blur a little more every day.
Trial Five doesn’t feel like a trial. It feels like a war of attrition.
You and Wonwoo are basically living at Titan Forge. Someone wheels a spare couch into your war room; it becomes a graveyard for hoodies and half-finished coffee cups. The blinds stay half-closed because the outside world is starting to feel like an optional DLC you didn’t purchase.
The brief is simple and cruel: “Pitch a three-year roadmap for Mythfall: Eclipse and then, in a live scenario, rescope that roadmap when we throw crises at you. Show us how you think, how you cut, how you lead.”
You’re not just designing a game anymore. You’re designing a future.
And David is done pretending he’s rooting for you both.
It starts with the one-on-ones. He frames them like standard check-ins.
“Just to make sure you’re both supported,” he says, smiling bright and harmless. “We don’t want you burning out before you even get the job.”
You go first.
David’s office is smaller than you thought it would be. Crammed with shelves, concept art pinned everywhere, a whiteboard full of half-erased scribbles. His desk is cleared, though — tablet, a little stack of sticky notes, your file. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You’ve done good work, Pixie,” he says. “Mythfall’s heartbeat? A lot of that is you.”
The compliment lands, then immediately feels suspicious. “Thanks,” you say carefully. He nods, like he expected the caution. “But you know how this works,” he goes on. “We can’t have two leads on one title. Someone has to own the final call. Someone has to be willing to say ‘no’ when everyone wants ‘yes.’”
“I can do that,” you say. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you’re willing to out-think Jeon,” David says, sharp now. “Because he’s very good at what he does and he’s talking about a solo vision in his meetings.” Your heart stutters. “Solo vision?” David shrugs, casual. “Not in those words,” he says. “But you know how combat people are. Systems-first. He’s got strong opinions about how this game should play and end. I need to know you’re not going to just… orbit him. That you can bring something equally sharp to the table.” You sit a little straighter, pulse beating in your ears. “I’m not orbiting anyone,” you say before you can soften it. “I have a vision. Our slice works because I fought for it. I can fight for the larger picture too.” His eyes warm. “Good,” he says. “Show me that tomorrow. Show me where you would push back if he gets stubborn. We need different perspectives. That’s the best-case scenario — not two versions of the same mind.” You leave feeling like you’ve swallowed a live wire.
You don’t see Wonwoo’s one-on-one. But you see him come out.
You’re walking past the row of glass offices with a printout in your hand when his door opens. He steps into the hallway, face set in that neutral, unreadable way you’re starting to recognise as his version of upset.
David’s voice carries through the cracked door, too loud to pretend you don’t hear. “—just don’t get blindsided, okay? She’s smart. She’s already talking about pitching a separate direction. I’d hate for you to assume you’re on the same page when you’re not.”
Heat floods your face. You don’t stop walking. You don’t look at either of them. You keep going until you’re around the corner, then press your back to the wall and stare at the printer paper in your hand without seeing it.
Separate direction. You replay the conversation in David’s office. The way he framed his concern. The way he twisted “I need you to be strong” into “he wants to lead alone.” The way he’s now telling Wonwoo you might split.
The next two days are a mess of splinters.
You and Wonwoo are still working together, but the soft goodwill that started to build after Trial Three now has hairline cracks running through it. When you push for a narrative-heavy arc in Year Two, you catch him hesitating before he backs you up. When he sketches a system for rotating co-op alliances in Year Three, you hear yourself ask, sharper than you meant, “And where exactly does that leave story continuity?”
You both apologise, quickly and awkwardly, but the apologies feel thin over the tension buzzing underneath. Tiny misunderstandings, yesterday’s nothing, turn into petty frustrations today. You find out, during a review, that he moved one set piece on your Year One roadmap to fit a boss he’s been dreaming up. He finds out, during a call, that you rewrote some flavour text for his combat trees without telling him because “it fit better tonally.” Each time, you both say “It’s fine,” and neither of you sounds like you mean it.
The blowup happens at 1:17 a.m.
The war room is lit only by two desk lamps and the blue glow of the big screen. Everyone else on your floor went home hours ago. Even the cleaning staff have passed through twice and left. There’s an empty pizza box on the table, three coffee cups, two energy drink cans, and one very frayed patience between you. You’d crashed on the couch for “ten minutes” and woken up forty minutes later, neck stiff, mouth dry. You push yourself up, scrub a hand over your face, and stagger toward your laptop. Wonwoo’s already there.
He’s standing at your side of the table, eyes on your screen, fingers moving over your keyboard. For a moment, your half-sleeping brain can’t parse it. Then your stomach drops. Your roadmap document is open. The Year Two narrative section — your section, the one you stayed up to write, the one about fractured pantheons and co-op betrayals — is on the screen.
Words have changed. Sentences shortened. Bullet points rearranged. One of your carefully built emotional beats has become a single bland phrase: “relationship fallout.” Something hot and ugly surges up your throat. “What are you doing?”
He looks up, startled. “Editing,” he says. “The wording was a little—”
“I didn’t ask you to touch that,” you snap, stepping closer. “That’s my section.” His brows draw together. “You were asleep on the couch,” he says. “The deck needs to go to Kaito by eight. I was trying to make sure it’s coherent.”
“By stripping all the specificity out of my pitch?” you demand. “Turning ‘the party has to live with the cost of sparing a god’ into ‘relationship fallout’?” You jab a finger at the screen. “Do you have any idea how hard I fought for that arc when Jisoo thought it was too dark?”
He sets his hands on the table, jaw tightening. “Yes,” he says. “I’m the one who backed you when she wanted to cut it.”
“And now you’re rewriting it while I’m unconscious,” you throw back. “So which is it, Jeon? Support or sabotage?” The air between you goes very still.
He straightens slowly. “You can’t be serious,” he says.
You laugh, harshly, too loud in the small room. “David told me you’ve been talking about your ‘solo vision,’” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “That you need to know you can lead this game on your own.”
Something flickers across his face — genuine surprise, then anger. “And he told me you were considering pitching a separate direction so I shouldn’t get blindsided,” he says, voice cool. “So forgive me for wanting to make sure our names are attached to something that actually fits together.”
You stare at him. You’re too tired. Too raw. Too used to being made to feel like the emotional one, the one who can’t take criticism, the one whose work is “padding” until proven otherwise. All you see is your document on the screen under his hands.
“If you wanted to ‘make sure it fits,’ you could’ve woken me up,” you say, hurt sharpening every syllable. “Instead of quietly sanding down my work until it looks more like yours.”
His expression shutters. “If I’d known you were going to accuse me of sabotage every time I tried to help,” he says, voice flattening, “maybe I shouldn’t have started helping at all, Pixie.”
The nickname lands like a slap. You cross your arms over your chest, nails biting into your skin. “Nobody asked you to start,” you shoot back.
He flinches. It’s small. A tightening around his eyes, a tiny shift in his stance. If you weren’t staring at him, you might miss it.
For a second, neither of you says anything. The war room hums quietly around you — computer fans, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the ghost of someone’s laughter from three days ago stuck in the walls.
You break first. “I’m going home,” you say, snatching your laptop cord out of the wall. “You clearly have this under control.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, exasperation slipping into his tone. “We have a deadline. We don’t have time for—”
“For me to be upset about you rewriting my work?” you cut in. “No, of course we don’t. That would be inconvenient.”
You stuff your laptop into your bag, way rougher than necessary.
He runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling for patience. “What do you want me to say?” he asks. “That I won’t touch anything that isn’t mine, even if the whole thing sinks because of it? Congratulations, you’re lead then. Alone.”
The worst part is that a piece of you hates how much that hurts. You yank your bag onto your shoulder. “Goodnight, Jeon.”
You’re halfway out the door when he says, quieter, “You know that’s not what I meant.” You don’t look back. If you do, you might crumble.
Your apartment feels foreign when you stumble in.
You drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off hard enough that one skids under the table. Your Titan Forge badge lands on the counter with a clatter. You pace the length of your living room three times, pulse still hammering in your ears. You’re furious. You’re exhausted. You’re hurt.
That last one feels like betrayal.
You scrub a hand over your face, breathing hard. Your gaze lands on your PC. You know you should just go to bed, let the anger burn itself out, deal with the fallout tomorrow like a professional adult.
Instead, your fingers move on autopilot. You boot Aetherion.
Nyx materialises in the crystalline forest, same as always. The world is quiet, glowing, almost gentle. Your voice chat icon lights up almost immediately. You accept before you can reconsider.
“Hey,” Kade says. Usually, there’s a smile in his voice when he greets you. Tonight, there’s something else too — a thread of concern.
“You’re on late,” he adds. “Even for you.”
You don’t bother pretending otherwise. “Big surprise,” you say. “Work imploded.” You move Nyx without thinking, running her in circles under the trees, needing the motion.
“Walk or hit things?” he asks.
“Both,” you say. “At the same time.”
He chuckles softly. “Come on, then,” he says. “There’s a patrol route with some elites that deserve it.” He pings a spot. You follow, falling into the familiar pattern — Nyx at his flank, his greatsword a constant weight at the edge of your vision.
Your hands know what to do. Your brain does not. You take a hit you normally would’ve dodged. Miss an obvious telegraph. Overextend into a pack and eat a stun to the face. Kade notices.
“Nyx,” he says, after you faceplant into the same cone twice in a row. “You’re playing like someone swapped your dexterity for salt.”
“Maybe I did,” you mutter. He keeps his tone light, but there’s a hint of steel underneath now — the same edge he uses when a raid is one mistake away from a wipe.
“Talk to me,” he says. “What happened?”
You don’t want to talk. You also kind of want to scream. Instead, you give him the redacted version: the project, the roadmap, the one-on-ones that feel more like trap rooms, the late-night scene in the war room with your “colleague” at your laptop. You still can’t say Wonwoo’s name here. It doesn’t matter. You talk in silhouettes; Kade connects the lines.
“He rewrote my work while I was asleep,” you say, fingers tight on your mouse. “Then acted like I was overreacting for being pissed about it.”
On screen, Nyx lunges forward at the wrong moment. You notice too late; a phantom’s blade kisses her health bar. Kade swings in, intercepting, catching the enemy’s attention before it finishes the combo. “Of course you’re pissed,” he says. “Anyone would be. That’s your name on the doc.”
“David’s already trying to pit us against each other,” you push on, anger rising with your words. “I’m supposed to be his co-lead, and I feel like I’m constantly fighting for my own oxygen. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
You take another hit. Kade yanks the mob off you again, but his voice is less smooth now. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he says. “You’ve been holding half the project together by force of will.”
“Hasn’t felt like it,” you say bitterly. “Feels like I’m either in the way or being used as decoration.” You rush into the next pack too early, ignoring the patrol path you usually follow. Three enemies turn at once, converging on you. Kade curses under his breath and dives in after you, sword flashing. “Nyx,” he says, firmer now. “Back up. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Maybe I don’t care,” you snap, dashing anyway. Your screen floods with damage numbers. He burns cooldowns to keep you from eating dirt. “I care,” he says. “Fall. Back.” Something in you bristles at the command.
You do it anyway, because your health bar is screaming and he’s clearly not about to let you die on his watch. You kite backward, breath too fast in your own ears. “You can’t keep charging red telegraphs and then get mad when you get hit,” he says tightly. “That’s not how this works.”
“Wow,” you say, the bitter laugh scraping out of your chest. “Thanks for the life lesson.”
“You wanted to hit things,” he reminds you. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t wipe in the process.”
The words land wrong tonight. You hear I’m trying to show you how to do it right. You hear you can’t handle this without me. You know that’s not what he said. It doesn’t matter.
“Maybe I’m just an idiot,” you say, fingers clenching around your mouse. “For talking to someone I don’t actually know. For letting some guy on the other end of a phone tell me what to do like he knows best.”
There’s a small, sharp silence. You hear his exhale, short and disbelieving. “Wow,” he says quietly. “Okay.”
You push on, because it’s easier than stopping. “You’re not the one who has to deal with the fallout if this blows up in my face,” you say. “You’re not the one with your real career on the line while you—” You cut yourself off before you say too much. The damage is done anyway. “Nyx,” he says, and there’s a warning in it now. “That’s not fair.”
You laugh, the sound sharp. “What part?” you demand. “The part where I rearrange my sleep to match your raid times? The part where you tell me how to breathe, how to touch myself, how to—” you choke on the memory, “—and I just… listen, because you’re so calm and sure and it’s easier than trusting my own judgment?”
Your vision blurs for a second. You blink hard. On screen, the last enemy dies. Loot explodes around you in a shimmer of colour. Neither of you moves to pick it up. His voice comes back, rougher. “You know me better than you think,” he says. “This isn’t just some game to me.”
You freeze. Something under your ribs twists. He keeps going, words tripping a little. “I’ve been here,” he says. “Every night you’ve wanted to scream. Every time you’ve doubted yourself. I know how you think about fights. I know how you talk when you’re stressed, when you’re happy, when you’re about to do something reckless. I know you.”
The hurt from the war room flares again, now tinged with something like panic. “Do I?” you ask, voice low and shaking. “Know you?”
You stare at Nyx and Kade on the screen — two avatars shoulder to shoulder, weapons sheathed, both idle animations breathing in sync. You realise, abruptly, that if he disappeared tomorrow, you don’t have a last name. You don’t have a face. You don’t have anything but a voice, a handle, and the mess he’s made of your heart. “Because from where I’m standing,” you say, “you’re just another guy who gets to be mysterious and in control and take what he wants and call it ‘help.’”
You can hear his breath on the line, sharp once, then pulled in. When he speaks, his voice is very, very controlled. “That’s what you think I’m doing?” he asks quietly. “Taking?”
You don’t answer. You don’t trust what will come out if you open your mouth. You hit escape. The menu fills your screen. You see his avatar turn toward you, as if he knows what you’re about to do even without mechanics for it. “Nyx,” he says, and there’s something in his tone you haven’t heard before — not command, not teasing, something brittle. “Don’t log off angry. Talk to me.”
Your cursor hovers over “Log Out.” Your eyes sting. You do it anyway. The world blinks out to the character select screen, then to desktop. His voice cuts off mid-breath.
Your room rushes in — the hum of your PC, the tick of your wall clock, the too-loud sound of your own heartbeat. You sit there in the dark, headset still on, fingers pressed white-knuckled into your thighs, breathing like you just wiped to a boss at one percent. You tell yourself you’re justified. That it’s good to remember you don’t really know him. That you’re protecting yourself. You tell yourself a lot of things. None of them makes your chest hurt less.
You rip the headset off and toss it onto the couch, then crawl into bed without showering, without brushing your teeth, without turning your phone face-up on the pillow like you usually do. You don’t want to see his name. You don’t want to see if it doesn’t appear.
In the dark, with your eyes burning and your throat tight, one thought echoes louder than the rest: In one world, you just accused your co-lead of trying to cut you out. In another, you just shoved away the only person who’s been holding you together when you felt like you were coming apart.
For the first time since this all started, it feels like you might have done real damage in both.
The next day, the whole building feels off-kilter.
The air in Titan Forge’s hallway is too dry, the fluorescents too bright, the hum of servers too loud. Every sound seems to scrape along your nerves. You step into the war room and feel it immediately: the shift.
Wonwoo’s already there, standing by the big screen, flipping through printouts. His hoodie is cleaner than yesterday’s, hair pulled back off his face, badge clipped straight. He looks composed. You do not feel composed. He glances up when you enter. For one suspended heartbeat, you meet each other’s eyes. There’s a flicker there—regret, maybe, or just the echo of yesterday’s fight—but he’s the one who looks away first, gaze dropping back to the paper in his hand. “Morning,” he says, neutral. “Sure,” you answer, just as flat. You take your seat at the table. He stays by the screen. You talk only when you have to.
“We’re missing milestones for Year Two.” “Check the second tab.”
Voices clipped, eyes skimming past each other, never lingering. On paper, nothing is wrong. The deck is getting done. The roadmap is tightening. The final trial is tomorrow. Underneath, it’s all shattered.
Last night sits between you: you finding him over your document; his face when you accused him; your own words, sharp and ugly. The slam of the door when you walked out. You don’t know what to do with any of it.
You don’t know what to do with Kade, either. Your phone stayed face down on your nightstand, buzzing once, then silent. You didn’t look. You can’t now. Not with Wonwoo ten feet away. You dig your nails into your palm and focus on the work.
Today is “final prep day,” according to David. Polish. No surprises. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s, make sure the build and the deck and your brains all say the same thing. It feels less like polish and more like threading a needle during an earthquake.
You and Wonwoo spend the morning in the war room scrubbing the roadmap slides until they gleam. You tighten the wording on your emotional beats; he reworks a couple of graphs so they’re legible from the back row. You trim one story example; he trims two features and then adds a line to your slide so you can point to how story and systems saved scope together. In the afternoon, you move to the big conference room you’ll use tomorrow. Kaito’s assistant booked it for your “tech check and rehearsal.” It feels like walking onto a stage before the curtain.
You plug in the laptop. The title slide for your deck—Mythfall: Eclipse – Three-Year Vision—fills the big screen. You and Wonwoo take turns at the front, clicking through, talking to empty chairs. “Year One is about promises,” you say, gesturing to the map. “We teach players what this world honours and what it punishes.”
“Year Two is about consequences,” he adds, when the slide shifts. “We start cashing checks we wrote in Year One. Systemically and emotionally.”
You time yourselves. You tweak transitions. You add two backup slides for the live Q&A. You scribble a list of potential “crises” they might throw at you tomorrow and argue through how you’ll answer each one so you don’t contradict each other in front of the leads. Sometime around nine, David sticks his head in. “You two still here?” he asks, sounding more amused than surprised. You click out of slideshow mode; the fluorescent lights feel harsher when the screen isn’t filling your vision. “Just making sure nothing explodes when we hook it up tomorrow,” you say.
He glances at the screen, at the neatly ordered thumbnails in the sidebar, at the whiteboards with timelines still half-erased. “Looks thorough,” he says. “Get some rest. Don’t over-rehearse. I want your brains sharp tomorrow, not fried.” You fight the urge to snort.
“We’ll head out soon,” Wonwoo says instead. David gives you both a quick, bright smile that somehow still feels like a test. “Big day,” he says. “Try not to think about it.” Then he’s gone, door swinging shut, leaving you in the echo of his advice. You and Wonwoo run the deck one more time anyway. Just once more.
By the end of it, your throat is scratchy and your shoulders ache. The clock on the wall says 11:34 p.m. The rest of the floor is dark. You start packing up—closing your laptop, stacking your printouts into a neat pile that immediately slouches sideways, capping the last dry-erase marker. Chair scrapes as you push yours in. “See you tomorrow,” you say, without looking up. You don’t wait for an answer. You head for the door, letting it swing shut behind you, never checking whether his footsteps follow or if he stays behind in the empty room.
You make it all the way down the hallway before you realise something’s missing. You stop dead. Your phone. You remember setting it on the table beside your laptop before you started rehearsing. You remember telling yourself you’d deal with Kade’s existence later. You did not remember picking it back up. “Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You pivot and head back.
The corridor is dark now, most of the floor already shut down for the night. Only the conference room door glows with light under the frame. You hesitate for half a second, then push it open. Your phone sits near the far end of the table, exactly where you left it. Right next to Wonwoo.
He’s in the chair you vacated, hunched over the table, elbows braced, face in his hands. His phone lies just off to the side, screen dark.
He jerks upright when the door opens. You both freeze. For a moment, you just look at each other, lit by the overheads and the flicker from the screensaver on the big monitor. You open your mouth to say something neutral—forgot my phone, or didn’t know you were still here—when you notice your screen is already lit. You cross the room automatically, reaching for it, then stop when you see what’s on the lock screen. A text preview, right there in familiar formatting.
Kade: “I’m sorry about last night, Pixie. I pushed too hard.”
You stare at the words, at the nickname. Pixie. You feel it like a physical impact: the word, the timing, the apologetic tone that matches the one you’ve come to know from his texts and calls. Your head snaps up. Wonwoo is watching you. You catch the movement as he slides his own phone into his back pocket, the guilty tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingers there a second too long, like he’s just shoved something incriminating out of sight.
The puzzle pieces don’t fall into place so much as smash together.
The nickname. The way Kade has always understood your stress too well. The raid schedule that magically fit your crunch. The little phrases that echoed things Wonwoo said in person. The way he knew how fried you were before you even spoke some nights. Your stomach drops, molten and cold all at once. You reach for your phone with numb fingers, staring at the message, praying it might rearrange itself if you look hard enough. It doesn’t. Your voice, when it comes, sounds distant to your own ears. “It was you.”
You swallow, throat burning. “This whole time,” you whisper, “it was you.”
He flinches like you hit him. “Pixie—”
“Don’t,” you snap, the word cracking on the way out. “Do not call me that right now.” Silence slams down. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Somewhere, faintly, the elevator dings in the distance. Wonwoo stands slowly, palms flat on the table like he’s afraid to move too fast. “I was going to tell you,” he says, voice low. “I just—”
You laugh, short and ugly. “When?” you demand. “Before or after we fucked on the phone again? Before or after I cried about you to you?” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t use my name,” he says. “You never said it was me.”
“Because I didn’t know,” you spit. “Because I thought I was safe there. That Kade was—” You break off, biting the name in half. He winces.
“I figured it out after Trial Three,” he says quietly. “When I brought Jisoo’s file, and you left your phone on the table.”
Images slam into your mind: that evening in this same room, your phone lying next to your laptop, the soft buzz as a notification lit the screen; Kade’s name flashing for a heartbeat; the way you’d flipped it facedown a second too late as Wonwoo walked in with a folder under his arm. You grip your phone tighter, knuckles white.
“So you knew,” you say slowly, “for days, that I was Nyx.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you didn’t say anything?”
He deflates a little, shoulders sagging. “You hated me,” he says simply. “Here.” He gestures around the room. “You barely tolerated me during Trial One. I thought if I told you I was Kade, you’d cut me off in both places. I… didn’t want to lose you.”
Something in your chest twists. “So you lied instead.”
“I never lied,” he says. “Not to you. I just… didn’t correct your assumptions.”
You stare at him. The distinction feels paper-thin. “You let me talk about you,” you say, voice shaking now. “You let me complain about my ‘colleague’ being dismissive and infuriating and… and you listened as if you were someone else. You didn’t even—” you swallow hard, “—you didn’t even try to defend yourself.”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I liked how you talk about me when you forget you’re supposed to hate me,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “I liked hearing what I was getting wrong. I wanted to fix it.”
You shake your head, anger spiking through the hurt. “You wanted to have it both ways,” you snap. “You wanted me as your rival and your raid partner. You got to be the asshole who made me doubt myself and the voice who put me back together at night. Do you have any idea how messed up that is?” His expression breaks, just a little.
“Of course I do,” he says. “You think I haven’t been calling myself every name you just did? I thought I’d get a chance to explain before… this.”
He waves a hand between you, helpless. Your eyes burn. You take a step toward him before you realise you’re moving. “Explain, then,” you say, bitter. “Explain the part where you also decided to sext me for weeks without telling me who you were.”
Colour climbs his throat. He doesn’t look away. “I didn’t plan that,” he says hoarsely. “I wasn’t sitting here thinking, ‘how do I trick her into phone sex?’ I was already gone for you before I knew you were Nyx.”
You choke on a disbelieving sound. “Gone for me,” you repeat. He nods once.
“I’ve had a crush on you for years,” he says, words coming faster now like he’s afraid that if he stops, he won’t be able to start again. “Back when you were doing little indie visual novels, and everyone wrote you off as ‘the feelings girl.’ I watched you eat people alive with your writing. I watched you win awards I wanted and clapped for you from the back row.” Your heart lurches, confused. He keeps going, voice rough.
“And every time I tried to talk to you at a con, I said something stupid, and you looked at me like I was bored. So I did the only thing I know how to do when I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling.”
He gives a humourless huff. “I acted like you weren’t a threat,” he says. “Like I barely noticed you. It was a shitty defence mechanism. I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, I’d stop thinking about you every time I opened a new brief.” You stare at him, chest heaving. Something cracks open under your ribs. “Spoiler,” he adds quietly. “It didn’t work.”
You let out a wild, half-hysterical laugh. “So instead,” you say, “you went with secret alt and made me fall for you there.”
“I didn’t think you’d…” he trails off, eyes closing briefly. “I just liked talking to you without the history. You liked me there. Or at least you didn’t hate me.” His gaze finds yours again, raw. “I meant every word I said to you as Kade,” he says. “Every apology, every compliment, every time I told you I was proud of you. That was me. I just… didn’t know how to be that guy with my own face.”
He looks wrecked—eyes too bright, shoulders hunched like he’s braced for impact. You feel like you’re going to fly apart. Anger, betrayal, want, old hurt, new hurt—it all churns inside you until you can’t tell one from the other. “You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. He frowns. “Do what?”
“Be both,” you say, gesturing wildly. “You don’t get to be the man who made me feel small for years and the man who held me together in my headphones and—” your voice cracks, “—and the man who made me come late at night with his voice and then text me like nothing happened. You don’t get to be all of that and expect me to just… slot it into one person and be fine.” You see his hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.
“I don’t expect you to be fine,” he says, quiet and fierce. “I expected you to be furious. You should be. I deserve that.”
You close the distance between you without meaning to. You’re close enough now to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his pupils are blown wide, the tension in his neck. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You hate him. You want him. The contradictions tear at you, each one feeding the other. Your hand moves before your brain catches up. You shove at his chest. He rocks back a step, not because you’re strong enough to move him, but because he lets you.
“You made me feel crazy,” you say, shoving him again. “I thought I was losing my mind because I was falling for a guy I’d never seen while I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing my rival at work.” He catches your wrist before you can shove him a third time—not hard, just enough to halt the motion. “You’re not crazy,” he says. “You were falling for the same idiot twice.” That does it.
You surge forward, grabbing the front of his hoodie, and crash your mouth into his. The kiss lands messy, teeth clacking, too much force and no finesse. It feels less like affection and more like a collision. He makes a low sound in his throat, like he’s been waiting for this and is still somehow surprised. Then he’s kissing you back, just as rough. His free hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He yanks you closer, mouth moving over yours with an intensity that borders on feral. You bite his bottom lip, hard enough to make him gasp. He hisses between his teeth, grip in your hair tightening just shy of painful.
“Careful,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You keep that up, and I’m not going to be gentle.”
“Maybe I don’t want gentle,” you snap.
Something in his eyes darkens. He searches your face, breathing ragged. “You sure?” he asks, voice low. “You say ‘stop’, and we stop. I don’t care how pissed you are.”
Your whole body is buzzing, every nerve screaming. Logic tells you that this is a terrible idea—that you are too angry, too hurt, too everything. Your mouth doesn’t listen. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper.
Whatever thin leash he had on himself snaps. He backs you up until your hips bump the edge of the conference table, never breaking the kiss, hands all over you now—at your waist, your ribs, sliding up your sides like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You tug his hoodie down his shoulders, grabbing at cotton and heat, needing him closer, needing something to hold onto before you come apart. He obliges, stepping between your legs, his body slotting against yours like it was always meant to fit there. Your hands find his hair, sinking in, tugging hard. He groans, the sound vibrating against your mouth. “Brat,” he breathes. “Of course you are.”
He drags his mouth down your jaw to the spot under your ear that makes your knees threaten to give out. His teeth graze your skin; his lips soothe the sting. The conference room around you falls away. There’s only the harsh sound of your breathing, the scrape of his stubble against your neck, the solid weight of him pinning you to the table. One of his hands slides up, skimming your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He just rests his fingers there, a firm, possessive circle that makes your pulse trip under his touch. You shudder. He feels it. “Okay?” he asks, voice suddenly very careful. You nod, too fast, words tangling. “Use your words,” he says, even now, even like this. You exhale shakily. “Yeah,” you manage. “I’m… good.”
His answering sound is halfway between relief and hunger. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. Your insides twist. You grab his wrist, not to pull him away but to anchor yourself, nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds your hip, fingers biting in.
Clothes shift and tangle. Buttons fumble as both your pants come undone. There’s the thud of your back hitting the table, the drag of his hands over your newly bared skin, the rasp of his breath as he curses softly into your mouth.
At one point, you spin him, shoving him back against the table, palms flat on his chest. “You don’t get to be in charge of everything,” you pant. His mouth curves, even now. “You keep saying that,” he says, “and then you keep doing exactly what I tell you.” You answer by biting his shoulder. He laughs, short and breathless.
He pushes you back to the table anyway, rougher now, turning you, bending you forward until your palms hit the cool surface. Your heart rabbit-kicks against your ribs. He pauses. You feel his hand splay over your lower back, steady and warm, holding you in place without holding you down. “Last chance to tap out,” he says, voice wrecked. “Tell me if this is just anger and you’ll hate me for it tomorrow.” You look back over your shoulder, hair wild around your face, lips swollen, eyes blazing.
You’ve never wanted anything as much as you want him in this exact, terrible, perfect moment. “I already hate you,” you say, breath shaking. “Do something about it.” Something breaks in his demeanour. He bends over you, his chest warm at your back, his cock hard against your ass cheeks, breath ghosting over your ear as his hand slides from your spine down, around your hip. His fingers slip between your thighs, knuckles brushing your sensitive, aching core he’s already worked up. You jolt, a broken sound catching in your throat. “God—” He groans quietly, like the confirmation hurts him.
“You’re shaking,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Look at you.”
He starts to touch you there, fast and deliberate, drawing tight little circles on your clit that make your legs shake. It’s too much and not enough, heat building in dizzying waves. “Wonwoo,” you gasp, fingers clawing at the edge of the table. “I— I’m ready, just— please, I need—”
You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to. He stills instantly. “Yeah?” he asks, voice wrecked, checking one last time. “You sure?” You nod frantically, words tumbling. “Stop teasing,” you snap, desperate. “Now.”
He swears under his breath, the sound rough and reverent all at once. Then he presses forward, fitting his hard cock against your entrance in one slow, inexorable push that knocks the air from your lungs. The stretch, the pressure, the sheer presence of him hits you like a shockwave. You choke on a strangled moan, fingers white-knuckled on the table. He exhales a ragged curse.
For a second, he just holds there, buried deep inside your cunt, both of you shaking. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—” He cuts himself off with a shaky laugh. “Of course you do. Of course you’re like this.”
You rock back on instinct, testing him. He gets the hint. The first thrusts inside you are measured, like he’s making himself count. Each snap of his hips drives you forward, your palms sliding on the smooth surface, the bite of the table’s edge at your thighs grounding you even as everything else spins. He’s not gentle. You didn’t ask him to be. He’s not careless, either.
Every time your breath stutters wrong, he eases up. Every time your fingers claw at the table like you’re slipping, he steadies you—one hand banded tight around your hip, guiding you back to meet him; the other roaming, finding your ribs, your stomach, the base of your throat, touch firm and anchoring. You push right back, refusing to just take what he gives you. You meet every thrust with your own, gasping curses into the tabletop, chasing your own pleasure as fiercely as he drives you toward it.
The room fills with it: the obscene slap of your bodies meeting, the creak of the table, the scrape of a chair knocked sideways, your broken little sounds spilling out despite your best effort to stay quiet, his low, filthy praise in your ear. “Look at you,” he grits out at one point when you turn your head enough to catch his eye over your shoulder. “Still arguing with me even when you’re about to fall apart.”
“Shut up,” you gasp, words punched out of you. He laughs, breathless, sweat-dark hair falling into his eyes. “Make me,” he says.
You try. You shove back harder, changing the angle, dragging a ragged groan out of him that sounds suspiciously like surrender. He adjusts his grip, and suddenly his hand is fisting in your hair again, not cruel, but firm enough to tip your head back. He uses the hold to pull you upright, peeling you off the table until your spine is flush to his chest, his mouth at your ear. The new angle punches a startled cry out of you. He swallows it with a groan, hips jolting. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, voice shredded. “Take it. You’re doing so fucking well for me.”
The hand in your hair loosens, slides down, wraps back around your throat—fingers spread, thumb under your jaw, holding you there. Not choking, just owning, a perfect, unbearable collar. You whine, the sound high and broken. He feels it vibrate under his palm and shudders. “Okay?” he manages again, even now. You nod, too far gone to be anything but honest. “Harder,” you whisper. “Please.” You feel, more than hear, the way he swears at that, the way his control frays.
His free hand drags back down, over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, until he finds your clit again, fingers slipping down to work in ruthless counterpoint to his thrusts. You almost come right then. The pleasure spikes so sharply you have to grab his wrist, nails digging into his skin to keep yourself tethered. Your moans get louder, spilling out of you unchecked, echoing embarrassingly off the glass walls. Panic and arousal tangle. Without thinking, you grab his wrist where it’s banded around your throat and drag his hand upward, pressing his palm over your own mouth.
It muffles the next broken sound that tears out of you. It also gives you something to bite. You clamp down when the first wave of your orgasm hits—teeth sinking into the heel of his hand as your body seizes, vision sparking white at the edges. He groans, the noise punched out of him, hips stuttering. The combination—the way your walls clamp around him, the way your teeth mark his skin, the way you tremble against his chest—is what finally yanks him over the edge with you. He spills into you with a hoarse curse against your shoulder, thrusts stuttering, both of you shaking through it, riding out the aftershocks tangled together—your mouth still pressed to his palm, his chest a rough, solid drum against your back.
For a while, there’s nothing but the ringing in your ears, the burn in your lungs, and the heavy, shuddering weight of him braced around you as the storm you both started finally, finally breaks.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus. Your hands hurt from how hard you’ve been gripping the edge of the table. Your knees feel unreliable. Your clothes are a mess. You become acutely aware of exactly where you are: Titan Forge conference room, table still scattered with notes and printouts. Security cameras might be off at this hour. You don’t know and don’t particularly want to know.
Wonwoo eases back, gentle now, hands suddenly careful like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he moves too fast. He helps you straighten, fingers automatically reaching to adjust your shirt, pull up your pants, smooth your hair, thumb barely brushing the marks he left on your throat. You flinch away from the touch like it burns. His hands fall. “Pixie,” he says softly.
You shake your head, staring at the table, at your phone lying there with that text still on the lock screen. Your body is humming, boneless, satisfied in a way that makes your brain want to crawl out of itself.
Your heart is a wreck. “Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “I can’t— I don’t know what any of this is, okay? I don’t know how to be around you when you’re… all of that at once.”
He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Then let’s figure it out,” he says. “Talk to me. Yell at me. Ask me anything. Just… don’t walk away without giving me a chance to be honest with you, for once.”
You want to. Some part of you wants to curl up on this stupid table, let him confess every stupid feeling, let yourself admit your own. The rest of you is too raw, too exposed, nerves stripped bare. If you stay, you’re going to say something you can’t take back. You scoop up your phone with shaking fingers and shove it into your pocket. You don’t look at Kade’s apology again. You don’t look at Wonwoo.
“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper. You grab your bag from the chair, sling it over your shoulder, and head for the door. He doesn’t try to stop you. He just stands there, chest heaving, watching you go with something like devastation in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly, just before you cross the threshold. “In either place.”
You don’t answer. You leave him in the conference room—hair mussed, hoodie askew, notes scattered, the ghost of you still on his skin—while you walk out into the empty hallway, legs unsteady, mouth still tasting like him and your heart a tangle of love and fury you’re not ready to name.
The elevator doors slide shut in front of you. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t look.
You last exactly three minutes in front of your bathroom mirror before you decide to quit.
The first thirty seconds are just an assessment. Your eyes are ringed with exhaustion. There are faint bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in; a scatter of marks along your throat that your collar can almost hide. Your lipstick from last night is long gone, but your mouth still looks swollen, like your body remembers what it was doing on that conference table.
Your brain insists on replaying it in high definition: Wonwoo’s hand in your hair. Kade’s voice in your ear. The same man, the same mouth, the same hands. Your rival. Your crush. Your online almost-boyfriend. All stacked into one very real, very complicated person.
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until little sparks dance. This was supposed to be simple. Titan Forge was supposed to be simple: win the contract or don’t. Get the credit or move on. Instead, you’ve acquired:
One crushed childhood dream brand
One emotional disaster of a dual-identity situationship
One very vivid mental catalogue of Jeon Wonwoo’s dick
You stare yourself down in the mirror. “Fuck my career,” you tell your reflection. You mean it. You’re not doing this. You’re not going to chain yourself to a project where the director pits you against your partner, and your partner is also the person who knows exactly how you sound when you come apart for him. You’re going to go in, tell David he can keep his title, and walk. You throw on the first halfway-clean shirt that doesn’t show your throat, yank your hair up, and head out.
By the time you swipe into Titan Forge, your resolve is layered over with a thin film of nausea. The lobby is its usual sleek, intimidating self. The Mythfall: Eclipse key art looms on the big screen—your god, your pantheon, your systems and story, all rendered in glossy concept art that now makes your stomach twist. You ride the elevator up alone, rehearsing lines. “I’m withdrawing from consideration.”/ “I’m grateful for the opportunity, but this isn’t the right fit.”/ “No, I don’t want your NDA-locked ‘consultancy’ crumbs, thanks.” The doors slide open onto your floor.
Before you can head for the war room, your phone buzzes with a calendar notification. Mandatory check-in – 15 min. Of fucking course. You sigh, stuff the phone back into your pocket, and change course for the big conference room. If nothing else, you can quit with an audience.
Everyone’s already there when you arrive. David stands at the head of the table, tie loosened, hands clasped like a man who’s about to deliver Very Important News™. Raj sits halfway down, arms folded, expression wary. Jisoo has a notebook open, pen twirling in her fingers. Kaito’s tablet is on the table in front of him, screen dark for once. Wonwoo is at the far end, one elbow on the table, fingers pressed to his mouth. His eyes flick up when you walk in. For one suspended second, everything that happened last night flashes between you like a glitch—his hands on your hips, your teeth in his palm, the way you’d both been shaking after. The way you’d walked out anyway.He looks wrecked and put-together at the same time: freshly washed hair, clean hoodie, bruised half-moons under his eyes. You take the empty chair at the other end of the table. You don’t look at him again.
David clears his throat. “Thanks for coming in early,” he says. “I’ll keep this brief. I know you’ve both been burning hard.” You fold your hands in your lap to stop them from balling into fists. This is it, you think. You open your mouth. He beats you to it.
“First,” David says, “I want to thank you both for your incredible contributions over the past weeks. What you’ve built for Mythfall: Eclipse is—genuinely—some of the strongest design work I’ve seen at this studio in years.” Your heart doesn’t even have the decency to flutter at the compliment. It just waits.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, and there it is, “due to some… unexpected shifts in budget and restructuring at the executive level, we’re not going to be hiring an external lead for this title after all.” For a moment, you’re sure you misheard him. The words land, rearrange themselves, refuse to make sense. He keeps talking. “The board has decided we’ll be internalising direction for Mythfall,” he says. “We’ll fold the frameworks you’ve both developed into our existing leadership structure.” Internalising. What the fuck?
“That doesn’t mean your work isn’t valued,” David adds quickly. “Far from it. We’ll absolutely be discussing consultancy fees, maybe ongoing advisory roles as things progress. Your names will be in the ‘Special Thanks’ without question.”
Special Thanks. You hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Five trials. Weeks of unpaid crunch. Your systems. Your narrative. Your fights. Your god. No lead role. No credit that actually matters. Just a vague promise of “maybe” money and a scroll at the end of the credits where your names get a half-second of blur. You realise, very calmly, that he never planned to hire either of you. The trials weren’t auditions. They were an extraction.
You feel your chair scrape back before you realise you’ve pushed it. “So that’s it?” you ask, your voice eerily steady. “We put everything on the table for you and you just… internalise it?”
David’s smile tightens. “I understand this is disappointing,” he says. “But this is the reality of triple-A right now. We have to make hard calls. You’ll still have the prestige of having shaped a Titan Forge flagship title.”
“Without a title,” you say. He shrugs, palms up. “Titles are fluid,” he says. “Impact is what counts.” Your vision goes a little white around the edges.
Maybe this is where you flip the table. Maybe this is where you walk out without another word. You’re right on the verge of one or both when Wonwoo speaks. His chair doesn’t scrape. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just says, very calmly, “No, you won’t.” Every head turns. David blinks. “Excuse me?”
Wonwoo straightens, rolling his shoulders back, and for the first time since you met him, he looks like he’s stepped fully into a role that fits: not the aloof rival, not the bored genius, but someone who knows exactly what he has and exactly what he’s willing to do to protect it. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a thin folder, a sheaf of stapled printouts, and his phone. “I had a bad feeling about this,” he says, flipping the folder open. “So during Trial Three, I filed provisional patents on the co-op systems we built, and registered copyright for the narrative framework and key beats.” He slides one of the pages down the table toward David. Your name is on it. So is his.
You blink. “You what?” He doesn’t look at you yet. “Under both our names,” he says, still watching David. “As joint creators. As independent contractors, not employees. The NDA you had us sign is for evaluation, not work-for-hire.” David’s expression curdles. “That IP was developed on our premises, using our tools,” he says. “With our staff overseeing. It belongs to Titan Forge.”
Kaito shifts in his chair. “Not automatically,” he says mildly. “Not without a specific assignment clause, which isn’t in the documents you had Legal send them.” David throws him a look. “Kaito—”
“I read what I sign,” Kaito replies. “And what I ask others to sign.”
Wonwoo taps his phone, bringing up an email thread. You can see the subject line from here: Re: Provisional Filing – Cooperative Risk/Reward Narrative Loop. He angles the screen toward David.
“My lawyer timestamped the submissions and acknowledgements,” he says. “We filed on the underlying mechanics and the specific expression of the narrative—two-player punished/rewarded dynamic, pantheon collapse beats, branching co-op romance structure, the whole package.”
He finally glances your way. There’s apology in his eyes, but also something like pride. “Titan Forge can’t legally ship this game as pitched without us,” he says. “Not without paying through the nose and crediting us as co-creators.”
The floor tilts under your feet. You grab the back of your chair, knuckles whitening, brain scrambling to catch up. He did this. Quietly. During Trial Three. When you were still trying not to kill each other over cutscenes and boss patterns. And he put your name on everything.
You turn to David. Your anger sharpens into something clean. “You used us,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake this time. “You dangled a title every developer in the city would kill for, made us jump through hoops, pitted us against each other, and you never intended to hire either of us.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not—”
“You thought we’d be grateful for scraps,” you cut in. “For ‘Special Thanks’ and ‘maybe some consultancy fees’ while you shipped our work under someone else’s name.” You take a breath that feels like stepping off a ledge. “We’re not.”
A beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, Raj speaks up. He leans forward, forearms on the table, gaze fixed on David. “I signed on for a tough evaluation,” he says. “Not for exploiting candidates’ work and cutting them out of leadership entirely. If we ship their design without them, I’m not putting my name on it.”
Jisoo’s pen, which has been motionless for the last few minutes, starts to move again. “And I’m not rewriting their story to make it just different enough to dodge the legal filings,” she says calmly. “You’d feel every compromise. The players would too.”
Kaito sighs, rubbing his temples. “We can’t afford this,” he says quietly. “If they walk and this goes public, the narrative becomes ‘Titan Forge runs unpaid lead design gauntlets and steals pitches.’ That’s a PR nightmare. Especially with the way hiring practices are under a microscope right now.” David looks between the three of them like he’s suddenly found himself outnumbered on a board he thought he controlled. “Nobody is talking about stealing,” he says, too quickly. “We were always going to compensate them—”
“With what, exactly?” you ask. “Because all I’ve heard is ‘maybe’ fees and ‘special thanks.’ No title. No real ownership. Just enough to shut us up.”
Wonwoo’s voice is quiet, but it carries. “If Titan Forge wants Mythfall: Eclipse as it exists now,” he says, “we talk proper contracts. Co-lead or co-director credits. Ownership percentages. Real money. Otherwise, we take our ideas somewhere else, and we call it something else.”
David snorts. “Good luck getting this scope off the ground without our resources,” he says. “You’ll be pitching for years.”
“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not. But here’s the thing, David: we’d rather spend years pitching than hand you the keys to something you don’t respect enough to pay for.” You meet his gaze, steady.
“And if we do go somewhere else, we’ll have a hell of a story to tell about how this process went. About five ‘trials’ that were really free labour. I’m sure a few outlets would be very interested.” His face goes chalk-white, then mottled. “Are you threatening me?” he asks.
“We’re outlining consequences,” Wonwoo says before you can answer. “Which is what good designers do.” Silence stretches.
David looks at each of you. He sees no allies. Just a narrative lead, a combat lead, and a producer who don’t want their names on a theft; two designers who own the skeleton of the game he wants; and a potential scandal breathing down his neck. The fight goes out of his shoulders all at once. He exhales, long and disgusted. “Fine,” he grinds out. “We’ll revisit the roadmap internally. Shelve this version for now.” He flicks a tight look at you and Wonwoo. “Legal will be in touch about formalising whatever we used,” he adds. “If we use it.”
You know what that means. They’re not going to ship your blueprint. Not like this. They might try to rebuild something from scratch later, but it won’t be your pantheon, your punished-and-rewarded co-op dynamic, your particular mix of systems and story. They can’t, not without you. Good. “We’ll look forward to hearing from them,” Wonwoo says, polite and icy.
The meeting dissolves in slow motion. Raj gives you both a short, respectful nod on his way out. Jisoo squeezes your shoulder as she passes, eyes soft. Kaito mutters something about “coffee and a long talk later” and follows David out, tablet already in his hand, damage control mode engaged. Then it’s just you and Wonwoo and the ghost of a game that doesn’t belong to Titan Forge anymore. You stare at the empty doorway. You feel hollow. Furious. Relieved. Terrified. Weirdly, also free.
You’re ready to walk. You head for the door. He falls into step beside you without asking. The lobby is quieter on the way out than it was coming in. No one stops you. No one knows yet that a whole possible future just imploded on the top floor. You swipe your badge one last time. The reader beeps green. The turnstile clicks. You step through. So does he.
Outside, the city air is cool, cutting through the leftover heat in your skin. People move past on the sidewalk, oblivious. Cars hiss by on wet asphalt. The Titan Forge logo glows above you, massive and smug. You stare up at it. Then you flip it off. Wonwoo huffs out a laugh beside you.
“That’s mature,” he says. You lower your hand. “Thanks,” you say. “I work with what I’ve got.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just you and him, side by side on the pavement, not as candidate and rival, not as winner and loser, but as two people who just told one of the biggest studios in the industry to choke. Your pulse hasn’t quite settled. Your brain hasn’t picked a lane on him yet. He shifts his weight.
“So,” he says quietly. “Do you hate me?”
You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I tried to,” you admit. “Really hard. For a long time.” You meet his eyes. “It’s not… working out.”
Something in his expression loosens. The corner of his mouth lifts, small and disbelieving. “Good,” he says. “Because I don’t think I can do this solo mode thing anymore.” You snort. “You’re not exactly built for it,” you say. “Mr. ‘let me tune the whole fight around my co-op partner.’”
He shrugs, a little helpless. “You’re not exactly built for it either,” he says. “Ms. ‘I accidentally wrote a love story into every mechanic.’” You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. “What do you want?” you ask, before you can overthink it. “With… all of this. The game. Us. Whatever we are.” He looks at you like he’s cataloguing every possible answer, then discarding all but the most honest one.
“I want to build something with you,” he says. “That nobody else gets to claim. Not a company, not a director, not some faceless board.” His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. His voice goes quieter. “And I want to see where this goes,” he adds. “All of it. If you’ll let me.”
You think about all the versions of him you’ve known: the dismissive rival at cons; the bored genius in black hoodies; the stranger in a fantasy forest who told you where to stand and who to stab; the man who just stood up to his own dream job for you. You think about yourself, too, and how you’ve felt more seen in the last few weeks—by him as Kade, by him as Wonwoo—than you have in years.
“Professionally,” you say slowly, “we already have a game. We just can’t call it Mythfall: Eclipse.” He nods. “Different pantheon,” he says. “Numbers filed off. Better anyway.”
“Indie scale,” you add. “Smaller scope. Tighter focus. No trials where people try to steal it.” His mouth twitches. “Co-op studio,” he says. “Just us. Maybe a few other masochists.” The thought scares you. It also lights you up in a way Titan Forge never quite managed to, even at its brightest. You take a breath.
“Romantically,” you say, and the word feels huge in your mouth, “we’re a mess.” He winces, accepting it. “Accurate,” he says.
“You lied by omission,” you go on. “You hid behind an alt. You let me say things to you as Kade I never would’ve said to you as Wonwoo.” He nods, jaw tight. “I know,” he says. “And I’ll spend as long as it takes proving I can be the same person in both places.”
“You… also backed me in every meeting you didn’t have to,” you say quietly. “You filed IP under my name without telling me because you wanted to protect my work. You sat on calls with me at stupid o’clock and told me I wasn’t crazy when I felt like I was.” His eyes go soft, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to list his good points out loud.
“You make me better at what I do,” you say. “You piss me off. You challenge me. You make me feel… big. Not small. I haven’t had that in a while.” His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale. “So,” you finish, heart hammering, “no, I don’t hate you. I just need you to be honest. No more masks. No more secret alts.” He nods immediately. “Deal,” he says. “Full co-op mode. No splitscreen bullshit.” You snort, a startled laugh bursting out of you. “You’re such a nerd,” you say.
“You knew that already,” he replies.
You stand there, facing each other in the shadow of the building that just rejected you and tried to rob you, and realise that for the first time since this whole thing started, you’re not waiting for someone else’s verdict.
You get to decide. “So,” you say, voice lighter now, “are you going to kiss me like my rival or my raid lead?” His grin flashes, small but real. “Both,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”
You don’t say yes. You step into him instead, fisting your hand in the front of his hoodie and tugging him down. He meets you halfway.
The kiss is nothing like the one in the conference room. It’s slower. Softer. Still a little messy—your noses bump, you both smile into it—but there’s no desperation in it this time. Just warmth, and the dizzying feeling of your two lives finally, properly slotting together. Rival and partner. Kade and Wonwoo. Nyx and you.
When you break apart, you’re breathing a little harder, but the world hasn’t tilted off its axis. It’s just bigger. More possible. He rests his forehead against yours. “We really did just tell Titan Forge to fuck off,” he murmurs.
“We did,” you say. “And we still have a game.”
“And a name,” he adds. “For the studio.” You pull back, brow arching. “Oh?”
“Co-Op Mode,” he says. “Seems on the nose.” You roll your eyes, but your smile is helpless. “We’ll workshop it,” you say. “We will,” he agrees. “Together.” You lace your fingers through his, turn your back on the giant Titan Forge logo, and start walking.
You might have lost the contract. But as you step into the future with him—equal, chosen, finally on the same side—you have a strong suspicion this is the biggest win of your career.
A/N: Thanks to 76% of the 130 votes on my last poll, I present you my latest fic. I was inspired after finishing Ali Hazelwood's 'Two Can Play' and thought this would be an easy write. Joke's on me because I had to restart it three times. Oh well, hope you like this version. 💟
Taglist: @igetcarriedawaywithyou - @amazinggraxia
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
Being a grad student swarmed with work constantly, it isn’t easy to make time to get yourself out of the house, unless it is your life and your best friend Vernon, makes sure to drag you out of the house for what he calls, “Vernon time”. When Vernon drags you to a hardcore show unknowingly, your eyes get caught on a long black haired guitarist who looks as if he has no part in a hardcore band. Going to this show was either going to be the best or worst mistake of your life.
WC:10.6k
TAGS: oblivious to love, oblivious to feelings, friends(?) to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love, slight unrequited love but it gets resolved, happy ending, a tiny small love triangle, jeonghan is in a hardcore band, jeonghan has beautiful long black hair, jeonghan is basically in love with the reader from the moment he laid eyes on her.
WARNINGS/THINGS TO MAKE NOTE OF!: No smut! Smoking, cursing, heavy making out, jeonghan kinda being sassy and angsty, i think thats it(?!)
A/N: when i first thought of this idea i literally was so excited to write it! Thank you for all of the love on my other two works, it literally means so much to me and im sooooooo happy everyone is loving them!!! I really hope u love this one, i love my jeonghan. I cannot wait for his discharge and until then, i hope this story helps all you jeonghan girlies hold out throughout the final stretch, you got this he's almost back!!!!!
“Can you turn your fucking music down, please? I can hear it through my earbuds.” You beg, turning around looking over your shoulder towards the boy sprawled on your couch scribbling something in a notebook, blasting music out of his phone.
He looks up from his notebook, tucks his pen behind his ear and gives you a puppy-like pout. “But you love my music tasteeeee!” He complains drawing out the last word of his sentence.
“Vernon, I think I would seriously, rather drop out of school than listen to your music on my own will.”
He sticks his tongue out at you. You flip him off with a small, amused smile before turning back to the kitchen table, slipping your earbuds in again. Not even ten seconds pass before you hear your name faintly over the music.
“What.” You snap back around tugging one wired earbud out.
“Please come with me to a show tonight,” Vernon says, sitting up now, his grin wide and hopeful. “It’s literally a few blocks from here.”
You hesitate.
Grad school has been eating you alive—papers, research, deadlines stacked on top of each other until you can barely think straight. You haven’t left your apartment for anything other than class and coffee runs in weeks.
Vernon, unfortunately, has noticed.
For the past month, he’s been trying to drag you out to local shows with him. He calls it “Vernon time,” like it’s some kind of scheduled, mandatory event you keep skipping out on.
You met him freshman year in your Music in Literature class. One random group assignment turned into shared notes, then late-night study sessions, then… came the inseparable dynamic duo that you are now. Years later, he’s still planted firmly in your life—loud, insistent, and impossible to ignore.
And obsessed with making you listen to music.
Every song he’s ever loved, every artist he’s ever cared about, every obscure live performance he swears will “change your life”—you’ve heard about all of it. That’s just how it works between you. He talks, you listen, and you would never want it any other way.
Even now, technically living in separate apartments doesn’t mean much. Vernon has his own key to yours, lets himself in whenever he wants, and somehow always ends up exactly where you are.
After graduation, he almost immediately landed a job at a major New York music magazine—reporting, photographing, interviewing. A dream job for him, really. You’ve never seen him so happy.
Which is exactly why he keeps trying to pull you into his world.
And exactly why you keep saying no, especially to things like this. Grad school was way more important than late night local bar shows.
You narrow your eyes at him, already half-turning back to your laptop. “And what, exactly, do I get out of this?”
Vernon doesn’t even hesitate. “Enrichment… and… Vernon time…”
You stare at him.
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay, rude,” he scoffs. A pause. “You get culture! Character development! Meet new people! A break from whatever academic fucking world you’ve been voluntarily subjecting yourself to for the past—” he glances around, squinting, “—month?”
“Three weeks,” you correct flatly.
“Don’t care. You need to get out.”
“I have a paper due.”
“And you will write it,” he says easily. “Just not tonight.”
“Yes, tonight. Because unlike you, I don’t get paid to stand around and listen to music.”
He gasps. “First of all, I do not just stand around. I help contribute to the music scene in the greater Manhattan area!”
“You take pictures of people with guitars.”
“Artists,” he corrects, offended.
“Be so fucking serious, Vernon.”
“I am serious,” he insists, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m also serious about you needing to leave this apartment.”
You huff, crossing your arms, but you don’t turn back to your laptop this time.
He notices.
His voice softens—just a little. It’s sweet. “It’s two hours. You can stand there, judge everyone silently, and then we’ll leave. I’ll even buy you food after.”
“That’s bribery.”
“That’s friendship.”
“That’s stupid.”
“That my friend, is Vernon time.” he smiles big.
“It’s not even a big thing,” he adds, nudging. “It’s close. Low commitment. If you hate it, we leave. No complaints. I’ll personally walk you back, tuck you in, and let you ignore me for another week.”
“…You already don’t listen when I ignore you.”
“Okay, fair,” he admits. “But I’ll try harder.”
There’s a pause.
“You are fucking relentless.” You sigh, long and dramatic, dragging a hand down your face. “I’ll go, but we’re not staying long.”
His entire face lights up instantly. “Deal.”
You grab your purse from the table, ready to leave the house in exactly what you are wearing now. Baggy jeans, a white tank top and oversized zip up zipped half way.
“…This is a terrible idea,” you mumble.
Vernon grins, already on his feet, camera bag in hand. “Vernon time has historically only been fantastic.”
“For you.” You say patting his back patronizingly as he walks towards the door.
A six block walk doesn’t sound like much—until you actually walk it after weeks of being cooped up.
The air is cooler than your apartment, the city louder in a different way. Cars passing, distant chatter, the hum of people existing outside of deadlines and word counts. It feels… strange, but maybe it has just been a while since you experienced the city you live in.
You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “This better be worth it.”
Vernon huffs out a quiet laugh. “Wow. Your faith in me is overwhelming.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” he says, nudging your arm lightly. “That’s what makes it funny.”
When you finally reach the place, you nearly walk right past it, as Vernon grabs your arm to make sure you don’t do just that.
It’s tucked between two buildings, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. A dim, flickering light hangs above a narrow entrance that leads down a set of concrete stairs.
Right beside it, there’s a cramped alley—graffiti lining the brick walls, a couple of people smoking weed, talking loudly over the faint thrum of bass that seeps out from underground.
“…This is it?”
Vernon nods a little too quickly. “Yep. Kind of hidden, but that’s part of the charm.” He smiles positively.
The deeper you go down the stairs, the louder it gets. The bass vibrates through the walls, through your feet, through your chest.
And the second Vernon pushes through the door—
It hits you.
Sound crashes over you all at once—loud, aggressive, overwhelming. Guitars screech, drums pound, and the vocals are less singing and more raw, guttural shouting.
The room is packed. Bodies moving, thrashing all over each other.
“…Vernon did you take me to a fucking hardcore show?!” You yell at him over the blaring music.
He just looks at you—
And smiles.
Nervously.
You should’ve known.
You had gotten used to this side of him—the late nights, the endless “just watch this one set,” the way he’d dragged you into watching that ridiculously laggy Lollapalooza Argentina livestream just to make you watch Turnstile at one in the morning.
You had complained the entire time.
What Vernon doesn’t know—what he will absolutely never know—is that after that night, you downloaded Never Enough and ended up playing it on loop during study sessions more times than you’d ever admit.
Your glare softens just a fraction, just enough for him to notice.
“…If I get hit—”
“You won’t.”
“I’m blaming you.”
“Fair.”
The current song comes to a sudden, crashing end—one last scream into the mic, one final slam of drums.
You blink, slightly disoriented.
“…Is it over?”
“Set change,” Vernon says, already pulling his camera out from his bag, fingers moving quickly and automatically as he adjusts the settings. “That was the opener.”
“That was the opener?” you repeat, incredulous.
He just grins.
You barely have time to process it before movement starts again on stage. A new group pushes through—four guys, setting up quickly like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
The drummer hops behind the kit, spinning a stick in his hand with way too much enthusiasm. The bassist adjusts his strap, expression calm and focused. Off to the side, the guitarist casually plugs in, long black hair falling into his face as he shakes it back.
Your eyes linger for half a second.
Sharp features, effortless in that way that looks like he didn’t even try, he just exists like that. The long black hair doesn’t help whatsoever.
You blink, looking away almost immediately.
Not your problem.
The vocalist steps up to the mic, grabbing it with a grin that feels just a little unhinged.
“WHAT’S UP,” he shouts, voice already rough, already loud enough to cut through the room. “We’re Shovel Fight Club!”
You turn your head slowly toward Vernon.
“…You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was,” he says, way too amused.
On stage, the vocalist continues like that is a completely normal thing to say.
“We’ve got one song for you—so if you’re gonna lose your mind, do it now!”
The crowd immediately surges forward again.
“Of course they only have one song,” you mutter.
“They’re new,” Vernon shrugs, lifting his camera and snapping a few quick shots. “This is who I’m here for.”
You glance at him. “You came here… for Shovel Fight Club?”
“For the article,” he corrects, already moving slightly to the side to get a better angle. “Review, photos, maybe an interview if they don’t run off immediately after.”
Before you can respond, the band launches into their song.
It’s loud. Fast. Completely unhinged.
The vocalist—Soonyoung, apparently—throws himself across the stage like he’s got something to prove. The drummer, Seokmin, is somehow even more intense, hitting like his life depends on it. The bassist, Jihoon, stays more grounded, but there’s a focus to him that stands out.
And then there’s—
Your gaze flicks back, just briefly.
The guitarist.
Jeonghan, if you heard that right.
There’s something effortless about him, fingers moving easily over the strings, long dark hair falling into his face before he pushes it back again. He’s calmer than his friends on stage, quieter.
You cross your arms, shifting your weight as the music crashes around you again, still loud, still overwhelming—but this time, just a little more familiar.
Beside you, Vernon lowers his camera for a second, glancing over.
“Well?” he asks, a hint of a grin on his face. “Still hate it?”
You hesitate.
“…I didn’t say that.”
His grin widens.
The song doesn’t really end so much as it collapses into itself.
Soonyoung is still bouncing in place at the front of the stage, grabbing the mic again even though the one song set is clearly over. Seokmin throws a drumstick into the crowd. Jihoon just wipes his face, looking mildly exhausted, like he’s already over it but also kind of satisfied. Jeonghan takes a second, scanning the room with a calmness that feels almost unfair compared to everything else happening.
Vernon is already half turned away, pulling his camera strap over his shoulder. “Yeah, I need to go grab them before they disappear.”
“Wait—what?”
“For the interview,” he says, like it’s obvious, already backing away. “Don’t move. I’ll be like ten minutes.”
You push through the crowd carefully, weaving toward the edge of the room until you find a door marked EXIT half-hidden behind a pillar.
You slip outside.
The difference is immediate.
The city sounds come back softly—distant traffic, a couple of faint car horns, the hum of streetlights overhead. The wind is cool against your face, cutting through the noise still buzzing in your ears.
You exhale slowly.
Better.
You lean against the building for a moment, rolling your shoulders back, trying to reset your brain after whatever you just witnessed inside.
Then—
click.
A lighter.
Small, sharp in the quiet.
You pause.
Another flick. Then a pause. Then the soft glow of flame catching briefly before disappearing again.
Curiosity pulls you before you can think better of it.
You follow the sound, turning the corner into the narrow alley beside the bar.
It’s dimmer here, the light from the street barely reaching between the brick walls.
And there, leaning casually against the wall like nothing could ever bother him—
Jeonghan.
Long black hair falling loosely around his face, one hand cupping a lighter as he finally gets the cigarette lit. The flame briefly illuminates his skin before he flicks it shut, exhaling like he’s done this a thousand times without thinking.
You stop.
For a second, neither of you move.
He notices you anyway.
Of course he does.
His eyes lift slowly, calm and unreadable at first—then flicker with faint curiosity as they settle on you.
“…Want a hit?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.
You blink, caught off guard.
“I—no. I actually just needed air.”
A pause.
He takes a drag, looking at you properly now, like he’s deciding whether you’re lost, or just unfortunate enough to be outside at the same time as him.
Then, slightly amused:
“Fair.” Jeonghan shrugs
He is still, eyes scanning you.
“…Is it always that chaotic in there?” you ask, nodding vaguely toward the bar behind you.
Jeonghan lets out a quiet hum, taking another slow drag before answering. “Depends on the band.”
“That felt less like a band and more like a ‘we finally got this out of the group chat’ type thing.”
That gets a real reaction out of him—something like a short laugh, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be funny.
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling smoke to the side. “That’s… not inaccurate.”
Jeonghan shifts his weight against the brick wall, cigarette held loosely between his fingers. “So why are you out here instead of in there getting thrown into strangers?”
“I was temporarily escaping being thrown into strangers.”
“Reasonable.”
You lean back against the opposite wall now, giving yourself a little more space. “My friend abandoned me— to find your band actually.”
“The interviewer? Well he definitely found Soonyoung. That boy loves an interview. I am just lucky to have missed it, so I can now spend my time meeting someone new… and very charming may I add.” He doesn’t break eye contact with you.
You feel your face flush a red, though you doubt he will see it due to the dim lighting of this alley.
The last time someone was that forward with you was in high school when you got asked out for the first time. You politely declined because you didn’t want a “distraction from school”. Clearly, nothing has changed for you have never been on a date nor ever even spoken to people romantically ever.
You stay leaned against the opposite wall, arms loosely crossed, pretending the brick texture is suddenly fascinating enough to stare at.
Jeonghan doesn’t comment on your pause right away.
He just watches you for a second too long—like he’s noticed the shift, but isn’t interested in calling it out.
Then, as if nothing happened at all, he tilts his head slightly.
You exhale through your nose. “You’re weirdly confident for someone I just met in an alley.”
“I said what I saw.”
“That’s not how seeing works.”
“It is for me.”
That gets you—just a little. A reluctant huff of air that almost turns into a laugh.
Jeonghan notices immediately, of course.
His eyes flicker like he’s clocking every detail without trying.
“So,” he says, easing back into the wall again, “you always get flustered when strangers talk to you, or am I special?”
Shit, he can tell I'm blushing.
“I’m not flustered.”
“You looked flustered.”
You finally turn your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Are you always this annoying to people you don’t know?”
He is silent, taking advantage of the cloud of already formed tension above you two.
“So,” he repeats, softer this time but still curious, “what’s your name?” He takes a long drag from his withering cigarette.
You hesitate.
You study him for a second.
He looks interested.
“…Why?” you ask cautiously.
“Because it’s easier to talk to someone when you can call them something other than ‘random person in the alley,’” he says simply.
“That’s fair,” you admit reluctantly.
You give in with a small sigh. “It’s y/n.”
He repeats it once under his breath, like he’s checking how it sounds.
Then he nods. “Okay, y/n.”
Something about the way he says it makes your stomach do a small, annoying flip that you immediately ignore.
You clear your throat. “And you’re Jeonghan. I heard Soonyoung yelling it like five times.”
“I prefer when he’s quieter,” he says.
“Interesting claim from someone in a hardcore band with him.” You cross your arms looking him dead in the eyes. You want to know more about him.
Another pause settles between you—but it’s different now. Less unknown. More… defined.
“What do you do?” He asks curiously.
“Grad school.” You feel yourself rolling your eyes at your answer.
Jeonghan hums at your answer like he’s filing it away somewhere.
“Grad school,” he repeats. “You must be real smart.”
“I promise you, the success is not worth the stress.”
“That tracks,” Jeonghan says simply.
You huff a small laugh before he tilts his head slightly, studying you again—still curious, still unbothered.
“What kind of music do you like then, y/n?” he asks.
You blink at him.
“That feels like a loaded question.”
“It’s not.”
You hesitate.
Because the honest answer feels stupid in your head. Like it doesn’t fit you standing here in an alley, talking to someone like him.
“I don’t know,” you say carefully. “I listen to… a bit of everything.”
“That’s a fake answer,” he says immediately.
You squint at him. “Excuse me?”
“No one who listens to everything actually listens to everything.”
“That’s not—” you stop, then sigh. “Okay. Fine. I really don’t hate hardcore.”
Jeonghan’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“…You don’t hate it?” he repeats.
“I didn’t say I’m obsessed with it.”
“But you don’t hate it.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s less distance in it now.
Jeonghan shifts against the brick wall, cigarette still between his fingers, then glances at it briefly as if only now remembering it’s there.
“Sure you don’t want a hit?” he asks.
His tone is different than before. It was casual, normal. Like it’s an option you’re allowed to take or ignore without it meaning anything about you.
You glance at it.
Then at him.
“I don’t really smoke,” you say.
Jeonghan doesn’t react immediately. He just watches you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s registering more than your words.
“Yeah,” he says finally, like that checks out.
A beat passes.
The alley is quieter than it should be for how loud your brain feels.
Jeonghan doesn’t push. Doesn’t insist. Just holds it there in his hand like it’s still your choice, not a test.
That’s what makes it worse.
Because it doesn’t feel like pressure.
It feels like permission.
“…Actually,” you say before you can fully talk yourself out of it, “give me that.”
His brows lift slightly.
“Yeah?” he asks, calm.
You hesitate for half a second too long, then step closer and take it.
Your fingers brush his… and you are very aware of it.
Jeonghan’s gaze flickers down for the briefest moment—then back to your face, like he’s pretending he didn’t notice either.
You bring it to your lips.
Inhale.
It burns—sharp and immediate—but this time you don’t pull away right away. You hold it a little longer, exhale slowly, and cough into your sleeve, eyes watering slightly.
Jeonghan lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.
Not mocking.
Just… pleased.
“Told you,” he says.
You glare at him lightly. “That was still awful.”
He takes it back when you hand it over, fingers brushing yours again—slower this time, more deliberate in a way he doesn’t comment on.
But his eyes stay on you.
You notice that.
Of course you do.
“JEONGHAN.”
Both of you turn.
Soonyoung is standing at the entrance to the alley, hands on his head, looking personally offended by the universe.
“You were supposed to do the interview!” he yells. “I TOLD YOU ABOUT IT TWICE. TWICE MAN!”
Behind him, Vernon appears a second later—slower, more confused, eyes scanning the scene like he’s trying to compute it.
A smile grows instantly wide in amusement on Vernon’s face. “Holy shit, y/n I-” He laughs to himself not even finishing the sentence.
Soonyoung finally notices you properly and immediately looks even more annoyed. “Why is there a civilian in the alley with my guitarist?”
Jeonghan doesn’t move away from you.
Doesn’t look guilty either.
He just laughs to himself.
“Ignore him.” Jeonghan whispers towards your direction.
“Oh my god,” Vernon laughs to himself.
You frown. “What?”
Vernon points vaguely at you like he’s just solved a puzzle. “You’re talking to people.”
“…Yes?”
“Like,” he gestures again, more animated now, “people people. Outside. In an alley. With a cigarette. With—” he looks at Jeonghan, then back at you, “—someone who is, like, objectively attractive.”
“…I hate you.” You glare at your best friend, waving him a goodbye.
Vernon laughs as he walks back into the bar below the ground, Soonyoung casting Jeonghan a fake-angry judgemental look as he follows Vernon.
“Your friend is… intense,” you say, still scanning Jeonghan’s features.
He lets out a breath. “That’s one word for it.”
A pause.
“You know what y/n, I like you.” He nods his head, putting out the cigarette butt on the brick wall behind him. He drops the cigarette on the ground below his feet and pulls out his phone from his back pocket. “Phone number, please.” He gives a very cute yet pleased smile.
“You will be lucky if I can get away from work for a moment to even respond.” You say grabbing the phone from his hand and typing in your number.
“I’d consider myself the luckiest guy in the world.” He locks eyes with you, smiling a true, genuine smile.
You feel your cheeks heat up again.
“Keep telling yourself that.” You say, beginning to walk out of the alleyway, towards the bar.
“I’m glad you decided to come out tonight y/n.” Jeonghan speaks sincerely.
Vernon flops back harder into the couch cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s been personally wronged by the concept of journalism.
“Like… I don’t know man. Soonyoung’s answers are just like, not what you want to publish in an article… you know?” He bites on the end of his pen again, frowning at the notebook in his lap. “I don’t really know how I am going to publish these.”
You pull your blanket tighter around your shoulders, curled into the opposite end of the couch, still riding the weird aftertaste of the night.
“…How bad are we talking?” you ask.
Vernon lifts his arm just enough to look at you. “One of my questions was about their musical influences.”
“Okay.”
“He said—and I’m quoting—‘sometimes I just hear a noise in my brain and chase it.’”
You blink.
“…That’s kind of poetic.”
“That’s not helpful,” Vernon groans, dropping his arm back over his face. “What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t put that in print like that. My editor will think I made it up.”
He leans forward now, elbows on his knees, already thinking ahead. You can see it happen in real time—the shift from complaining to problem-solving.
“…They’ve got another show in a few days,” he says.
You glance at him. “And?”
“And I can redo it,” he continues. “Or—better—I can just ask the other guys everything this time.”
“That sounds ideal.”
“Right?” He points the pen at you again, more animated now. “So I go, I get actual usable material, and my article doesn’t get rejected.”
He takes a pause, now locking eyes with you.
“Come with me again.”
You immediately shake your head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I already did my one chaotic band night for the year.” You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself.
“…Also,” he adds, softer now but very intentional, “you might run into your alley friend again.”
Your grip on the blanket tightens just slightly.
“That’s not—” you start, then stop. “That’s not a reason.”
“Didn’t say it was,” he shrugs.
A pause settles.
Your brain, unhelpfully, fills in the gaps anyway—
dim light, brick walls, the flick of a lighter, the way your name sounded in his voice.
You exhale slowly.
“…I’ll think about it,” you say.
Vernon nods immediately, like he’s already won. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
Pages of notes. Articles. Highlighted readings that all start to blur together until you’re not entirely sure if you’ve read something already or just thought about reading it.
No texts from anyone but Vernon and your mom, not like you were looking for a text from someone or anything…
Vernon shows up to your apartment… more than once.
Uninvited, every time.
The first time, he brings food and complains about revisions on his reviews.
The second time, he “accidentally” stays for six hours.
The third time, he doesn’t even explain—just walks in, drops onto your couch, and starts talking like he lives there.
Each time, you pretend to be annoyed.
Each time, you get less convincing about it.
Because as much as he distracts you— It’s better than the silence.
You feel—
Restless.
Slightly unhinged, if you’re being honest.
So when the text comes in:
Vernon: Show’s tonight. You coming or what?
You don’t overthink it.
For once.
Y/n: Yeah
“Wow,” Vernon says beside you as you walk toward the venue, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “She leaves the house.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It’s a huge thing,” he says. “Documented event. I should write about this instead.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny.”
You huff, but it doesn’t stick.
Because the truth is— You needed this. So so bad.
The venue is smaller this time.
Tighter. Warmer. Less overwhelming—but louder in a way that settles into your chest instead of crashing over your head.
It feels… easier to breathe here. Just noise. Light. Energy.
And the faint, creeping awareness that— You might actually be glad you came.
You are approached by a ball of energy.
Soonyoung runs up to the two of you without warning and starts jumping up and down, so excited to see a familiar face.
“You came back! To see me?!” He turns to Vernon giving him a big hug.
Vernon is taken aback as he pats Soonyoung’s back lightly, confused by the sudden hug.
Soongyoug takes a big step back, a smile beaming across his face.
Vernon shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, already slipping back into work mode now that he’s inside. “So Soonyoung, we should probably redo that interview.”
Soonyoung blinks. “Redo?”
“Yeah,” Vernon nods. “And I’m also grabbing Jihoon this time.”
At the mention of Jihoon, Soonyoung immediately makes a face. “Why him?”
“Because,” Vernon says patiently, “he answers questions like a normal human being.”
“I answer questions!” Soonyoung protests.
“You said your main musical influence was ‘a noise in your brain,’” Vernon deadpans.
“That’s real!” Soonyoung insists, turning to you for backup. “You get it, right?”
You hesitate.
“…Conceptually.”
Vernon cuts in. “So I’m talking to you again, and then I’m talking to Jihoon so I can get at least one quote my editor won’t think is fake.”
Soonyoung crosses his arms for all of two seconds—
Then immediately drops them, already over it.
“Fine. I’ll answer them better this time. Come on, let’s do it now before I forget what I was going to say.” He gives Vernon a fake pout before immediately smiling and rushing towards Jihoon, leaving you behind.
And just like that—
You’re alone again.
Well.
Not alone.
The room hums with energy, people shifting, talking, waiting for the set to start. The lights are low, the air warmer than outside, buzzing with anticipation.
You shift your weight slightly, taking it in.
A voice cuts in beside you.
“Hey—uh, have you seen Soonyoung?”
You turn.
He’s already looking at you expectantly, slightly out of breath like he’s been making rounds. There’s an easy warmth to him—open expression, soft eyes, the kind of presence that doesn’t feel overwhelming, just… bright. You recognize him.
Not immediately by name—but by presence. The drummer. The one Vernon wouldn’t stop talking about on the walk home. Something about energy, timing, “actually carrying the set,”—you didn’t understand half of it, but you remember him.
“I was told he came this way,” he adds, glancing around before his eyes land back on you.
“Yeah,” you nod, grounding yourself. “He just got pulled into an interview.”
“Ah,” he laughs, easy and warm. “Yeah, that sounds right.”
There’s a small pause.
Then he straightens slightly, offering a smile that feels genuine without trying too hard.
“I’m Seokmin, by the way.”
You tell him your name, and something in his expression shifts—brightens, like it means something to him.
“Y/N,” he repeats, careful with it. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
You hesitate for half a second, then add, “I saw you at the last show.”
His brows lift slightly, pleasantly surprised. “Oh yeah?”
“My friend was reviewing it,” you explain. “He kept talking about the drummer on the way home.”
Seokmin blinks.
Then breaks into a grin—wide, a little bashful, but clearly pleased.
“Hopefully good things?”
“Very good things,” you say. “Something about you ‘carrying the set.’”
He lets out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s—wow. Okay. I’ll take that.”
There’s no ego in it. Just… genuine happiness.
It makes something in your chest loosen a little.
“Are you here with him again?” he asks, nodding toward the back where Soonyoung disappeared.
“Yeah,” you say. “He just got kidnapped for interview round two.”
Seokmin nods knowingly. “Yeah, Soonyoung gets excited about that stuff.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“He probably didn’t even let your friend finish a sentence.”
“He absolutely did not.”
That earns another laugh from him—easy, unforced. The conversation settles naturally after that.
He asks about your life and then proceeds to ask about Grad school. He asks about your program—not in a way that feels like small talk, but like he’s actually curious.
You answer, expecting the usual polite nods.
Instead, he listens. Fully. Asks questions that make sense. Reacts in a way that makes you feel like you’re not just filling space. And without realizing it, you start relaxing into it.
Talking more. Laughing a little.
Forgetting, briefly, to overanalyze every word coming out of your mouth.
It’s… comfortable.
“Hey,” he says, a bit softer. “This might be kind of bold.”
Your stomach flips slightly. “Oh.”
He smiles—just a little, like he knows how that sounded.
“But I think you’re really pretty,” he says, straightforward. “And I’ve been really enjoying talking to you.”
Your brain—
Fully short-circuits.
You just stare at him for a second, processing.
“…Oh,” you say again, quieter.
You can feel the heat rising to your face instantly, and this time there’s no pretending it’s not happening.
Seokmin notices—but doesn’t make a thing out of it. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t push.
Just stays steady.
“I was wondering,” he continues gently, “if you’d want to hang out sometime. Somewhere quieter. So we can actually talk without yelling over music.”
You blink.
Because no one has ever asked you that so simply before.
No guessing. No weird tension. No games.
Just—
Honest.
You think about the past week—being stuck inside, buried in notes, pacing your apartment like you were slowly losing it.
You think about how easy this conversation felt.
How light it feels right now.
And how you don’t think you want it to end.
“I—” you start, then stop, letting out a small breath.
“…Yeah,” you say, a little surprised at yourself. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Seokmin’s face lights up immediately.
Not exaggerated—just real. Bright. Happy.
“Yeah?” he asks, just to be sure.
You nod, a small smile breaking through. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s locking it in. “Cool.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I’m really glad I came looking for Soonyoung.”
You huff softly. “Me too.”
“Hey, Seokmin—”
The voice comes from just behind him.
Familiar.
You don’t even need to turn fully to know who it is—but you do anyway.
Jeonghan steps into view like he’s been there longer than he should’ve been. Calm. Collected. Like he didn’t just insert himself into the conversation with suspiciously perfect timing.
His eyes flick to Seokmin first.
Then to you.
And something shifts—just slightly—when they land. Not surprise.
Recognition.
“…Y/N,” he says, like he expected you to be here.
Your stomach does that same annoying flip again.
“Hi,” you manage.
Seokmin glances between the two of you, already picking up on something he doesn’t fully understand.
“Oh—you guys know each other?” he asks.
“A little,” Jeonghan answers before you can, tone casual. Easy. “Met outside last time.”
You nod. “Yeah. Briefly.”
“Oh,” he says. “Okay.”
Jeonghan shifts his attention back to him, like that part of the conversation is already over.
People get busy. Shows happen. Life moves fast. It’s not that deep. But then a few more days pass, and the silence stops feeling neutral and starts feeling pointed.
No text from Seokmin.
Not even a delayed “hey sorry I disappeared.”
Just… nothing.
Which would be fine, if you hadn’t said yes to hanging out. If there hadn’t been that moment—clear, simple, easy.
If Jeonghan hadn’t stepped in right after and somehow shifted everything without explaining a single thing he did.
That part sticks with you.
Not because you’re angry but because you’re confused in a way that keeps circling back on itself whenever you try to focus on anything else.
Right now, you’re in the public library, trying to study.
Keyword: trying.
Your notes are open in front of you, but your eyes keep drifting off the page. The words blur together until they don’t mean anything anymore.
You exhale sharply and push your laptop back a few inches.
“…This is ridiculous,” you mutter under your breath.
You shouldn’t care this much.
You barely know him.
And yet—
He asked you out.
Clearly.
And then just… nothing.
Your phone sits beside your notebook. You flip it over without thinking.
Stare at it.
Then your frustration wins before your logic can catch up.
You open your messages.
Y/n: did you ever tell seokmin anything
about me saying yes
to hanging out?
It feels blunt. Maybe too blunt, but you’re past carefully wording things at this point.
You hit send.
A few seconds pass.
Then your phone buzzes.
Jeonghan: no
You stare at the message.
Your chest tightens slightly—not dramatic, just that annoying sinking feeling of something clicking into place.
“…Right,” you murmur to yourself.
That explains it.
At least partially.
You lean back in your chair, looking up at the ceiling for a second before typing again.
Y/n: So he doesn’t know?
Jeonghan: no.
Of course he doesn’t know. Of course nothing moved forward. Of course it just… stopped in Jeonghan’s hands and never left them.
You decide to take matters into your own hands.
Y/n: I am not doing this over text.
Meet me at the library on Morgan Street, I’ll be here until 5.
Jeonghan: okay
You try—briefly—to go back to your notes.
It doesn’t work.
Your brain is too loud now and way too aware of everything you still don’t understand.
So you sit there.
Waiting.
Five minutes pass.
Then ten.
The library stays quiet around you—pages turning, soft footsteps, the distant hum of air conditioning—but your attention keeps snapping toward the entrance every time someone walks past your aisle.
You tell yourself you’re not impatient.
You are simply here to get answers.
Nothing more.
Then—
You see him.
Jeonghan steps into the library like he doesn’t belong in it, but also like he doesn’t care.
No stage energy. No cigarette smoke. No chaos.
Just… composed.
A little more put together than you’re used to seeing him. Hair beautiful, black and long, hitting his shoulders matching his black sweater and dark blue jeans.
His eyes scan the room once.
Then land on you.
A small smile.
He starts walking toward you without hesitation, weaving between tables quietly, like even his footsteps are aware of where he is.
He stops in front of your table.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You look up at him, arms still folded loosely over your notes.
“…Hi,” you reply.
He glances briefly at your setup. “You said you didn’t want to do this over text.”
“I didn’t,” you say. Then, sharper than you mean it to be: “And you were being weirdly vague.”
Jeonghan’s smile doesn’t disappear, but it shifts slightly—like he’s registering your tone without reacting to it.
“I was answering you,” he says simply.
“That’s not the same thing as explaining anything.”
He hums lightly, like he’s considering that.
Then, instead of arguing, he just pulls out the chair across from you and sits down.
Calm.
Like he has time.
Like he always has time.
And somehow—
That makes you even more annoyed.
You wait for him to say something first. You want him to say something first. He didn’t put you through days of waiting for you to get the first word in, the ball was in his court.
Though you want his voice to be the first to cut through silence, you both were getting nowhere sitting across from each other awkwardly looking up and down between the table and each other.
“So,” you say finally, keeping your voice low, “are you going to explain anything or just sit there looking mysterious in a public library?”
A faint exhale through his nose—almost a laugh.
Then he looks at you properly.
“I was jealous,” he says.
“…What?”
Jeonghan doesn’t repeat it like he regrets it. Doesn’t soften it either.
“I was jealous,” he says again, a little slower this time, like he’s making sure you actually hear it. “Of Seokmin asking you to hang out.”
That is not the answer you were expecting.
You lean back slightly in your chair, searching his face like there’s going to be a second explanation hidden somewhere behind it.
“…You were jealous,” you repeat, quieter now.
“Yes.”
That simple.
Then let out a short, disbelieving laugh under your breath.
“I did not expect to see an earnest side of you,” you say.
His eyes flicker slightly at that, like he’s registering the word.
“Earnest?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” you nod, still a little stunned. “This is… very straightforward for someone who has been speaking in riddles for the past few weeks.”
“I’m not usually like that,” he says.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s accurate.”
You hum, crossing your arms a little tighter.
“So what,” you say, tilting your head, “you just decided to sabotage my conversation instead of, I don’t know, talking like a normal person?”
His gaze holds yours.
“…Yes,” he says again.
You blink, then laugh again, this time louder. It slips out before you can stop it.
“Are you hearing yourself right now?”
A couple of heads turn from nearby tables, while a sharp shush cuts through the air.
“Excuse me—quiet please.”
You immediately press your lips together, eyes widening slightly.
“Sorry,” you whisper, still clearly trying not to smile.
Jeonghan leans forward slightly.
“So,” he says, quieter now, “you think it’s funny.”
“I think,” you say carefully, “that you’re kind of insane.”
“That’s fair,” he says, a light smile forming on his face.
Then, after a beat, his voice drops a little along with the previous smile.
“I didn’t like it,” he says, quieter now. “Seeing him talk to you like that.”
You study him for a second.
Then lean forward slightly, resting your elbow on the table.
“So what now?” you ask.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I’d like to take you out,” he says simply.
You blink.
“…Out.”
“Yes.”
“Like—away from the library you just got us shushed in?”
A faint smile again.
“Preferably somewhere louder than this,” he says. “So I can explain it properly.”
You lean back in your chair again, looking at him like you’re trying to decide if he’s serious or just consistent in being unpredictable.
“…Coffee?” you ask.
“That works,” he says.
A pause.
Then, softer:
“If you’ll let me, pretty girl.”
“Yeah,” you say quickly, extremely flustered by his statement. Then, realizing how immediate that sounded, you add, a little more carefully, “I mean—okay. Yes, then coffee is fine then, perfect.”
“So,” you say, trying to regain control of your own brain, “you’ve successfully disrupted my entire study session, confessed to jealousy, and invited me out.”
He hums lightly. “Accurate summary.”
You squint at him. “You’re proud of that, aren’t you?”
“And if I was?” A faint smile tugs at his mouth again.
You open your mouth to argue—but nothing comes out immediately, because he’s still looking at you like you are the only person on the earth.
“Okay, okay—go,” you say. “I need to study. You’ve done enough emotional damage for one library visit.”
He stands up, taking his time. Acting as if he isn’t in a rush. Why would he be? He met you on a whim 10 minutes after you texted him.
Before he turns away, he glances down at you again.
“See you, pretty girl.”
The ‘pretty girl’ comment again. It’s casual, almost absent-minded.
“Okay—no,” you say quickly, pointing vaguely at him as your face heats up. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t call me that and then leave.”
His brows lift slightly.
Too amused.
“You said go.”
“I meant go, not—” you gesture helplessly, “not that.”
He just smiles.
Worse.
“Noted.”
And then he actually turns and walks away.
The rest of your study session was full of a constant back and forth battle in your brain over note taking and reserving a side-section of your brain for Jeonghan.
You try to focus even harder than before, but you fail immediately.
Because now your brain is doing something extremely unhelpful.
Replaying everything.
Seokmin’s smile. Seokmin’s warmth. Seokmin asking so gently.
And then—
Jeonghan.
Jeonghan interrupting. Jeonghan answering too little. Jeonghan showing up anyway. Jeonghan saying your name like it meant something he wasn’t fully saying out loud.
You sink back into your chair slightly.
“…Oh,” you murmur to yourself.
It clicks in a way that makes your stomach twist.
It wasn’t just that Seokmin was nice.
He was nice. Easy. Safe in a way you didn’t have to think too hard about.
But Jeonghan—
Jeonghan made you think.
Made you question. Made you wait for answers instead of receiving them.
There was an edge to him. A pause in everything he said that made your brain work harder than it should’ve.
And somewhere along the way—
You started leaning into that.
You liked Seokmin… Or… you liked the idea of him.
Simple. Warm. Clear. Straightforward
But Jeonghan?
You lean forward slowly, staring at your notebook like it might explain you back to yourself.
Jeonghan makes your stomach do that annoying, traitorous flip every time he says your name. His voice sticks in your head longer than it should.
Jeonghan feels like something you can’t quite get a straight answer from—and somehow that makes you want to stay in it longer.
“…That’s really inconvenient,” you whisper, shaking your head to yourself.
A few days pass in a strange kind of rhythm. You are no longer left in a world of silence.
Random texts that come in at inconvenient times and linger in your head longer than they should.
Nothing dramatic.
Just small pieces of conversation that feel casual on the surface—but never really are.
Jeonghan: you studying
Y/n: trying
Jeonghan: that sounded sad
Or:
Y/n: i think your friend hates me
jeonghan: which one
Y/n: Soonyoung, probably
Jeonghan: He doesn't matter, and I promise, he really does like you.
But now somehow, today is the day.
You are going out with Jeonghan.
Which is why you are currently standing in your room staring at your reflection like it has personally betrayed you.
“This is insane,” you mutter to Vernon, who is sprawled out on your bed staring at the ceiling.
You adjust your shirt.
Change your mind.
Change it again. And again, and again, and again.
Vernon sighs, “It’s just coffee.”
“It’s not just coffee.”
“It is literally just coffee.”
You glare at him through the mirror.
He raises his hands slightly. “Okay, correction. It’s coffee with a man you’ve been spiraling about for a week.”
“That’s worse.”
He leans back slightly. “You’re overthinking it.”
“I’m not overthinking it.” A Pause. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. You let out a frustrated breath. “He’s just—he’s weird.”
“Yeah,” Vernon agrees immediately.
“And annoying.”
“Yeah.”
“And he says things like ‘pretty girl’ and then just walks away like it’s nothing.”
Vernon pauses.
“…He said what?”
You wave a hand. “Not the point.”
He stares at you for a second, then sighs again and leans back on his hands.
“Look,” he says, tone softer now, “you don’t have to solve it tonight.”
“I’m not trying to solve it.”
“You’re literally spiraling.”
“I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
“Exactly Vernon!” You turn away from the mirror to now look at him. “For fucking what! I don’t fucking know what he wants from me! He drives me fucking crazy!”
Your phone buzzes from where it sits charging on your nightstand.
Jeonghan: I’m going to start heading to the coffee shop.
“Fuck dude, I have to go.” You rush towards your closet to grab your purse after you settled on a simple black off the shoulder short sleeve and jeans.
Vernon watches you like he’s witnessing something irreversible.
“You will do great,” he says flatly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
You grab your keys, shove them into your bag, and head for the door.
The walk feels too long and too short at the same time.
Every step forward is another second closer to something you can’t fully name, and your brain is doing absolutely nothing to help you regulate that information.
You replay everything.
His texts.
His voice.
“Pretty girl.”
You almost physically shake your head like you can dislodge the thought.
The coffee shop comes into view.
You stop outside for half a second.
Inhale… Exhale.
“…It’s just coffee,” you whisper to yourself, but it doesn’t feel like just coffee. Not anymore.
You push the door open, as a soft bell chimes.
Warm air, faint smell of espresso, low hum of conversation.
Your eyes scan automatically—and land on him.
Sitting at a table slightly off to the side, relaxed like he’s been waiting without impatience. Elbow resting on the table, posture loose, head tilted slightly as he looks up at the sound of the door.
And when he sees you—
That same small smile appears. The same small smile you saw him show at the library, the same small smile you saw when you took the hit of his cigarette a few weeks ago.
“Hey,” he says.
You walk toward him, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.
“Hi,” you manage.
He watches you get closer, eyes flicking over you once—not obvious, not slow enough to be rude, but enough that you notice anyway.
“You made it,” he says.
“You texted me like ten minutes ago,” you reply.
He hums lightly. “Still. You look very nice.”
“…Thanks,” you say, a little too quickly.
He taps his fingers lightly on the table once.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
It’s not a question.
You immediately straighten. “I’m not nervous.”
His brows lift slightly.
You sigh.
“…Okay, I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?”
You look at him, because that’s the problem. You don’t actually know what this is going to become.
“I don’t know what you’re like in situations where you’re not being weird on purpose.”
That makes him pause.
“That’s fair,” he says.
Then, softer, a little teasing again:
“I can be normal.”
You squint at him. “That didn’t sound convincing.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
That makes you huff a laugh despite yourself.
“Relax,” Jeonghan says, leaning over the table a bit more than before.
You raise a brow. “That’s not very helpful.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’re still here.”
The conversation was light, chatting about your lives. How Jeonghan met his bandmates in undergrad, how it was actually Jihoon’s idea to start a hardcore band.
You talked more in depth about grad school, about how you grew up so close to the city that going to undergrad and grad school here felt normal.
His tone was balanced, kind, warm, but in his own manner, a very Jeonghan tone of voice. It was incredibly hard to read.
Eventually, your cups are empty.
You turn yours in your hands, then glance at him.
“This is officially the longest and I think the only date I have ever been on,” you say.
Jeonghan tilts his head slightly. “Is that a bad thing?”
You think about it.
“…No,” you admit. “Just an observation.”
You hesitate, then add, a little dryly, “I feel like I might need a cigarette after this though.”
That earns a small giggle from him.
“I’ve got some,” he says casually.
You blink. “Of course you do.”
He stands up first, already grabbing both cups. “Come on.”
You follow him out without thinking too hard about it.
The air outside is cooler again, the street quieter than the café. The sun had set while you were beginning to close things off inside the cafe. He leads you just a few steps over—back into a narrow alley tucked between buildings.
And suddenly—
It feels familiar. The brick walls. Dim lights. That same strange stillness. Like the night everything started.
You lean back against the wall beside him without really deciding to.
Jeonghan lights a cigarette, same calm motion as before, like it’s muscle memory. The small glow of the lighter briefly catches his face before he flicks it shut.
He exhales slowly. Then looks at you.
There’s a beat where neither of you speaks. He passes you the cigarette.
“You’re different like this,” he says.
You glance at him. “Like what?”
“Relaxed,” he replies.
You scoff lightly. “I’m not relaxed. I’m just… processing.”
“That still counts.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re weirdly observant for someone who acts like he’s not paying attention.”
“I’m always paying attention,” he says simply.
That makes something in your stomach twist slightly.
You take a slight hit of the cigarette, passing it back to him.
He takes another drag, eyes still on you.
“I know I say it all the time, but you are confusing and it drives me insane.” You say bluntly, wind messing up your hair.
He hums, then smirks. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like your problem,” he says.
You laugh once—short, disbelieving. “No, it’s your problem, actually.”
He raises a brow slightly. “How so?”
“Because you’re—” you gesture vaguely at him, frustration creeping in now, “you’re acting like this is normal. Like you talking to me like this is just… casual. Like you’re not—”
You stop.
Because you don’t know how to finish that sentence without sounding ridiculous. You feel your heart race out of your chest, everything you have been feeling the past two weeks beginning to want to break free.
Then, softly:
“Not what?”
You shake your head slightly. “Never mind.”
All the half-looks. The way he keeps showing up. The way he keeps choosing to stay in the conversation instead of leaving it.
You let out a frustrated breath.
“Snap out of it,” you say suddenly, sharper than before.
He blinks once. “Out of what?”
“This,” you gesture between you. “Whatever this is. Because it doesn’t make sense.”
Jeonghan studies you for a second.
Then he takes one last drag, exhales slowly, and flicks ash away.
“You think I’m not serious?” he asks.
“I think—” you start, then stop, shaking your head again. “I think someone like you doesn’t just—decide to be interested in someone like me.”
The words land heavier than you meant them to. His expression doesn’t change drastically.
“Someone like me?” he repeats.
You cross your arms tighter. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do,” he says, dropping the cigarette on the ground and stomping it out as he takes a few steps closer to you, to the brick wall you are leaning against.
“You’re telling me to snap out of it,” he continues, “because you think I’m not allowed to want you.”
Your breath catches slightly.
He steps even closer, closer than you have ever been before. You can smell the smoke on his breath, lingering on his clothes.
“Or,” he adds, voice quieter now, “you’re the one who doesn’t want to believe I do.”
You let out a small, shaky breath, unsure of what to say.
Jeonghan doesn’t move away.
“I just—” you start, then stop immediately, shaking your head like you can physically reset your thoughts. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” he asks in basically a whisper now.
You open your mouth, yet nothing comes out. He’s too close for you to form any thoughts, other than the fact that you know you want him, and he called you out on it.
You finally form words, “I don’t know what you’re doing,” you try again, but it falls apart halfway through. “Or why you’re—why you’re like this with me.”
Jeonghan smiles at you, tilting your chin up so you can lock eyes with him.
Your breath catches immediately.
“Then stop thinking,” he says quietly.
You don’t have time to process before your eyes are closed and your lips are pressed to his. It feels as if everything went still.
He pulls back just slightly—barely enough to break the kiss, not enough to break the closeness.
His eyes are on you immediately, hungry, waiting to see what you have to say.
Jeonghan’s gaze softens slightly.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
Two words, those two words, were enough to break you.
Saying nothing, your hand comes up to the neckline of his shirt and you pull him back in, harder this time, like you had been waiting for this.
Jeonghan makes a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth—barely there—but then he’s already responding, hand sliding back to steady you against the wall again as the distance disappears completely.
It’s not gentle now. It’s real in a way that feels like it’s been building since the first time he said your name in that alley outside the bar.
Your thoughts scatter completely, his hand at your waist, the press of him against you, the way he doesn’t pull away even when you’re the one who started it.
When you finally break for air, it’s only because you have to.
Your breath comes out uneven. So does his.
This is the first time you have ever seen him less composed.
After weeks of feeling like you were going crazy because of him, you feel like you have finally gotten to him this time.
“…Okay,” he murmurs, almost like he’s amused.
“Can we please go back to my apartment?” you ask, voice steadier than you feel, though your grip betrays you entirely.
His eyes flick to yours.
Then down to your hand.
Then back up.
A pause.
His hand slides from your cheek slowly, not leaving you entirely—just shifting down to catch your hand instead.
The walk back feels unreal in a way you don’t know how to explain.
The city is darker now, softened by streetlights that spill across the sidewalks. The noise of everything feels far away, like you’re moving through a version of the world that doesn’t quite belong to anyone else.
Jeonghan walks beside you like he’s always been there, your fingers threaded together.
Every few minutes, one of you slows down without saying anything. You turn slightly, he does too, and suddenly you’re kissing, pressed against a wall or tucked into the shadow of a building or just standing too close in the middle of an otherwise empty stretch of sidewalk.
By the time your building comes into view, your pulse has stopped behaving like something that listens to reason. You don’t even think before pulling him inside.
You unlock your bedroom door, and push it open. There’s a shape still in your bed, the same as it was when you left. Blanket half-dragged onto the floor, one arm flopped over the edge.
“Vernon,” you say, dangerously calm.
No response.
You walk further in.
“Vernon.”
You stare at him for one more second.
Then inhale sharply.
“VERNON.”
“What—”
“If you’re going to sleep,” voice rising, “you need to do it on the couch!”
“…why are you yelling like that?”
You point towards Jeonghan, who is leaning up against the doorframe of your bedroom.
“…wait, is that Jeonghan?”
You close your eyes.
Jeonghan, completely unhelpful, raises a hand in a lazy little wave.
“…Oh,” he says.
“Yes… okay—bye! To the living room you go!” You point towards your bedroom door. Vernon wraps your blanket around him as he brushes past Jeonghan to enter the living room.
“Be… safe.” He sleepily mutters before Jeonghan softly closes the bedroom door behind him.
Things with Jeonghan became steady after that. Coffee turns into dinner. Dinner turns into “just come over for a bit.” “A bit” turns into late night stays and him stealing your hoodie and refusing to give it back because he likes to smell you “at all times.”
Vernon gets kicked out. A lot.
“Do you two even get any sleep when you stay over?,” he jokes to Jeonghan one morning after crashing on your couch, standing in your kitchen while you’re making coffee as Jeonghan leans against the counter playing with your hair.
“You could leave,” Jeonghan suggests mildly.
“I live here emotionally,” Vernon replies.
You don’t even argue anymore.
And then it’s one of Jeonghan’s shows. You’re standing near the front of the crowd this time when the set ends, lights still warm, noise still ringing in your chest.
The band is breathless, laughing, drenched in sweat and energy. Soonyoung obviously being the loudest of them all.
“THANK YOU EVERYONE—YOU’RE INSANE—WE LOVE YOU—”
Jeonghan barely says anything.
He’s already looking for you.
He hops down from the stage as soon as the set is up, weaving through equipment and crew, ignoring Soonyoung following behind him.
He gives you a kind kiss along with a “thank you for coming” when you are greeted with Soonyoung's kind… kind voice from behind.
“EWWW,” he yells. “GET A ROOM—WE JUST FINISHED A SET!”
Jeonghan doesn’t even look back, he just exhales a quiet laugh against your forehead.
After the chaos settles a little, you find yourself near the side of the venue.
That’s when Seokmin approaches.
He’s still warm from the stage too, smile easy but softer now, more familiar.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply, a little surprised but glad to see him.
There’s a brief pause—comfortable, not awkward.
Then he scratches the back of his neck.
“I am really sorry about all of the confusion.” He explains.
Seokmin glances briefly toward where Jeonghan is talking to the others, then back to you.
“I asked you out because I thought you were really cool,” he admits. “And I still think that. But after we talked… when Jeonghan came to me.”
A pause.
“He said he was kind of into you. Like… really into you, and wanted to hang out with you. And I didn’t want to mess that up for him,” he says simply. “He’s my friend. And honestly… it was pretty obvious once he started acting like that around you.”
You let out a small breath, half laugh, half disbelief.
“That man is impossible,” you mutter.
Seokmin smiles. “Yeah. But I know you could probably deal with impossible.”
And when you look back toward Jeonghan again—
He’s already looking at you, like he never stopped.
You lock eyes with him giving him a soft smile and little wave, he returns the gesture.
And like that, everything has seemed to fall into place for the first time in your life.
